The Gladiator

Chapter XXI

Spartacus eyed the sky, which was filled with dark, lowering thunderclouds. It wouldn’t be long until the heavens opened. At this altitude, it wouldn’t be surprising if the precipitation fell as hail, or even snow. He wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Men were casting nervous eyes upwards, and whispering unhappily to each other. Damn it all. The weather’s been fine for weeks. Why does it have to change now? Spartacus refused to countenance what his troops were thinking: that the gods were angry. The plan is good. It will work. Those were the words that Ariadne had whispered in his ear as he’d left her in the camp.

All the same, their fates hung by the slimmest of threads. He would have to move among the men now or panic would spread. And the damn rain had to hold off, or there might be no battle. The enemy scouts had been and gone some time before. By now, Lentulus knew where they were. Yet if the ground was going to be reduced to a mud-soaked swamp, he’d probably choose not to advance. Only a fool chose to fight in such treacherous conditions, and Spartacus doubted that a man who’d become consul fell into that category. Let’s hope that Lentulus is possessed of the same arrogance that I saw in Crassus. Spartacus was relying on that overweening Roman sense of superiority: that despite hearing of his successes, Lentulus would refuse even to entertain the notion that he, a renegade gladiator, would be capable of more than the most primitive battle plan. With his men in plain sight, what else could he be trying here but a full-blown battle?

It will work, Spartacus told himself. Carbo will succeed in blocking the gorge. His men would hold before the savagery of the Roman assault. Pulcher and Egbeo would fall on the Romans like Vulcan’s hammers. Castus’ and Gannicus’ forces would also prevail. Squaring his shoulders, Spartacus strode out in front of his troops. They bellowed their love for him, and he raised his arms in recognition of it. As the noise abated, he told them of their bravery in following him from the ludus or in running away from their masters. He praised their efforts during the arduous training, the sweat they’d shed and the hardships they had endured beneath Navio’s iron discipline. ‘For a Roman, he’s not bad,’ Spartacus shouted, and they roared with laughter.

The tension eased a little, and he paced to and fro, reminding them of each incredible victory that they’d won. How, despite being betrayed, he and seventy-odd men had broken out of the ludus. How the impossible task of defeating three thousand soldiers had been achieved by climbing down a cliff and causing panic in Glaber’s camp. How they’d repeated their success against first Furius, and then Cossinius. As if that wasn’t remarkable enough, they had given Varinius the slip, and when he had finally found them at Thurii, they had virtually annihilated his entire command. Although the fool had survived, the Senate had ordered him to fall on his sword when he’d brought the news of his disgrace to Rome.

The yells of delight grew louder and louder with every detail.

Spartacus encouraged his men with fierce waves of his arms. They’d need every scrap of self-belief possible in the fight to come.

The clamour abated gradually, and he glanced up. Miraculously, the black clouds had moved on without drenching them. The rain or hail would now fall on the peaks to the south, he judged. Thank you, Great Rider. He drew his sword and pointed it at the sky. ‘Look! The gods’ favour is still with us! The storm is passing.’

‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ cried a voice.

‘I try my best, Aventianus,’ Spartacus replied with a wink. Hoots of amusement rose from his men. What perfect timing. I must thank Aventianus afterwards. Instantly, doubt flared up in his mind. Don’t tempt fate. I’ll tell him if he survives. If I survive.

A man nearby cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that?’

A hush fell over the slaves.

For a heart-stopping moment, there was silence. Then the unmistakable blare of trumpets carried down the wind.

‘They’re here!’

A visible tremor passed through the ranks.

Spartacus’ misgivings, however, vanished like dawn mist beneath the rising sun. This was his purpose. To fight Rome. It was not in his homeland, as he’d wished, but that didn’t matter. He had been granted the chance to take on a Roman army commanded by one of its consuls. What more could he ask for? Victory, he thought. That’s what I want. Nothing else is good enough.

Spartacus filled his lungs. Throwing back his head, he cried, ‘There are only ten thousand of the whoresons. How many are we?’

‘Fifty thousand!’ Aventianus called out.

‘That’s right! FIFTY THOUSAND!’ Spartacus bawled. ‘Five of us for every stinking Roman! We will have VICTORY — OR DEATH!’

There was the slightest delay, and then his men echoed the refrain until the very cliffs resounded with it. ‘VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!’

Spartacus picked up his scutum and began to hammer his blade off its iron rim. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Do the same. The Romans must take our bait, and march into the gorge without thinking.’

There were fierce grins from those who heard. At once they began to emulate him. More slaves joined in. The noise spread through the army like wildfire. For the moment at least, the fear that the thunderclouds had engendered was gone. So too was the uncertainty of facing a full-strength Roman legion. Battle rage took some men, who screamed until their faces went purple. A mad euphoric feeling descended on others. Cracked laughs rang out, and the front ranks swayed forward a few steps until their officers chivvied them back into line.

Spartacus had never heard a racket like it since he’d first ridden with his tribe to war against Rome. An age ago, in Thrace, when the Maedi had lost. Pride filled him now, however. For all that these men were slaves, they had the courage of true warriors. If a battle began, they would stand and fight. Spartacus felt the certainty of that in his heart. Today perhaps the bloodstained shame of the previous defeat would be erased once and for all.

