Spartacus

by Lewis Grassic Gibbon

  The Gaul was riding out of Nola just as the dawn came into the sky, bright, tremulous, tremendous, a shining dawn into which he rode. By early afternoon he had crossed the great Stone Way, and in a little was amongst the mountains. He might have reached Garganus by nightfull but for the fact that in a narrow defile he came suddenly on a band of Roman velites. At that sight he laughed, then unslung his axe and spurred forward his horse.

  [iii]

  An hour later Crixus heard of the nearing of the Roman scouts and that the main army of the consuls was rounding the far shoulder of Garganus. This he had anticipated, seeing its purpose to drive him back against the mountain-wall. To delay its advance, he sent two hundred slaves through the narrow corridor in the hills. These went under the command of Brennus and had orders to vex the Roman rear, but to make no disclosure of how they had gained an exit from the slaves’ apparent trap.

  Gellius and Arrius, cautious commanders, camped for the night and were setting up the usual entrenchments when they heard the slave chant come out of the darkness to their rear. A moment later a shower of arrows skimmed over the half-erected palisades, and, with the blowing of horns and the waving of long swords, a band of barbarian slaves attempted to storm the southwards dyke.

  The legionaries, hastily dropping their picks, repelled the attack with ease. The slaves faded off into the darkness, still chanting. But they did not go far. Every now and then an arrow would wing out of the darkness around the camp, quivering in the beams of the consuls’ tents, or striking down a legionary through some unguarded joint. This endured until Gellius, irritated, despatched a century of horse which routed the slaves from their position.

  Unfortunately, it was impossible to pursue and exterminate them in the moonless night. The horsemen contented themselves with a wide patrol of the camp.

  ‘Where did this band come from?’ wondered Arrius.

  ‘No doubt from stray raiding or foraging,’ said Gellius. ‘We’ll have many such bands to deal with after the killing of the Thracian tomorrow.’

  And on that, in full armour, they lay down to rest till an hour before sunrise.

  [iv]

  All that night the armed Germans slept on edge under the shelter of Garganus. But Crixus did not sleep. He walked to and fro, hour after hour, awaiting news from the detachment of Brennus beyond the corridor. For he had arranged that Brennus, after an abortive attack on the Roman camp, should set out westwards, meet the slave reinforcements under Spartacus, and then return to bring the Germans news of these reinforcements.

  But no Brennus came, and Crixus, despite his light heart, began to know anxiety. Once he went and watched the sea, and another time himself walked far up the corridor into the hills. But it was unwise to leave his Germans for long, and he speedily returned.

  To ease his mind of the constant conflict of hope and surmise, he sat down in the deeper darkness that heralded the morning and began to whet his sword and polish the Greek helmet he wore. And in that hour, a great loneliness coming upon him, he sat with his head in his hands, thinking of the morrow.

  His Gods were dim and he had no faith, nor even now realized the need of either. Only a wondering came on him that the blood should be so warm in his body and his fingers so swift and sure as they plied the whetstone. And tomorrow . . .

  And for some reason he thought of the woman Elpinice, and, though with dim Gods, shivered in the early mist that rose round the sleeping camp. For perhaps her spirit was still in this ill land of Italy, following in the wake of the Free Legions still. What though it did? It would never harm him, as he never it. And so strong upon him did this imagining grow that he turned his head with a jerk in order that he might look in her face. Then he laughed, and wiped his forehead, and stood up; and below him, in darkness, heard the far sighing of the sea.

  An hour before sunrise, while the earth was yet grey, and the soaring heights of Mount Garganus grey turning to gold, and so slowly to the hue of blood, Brennus came back through the pass alone.

  ‘There is no sign of Spartacus or the other legions.’ And panted. ‘The Masters have broken camp. I ran all the way through the pass. They cannot be far off now.’

  Then on Crixus there came a fine gaiety. And suddenly it seemed to him that the air was sweet and good; though he had never noticed such things before. And in that early-morning light there clung to his eyelids a fine web from the night-time mist; and the wonder of that on his eyelids was strange on his spirit for a moment. Then he called to the bucinator to sound.

