The Risen

by David Anthony Durham

  Hustus shrugged and repeated, “We’re faster.”

  “Why do you think they’re scorching their own lands?”

  “To deny us things?” Hustus proposed, though he didn’t sound confident of the answer.

  “That’s right.” Spartacus sounded cheered by it. “They want to starve us instead of fight us. What does that tell you? That they’re afraid, that’s what. This is good. We want them afraid.”

  “Hah,” Hustus said. “Afraid? Wait until you see the wall.”

  A short time later they came out from behind a rocky buttress. The land before them ran well into the distance, a jumbled landscape of hills and fields and tree-covered craggy protrusions. None of it obscured the view into the distance and the object they came to gaze upon. Seeing it, Drenis said, “Zalmoxis, look at this.”

  Silently, Castus echoed him, thinking, Wodanaz, look at this.

  It was a barrier, a wall of stout timbers placed behind a trench dug deep into the earth. It extended as far as the eye could see, heading inland up into a rise of hills and over them out of sight, and then toward the coast as it slid down toward the sea. It was not a uniform structure. The terrain was too varied for that. The wall meandered over the land’s contours, using them: like there, where it merged with a rocky hillside steep enough to form a barrier, and there, where the wooden balustrade incorporated an old stone wall, and down a ways, where a reservoir stood in for the trench. It linked feature to feature, but in doing so it created a complete barrier. A manned one, as there were soldiers atop the wall in several places. Even though the newness of its construction suggested haste—freshly dug earth, timbers not uniform in length or thickness, wood instead of stone—there was something unnerving about a structure larger than anything else they could see on the entire horizon. It almost looked like something built by giants, not men.

  Who builds something like this? Castus asked himself, but so too did he answer: Romans do.

  It was then that he glanced at Spartacus. That was what he did whenever he needed to buoy his confidence. This time that was not what happened. For just an instant, he saw Spartacus’s unguarded expression. It lacked his normal self-possession. His eyes searched, making him look perplexed, almost desperate. There was a limpness to his lips, a droop in his jaw. It was a face that—for once—had been caught by surprise. At least, that’s what Castus saw in the brief duration of that glance. Spartacus looked down and inhaled a breath, and the moment passed. When he looked up again, his grim confidence was back, contrasting with the humor tilting the edges of his mouth. He seemed to be formulating some joke.

  “How far does this run?” Gaidres asked.

  “All the way across,” one of the scouts declared. “All the way, through the mountains and down to the other coast.”

  “They can’t build a wall all that way,” Skaris said.

  “It’s not that far,” Hustus answered. “And some places they don’t need to build. There are ravines, cliffs, craggy places in the mountains that we could not pass anyway. I swear it. This wall runs from sea to sea.”

  “To what purpose?” Ullio asked.

  Spartacus responded, “To trap us. They thought, ‘Look, the Risen who bedevil us and make us tremble are all gathered in the toe of this land. Let us cut off that toe, and the Risen with it.’ I told you they are scared. They hide behind a wall and think somehow we will cease to be. We won’t.” He shook his head at the folly of it. “This answers so many questions. I’d been wondering what Crassus was thinking. Avoiding battle with us. Letting us march south. Shadowing but doing nothing. What sort of way is that to win a war? Now I see. This is how Crassus makes war! He builds walls. He scorches and burns his own country. He poisons us. He tries to kill us any way he can other than meeting us in true battle. Do you know what will come of this? The Roman gods will despise them for it. You hear me? Their gods will desert them, and this wall will do nothing for them.” He grinned. “And it changes nothing for us. First, we get a force across to Sicily. When that’s done, we come knocking on this wall. Come, let’s get a closer look at it.”

  Gannicus cautioned against it. “We are few. They might send out a force.”

  Spartacus waved that idea away. “They built a wall to be away from us! They’ll stay behind it.”

  “Perhaps we should stay hidden. They haven’t seen us yet.”

  “Let them see us. Let them know that we know their ploy and are amused by it.” He rode forward at a trot.

