Spartacus: The Gladiator (47 page)

Cossinius drank in her beauty for a few more moments. ‘Take it off.’

She pulled the shift up and over her head. Dropping it to the ground, she stared off into the distance.

‘Look at me.’ Unwillingly, her eyes crept back to his. They were bright blue, he noticed with surprise. They made her even more desirable. ‘Now the undergarment.’

Her fine-boned fingers reached down and began sliding the fabric downwards.

Cossinius could feel his excitement growing.

Her gaze moved upwards again, taking in the ground behind him. Her hands stopped.

He frowned. ‘Well, get on with it!’

A trace of fear crossed her face.

Cossinius began to grow impatient. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, I’m not going to beat you. Take it off and get into the water.’

Instead of obeying, the slave opened her mouth and screamed.

At last, Cossinius took in her degree of terror, and he realised that she wasn’t screaming at him. His head spun around, to the magnificent lawns that rolled away on either side of the pool. What he saw was surreal. Perhaps twenty men – armed men – were running across the grass towards him. More were emerging from the trees at the edge of the villa’s garden. The leaders were no more than thirty paces away. Many of the intruders wore crested bronze helmets and carried scuta, but they were clearly not legionaries. No Roman soldiers had moustaches or wore their hair long. No Roman soldier ran into battle bare-chested or yelled such unearthly battle cries. Cossinius’ blood turned to ice in his veins.
Spartacus’ men
.

Still shrieking, the slave turned and ran away, back towards the villa.

His erection vanished, Cossinius scrambled frantically out of the pool. It was all he could do to grab his scarlet cloak from the bench where he’d left his clothes and sprint for safety. Everything else, from his polished muscled cuirass to his ivory-handled gladius, his magnificent crested helmet, his finely woven tunic and his padded
subarmalis
, was left behind. There was certainly no time to pull on and lace up his open-toed boots.

Cossinius could see his own shock mirrored on the faces of the ten soldiers he’d brought here to guard him as he bathed. Their commander, a weak-chinned optio, gaped at the sight of his superior sprinting in his direction, prick and balls bouncing up and down. Cossinius didn’t care. ‘Form the men up!’ he yelped. ‘Prepare to fight a rearguard action while I raise the alarm!’

The order was a death sentence, and the optio knew it. He blinked, and then regained control of himself. ‘Yes, sir!’ He glared at the ten legionaries, some of whom had begun shuffling backwards. ‘You heard the praetor! Form a line! At the double!’

Cossinius slowed his flight long enough to see that the legionaries were doing as they were told. Breathing a tiny sigh of relief, he ran for the stables, where his horse had been stabled. Gods willing, the savages hadn’t had the wits to attack from more than one side of the villa. All he needed was a moment’s grace and he’d be up and away. The camp was literally five hundred paces away. Cossinius prayed with all his might that Spartacus hadn’t attacked it at the same time.

The short ride to his camp was the longest of Cossinius’ life. Frantic glances over his shoulder soon told him that he was being pursued. Dozens of armed men had spilled on to the road, and more were still emerging from the villa’s grounds. Acutely aware of the fact that he was wearing nothing but his cloak, Cossinius urged his already tired horse on with desperate thumps of his heels. Before long, he saw off to one side, the shapes of hundreds of legionaries standing in a loose semicircle around a large rectangular mound of earth – the rampart for the temporary camp. He had never been more glad of army routine. Fully half of his command – one thousand soldiers – were standing guard as the remainder built an enclosure for the night. There would be more than enough to defeat the slaves. ‘Sound the alarm!’ he squawked. ‘Sound the alarm!’

No one heard him. Cossinius spat a savage curse and saved his breath. He was too far away, and the lazy bastards were probably gossiping rather than looking out for signs of danger. The fact that they were in safe territory, just a few miles from Pompeii, was irrelevant, he thought furiously. After the slaves had been annihilated, he would have the duty officer flogged within a whisker of his life. Perhaps he’d even have him tortured.

‘Enemy in sight! Sound the alarm!’ he bellowed again.

Finally, heads began to turn. Cossinius saw the legionaries’ faces crease in recognition, shock and then hilarity. Laughter broke out in the ranks. Even the officers were struggling not to smile. Cossinius flushed crimson. He could only imagine what he looked like, a bollock-naked praetor astride a horse, with his red cloak billowing behind him. There was nothing for it, however, but to keep riding, straight up to his men. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’ he yelled as he drew nearer. ‘Sound the alarm!’

The nearest centurion’s mirth suddenly vanished. ‘The alarm, sir?’

‘Yes, you fool! The villa has been overrun. My guards are dead, and the road behind me is full of Spartacus’ men. Stand the troops to arms!’

The centurion was a veteran, even if his soldiers weren’t. ‘You heard the praetor!’ he roared at the trumpeter. ‘Sound the fucking alarm! NOW! The rest of you, form up. Twenty men wide, four ranks deep. Double quick!’ He turned back to Cossinius. ‘Get yourself inside the rampart, sir. Your baggage is already in there. We’ll contain the bastards until you return.’

Giving the centurion a tight nod, Cossinius rode on. As the trumpet blared a series of short, staccato sounds, he was pleased to see all the legionaries in sight being hurried into formation by their officers. No one was laughing at his nakedness now.
It won’t take me long to get dressed. Then we can sort the scumbags out
. He permitted himself a small smile.
I’ll have that slave brought to my quarters tonight. Might as well fuck her in comfort
.

