Spartacus: Rebellion (44 page)

Marcion glanced around the fire and was gratified by the intense interest in his comrades’ faces. ‘We were heading back here to cook, when I spotted a patrol returning to their tents. They seemed particularly happy, so we hung about for a bit to see why. It became obvious that they had come upon a farm that hadn’t been raided before, and ransacked it. Naturally enough, their officer took much of it for himself. He had his men put it in his tent while he went off to report whatever he’d seen.’

‘He must have left a guard, surely?’ asked Zeuxis in a disbelieving tone.

‘He did,’ replied Marcion with a grin. ‘Two of them. At the
front
of his tent.’

His comrades exchanged delighted looks.

‘Arphocras kept watch while I slit a hole in the
back
and took all that I could carry.’

‘Hades below, it’s as well that you weren’t caught,’ said Zeuxis, whistling in appreciation. ‘You’d have been whipped within a hair of your life!’

‘The things Arphocras and I do for you miserable whoresons, eh?’ said Marcion. ‘Nothing’s too good for you!’

As their laughter rose into the night sky, it was almost possible to forget that the following dawn, they would be facing death once more. Almost, but not quite.

By sunset the next day, Spartacus had suffered his first defeat. Of the thirty-five cohorts that he had led up to the ridge, only five thousand shattered survivors remained. More than twice that number had been left bleeding, screaming and dying in the lethal traps that were the Roman defences.

Spartacus realised he had badly underestimated his enemy’s ability to build fortifications and to defend them with obstinate determination. Having rallied the last of his men into a semblance of order, he led them away from the carnage, from the churned up, glutinous, red mud and the ground covered in mutilated corpses and discarded weapons. The air was thick with the reek of blood, piss and shit, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. So too did the Roman taunts that followed them through the trees. A last stone was fired from a ballista, thumping into the earth some distance to their rear, its purpose not to kill but to hammer home the depth of their defeat. The slaves had lost more than two-thirds of their force, but no more than a hundred legionaries had been slain.

Spartacus hawked and spat a defiant lump of phlegm in the stone’s direction. What in the Rider’s name had gone wrong? The march up to the ridge had passed without major incident, and the day itself had started well enough. His men had been full of high spirits, laughing and joking, and boasting to one another about how many legionaries they would each kill. Looking at them, he had been full of pride, sure that they were capable of taking on any enemy. The reality of the fight at the bottleneck had been very different. In retrospect, the Roman defences reminded him of the way fishermen caught vast numbers of tuna, placing complex systems of nets across their migration routes. That thought stopped him in his tracks. A trap. It had been a trap. Crassus had known he was coming, told no doubt by the same damn spy who had managed to thwart his assassination attempt on the general.

He cursed. Why hadn’t he anticipated that his cover might have been blown? The answer was simple. All he’d seen was a way out, a road north, away from Crassus’ ten legions. He had let his desire for that prize dull him to the dangers of the Roman defences. His troops had gone along with his wishes. Despite taking horrific numbers of casualties during the first attack, they had not argued when he had ordered them to advance for a second time. There had been less shouting, less enthusiasm, but they had bravely walked into another withering hail of enemy projectiles. Spartacus had seen the effect of such concentrated missile attack when he had fought as a Roman auxiliary, but he had never been on the receiving end. It was impossible to blame his soldiers for breaking and running. Only a madman or a god would continue to march forward when his fellows are being cut down in their hundreds. He hadn’t run, but he had eventually pulled back. There had been no option. A handful of men had stood with him; if he hadn’t retreated, they would have all been slain, and that would have served no one but Crassus.

Spartacus’ mind was full of shocking images. A soldier struck in the head by a bolt from a catapult, whose skull had burst apart like an overripe fruit. The men for ten paces in every direction had been sheeted in his blood and nervous tissue. A javelin that had taken a soldier just above the top of his mail shirt, running deep into his chest cavity. Spraying pink froth from his mouth and keening like a stuck pig, the man had knocked two comrades to the ground before someone had put him out of his misery. Spartacus could still hear the
clatter, clatter, clatter
sound of slingshot bullets striking shields and the screams of the soldiers who’d suffered a shattered cheek or jawbone. Could still see the startled expression on the face of the man whose eyeball and following that, his brain, had been ruptured by a piece of lead no bigger than a bird’s egg. Oddly, he’d recognised the unfortunate as one of the tent party he’d overheard on his return from Rome. Spartacus was damned if he could remember the man’s name.