  The hoarse howl of the horn was answered by the shouts of the awakened Germans. From caverns and crannies, pits and lean-to’s, they swarmed out, the slaves from the North, yellow-haired, most of them, though some were barbarians from a further land, furth of the great East rivers, sallow of skin, dark-haired, dark-skinned. They marshalled in hasty ranks, and Crixus mounted his horse and rode to and fro, from group to group, jesting, as was his manner.

  And the Germans, beating their shields, sang the great bass war-songs of their tribes.

  Soon arrows began to fall in their midst, and many lay down, while those with bows or slings endeavoured to return that arrowhail. Then the Romans, advancing evenly across open ground, opened to allow their horse to charge.

  Remembering the inadequacy of the German long sword to face charging cavalry, Crixus sent the order from rank to rank that they thrust not at the riders but at the legs and bellies of the horses. But at the first sight of the Roman charge the tribes had instinctively prepared for this. The front rank of the Germans knelt on one knee, swords swinging low, the second stood crouching, whirling their blades; and these gleamed in the early light like the wheels of chariots driven through a ford. Then, with wild yells, they received the Roman charge.

  It broke and fell back and came on again. At first the slaves had taken it with the bitten lips and uncertain hearts of slaves who fronted the attack of the Masters. But now the slow German blood began to stir, and they fought with a wild ferocity. Unavailing, leaving a heap of writhing horses, the cavalry drew off and Gellius advanced his legions.

  As he did so he turned to Arrius and commented with amazement on the small number of slaves opposing them. There could not be more than three thousand – a full half-legion – at the utmost. And he gave orders that Spartacus, when discovered, was to be taken alive.

  Then he shaded his eyes under his helmet-rim. ‘Though I see none who looks like the Thracian himself. Who is the little slave on the long-tailed horse?’

  Then news was brought to him that the little man who rode the horse and shouted taunts and jests to the labouring advance of the Roman foot was Crixus, another Gladiator, and one of Spartacus’s tribunes. Spartacus himself was said to be still in Nola.

  At that both consuls knew they had been tricked by the Thracian slave they had put to torment; and the sweat pringled on the skin of Arrius at the thought of the machinations that might well take place in the Senate, to bring him to ruin because of this business: accusing him of leaving the road to Capua unguarded. And he gave orders for the immediate dispersal of the slaves in front of him.

  But now they fought like wild beasts in a pit. So they were, and so they realized. Yet presently on them also, the slaves of stews and plantation and warehouse, there came something of nobility under the alien crags of Mount Garganus. Their ranks long since broken, they formed into the great fighting schiltrouns of the forests, the heroes’ rings the defeated formed in the German tribal wars: and inside and without these fell in scores, butchered by the arrows of the sagittarii or the thrusts of the reeking short swords. Crixus and Brennus rode from group to group, hewing paths through a living wall, steadying the reeling circles of slaves, Brennus with his left hand and shield shorn away, and the stump bound up in a hasty twist of cloth and a wooden splint. He rode swaying and bloodless, but Crixus beside him sang and fought on unwounded.

  Then the Romans drew off and reformed. And Crixus caused those that survived of the slaves, six hundred in all, to ret
reat up a slope, with rocky ground that would hamper the legions. So might they stand with but a frontal enemy to fight. Bleeding, fatigued, they fell back and climbed this slope, with the roars of the Roman bucinae and the methodical shoutings of the Roman centurions in their ears.

  Crixus himself rode last up the slope. Then he dismounted in front of the slaves, and drew his sword and pulled his horse’s mane, and laughed at the beast; and then stabbed it swiftly through the heart so that it gave a groan like a slain man, and fell at his feet. And the tribune turned to the wondering Germans.

  ‘Comrades, there’s no retreat. We die here or fight until Spartacus comes.’

  And to Brennus, remonstrating and swaying in his saddle, he spoke strange words, albeit he laughed when he spoke them.

  ‘Retreat through the pass? A General the Free Legions need? I am no General. Only a slave. Yet soon I’ll be more than either slave or General – if the dark Gods leave me sleep sound. And I don’t think, dying here, we’ll do ill to that cause of Kleon’s.’

  Then he mused for a little, and beckoned ten Germans and pointed to Brennus.