  The casual way he said all this, the way he qualified the situation and shrugged it off, was perfect. It was exactly the confident attitude that had always made it seem as if Spartacus toyed with the gods instead of fearing them. That’s what Castus wanted from him. It’s what they all wanted. Castus just wished he hadn’t seen that shocked expression so naked on his face. In the days following, he kept returning to that expression, seeing it again, expanding on it. For the first time, he knew that what went on inside Spartacus was not exactly as he showed the world.

  —

  This question swirls with others as Castus awaits the call to launch his line of rafts. Hasn’t Spartacus made mistakes recently? Trusting the magistrates in Asculum. Thinking cities would join him after last summer’s string of victories. Believing they would ignite a fury against Rome that would change this slave revolt into a civil war. Coming here to the south and putting faith in pirates. Becoming hemmed in, trapped behind a wall, in a land of dwindling supplies in the heart of winter. Isn’t it because they haven’t done what the gods wished? Instead of slaying Romans and then returning home, they’ve come here, as far away from their homelands as they can get. Oenomaus might have been right. They should have quit this place and taken their freedom home.

  That’s why Castus makes a pledge to Wodanaz. He thinks, High Lord, let me understand your will. If you want us to cross this sea and take Sicily, aid us. Blow us across, and then I will know, and every life I take will be in your name. I pledge it. But if you care not for this and want us home, make that known, and I swear I will turn all my efforts into coming home to you. In life, and then in death after.

  Castus stands beside the raft he’s to captain across to Sicily: two rowing skiffs, secured together by poles lashed to the thwarts of both. One skiff is taller than the other, making the raft lopsided on the sand. There’s a gap between the skiffs, enough, he hopes, to give the two boats a stability together that they wouldn’t have apart. Over the gap is a crosshatch of boards, with fish netting draped across it to carry men, gear, weapons, food. The twenty Castus will cross with stand with him. To either side, hauling various rafts into position, are the other eighty soldiers who answer to him. His is the second row of vessels, just back from where the rough water laps the shore. The first row, led by Skaris, is already floating in the waves, ready to push off.

  One-Eyed, he prays, keep us together on the crossing. Keep us from sinking to the depths, and we will show what we can do in your name.

  He hates the thought of drowning. He doesn’t know if that would earn him a place in Valhalla. Though it’s part of the campaign, it wouldn’t truly be dying in battle. He may, by volunteering, have banished himself from the rewards of the afterlife, from both Wodanaz’s great hall and from Freyja and the Field of the Host. This is why he calls so frequently to Wodanaz. He means the prayers and yearns for the things he asks for, but also he wants to keep the god watching them.

  Spartacus strides through the surf, speaking his final rousing words. He’s making them brave by his example. He’s convincing them that everything is possible and that all that they attempt they achieve. He’s made a joke of the pirates’ betrayal and has vowed that, once this is all concluded, he’ll pay a visit to them and retrieve his “gift,” for it was offered to friends, and they have proved themselves not friends at all. He has so many encouraging words. They flow from him in a steady stream, undeniable.

  “Look at you,” he says. “Four hundred strong. That’s more Spartans than held back the Persians
at Thermopylae.”

  Skaris, thigh-deep in the water and showing no sign he feels the cold, shouts, “Enough to take all Sicily. Say the word, and we’ll do it.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but no, better you share the glory with more of your brethren. Today I ask a smaller task of you. Make this crossing. Touch the land you can see. Fall upon a village. A town even. Capture some boats better-looking than these, and the men to sail them as well. With those, return here. We can ferry across the rest of the force and will be no worse for the short delay. Can you do this?”

  There is only one answer, and many give voice to it. They can. They can. Watch them, they say, because they can, and they will.

  The first line of rafts pushes into the sea. Men leap aboard, drag themselves up, grasp others by the arms, and haul them on. They rock with the waves as they find their positions, wedge feet into holds, and pick up paddles or the beams of wood they’re to use in place of paddles. Oars come out, awkward as they try to sort them, out of rhythm as yet.

  Please let this succeed, Castus thinks. He touches the hilt of his sword. He knows what he’ll do if the raft flips or a wave swipes him into the sea or a hole opens up and swallows him. He’ll draw his sword before his breath is exhausted. He’ll hold it as he sinks into the depths. That way Wodanaz will see him dying with a sword in hand. He’ll know his death was an act of war. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. If he has to.