A series of angry trumpet blasts echoed through the defile.

Spartacus smiled with satisfaction. Lentulus did want a fight.

Now it was down to Carbo to spoil the consul’s party.

High on the cliff tops, Carbo heard the Roman bucinae too. He was lying on his belly at the northernmost end of the gorge, observing the first legion emerging around a bend in the road. Before it rode several squadrons of cavalry, the scouts who had brought the news of the slave army to Lentulus. As he watched, a large group of horsemen broke away and rode forward into the defile. Carbo stared at them in alarm. What in Hades are they doing? He was grateful that his common sense kicked in. They’re going to ensure that Spartacus hasn’t blocked off the exit. That’s it. So Lentulus isn’t a fool, Carbo thought, glancing around uneasily. Maybe that’s not all he wants checked out.

Rock scraped off rock, and Carbo craned his neck to see over the edge. He’d never been more grateful to be lying down, not to be profiled against the sky. Climbing up the scree-covered slope from the direction of the legions were four — five — six dark-skinned, bearded men. Barefoot, they were clad in short-sleeved tunics. Their only weapons were the slings draped around their necks. Carbo had seen Balearic slingers once before, in Capua. They were fast-moving skirmishers who also acted as scouts. Clearly, these men had been sent to reconnoitre the cliff top. Carbo’s mouth went bone dry with fear.

They had to be killed, and fast, or Spartacus’ whole plan would fall apart, and Carbo’s task of saving Ariadne would become a dreadful reality.

Carbo rolled away, out of sight, and jumped to his feet. Sprinting to the nearest of his soldiers, he explained what was going on. Alarm filled their faces, and a new urgency filled Carbo. ‘None can escape, or we’re all fucked! Get it?’

They nodded grimly.

‘The dogs will see what’s going on the moment they reach the top, so they have to be taken down instantly. Out of sight of the legions too.’

One man picked up a hunting bow. ‘I can deal with two, if not three of them.’

‘Good,’ said Carbo. If only I had more archers! ‘Make it two, so you don’t miss. The last ones to come up as well.’ He pointed at three other slaves in turn. ‘We’ll hide behind the last piles of stones. You take the first man; you the second; and you the third. I’ll take the fourth. None of you make a damn move until I do. Clear?’

‘Yes,’ they muttered.

Quickly ordering everyone else to conceal themselves, and to remain silent, Carbo ran back to the piles of stones nearest to where he thought the slingers would emerge. There was precious little cover for all of them. Carbo prayed it would be sufficient. A heartbeat later, the next shortcoming of his plan hit him like a hammer blow. What if the first scout who got to the top realised what the mounds of rocks meant, and turned to flee? They’d have to pursue the slingers down the slope in full view of Lentulus’ army. All hopes of surprising the Romans would be lost. Acid washed the back of Carbo’s throat, and he had to swallow it to prevent himself from retching. The only way his spur-of-the-moment ambush would work was if the enemy scouts decided to investigate the cliff top properly.

His entreaties to Jupiter grew frantic. I will build an altar in your honour. In front of it, I’ll slaughter a bull — the best I can find. I will do the same every year, as long as I am able.

Guttural whispers set Carbo’s pulse racing to new heights. Steadying his nerves, he squeezed the hilt of his sword as hard as he could. With great care, he peered around the rocks. Nothing. Where the fuck are they? Carbo waited. And waited. Every moment lasted an eternity, but he could not move even a step from his position. The slightest sound would alert the scouts to their presence.

When he finally saw a mop of black, curly hair emerging not fifteen paces from where he stood, Carbo blinked with shock. He watched with bated breath as a tanned face poked over the edge and glanced carefully from side to side. There was a short delay, and then the slinger scrambled up and on to the cliff top. He was soon followed by two more. Crouching low, they began padding towards Carbo’s hiding place.

Where in Hades are the rest? Waiting until their comrades give them the all clear?

Carbo was afforded no chance to give thanks as the remaining scouts climbed into view. The first three were almost upon him. ‘NOW!’ he roared, and threw himself around the mound of stones. He had a brief impression of startled faces and shouted curses before, miraculously, he was past, charging for the top of the slope and the trio of slingers there. They took one look at him, and turned to run. Zip! An arrow flashed past Carbo, burying itself deep in one man’s back. He went down with a loud groan. ‘Take the one on the right!’ Carbo bellowed. Praying that the archer had heard him, he aimed for the figure to his left, a short man with prominent cheekbones.

Luck was on his side. The slinger was so desperate to escape that as he spun, he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Carbo was on him like a wild beast on its prey. He hacked down with his gladius, slicing open the man’s back from his shoulder to his waist. Blood flew up in great gouts, and a bubbling scream of agony left his victim’s lips. It was cut brutally short as Carbo plunged his blade between the slinger’s ribs, shredding one lung and piercing his heart. Instantly, the man slumped down; his arms and legs kicked manically and then relaxed.

Frantically dragging free his sword, Carbo whipped around to see what was happening. The bowman had not been exaggerating about his ability. Another corpse lay on its back beside the first, an arrow jutting from its open mouth. Carbo’s gaze flickered to the rocks where he’d hidden. Two slingers were down, but the last had killed one of his men, and was now armed with a sword. Spinning on his heel, he pounded straight towards Carbo, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

Carbo’s vision narrowed. If he didn’t stop this man, he would be to blame for everything.

