Spartacus: Rebellion (45 page)

Spartacus didn’t hesitate. The fog was beginning to thin out. Dawn wasn’t that far off. He ordered the soldiers with shields to withdraw, and for the prisoners to be brought forward to the two ditches which still needed filling. They could have used the bodies of his men who had fallen the previous day, but that would have been terrible for morale. Besides, he had a better plan.

Men hurried off to do his bidding. Spartacus watched them go. He had never been keen on taking captives. They needed to be guarded, fed and watched constantly. From time to time, however, some were taken. This had been the case about a week prior, when a Roman patrol that had been sent over the wall to scout out his forces had strayed into an ambush set by Pulcher. More than a hundred legionaries had surrendered. On a whim, Spartacus had ordered their lives to be spared. He was glad of that decision now.

It wasn’t long before the first file of twenty came into sight, emerging from the fog like a line of ghosts. A dozen soldiers shadowed their every move. The prisoners’ wrists were bound behind their backs, and a long rope held by one of Spartacus’ officers secured each by the neck. Many of the Romans had cuts and bruises on their faces, arms and legs from the falls that they had sustained on the nightmarish climb to the ridge. To a man, they looked absolutely terrified. They had no idea why they were here, but it couldn’t be good. Spartacus didn’t bother speaking to them. In his mind, they were as expendable as the mules.

‘Line them up in front of the ditch.’

Realising their fate, the legionaries began to beg for their lives.

Spartacus’ men ignored their pleas. Using their fists and the points of their swords, they drove the prisoners forward.

A sudden gust of wind moved the fog slightly, allowing the Romans to see their comrades. Roars of anguish rose up, but before the legionaries could react further, the cloud settled again. Curses rained down on Spartacus and his men, but there was nothing that the defenders could do. Spartacus’ lips peeled upwards. As well as angering the men on the wall, the executions would drive shards of fear into their hearts. ‘Kill them!’

The ground had already been soaked by the mules’ blood. Now it was bathed anew. With savage dedication, Spartacus’ men set about slaying the captives, who were wailing with fear. A few muttered prayers to their gods, and a couple spat curses over their shoulders at their executioners. It made no difference. With terrible soughing sounds, gladii sliced through the flesh in their backs to emerge, crimson-tipped, from their chests and bellies. A couple of thrusts were enough to inflict mortal wounds. Spartacus’ men shoved their victims off their blades and set upon the last prisoners. The Romans toppled in twos and threes into the ditch, where they twitched and moaned as they bled out. It was over fast.

‘Bring the next lot!’ ordered Spartacus.

‘Spartacus, you whoreson!’ yelled a voice from the ramparts. ‘By the gods, you’ll suffer a thousand deaths for this.’

Shouts of agreement rang out all along the parapet.

‘Go fuck your mother! If you even had one,’ roared Spartacus. ‘At least we’re giving them a swift end.’

His soldiers whooped and cheered.

‘That’s something you won’t have, or my name’s not Gnaeus Servilius Caepio!’

An alarm bell began to toll in Spartacus’ mind. ‘What are you doing here, old man?’

‘Not much. Polishing my sword. Making sure that the legion I guided up here last night is ready to repel your attack.’

Spartacus’ heart thumped in his chest. Had the spy somehow got word to Crassus, or was Caepio just trying to put the fear of the gods into his troops? He glanced at the nearest men and was angered to see the first traces of panic in their eyes. ‘You’re lying, Caepio! I know you are.’

‘Am I? Why don’t you climb up here and see what awaits you then?’ retorted the centurion.

‘We’ll do that. After the ditches have been levelled,’ Spartacus announced loudly. The next group of prisoners shuffled into view. ‘Kill them! Quickly!’ He moved to the second ditch, making sure that it was also being filled, and gauging the mood of his soldiers there. He was angered to see that Caepio’s words had also affected them. The idea he had considered was required. He ordered one from the last group of prisoners to be spared. The final captive, quaking with fear, was forced by the Scythians to walk with Spartacus as he returned to the first of his cohorts. They were waiting some two hundred paces from the wall – the outer limit of accurate catapult range. They stood silently, three cohorts wide, with their centurions in the front ranks. Behind them, the densely packed soldiers extended for more than a mile. He would have had them spread out further, but the beech trees prevented it.