  High Lord, see what we do here. Know that here we are at war. We battle this sea that fights to keep us from the slaughter we crave.

  Out loud he calls for the second line of rafts to be lifted or dragged into the water. “Get them afloat!” he says, punching with his voice so that none will know the thoughts in his head. He bends, gets a grip on his raft, and calls the count to move it forward. One, two. Heave. One, two. Heave. They build a rhythm together, men grunting with the effort.

  The waves soon lap at his ankles. There is something unnerving about it, as if the water were a living thing. Why has he never thought of that before? The sea moves as it wills. The tides rise and fall. Water crashes against the shore. Waves can wear down stone. The sea is liquid muscle with a mind all its own. He recalls Philon, just a few week ago, telling stories of the sea monsters that lived in these waters. Castus hadn’t believed him. Such things are always spoken of but never seen.

  He reaches down, scoops up a handful of the water now above his knees. He splashes his face. So salty. I’m washing my face with a sea of tears, he thinks, and then he shakes his head. He really shouldn’t let himself think such things. He’s being weak. Stop it, he tells himself. Stop it!

  “Castus,” Spartacus calls, “are you making an offering? Good. We should all make offerings.” He projects his voice so that men up and down the shore will hear him. “Promise your gods you will slay in their name! They will love you for it.”

  The youth beside Castus mumbles a prayer to Donar. Another invokes Freyja. Castus still doesn’t speak out loud, but the rate and targets of his entreaties increase. Wodanaz, if there be monsters, drive them away. Donar, you are a monster-slayer. Watch over us. Freyja, make room for me on the field of the host. I’ll fight for you, when the time finally comes. Let me show you.

  In position now, waist-deep in the water and holding the floating rafts, Castus is about to tell his group to cast off.

  Spartacus stops him. He’s right beside him in the water, touching him on the shoulder, with his fingers. Watching the floundering rafts, he says, “Stay a moment, Castus. Give the first line space.”

  He waits, watching, just like everyone else. The first line of rafts isn’t a line anymore. Just a stone’s throw from the beach, and they’re already a jumble. Some moving faster than others. Some seem to catch the wind, or the currents beneath. It’s hard to tell which. Some wallow as if they are stuck to something. Too many, already, cant at awkward angles or bang against one another. One raft rides so low in the water that it’s just barely visible as a frame that men sit on. These ones, they seem nervous. Not all of them row. It looks as if they’re arguing with one another.

  “Look at Skaris!” Spartacus shouts. “That is the way to do it. See him! Follow his example.”

  The big Thracian’s raft is farther along than all the others. The men on it dig furiously with their oars and paddles. The vessel itself is no better than the others, but Skaris—who cannot even swim—is driving his men forward with the force of his will.

  Smart of Spartacus, Castus acknowledges, to turn our eyes toward the bravest among us. For the first time, he actually wants to start. As much as he likes Spartacus’s fingers touching his shoulder, he wants to be released so that the waiting can be over and only motion and effort and action matter. In that, this is like battle, he thinks. At some point, before the fighting has begun, he stops fearing it and instead wants to throw himself into it, to have whatever is going to happen happen. He feels like that now. He shouts for his men to get ready, telling them to do as Skaris has done. All the way across, to Sicily and victory against Rome.

  “Who among you will touch land first?” Spartacus asks. “You’ll have to catch up with Skaris, but you can do that, right?” He squeezes Castus’s shoulder, moves his hand up to his neck, squeezes. “Brother, they are yours. Launch as you wish, and go with Wodanaz.”

  Castus shouts, “Each of you, call to our gods. And go!” He bellows, “Wodanaz!” and leans to shove the raft forward. “Wodanaz!” A chorus of cries goes up, every man following his example. He churns the sand beneath his feet, water up to midchest now, the raft floating free. He scrambles atop it, flops in like fish, scrabbles around until he’s upright. He pulls other men in, one after another, shouting for others to do the same until they are all aboard. He tells them to position themselves and row. They need to break free of the waves that push toward the beach. He shouts, “Row! Row!” He does so himself. He smacks the man behind him, who is not rowing, and calls across to the other side, telling them to stop gaping and row, asking them why they aren’t rowing. He doesn’t get an answer, except that a gasp goes up at something seen collectively. Castus turns to look.