Zip!

An arrow shot over the slinger’s shoulder. It nearly took Carbo’s eye out. ‘Stop shooting!’ he cried, stepping into the other’s path. He raised his sword.

But the scout had no interest in fighting him. Skidding to one side, he angled around Carbo, aiming for the top of the slope.

He’d misjudged, thought Carbo, cursing silently. ‘Take him down! Quickly!’ Ducking, and praying that the archer didn’t hit him instead, he sprinted forward. There was a rush of air over his shoulder, and an arrow struck the slinger in the back. He staggered, but then righted himself. Dropping his sword, the man tugged free one of the two strips of cloth that was draped around his neck. He wove closer to the edge, waving the black fabric over his head.

The grim realisation of what the scout was trying to do hit Carbo at once. The banner meant ‘Enemy sighted’, and if anyone in Lentulus’ army saw it, he would have failed.

Carbo covered the last few steps at breakneck speed. Ramming his gladius into the man’s back, he reached up and grabbed the cloth with his left hand. Somehow he threw his arm around his moaning victim’s neck, and dragged him backwards, all the while shoving his blade deeper. The slinger’s cries quickly dropped to a low whimpering. A heartbeat later, he’d become a dead weight, so Carbo let him fall. Pulling out his sword, he thrust down twice, adding another blood-spattered corpse to the others lying nearby.

Carbo scanned the area. All the scouts were down, dying or dead. His men gave him victorious grins, but he did not return the smile. They had not necessarily succeeded. Someone might have seen the fighting. He dropped to his belly and wormed over to the edge. With churning guts, he studied the massive Roman column, his eyes roving to and fro for any indications of alarm or disquiet. To Carbo’s immense relief, he saw nothing.

‘Were we seen?’ It was the bowman’s voice.

Carbo moved back a little. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Thank you, Jupiter.

The bowman let out a long sigh.

‘Good work,’ said Carbo.

‘I should have taken the last bastard down with one arrow.’

‘He was strong and desperate,’ replied Carbo. ‘Anyway, he’s dead now.’ His eyes strayed to the slinger’s body and took in the second strip of cloth around his neck. It was red, the same colour as the vexilla flags used by the legions. A new wave of panic swamped him. The banner could have only one purpose. It was to signal that there was no danger on the cliff tops. If it wasn’t seen, more Roman troops would be sent to investigate. Carbo glanced down and cursed. His tunic was saturated in blood. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled the sodden fabric over his head and threw it down. ‘Quick! I need the tunic with the least blood on it.’

The bowman gaped at him.

‘So I can wave the red cloth at the Romans and not arouse suspicion.’

At last the bowman understood. Together they checked the dead. It didn’t take long to see that the cleanest tunic was the one belonging to the slinger who’d been struck in the mouth. They stripped the corpse and Carbo shrugged on the sweaty garment. Then, grabbing the red strip of cloth from the last man’s neck, he strode to the top of the slope. With his heart thumping like a drum, he raised it over his head and waved it from side to side. ‘Nothing here!’ he shouted in accented Latin. ‘Not a soul to be seen!’

There was no response from below.

Carbo was glad. It made it more likely that the slingers’ fight for survival hadn’t been spotted. He redoubled his efforts, cupping a hand to his lips so that his voice carried further. A last his efforts paid off. Followed by a signifer, an officer in a cohort near the front shoved his way out of the ranks. A moment later, the standard was raised and lowered a number of times. Without even waiting to see how he responded, the officer returned to his position. Sheer exultation seized Carbo. ‘We did it!’ he hissed to the bowman.

‘Well done, sir.’

Unused to being addressed in such a manner, Carbo blinked. Then he squared his shoulders proudly. ‘We’d best keep a good watch in case any more of the bastards come poking around. You stay here with the others. If you see as much as a rock fall, I want to know about it.’

There was a fierce grin of acknowledgement.

Carbo inclined his head and began calling his men together. They’d need strict orders not to move until he told them to.

Spartacus’ two biggest concerns as Lentulus’ forces spilled out of the defile were that Egbeo and Pulcher would attack too soon, and of how much damage the Roman cavalry could do. The enemy riders pulled off to one side, allowing their foot soldiers to manoeuvre into position, a process which took considerable time. Sitting calmly on their horses some three hundred paces away, they looked quite harmless. From bitter experience, Spartacus knew otherwise. It had been a calculated decision to afford himself no horsemen. He’d decided to leave his riders with Castus and Gannicus. They had been training solidly since their formerly wild mounts had been captured in the mountains around Thurii, but unlike the slaves who fought as infantry, Spartacus’ riders had never been tested in battle. As one great bloc, they’d be more confident, and more likely to succeed.

Besides, he wanted the cream of his men — those around him — to learn the taste of a victory that they’d won alone against the most invincible of enemies: the legionary. He was pleased by the barrage of insults that they were already hurling at the Romans. Naturally enough, one or two overeager fools had thrown their javelins, but the rest were holding their lines in good order. It was proof that the training he’d started, and which Navio had continued, had paid off. Proof that they’d shed their slave mentality.