The distance hadn’t been enough to mask Caepio’s voice, Spartacus noted sourly. The front cohorts had clearly heard what he’d said too. There was no chanting of his name, no clashing of weapons off shields. Those who were holding ladders looked less than enthusiastic. Few soldiers would meet his eye. The officers he could see were scowling, or reprimanding their men.

Steely resolve took hold of him. It was time to stiffen his troops’ morale with a savage demonstration of what they could all expect. If he didn’t, their attack was doomed before it even began. He drew his sica and began walking along the face of the cohorts. Atheas and Taxacis followed, shoving the prisoner before them. ‘What’s my name?’ Spartacus shouted.

‘Spar-ta-cus!’ cried a voice he recognised.

He gave Marcion a tight nod. ‘That’s right. I want to hear it again!’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ Many more men joined in this time.

He strode on, stabbing his sword into the grey, clammy air. ‘Again!’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

‘That’s more like it.’ He bestowed a wintry smile on the nearest soldiers.

Up and down he went, until all three cohorts had seen him. He returned to the centre of the line. ‘Bring the cross! Now!’

Men gaped at him, and the prisoner’s face went grey with fear.

Orders rang out; led by an officer, half a dozen soldiers, Marcion and Zeuxis among them, broke away from their positions and scurried off to the side. They soon returned. Marcion and a pair of his companions were carrying two lengths of roughly carved timber that had been prepared the night before. The longer piece had had an iron hook hammered into one end. The others were carrying mallets, a set of wooden steps, lengths of rope and bags of nails.

‘Put it up thirty paces out there,’ commanded Spartacus. ‘Get a move on!’

His men hurried to a spot opposite him. Fastening several ropes to the longer of the two pieces of wood, they pulled it upright. The steps were moved in close, and two soldiers began hammering the timber into the ground.
Thump. Thump. Thump.

The legionary’s mouth worked in silent terror.

Soon the vertical post had been pounded in to the depth of a man’s forearm.

Spartacus gestured at the prisoner. ‘Strip him naked. Then take him out and crucify him.’

‘I’m a citizen! Please! You can’t do this to me!’ screeched the Roman as his tunic and undergarment were ripped off.

‘Bullshit! You’re identical to every man here!’ roared Spartacus, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You eat and drink, breathe, sleep and shit the same as us. This punishment is no different to what your kind would do to us.’ He scanned his men’s faces. ‘Do you hear me?
This
is what you can expect if we don’t break out today.’

Yelling at the top of his voice, the legionary was hauled out to the vertical post and forced down on to what would be the crosspiece. A soldier knelt on each of his arms, holding him so that his wrists and hands were exposed. The officer in charge glanced at Spartacus.

‘Get on with it!’

A barked order, and Zeuxis touched a long iron nail to the point where the bones of the legionary’s right arm met those of the wrist. The prisoner began gibbering in fear, praying to the every god in the pantheon. Zeuxis raised his mallet high, and without hesitation, brought it down with all his strength. ‘This is for Gaius,’ he hissed. A shriek of indescribable pain shredded the air, but the mallet came down again and again. Marcion looked away, but Zeuxis didn’t stop until the nail was flush with the legionary’s flesh. The captive’s screams reached a new pitch as the same process was repeated with his left wrist.

Spartacus studied his men, and was pleased to see how shocked and revolted they looked. The message had to sink in. If it didn’t, they were all damned. Angry shouts carried from the wall. The Romans’ blood would be up, but that couldn’t be helped.

Lapping a rope around the hook at the top of the vertical post, his soldiers fastened it around both ends of the crosspiece and then hauled the crucified legionary up until his feet came off the ground. He roared in agony as his arms took the strain of his body weight. The steps were moved in front of him, and a number of nails were pounded in over his shoulders, fixing the crosspiece to the vertical length of timber.

Without ado, his left leg was seized and his foot nailed to the cross. He kicked frantically with his free leg, striking Zeuxis in the face. Cursing, he heaved the man’s right foot sideways on to the timber and hammered in another nail through his heel. It was too much for the legionary. ‘Mother! Please, Mother,’ he babbled. ‘Mother, help me!’ Piss began leaking from his shrunken member, spattering Zeuxis. He leaped back in disgust as his fellows roared with laughter. Even Marcion’s lips twitched.