  At first he’s not sure what they’ve seen. The sea is strewn with the rafts as before. Out at the vanguard, the men on Skaris’s raft aren’t rowing forward anymore. Some have stopped. Some look as if they’re rowing backward. A few are pointing at something Castus can’t make out. He rises to stand, swaying, trying to see better.

  And then he does. Something grabs one side of Skaris’s raft from beneath and pulls it down into the water. The whole cobbled-together vessel tilts. Men tip into the sea. The raft keeps tilting, rising ever higher with a slow grace. Someone—it can only be Skaris—fights it. He climbs as the raft goes vertical. When it pauses there, completely upright, he yet clings on, the last to do so. He is too far away to know for sure, but Castus feels the touch of Skaris’s eyes as he looks toward the shore. And then, so suddenly it invokes more gasps, the raft slams down. It slams. And is gone.

  It begins as quickly as that sea monster reaching up from beneath waves, but that isn’t the end of it. The moments following are a jumble of horrors happening near and far. The rafts around Castus, only just launched, flounder. No one rows forward. The boats rock in the swells. Some watch the fate of those out in the strait. Others back-paddle. Some leap from the rafts and claw back toward the shore. Some who would have stayed on their vessels are tipped in and go down screaming, fighting with the water and losing, all within a stone’s throw of the shore.

  Castus is frozen where he sits, paddle in hand. He doesn’t know what to do. Go forward to cross? To save those in the water? Or retreat? He watches as other rafts hit whatever monster had overturned Skaris. It does the same to them. Powerful, tipping them or spinning them, knocking men into the water and swallowing them. The ones who had trailed behind give up the effort to cross. They turn in panic or just backstroke. But they are too disordered. They make no progress except that they slide, oh so quickly, to the north. The current dra
gs them away, both the rafts and the men who dive into the water to swim for the shore. All of them are pulled up the strait. And to where? Past Sicily entirely. Out into the open sea where, surely, even greater monsters wait to consume them.

  He is there still on the raft when Spartacus arrives, swimming up beside him and grabbing at his arm. He pulls him into the water and tells him to swim. Swim for the shore. He twists him around and points, furious. It’s strange. Castus knows that he’s yelling, and he can understand his words, but he can’t hear them. They’re muted, as is all the commotion around him. Muted not in fact but by the thoughts in his head. He swims. He starts to shout words he can’t hear properly. He beckons to men, pulls them to safety when they’re near enough. He does the things he has to, but at the same time he’s thinking that there are monsters after all. No matter their entreaties to the gods, those beasts, unseen below the waves, have denied them Sicily. If that unthinkable thing is true, what else might be?

  One thing that is true is that Castus made a pledge to Wodanaz. Dripping wet, standing in the surf as it pulls, pulls, pulls at his ankles, Castus sees that the god has answered him clearly. He doesn’t bless the crossing to Sicily. He doesn’t want them to go there. He wants his people to return to their native lands. His inaction is sign enough of this. Letting men from Castus’s own raft drown there so near the land is all the proof he needs. Other gods have done the same. None of them have answered the prayers sent to them. So there it is. Castus sees only one course. They must march north until the different peoples can split and go back to their lands. He hopes that Spartacus will come to this decision himself. Why wouldn’t he? He can see the way things are not unfolding well for them.

  —

  After that, there is no talk of crossing to Sicily. In the days immediately after the second failed attempt, nobody is sure what to do. There is talk of storming the wall in the flats near the Tyrrhenian coast. Or feigning that and actually making the assault on the Ionian side. It would be direct, but many would die. Several times they launch small attacks to test the walls for weakness, but they have little success. The Romans can put too many soldiers on the walls. They’re too well protected behind it and are able to launch storms of arrows and javelins. They roll over stones when anyone gets near enough to be crushed by one. They shout taunts, insults, challenges, all from safety. They challenge the Risen to make a direct assault, even as they prove that such an attack provides them all the advantages and offers none for the Risen.