He had a calm confidence that Carbo would play his part well. The young Roman was as loyal as any of his men — even Atheas and Taxacis. Great Rider, I ask that Carbo never has to do what I asked of him. With that request, Spartacus closed his heart. It was time to ready himself for battle. He deliberately filled his mind with the graphic images of Thracian villages that had been overrun by the Romans. The mounds of mutilated bodies. The sheets of gore and hacked-off limbs that had coated the ground. The grinning, empty-eyed heads on pila that had been stabbed into the mud. Old men who had been crucified on the gable ends of their own houses. Countless women who’d lain motionless, like dolls discarded by children. The pools of blood spreading from between their thighs that had given the lie to any such innocent notion. The tiny crumpled forms that turned his stomach still: babies who’d had their brains dashed out against walls. And his brother Maron, wasted to little more than a skeleton, dying in screaming agony.

A swelling rage began pulsing through Spartacus. His very eyeballs throbbed; his chest felt as if iron bands were strapped tightly around it. He felt angrier than he’d done in years. This was the moment he’d dreamed of. Longed for. Vengeance will be mine. All he wanted to do was kill. Slash, hack, chop into little pieces every motherfucking Roman who came within reach of his sword.

He called for his trumpeters. ‘Remember the arranged signal. Act the instant I give you the command. Mess it up, and I’ll cut your balls off. Understand?’

The trio nodded dumbly. Fearfully.

Spartacus waved them away, to the safety of the ground behind his men. He surveyed his troops for the final time. He’d ordered three lines, and arrayed them in cohorts, as the Romans did. Nearly all the soldiers were armed with pila. Most were armed with a gladius and a scutum, and wearing a bronze crested helmet, as the legionaries did. They were a magnificent sight.

‘I see you!’ Spartacus shouted. ‘I see you, my soldiers, and my heart is filled with pride! Do you hear me? PRIDE!’

They cheered him for that until their throats were hoarse.

‘Today, you are going to fight a full-strength Roman legion for the first time. It is an occasion to be grateful for. To rejoice in! To thank the gods! Why? I hear you ask. Because we are going to take on the legionaries and tear them into bloody shreds!’ Spartacus barked a triumphant laugh. ‘The moment that Carbo blocks the defile, the battle will begin. When the bastards hit our lines, our trumpets will summon ten thousand of our comrades from their hiding places. They will fall on the Romans’ left flank, and sweep all before them. We shall do the same from our position. By the end of the day, I swear to you that this field will be littered with the enemy’s dead! Every man of you will have slain until his sword arm is shaking with weakness. Every one of you will be properly equipped. There will be more grain and wine in the Roman camp than we can eat, enough silver to fill all your purses, but best of all,’ and Spartacus pointed his sica at the silver eagle that stood proudly above the centre of the Roman line, ‘we will have two of those in our possession. What more proof of the gods’ favour can there be?’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they roared. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Keeping rhythm, Spartacus began to hammer his blade off his scutum.

Clash! Clash! Clash!

Roman soldiers advanced in complete silence, a tactic that intimidated most opponents. Fuck that, thought Spartacus, and redoubled his efforts. Let Lentulus hear my name, and the thunder of my men’s anger, and tremble in his britches. Let his troops soil themselves with fear.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Spartacus smiled grimly and resumed his place in the midst of his men.

The deafening noise went on and on and on.

Spartacus squinted at the enemy lines. Good. There must be nearly five thousand Romans in view. Carbo will act any moment now.

The waiting that Carbo had had to endure before previous ambushes paled into insignificance beside that morning. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to heave the first rock over the edge. To add to his own concerns, his men were on tenterhooks. The immensity of their task and the dreadful effect it would have were all too clear now. They were desperate to start the fight, and Carbo had his job cut out to maintain discipline. ‘Spartacus told me when to attack, understand?’ he growled over and over. ‘We must split the legions in two. Too soon, and we’ll leave Castus and Gannicus with all the work to do. It’s all down to us, and we have to get it right.’

Eventually, his message seemed to sink home, and the men relaxed a fraction. However, the knot in Carbo’s belly did not go away. For upwards of half an hour he watched the legionaries marching steadily through the defile. Although they were the enemy, it was a magnificent sight, and a tiny part of his heart ached that he had never been able to join the legions. The pricks wouldn’t accept me, he thought savagely. Only Spartacus was able to see something in me. He glanced at the piles of boulders, some of which were larger than ox carts. Those will be their punishment.

The sound of shouting and metallic clashing rang out, and Carbo’s head went up. He couldn’t discern any words, but it had to be Spartacus’ men who were making such an immense amount of noise. The gods be with them.

When he looked down again, Carbo saw a break in the Roman column. Deep in the ranks of the next units he also saw the glint of an eagle standard. This was the second of Lentulus’ legions, and it was about to pass directly below his position.

‘All right,’ he said in a low tone. Abruptly, he grinned. There was no need for silence now. ‘At the count of three…’ he shouted. ‘Spread the word.’ He waited as his order passed down the lines of men. A

moment later, the men at the far end lifted their hands in acknowledgement. Carbo licked his lips, and placed his palms against a rock nearly the same size as himself. Then he cried, ‘ONE! TWO! THREEEE!’