The Romans had ranged their catapults in well, using markers on the ground to show them where to aim. Spartacus had been surprised by the number of enemy artillery pieces. Hundreds of slaves must have toiled like oxen at the plough to transport the heavy weapons up from the coast. Their presence proved that Crassus wasn’t just a canny politician. He was a shrewd general as well. That knowledge made Spartacus even more wary of trying to break through the Roman defences on the flat ground by the sea. His troops might batter their way through, but he doubted if they could then stand up to nine legions. Not without the help of Castus’ and Gannicus’ men at least.

Spartacus ground his jaws with frustration. It would have been better to burn his bridges with the Gauls not when he had, but at the very last moment. He considered his options. It was doubtful that the pair would be open to a new approach. Why even bother trying? he thought savagely, remembering the attempt on his life. Old anger surged through him once more.
Fuck them both! I’ll do it on my own.

Where? he wondered. His gut answered at once. The ridge. It had to be the ridge. But if they failed again, Crassus would have won the war. His fury began to glow white-hot. He was damned if that was going to happen. There was little point waiting either. With every day that went by, his troops’ morale would plummet even further, and the chance of escaping would vanish. Men were already deserting – Carbo had seen them with his own eyes. They’d be better off without such cowards, thought Spartacus angrily. Yet he had to act fast, or his numbers would shrink further. And that was before fucking Pompey arrived from Iberia. He hadn’t wanted to believe the taunts being thrown at them as they withdrew, but the legionaries’ voices had sounded so delighted that he suspected they were. The Senate must have grown impatient with Crassus. Pompey was the flashy general who had crushed Sertorius’ rebellion. Before that, he had had a prominent role in Sulla’s war to seize control of the Republic. Would his bad luck never end? Pompey was an able tactician and his legions were battle-hardened. According to Navio, he had at least six of them too. His mood darkened further at the thought of seeing sixteen legions take to the field against his men.

Back at the camp, he went to speak with Ariadne. She gasped with horror as he entered the tent. Surprised, Spartacus glanced at his arms and mail, which were spattered with blood. He guessed that his face bore the same gory evidence. ‘It’s all right. I’m not hurt.’

She rushed to him. ‘Men have been saying that you were thrown back from the Roman wall. That thousands of our soldiers have been killed. Is it true?’

Nodding grimly, he filled her in.

Was this the beginning of the end? wondered Ariadne. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to walk from tent to tent, campfire to campfire. Speak with the men. Make them understand that tomorrow we cannot fail.’

‘You’re going to attack again so soon?’

‘Damn right I am. I have to.’ He saw her confusion. ‘The Romans knew we were coming. The spy must have told them. Attacking again tomorrow and preventing anyone from going near the enemy defences are about the best ways to prevent another slaughter like the one today. There are other reasons I have to act now too. Some men are leaving already. A few more days, and the grain will begin to run out. Imagine what will happen to morale then.’ He touched her cheek, and was glad that she did not recoil from the encrusted gore on his fingers.

‘What about the spy?’

He shrugged. ‘A needle in a large haystack. We keep our eyes and ears open. Tell only those who need to know about important decisions.’

‘It’s so frustrating. I wish there was more you could do.’

Another shrug. ‘I have a notion to send Crassus a message.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Saying what?’

‘Asking him to take me into his
fides
.’

She looked at him as if he were insane. ‘That’s the same thing as surrendering! Why would you ask Crassus to become your patron?’

‘First, it would force him to acknowledge me as his equal. Second, he could become my ally against Pompey. He must be livid at the idea of that glory hunter coming to steal his thunder. Imagine the strength of his army if my soldiers were added to it!’

‘Crassus would never agree to something like that.’ Ariadne’s laugh was a little shrill. ‘He wouldn’t let your men leave, free to settle where they chose. To him, they’re just slaves!’

‘I know, but it would show him – in the most uncertain terms – that I do not regard him as my superior. He’d also hate that I’ve heard how pissed off he is about Pompey being invited to the party. Infuriating him like that can only be a good thing, surely?’

‘I’d rather stick a knife between the whoreson’s ribs!’

Spartacus grinned. He had always loved her feistiness.