A short time later, all thoughts of sex had left Cossinius’ mind. Hastily donning one of his spare uniforms and a pair of sandals, he’d slung a baldric suspending his second-best sword over his right shoulder and shoved a helmet on his head. When he was fully dressed, the terror he’d felt in the pool vanished to be replaced by red-blooded fury. How dare they? he raged silently. Filthy slaves. I’ll make them pay. Accompanied by a couple of confused-looking staff officers who’d been milling around by his tent, Cossinius headed straight for the front entrance. Thanks to the rampart, which was already higher than a man, he couldn’t see the ground before the camp. However, the sounds of battle, unfamiliar to his ears, formed a deafening crescendo as they trotted along. Sword clattered off sword; trumpets shrilled over and over; incomprehensible shouts echoed to and fro. Intermingled with this cacophony was the unmistakable sound of men screaming.

Cossinius didn’t like it. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ muttered the younger of the two staff officers, an arrogant youth who had been appointed to his position thanks only to his father’s wealth. Although Cossinius’ background was similar, he loathed him.

‘Why in Hades’ name don’t you know? It’s your bloody job to inform me of what’s going on!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the second officer. ‘Last we saw, our lads were holding their own.’

‘Holding their own?’ Cossinius spluttered indignantly.

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure that when you appear, we’ll soon drive them off.’

‘Damn right!’ Cossinius drew his sword and made for the entrance, which was a narrow passageway ten paces long, formed in the specially constructed gap between two overlapping parts of the earthen rampart. He stumbled back in surprise as a wild-eyed legionary came storming inside. Cossinius glared at the soldier, who had no shield or sword. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snapped.

The legionary’s eyes came back into focus, registering Cossinius’ ornate armour and the two staff officers by his side. ‘I … we … they’re all over us, sir. There are hundreds of them … hundreds.’

‘So, what, you ran away?’ accused Cossinius.

The legionary’s eyes flickered from side to side, like a cornered rat. ‘I—’

Grimacing, Cossinius rammed his sword into the soldier’s groin, below the edge of his mail shirt. Letting the screaming man fall off his blade, he stared down the staff officers, whose faces were the picture of horror. ‘That’s more than the piece of filth deserves! Now follow me.’

He stalked outside, determined to end the farce once and for all. Like chastened pups, they clung to his heels.

Cossinius could not have imagined the scene of utter chaos that met his eyes. Instead of serried ranks of legionaries pressing home the attack under the calm direction of their officers, he saw isolated pockets of men fighting desperately against encircling groups of yelling slaves. In the time it took him to scan the field from left to right, Cossinius saw at least six soldiers hacked to pieces. Slowly but inevitably, his troops were being driven backwards or, more often, wiped out. Scores of the attackers were already pressing forward into the gaps in the Roman lines, towards the camp. There was no one to halt their progress.

The ground was littered with the injured and dying, the maimed and the blind. In threes and fours, legionaries were retreating, or even running from the fight. Here and there, a centurion valiantly tried to regain control, but there was no order, no design to the bitter struggle. Of the troops who’d been laying out the camp, Cossinius could see no sign. He looked to the defensive ditch, where he’d last seen them working. It was full of discarded tools. Alongside the trench stood neat stacks of shields and pyramids of javelins. The cold realisation of what had happened clutched at his vitals.
The shitbags have left their weapons and run already
. Suddenly, Cossinius’ mouth was as dry as the bed of a desert stream. This kind of misfortune did not happen to him. Half the men under his command did not just run away. Slaves did not overwhelm regular legionaries.
The world’s gone mad
.

‘Sir?’

Cossinius was dimly aware of someone tugging at his arm.

‘What are your orders, sir?’

He looked stupidly at the more senior staff officer. ‘Eh?’

The officer gestured at the carnage with a trembling arm. ‘What shall we do, sir?’

An image of Glaber falling on his sword filled Cossinius’ mind. Not for him the ignominy of that end. He would not leave such a shameful stain on his family’s good name. Far better to die in battle, facing the enemy with a sword in his hand. He felt a passing twinge of regret. He’d never get to screw the attractive slave now. ‘We advance,’ Cossinius said calmly.

‘A-advance, sir?’

‘You heard me. Roman senators and noblemen do not run from slaves!’ He reached down and picked up a discarded scutum, the back of which was spattered with blood. Its owner’s blood, thought Cossinius vaguely. ‘Find shields, both of you. We’ll show these whoresons how Romans can die.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The officer grabbed a scutum. Shamefaced, his companion did the same. They drew their gladii.

‘Form up either side of me,’ ordered Cossinius. ‘Stay close.’

As the officers obeyed, a group of nearby slaves saw their pathetic shield wall. Without hesitation, they charged in a heaving, screaming mass. Swords and javelins waved, promising death in all kinds of ways.

‘Prepare to meet an enemy attack,’ ordered Cossinius. Crassus was right, he thought wryly. Spartacus is a man to be respected.

Chapter XVI

THE SUN WAS dropping in the sky as Spartacus worked his way through the camp, which now sprawled over a huge area, far beyond the earthen ramparts erected by Glaber’s men. Greetings rang out from everyone who noticed him, and he made sure to smile in return or engage in a few words of encouragement before moving on. Inside, Spartacus was troubled by the number of gaunt faces on view.

After Cossinius’ defeat and death, the tide of new recruits seeking to join him – men, women and children – had turned into a veritable flood. The camp at the top of Vesuvius had rapidly swelled to bursting point. With more severe weather imminent, he had taken the decision to move everyone down to the remnants of Glaber’s encampment at the bottom of the mountain. While this meant that his fifteen thousand followers were shielded from the worst extremes of the elements, it did not provide them with any food.