With a great heave, he pushed it over the cliff. Awestruck by the speed it instantly gained, Carbo glanced to either side, watching as his men did the same with scores of other stones, slabs and chunks of rock. Dust sheeted the air as the missiles bounced and pounded off the sheer faces, setting off mini-landslides. The earth shook with a terrible, ravening thunder.

Carbo didn’t look to see what effect their barrage was having. He didn’t need to. It could only result in utter devastation. Great swathes of legionaries were a heartbeat from being wiped out of existence. Unsurprisingly, his men were peering down with macabre interest. ‘Don’t stop!’ he shouted. ‘More! I want more rocks going over! We have to block the defile completely.’

‘Kill them all!’ roared the bowman. ‘Every last pox-ridden whoreson!’

‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ answered the slaves, renewing their attack with a savage, disquieting glee.

Carbo closed his eyes briefly. The gods have mercy on the poor bastards down there. Let them die quickly.

Then he got back to work like everyone else.

When the rocks started rolling from the cliffs, virtually all sound was blocked out on the flat ground beyond. The slaves’ mouths opened and closed in silent mime, their javelins and swords moved innocently up and down off their shields. What would follow, however, thought Spartacus grimly, would be far from innocent.

A huge dust cloud rose into the air above the defile. Romans and slaves alike stared in either horror or delight. A fierce glee gripped Spartacus. The almighty din meant that Carbo was doing exactly as he’d been asked. ‘Steady!’ he roared. ‘Let fear tear at the enemy! The dogs know now that they’re on their own.’ He glanced at the mouth of the side valley where Egbeo and Pulcher lay in wait with their troops, but could see nothing. Good. Their discipline is holding.

The rumbling of the rockfall died down. It was replaced by a terrible, new sound: that of the men who had been mashed or trapped beneath the stones, but not killed. The gorge rang with their screams and wails. Most were begging for death, an end to the agony of crushed limbs, pelvises or broken backs. Spartacus’ soldiers whooped with elation, and clattered their weapons off their shields with renewed vigour.

Lentulus acted fast. Aware that the noise would soon spread panic among his legionaries, he had the bucinae sound. His soldiers marched forward in good order, and his cavalry cantered off to the right, no doubt charged with wheeling around to fall on the slaves’ rear.

Although he’d expected this, Spartacus cursed silently. He hoped that the men at the back remembered their orders. They’d been trained to thrust their javelins out together, forming a network of iron points that most horses wouldn’t approach. Of course being shown how to do it and having to do it when being charged by the enemy were two very different things. Placing his trust in the gods, Spartacus ordered his trumpeters to signal the advance.

‘Stay in line! Move together!’ His words were repeated all along the front ranks, and the slaves began tramping forward in one great mass. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they yelled.

They were too far away to see the expression on the men’s faces, but Spartacus fancied that there was already some wavering in the enemy ranks. In contrast to the neat appearance of his own forces, he could see gaps here and there among the legionaries. We can do it! Great Rider, grant me the might of your right arm to smite the whoresons, and smash them into the mud where they belong.

They closed to within a hundred paces. The air crackled with tension, and it was flavoured with a slick tang of fear. For all the bravado that had gone on in the moments prior, this was the time when men were about to begin dying. The slaves’ faces were taut; their jaws were clenched; they muttered prayers or growled encouragements at one another. Yet their shouting did not die away. If anything, it increased in volume.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Spartacus was revelling in it. They want to fight. They want Roman blood, as I do. ‘Front three ranks, ready javelins!’ he cried.

All around him, thousands of arms went back, and a forest of barbed metal tips pointed upwards at the sun.

‘Hold! Hold!’ He counted the paces as they drew nearer to the Romans. Ten. Twenty. Forty. At last Spartacus could see the individual legionaries. Like his men’s, their faces were twisted with emotion. Rather than tension, however, it looked like pure fear. The only exceptions were the legionaries around the silver eagle, who looked grimly prepared. Dimly, he heard the enemy officers shouting encouragement, ordering a volley of javelins. Now! ‘One! Two! Three! LOOSE!’ he shouted in response.

There was a loud humming noise as his order was obeyed.

The same command rang out again from the Roman lines.

In graceful arcs, two separate clouds of pila shot upwards. For several heartbeats, they darkened the sky between the two armies. It was a beautiful but dreadful sight, thought Spartacus. This was when the men’s training would really become evident. ‘Shields up!’ he roared, raising his left arm. ‘Shields up!’

Clatter, clatter, clatter. A wall of scuta presented itself to the sky.

With heavy thumping sounds, the Roman javelins landed in a torrent of deadly iron. Inevitably, some found tiny gaps between the slaves’ shields or ran through the layered wood to pierce an arm. Roars of agony and savage curses went up from those who’d been injured, manic laughs and shouts of thanks to the gods from those who hadn’t.

Spartacus was unhurt. A quick glance over both shoulders told him that their casualties were reasonably light. He studied the Romans, coming to the same conclusion about them. As usual, the javelins’ primary effect had been to lodge in men’s scuta, rendering them unusable. ‘If anyone in the front two ranks needs a shield, get the men behind you to pass theirs forward,’ he shouted. ‘Advance!’

As they marched on, those without protection hurriedly demanded their comrades’ scuta.