‘Whom will you send?’

‘A prisoner.’

‘A pity that we can’t send a man who could kill Crassus.’

‘He’d never get close enough.’

‘What about Carbo? He’s a Roman. He could pretend to have deserted; that he had information useful to Crassus.’

He gave her a reproachful look. ‘You might as well ask him to commit suicide! Even if I was prepared to ask Carbo, which I’m not, he has another job, which is far more important.’

Ariadne was about to ask when she remembered squeezing the truth of that from Atheas during the battle with Lentulus. Shame scourged her, that she should have asked Spartacus to send Carbo, the most loyal of men, to his death when his mission was to protect her and Maron if things went awry. She was angry next, for reminding herself of such dread possibilities. ‘You should eat something,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Get yourself clean.’

‘Later.’

‘You look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down? Even an hour’s sleep would help.’

His smile was grim. ‘I can rest when I’m dead.’

Ariadne’s fears resurged. She pulled him close. ‘Don’t say things like that,’ she whispered. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’

He squeezed her tight. ‘Not yet it isn’t! The Rider was by my side today. He’ll be with me tomorrow too, when I have my vengeance.’

Ariadne found the fury in his eyes chilling. It almost made her forget her concern for his safety. ‘I will ask Dionysus for his help.’

The smile became savage. ‘My thanks. We will need it.’

Spartacus was more weary than he could ever remember being. His muscles ached, his joints cracked with every movement, and he had a headache worse than any hangover. He had spent half the night moving through the camp, praising, cajoling, injecting new energy into his men. He had drunk wine with some, argued with others and even arm-wrestled a few. He had shouted, railed and threatened. He had warned the soldiers of the fate they could expect if they failed to break the Roman blockade. Spartacus had promised them that he would, as always, lead from the front. Nothing – absolutely nothing – would stop him from carving a path through for his army. They had cheered him then until they were hoarse, even the bloodied, battered soldiers who had been on the ridge that day. He had gone to his bed satisfied that there was no more to be done. Ariadne had been awake, but Spartacus was in no mood to talk. A couple of hours’ rest, and he’d been up again. It was at least three hours’ march to the Roman wall, and he wanted his troops in place before dawn. There was a lot to do before their attack. He had kissed Ariadne farewell and spoken with Egbeo and Carbo – ordering them to take up the rear with his wife and son. Then he had gone to meet his senior officers.

At least five hours had passed since. Normally, Spartacus would have cursed fog. It made finding one’s way treacherous, marching even harder and battle well nigh impossible. But the grey blanket that had fallen over the steep slopes as the army had made its way to the ridge had been a blessing. It had dulled the sound of their advance, and had provided good cover for his men to approach the Roman ditch with their loads of wood. The fog had also shrouded the scene, meaning that his soldiers had only seen groups of their dead comrades lying stiff and cold, rather than the full, terrible extent of the battlefield. To try and alleviate the horror further, Spartacus had ordered that no one was to look anywhere but forward as they marched.

He had chosen five points along the wall as his focus for their assault. At each point, the trench was to be filled if possible to a width of a hundred paces, in order to allow a full cohort the space to attack. Inevitably, the noise of their approach had alerted the enemy sentries. Close to the foot of the wall, Spartacus had heard the hisses of alarm, the call for an officer and the shouted challenges. To protect against missile attack, he’d ordered two ranks of soldiers to stand before the ditch, their shields raised one on top of the other in a protective wall. The men whose job it was to approach with wood exposed themselves at the last moment, when they threw their loads into the trench.

His tactic had worked: when the Roman officers had ordered several volleys of javelins, only a handful of Spartacus’ soldiers had been injured, and none killed. Encouraged by this, he had ordered the mules to be brought forward. As he’d suspected, the ditches hadn’t even been half filled by the timber. The beasts’ braying had again set the confused enemy to scurrying about on the rampart. Another ragged volley of javelins had rattled off the front ranks’ shields, but that had been all until a couple of stones were fired from the catapults atop the wall. One of those had killed two men and a mule, but because of the fog the Romans had not seen this. The enemy officers had sensibly decided to save their ammunition, which had allowed the process of dragging the mules forward and killing them to continue. The beasts’ bodies had levelled the ground in three of the assault points, but in the last two, a significant difference in the level of the earth had remained.