Zeuxis grabbed the mallet again and stepped up to the cross. ‘Can I break his legs, sir?’

‘No. Leave him,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘I want the bastard alive for every man to see as he marches by.’

With a disappointed look, Zeuxis stepped away. Marcion wondered if it would have been better to let him take his revenge. No one deserved to die in such pain, not even a Roman. But the decision wasn’t down to him. He was just a foot soldier.

‘Back to our place in the line,’ hissed their officer. They hurried to obey.

Spartacus turned his back on the crucified legionary and began pacing along the front of the cohorts again. ‘Watch his suffering, you maggots, and learn! It could take two or three days for the dog’s pain to end, perhaps even longer. Is that the death you want? Do you want to end your life begging the Romans to break your legs so that you can die quicker?’

No one had the balls to speak.

Spartacus shoved his face into that of the nearest soldier. Their helmets knocked off each other. ‘Answer me, or by the Rider, I’ll do the same to you!’

‘NO, SIR!’

Spartacus stepped back. ‘That’s one man who knows what he wants at least. What about the rest of you? Is that the end you want?’

‘NO, SIR!’ they yelled.

He walked for fifty paces, eyeballing every soldier that he passed. ‘Are you fucking sure?’

‘YES!’ they roared.

On he went, defying any man to answer him back, to look in any way uncertain. ‘Sure? Sure?’

‘YES!’

‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ yelled Marcion. He glared at Zeuxis, who joined in.

This time, the chant was taken up with gusto.

Finally.
Spartacus stepped up and clashed his sica off a man’s shield boss. ‘Louder!’

The soldier’s companions quickly copied him. So too did the men behind, and to either side.
Clash. Clash. Clash.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Soon the racket was deafening.

Spartacus let them shout for some time. He wanted every soldier in the army to hear the noise, to feel the blood rush in his ears, the battle rage begin to stir. When he saw the confidence appearing in men’s faces, he knew it was time. A signal, and the waiting trumpeters sounded their instruments, a strident call to arms that no one could mistake.

The fanfare was met by an equally forceful set of blasts from behind the wall.

Spartacus hastened back to his position with the Scythians, who slotted in to his left and right. Atheas took a ladder from someone. A shield was handed to Spartacus; grounding it, he rested it against his body. He glanced to either side. Atheas and Taxacis gave him their usual feral grins; the men beyond looked tense but ready. ‘On my command, advance at the walk! Open order!’ His words went echoing both ways down the line. Spartacus took hold of the brass centurion’s whistle that hung from a thong around his neck and stuck it between his lips.

Peeeeeeep!
Spartacus emptied his lungs.

The shrill sound repeated itself through the cohorts.

‘ADVANCE!’ Spartacus walked forward with an even tread. On either side, his soldiers matched his pace. His gaze travelled along the enemy ramparts. The catapults would start shooting at any moment. So too would the ballistae. In the Romans’ eyes, the more bolts and stones that could be launched before he and his men arrived, the better.

Sure enough, he heard the familiar noise of thick gut strings being ratcheted back, and the thump as stones were loaded into place. Next, the indistinct sound of officers’ voices, followed by a shouted order. ‘Close order! Raise shields!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Keep moving.’

All around him, men moved shoulder to shoulder. If they were in the front rank, they lifted their scuta up, so that the curved shields protected them from eye level to their ankles. Those behind heaved theirs up to protect their heads. Only those who were carrying ladders remained unprotected, needing both their hands to carry their awkward burdens.

They drew near to the crucified legionary, whose legs were now soiled with urine and faeces. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning softly, ‘Motherrr . . .’ He kept shifting position, letting his bloodied arms take the strain, and when that was too much, trying to stand on his nailed feet. Poor bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s served his purpose. He was going to slide his sica into the man’s belly as he passed, end his suffering. But he didn’t. His troops had to witness the savagery of such a death. Spartacus threw up a heartfelt prayer.
I ask for any end but that.
Grimly, he moved on.

The Romans let them approach for another ten paces. Then, with a rush, the air between Spartacus’ soldiers and the wall filled with missiles. Stones the size of a man’s head. Metal-tipped arrows the length of a man’s forearm. Slingshot bullets smaller than a hen’s egg.
Whoosh. Whirr.
Whizz
. They covered the distance in a frightening blur of movement.