Another exchange of javelins took place, causing a few score more casualties, and then the two sides were only thirty steps apart. Spartacus raised his whistle to his lips, and saw a centurion opposite do the same. Instead of sounding the charge, however, Spartacus blew an odd series of notes that had his men frowning in surprise. But not the trumpeters. They blew their instruments with all their might, a sharp tan-tara-tara. Twice they repeated it, and as the sound died away, it was replaced by a long shrill from Spartacus’ whistle, which was echoed by those of his officers.

Their call was met by the indignant shrieking of the Romans’ whistles.

‘Shields together,’ roared Spartacus. ‘Forward!’ He began trotting towards the enemy, his gaze roving over the legionaries he’d be most likely to clash with. One was a youth of about nineteen or twenty, whose eyes were already wide with terror. The other was a man in his twenties, hard-faced, jaw clenched, probably a veteran. Instantly, Spartacus aimed for the second soldier. He was the more dangerous; killing him first was imperative.

An inanimate roar — the sound of thousands of war cries melding as one — ripped through the noise of battle, dragging men’s attention away from the fight. It came from Spartacus’ right, and the Romans’ left. Thank you, Great Rider.

Egbeo, Pulcher and their men were attacking.

Understanding the noise’s significance, the slaves cheered at the tops of their voices. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

‘Stay close!’ cried Spartacus. ‘Watch out for each other!’ They were the last commands he gave. From now on, no one would be able to hear. The world closed in around him as Spartacus rushed the last few steps to the Roman front rank. All he was aware of was the close proximity of a man on either side, and the wild eyes of the enemy soldiers over the tops of their scuta. His heart pounded in his chest; sweat stung his eyes and he blinked it away.

Roaring a war cry, he smashed his shield boss into that of the hard-faced legionary. The force of the strike rocked the man back on his heels, and before he could retaliate, Spartacus’ sica went skidding over the top of his scutum to take him through the neck. The iron grated through muscle and cartilage to lodge in the Roman’s spine. Spartacus ripped it free, and the other’s mouth opened in a terrible scream. The sound was cut short by the tide of arterial blood that sprayed from the back of his throat.

There was a flicker of movement at the corner of Spartacus’ vision. Instinctively, he ducked his head. Instead of taking out his eye, the young legionary’s gladius rammed into the crest on the top of his bronze helmet. It punched Spartacus backwards, momentarily stunning him. The iron blade stuck in the torn metal, and Spartacus’ head was dragged from side to side as the Roman frantically tried to free it. There was no chance of untying the leather chinstrap that held his helmet in place. With a screech of metal, the legionary ripped his gladius half out. His lips peeled back in a snarl of satisfaction. Utter desperation filled Spartacus. His opponent pulled his arm back again, so he shoved forward instead of trying to fight it. The Roman staggered, and his grip on his sword weakened. Spartacus screamed like a lunatic, and the startled young legionary let go.

Spartacus brought up his sica and thrust it into the other’s left eye socket. There was an audible pop, and aqueous fluid spattered on to the front of his shield. The legionary jerked with agony as the blade sliced through bone and into his brain. He juddered and shook, a dead weight on the weapon’s tip. Spartacus tugged it free, letting the corpse drop to the ground. It was immediately stamped underfoot in the press.

There was a heartbeat’s pause in the fighting. Quickly, Spartacus undid his chinstrap and let his ruined helmet fall. ‘Come on!’ he roared at the legionaries in the next rank. ‘Hades is waiting for you!’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ boomed the men around him.

With dragging feet, the Romans shuffled closer. A few rows back, Spartacus spotted an officer using his vine cane to beat men forward. He exulted in the sight. It was an ominous sign so early in a battle. ‘The cocksuckers are scared!’ he shouted. ‘They’re fucking terrified!’

Then his eyes fixed on a standard some thirty paces off to his left. He levelled his sica at it. ‘Take the eagle!’

With loud cries, the nearest slaves shoved onward, slamming their scuta into those of the legionaries and driving them back a step. Shield bosses smacked off each other and gladius blades sank deep into flesh. Men got close enough to head butt their enemies or ram a dagger home into their necks. They spat in the Romans’ faces, screamed insults and called down the fury of the gods on their heads. Stunned by the slaves’ sheer fury, the legionaries withdrew another pace.

In that instant, the world changed.

There was a noise like a striking thunderbolt, and the Roman lines shook with a massive impact. It was Egbeo and Pulcher, thought Spartacus. ‘NOW! PUSH THEM!’ he roared. Bare-headed, spittle flying from his lips, he threw himself at the nearest Romans. Like a pack of baying hounds, his men followed.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

The legionaries could take it no more. Their faces pinched with overwhelming terror. Desperate to flee from the madmen who were bearing down on them, they shoved at each other like trapped animals. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the centre of Lentulus’ line turned about and engaged in a full-scale retreat. Shields and weapons were flung down. The wounded, and those who were simply weaker, were knocked to the ground where they were trampled to death.

The slaves advanced, slaying all before them, showing mercy to no one.

The aquilifer, the soldier carrying the legion’s eagle, and the men charged with protecting him, were the only ones to hold their position. A tight little bloc of shields and swords, they roared and cursed at their comrades, calling on them to stand and fight.