  ‘Take the centurion Brennus back through the pass, steal horses, and ride till you come up with Spartacus – or beyond that, till you come to Nola. For we cannot say if our messenger reached it. But tell them how we stood here and fought, and bid Spartacus ave from me!’

  And when they had heard this message, the Germans seized the weeping and cursing Brennus, and bore him away from the tribune who cried his last ave. Then Crixus laid aside his armour till he stood in his tunic only, bareheaded, for so, he said, he would fight the lighter. And the Germans kissed in their ranks as the hail of the arrows began again.

  Then the Romans stormed up the slopes; and Crixus saw that the light was dying, far away to the east, from the face of the sea.

  Torment

  [i]

  IN the evening of the next day they saw from the walls of Nola the nearing of fatigued and mud-splashed horses. At that sight on the little-traversed tracks the walls became thronged with slaves peering into the east. Then the nearing band was descried as half a score of men, ill-mounted and beating their beasts; and presently a shout of wonder arose.

  ‘They are Germans!’

  The slaves looked at one another in speechless surmise, then crowded down to the Eastern Gate. Midmost of the riders was a man who was bound in his saddle – a man who lacked a hand. Opening the great gate Gershom ben Sanballat ran and caught at the bridle of this man’s horse.

  ‘Brennus, what news from Apulia?’

  The Gaul half started awake, and stared about him with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘The Masters caught us like beasts in a trap because the Strategos did not come. All the Germans are dead. Spartacus. I have a message for Spartacus.’

  ‘And Crixus?’

  ‘I saw him kill his horse.’

  At that news a groan of horror and anger went up from the assembled slaves. Such townspeople as had pressed near in curiosity retreated hastily within their houses. But Brennus fell forward again in his saddle; and one of the Germans who rode with him cursed.

  ‘Spartacus – Crixus sent us with a message for Spartacus.’

  So the way was cleared and they rode through the narrow streets till they came to the great Forum of Nola. There, in the bright evening weather, the air was alive with the beating of mallets and the smell of fresh-sawn wood, pungent and resinous; and the blue smoke of the smithies rose in long lines into the windless sky. For Kleon’s dream was being fulfilled with the aid of the renegade Master, Hiketas. With iron and timber commandeered at will, they were building the great helepolites and catapults with which to assault the walls of Capua. High into the air towered the great machines, ready for testing and then dismemberment, for loading in the great oxwagons of the Gauls when the Free Legions took the field again. Amidst the din of the smiths and the hammering of the joiners Kleon, Hiketas and Spartacus stood in a little group, the Thracian silent, the two Greeks in dispute over the weight of the tormenta. Then they heard a voice call.

  ‘Strategos!’

  They turned and saw the company of Germans, with the rider who swayed and stared in their midst. Kleon’s lips grew white.

  ‘It is Brennus, one of Crixus’ men.’

  [ii]

  And when Spartacus heard that message he wept, to the wonder and terror of those who stood round. For a little there was none who might speak, and then the Thracian broke from their midst, leaving the questioning, whispering groups of slaves to debate the news from Apulia. The consuls were in the field, the Germans dead or scattered: in a little while the Masters themselves would be before Nola. And at that thought a shudder of dread ran through the slave-horde. For they had come to believe themselves invincible and that Crixus no more than Spartacus could ever be defeated.

  But Spartacus gave little time for debate. In an hour’s time the citizens heard the horns blow up, and saw the slaves pouring to muster in the market-place. While yet they pondered the meaning of that muster, the first century of the Free Legions was marching furth of the gates; and after it, company on company, they saw the slaves depart. Over that road where Spartacus had watched the Germans disappear two months before wound the long lines of the slave army at a speed that presently left Nola far behind.

  The women and baggage followed more slowly, with half a thousand cavalry to guard them. In the town itself there remained but Kleon and Hiketas and Gershom ben Sanballat freshly returned from the subjugation of Nuceria. With bitter faces Kleon and Hiketas, who had begged and expostulated a terrible hour with the Thracian Strategos, superintended the destruction of the great machines by Gershom’s Bithynians.