It made no difference. Like a wave ebbing from the shore, the legionaries melted away from the front line.

Then Spartacus charged forward, bellowing like a rogue bull.

Too late, the aquilifer realised that his fate was upon him. Too late, he saw that the precious eagle was about to fall into enemy hands. ‘Retreat,’ he cried. But Spartacus and a score of slaves surged in, and they had to fight. The standard-bearer and his comrades went down in a vicious blur of hacks and slashes. The standard fell from his slack fingers, but before it could hit the ground, Spartacus snatched it up. ‘Look, you shitbags,’ he bellowed in Latin.

Amidst the melee, a few terrified Roman faces turned around.

‘The eagle is ours. The gods are on our side!’ Spartacus shook the standard defiantly at them. ‘Cowards!’

No one answered him, and his men yelled with delight.

He took a quick look around. The legionaries on the left flank were also in full retreat. Those on the right, who until that point had held their position, were wavering. It wouldn’t be long until they also broke, thought Spartacus with certainty. He had no idea where the Roman cavalry were, but they couldn’t have made much of an impression because the ranks to his rear were still solid. The battle on this side of the defile was as good as won. He had a hunch that with the advantage of all their horsemen, Castus and Gannicus would be achieving the same on the other side.

Let it be so, Great Rider.

Ariadne’s worries about Spartacus had consumed her from the moment he’d left. She’d spent hours praying and making offerings to Dionysus, but typically, had seen nothing that remotely reassured her. She knew better than to get angry with the capricious god, so she funnelled her frustration into marshalling the camp’s women and preparing them for the inevitable influx of wounded after the fighting was over. Even that supposition was disquieting. If the slaves lost the battle, there’d be no need for bandages, dressings and poultices but that, like Spartacus’ death, didn’t bear thinking about. And then there was Atheas, who’d been shadowing her every move. Ariadne found it unnerving. Before Spartacus had left, she had asked him what would happen if things went against them. He had touched a finger to her lips, saying, ‘That isn’t going to happen.’ Ariadne had insisted, however, and so he’d told her of how the Scythian and Carbo would escort her to safety.

She glanced at Atheas. His attempt to reassure her, a smile full of sharp brown teeth, made her feel worse. Yet interacting with the Scythian was preferable to talking with the other women. Every sound that reached them from the direction of the battlefield was either met with tears or wails of dismay. Even when, as now, the noises died away, the lamentations went on. Ariadne peered at the sky. How long had it been since Spartacus had set off with the army? Four hours? Five?

‘What do you think has happened?’ she whispered to Atheas. ‘Is it over?’

He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Impossible… say. Maybe they… rest… before fight again.’

The agony of not knowing was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I’m going to the cliffs to see what’s going on.’

Atheas was on his feet before she’d even finished speaking. ‘That

… very bad idea.’

Ariadne gave him a frosty glare. ‘You will stop me?’

‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic look.

She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but felt the need to argue anyway. ‘I’ll do what I want.’

‘No.’ Atheas’ tone was firm. ‘Too dangerous. You… stay here.’

‘Your women fight, do they not?’

He grinned, sheepishly. ‘Yes.’

‘Why should I not even go to watch the battle then?’

‘Because Spartacus… said so.’ Atheas hesitated for an instant. ‘Because of… child.’

‘He told you.’

‘Yes,’ replied the Scythian awkwardly.

A poignant image of Spartacus giving Atheas his final instructions filled Ariadne’s mind, and her breath caught in her chest. The gods bless him and keep him safe forever. ‘Let us hope that you and Carbo are never called on to fulfil the duty that he asked of you.’

‘I also ask… my gods… that.’ There was a gruff, unusual note to his voice.

Tears pricked at Ariadne’s eyes. In the chaotic months after they’d escaped the ludus, the unswerving devotion that he and Taxacis had showed to Spartacus had gone unacknowledged, by her at least. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d come to take it for granted, and of how dear the grim, tattooed warrior had become to her. ‘Why do you follow him?’

His thick eyebrows lifted. ‘Spartacus?’

She nodded.

There was a tiny smile. ‘No one… ever ask me.’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘When Taxacis and I… captured… other slaves refuse… talk with us. Think all Scythians… savages.’ Atheas spat his contempt on the ground. ‘But Spartacus… different.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Ariadne.

‘In ludus… he act like… leader.’ He shrugged. ‘No chance… return… Scythia, so we decide… follow him.’

‘He is grateful for your loyalty. I want you to know that I am too.’

Atheas dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘You chose wisely,’ said Ariadne. ‘When we cross the Alps, you will be free to travel to Scythia once more.’

He grinned fiercely. ‘I look forward… that day.’

‘And so do I.’ May Dionysus grant that it happens, thought Ariadne, doing her best to ignore the pangs of concern that were tearing at her heart.

By trotting from one end of the cliff tops to the other, Carbo was able to monitor the fight on both fronts. He had a bird’s-eye view of the battle, and so it was patently clear when the tide turned not just for Spartacus, but for the Gaulish leaders as well. Smashed apart by the slaves’ cavalry, Lentulus’ second legion was then slaughtered by Castus’ and Gannicus’ men. At least a third of its legionaries fell on the field, and the rest were harangued as they fled, losing countless more men in the process. The story was little different on Spartacus’ side of the defile.

As the scale of the victory became clearer, Carbo’s men grew more and more ecstatic. They danced and sang, praising every god in the pantheon for the interventions on their behalf. He, while also delighted by the victory, was struck by the shame of the Roman defeat. He was furious with himself for even feeling that emotion, but it couldn’t be denied. The sooner they crossed the mountains and left Italy, Carbo thought, the better. There at least he would have no regard for their enemies. He would be able to follow Spartacus without feeling in some way disloyal to his heritage. Perhaps, too, he could forget Crixus, and what he had done to Chloris.

Yet if it ever came to it, Carbo also knew that he would follow the Thracian into battle against the legions again. Too much water had gone under the bridge since he’d left home. Too much blood had been shed for there to be any going back.

He was Spartacus’ man, whatever the future held.

And that, despite all the uncertainty, was a good feeling.

More than two hours passed. Finally, the noise of loud cheering carried into the camp. Ariadne’s heart jolted in her chest. She raced with everyone else to the track which led north, and waited. Shivers racked her body, but they weren’t caused by the cooling mountain air. Just because the slaves had won didn’t mean that Spartacus had survived. She saw the same fear mirrored in every woman’s expression. They all had loved ones in the army’s ranks, but it was likely that many of them would never return. Guilt suffused Ariadne at the very thought of it, but she hoped that others had died rather than Spartacus, that she would not be the one to be left alone forever. She stole a glance at the pinched faces around her. Even Atheas looked concerned. They’re all thinking the same thing. That realisation made her feel fractionally better.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

The loud cry filled Ariadne with an unquenchable joy. She was running before she knew it, her feet pounding along the track. A disorganised mass of slaves rounded the bend, and she scanned them frantically. It was impossible not to notice the dozen standards that were being brandished aloft. Despite her worries, Ariadne’s eyes widened at the sight of two silver eagles amongst them. Then, recognising Spartacus, bloodied from head to foot, without a helmet but walking without help, she let out a yelp of happiness. A moment later, she had reached him, and thrown herself into his arms.

His men’s cheering redoubled. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

‘You’re alive, you’re alive,’ she murmured.

‘Of course I am,’ he replied, squeezing her tight. ‘Were you worried about me?’

Shocked, Ariadne pulled back to stare at him, and saw that he was joking. She didn’t know whether to laugh, to cry, or to kiss him. In the event, she did all three, in that order. She didn’t care that he stank of sweat and other men’s blood, that everyone was watching, that a priestess of Dionysus was not supposed to act in such a manner. All Ariadne cared about was that the man she loved had not died that day on the battlefield. That the child growing in her belly still had a father. Those two things were enough.

There were shouts of delight as the other women arrived and were seen by their men. The slaves streamed forward to be reunited with their loved ones, leaving Spartacus and Ariadne like an island in a river, oblivious, locked in each other’s arms.

‘You won,’ she said at last.

‘We did,’ he declared. ‘Everything went according to plan, thank the gods. Lentulus took the bait, and advanced into the gorge. Carbo split the legions apart, and shook their confidence. The moment the battle began, Egbeo and Pulcher emerged with their men to take them in the left flank. The bastards never knew what had happened. They broke and ran like a flock of sheep with a wolf amongst them.’

‘And Castus and Gannicus?’

‘They fared just as well.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Pursuing the Romans. Butchering every man they find, and making sure that they can’t regroup. Not that there’s much chance of that. The rest of the men are stripping the Roman dead of their weapons and equipment, or ransacking their camp for supplies.’

‘Was Lentulus captured or slain?’

‘Unfortunately not. When he saw that the battle was lost, he fled on horseback. Not that it matters!’ His scowl was replaced by a smile. ‘He can carry the news of this defeat to the Senate himself. You’ve seen the eagles we took. The shame of that disgrace will be a far greater sting to Rome’s pride than the men who were killed today. Lentulus will be lucky to survive with his head.’

She kissed him happily on the lips. ‘You are a great general. Truly, Dionysus favours you.’

‘The Great Rider was here today too. He lent me his strength,’ he said reverently. Joy filled him. Maron has finally been avenged.

Silence fell between them as they both offered up thanks to the gods.

‘What next?’ asked Ariadne. Her pulse quickened with new fear. ‘You’re not tempted to go in search of the second consular army?’

‘Tempted? Of course I am! Crixus might even welcome the help!’ He saw her concern, and his fierce expression gentled. ‘No, the Romans are like locusts. There’s no end to their armies. If Gellius appears, we will fight him, but my plan is still to head north, to the Alps.’

‘They are not far now.’ Ariadne let her mind wander. ‘Our son could be born in Gaul.’

‘Maybe,’ said Spartacus, wary of tempting the gods, wary because life had previously handed him so many harsh lessons. ‘Let us reach the mountains first, and cross them before making any assumptions.’ He grinned at her, keen to dispel his worries. ‘Today, though, let us rejoice in our victory and the knowledge that Rome has learned a lesson.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked, smiling.

‘That slaves can also be soldiers. That they can take on the might of a consular army, and win. I knew it could be done, and today I proved it.’

A man could die happy knowing he’d accomplished that.