  They were piled in a great heap in the Forum of Nola, saturated with oil, and fired, the great towers and catapults that Hiketas had dreamt would batter down the walls of Capua. Looking back, the slaves could see the pillar of their burning lighting all the western sky.

  Then Gershom took his men and the two Greeks out of the city and followed the trail of Spartacus, marching hot-foot to meet the consuls.

  [iii]

  He met them in an unknown plain somewhere on the hither side of Garganus – the two armies sighting each other from afar, and pressing to join battle with an eagerness seldom known in history. Then Arrius and Gellius, cautious commanders, halted their troops in a place of vantage, and saw with misgivings the size of the Spartacist force.

  Nor were these misgivings unwarranted, nor the fate of the battle for a moment in doubt. Attacking in his customary cuneus formation, an iron wedge at the Roman centre, Spartacus himself led the first charge, enormous, on horseback, at the head of his Thracians. They broke the lines of the legions, and once within those lines slaughtered almost at pleasure, while the Gauls fell on the Roman flank, and (with the impetus of a short slope) piled one wing in confusion upon the broken centre eddying round the carnage of the Thracians’ drive. Then Gannicus and Gershom ben Sanballat brought up the main slave army, and soon the Romans were streaming from the field in the wake of the consuls – the first of their rank to meet and suffer defeat in the field for over a hundred years.

  The battle was bloody and swift, but the carnage stayed when the Romans, at length terrified in the belief that the Republic was now overthrown, flung down their arms and surrendered in scores. They were disarmed and stripped, bound in long gangs, and whipped through the passes of Apulia till they came to the camp which Spartacus had built for the funeral games of Crixus.

  [iv]

  His body, flayed and crucified, had been recovered from an Apulian village near the foot of Mount Garganus. Castus had made that recovery and, though he bore the dead Crixus no great love, had burned the village in a madness of wrath.

  When Spartacus heard of this he smiled.

  ‘Did you burn the villagers also?’

  ‘They escaped into the mountains.’

  ‘Then you did ill to let them go.’ And the Thracian turned away, colder than ever towards the man
who had hoped to take the place of the dead Crixus.

  In that camp, with the spring very green on the Apulian hills, they prepared the funeral games. Crixus, as a Gaul, was to be burned; and now swathed in purple, his mutilated head crowned with bay, he lay in a tent, drenched with aromatic perfumes and guarded by Gauls and Germans. Outside, on a level stretch of sward, the funeral pyre was prepared.

  The Roman prisoners, chained in a corner of the camp, ragged and filthy, talked among themselves and jeered at the leadership and discipline of the slaves. A centurion who lay by the side of a young third tribune laughed at the fears of the latter.

  ‘This Spartacus always spares his prisoners. He will march us around the pyre of Crixus, I suppose, and then dismiss us, disarmed. He’s only a slave, with the heart of a slave; and though he can lead his Free Legions in battle well enough, he knows nothing of campaigns or the planning of a war. Had he followed up our rout by a march on Rome he might have been feasting in the Capitol to-night.’

  ‘He is a Greek?’

  ‘A Thracian. It’s said that this Crixus was his best lieutenant, as a eunuch, Kleon, is the brain of the business. Certainly Crixus fought well.’

  ‘You were at Mount Garganus?’

  ‘Not I, but with Varinus in Lucania. We ran like hares. Crixus defeated us there: a little man on a little horse who sat eating a handful of plums and jesting while we charged.’

  The young third tribune groaned in his bonds. Moreover, his back ached from the stripes the slaves had inflicted in the march. ‘When is the burning of this Gaulish slave to take place?’

  ‘At noon tomorrow, they say. Then we’ll be dismissed.’ The centurion looked round with a savage contempt. ‘Wait till Rome really moves in the field. Then she’ll burn them alive, these scum.’

  [v]

  Meantime the tribunes of the slaves had gathered in the tent of Spartacus. Spartacus himself awaited them. As they gave him greeting and squatted in a circle, it seemed to more than one of them that the Gladiator in his grief was near to insanity. His armour was still stained and bloody from the battle, and that cold control that had marked his bearing since the Pits of the South had vanished away. His head turning from side to side, he walked to and fro, his strange eyes bloodshot. This the Strategos!