The Risen

by David Anthony Durham

  He says, “From them we’ll look down on the mortals below. They won’t dare to climb into the heights to face us, and we will have the time we need.”

  He says so many things. He spreads his words as far as he can among the Risen, each word a hook in the mind that hears it. He tethers them to him, and pulls them on. He has to. There’s no one else who can do it. He has to, so he does.

  They cannot hide themselves when they reach the Via Popilia. So they don’t try. They show themselves to the people of the road, to traders and farmers, to the townsfolk they pass. They take what they need from the stores they come across. Sometimes, if the people are forthcoming, they even pay them for their aid. It’s from these folks that news comes to them. Sertorius is dead. The war in Spain concluded. Gnaeus Pompey has already landed in Etruria, bringing many men with him. He’s gathering another army, people say, and has begun to move south to join the fight against the uprising.

  Ill news, all of it. Spartacus doesn’t hide from it. He takes it up and proclaims it so that everyone sees how to respond to it. He cracks the foul tidings like a whip over their heads, and they move all the faster for it. Turning north, they use the Roman road’s bridge to cross the Silarus River. On the far bank, they cut northwest again, climbing the slow ascent of the river’s course. Spartacus sends riders ahead, to prepare the way and to make renewed overtures of friendship to the Samnites.

  Soon Romans are again behind them. They follow them from the Via Popilia and stay close. They pester the stragglers. They cull the weak like predators do herd animals. They patrol on either side of the column and make it hard to forage, limiting the Risen to what they can grab in the river’s valley. That’s not enough, but Spartacus keeps them moving. He points to Samnium and says that the Romans’ persistence is but a sign that they fear letting them get there.

  Once, when the Romans’ harassment of the tail of the army becomes too much, Spartacus arranges a ploy. He shifts fighting men toward the rear, hiding them in among the noncombatants. He joins them. When they are in place and the Romans close, they wheel about and attack. Gladiators burst from behind a screen of women and children. They fall upon the Romans. A surprise, with a sting that drives them back.

  Keeping them moving is a labor like none Spartacus has faced yet. He’s fatigued as he’s never been before. His head is wrapped in a painful vise that cranks tighter and tighter each day. The effort of not showing it makes it all the worse. But he says inside himself the same things he says to others. He eats the words. He tries to make food of them, to nourish hope with them, to create truth from them.

  And yet. Some of the riders return from Samnium. With blessings? No, with word that Marcus Lucullus—who had defeated the Bessi in Thrace and had arrived in Brundisium before the Risen could take it—is moving troops north along the Via Appia. Into Samnium. His intention? To secure the region.

  Spartacus calls a halt to the march. There’s nothing else to be done. Samnium is closed to them. To move any farther in that direction would just take them toward a second Roman army. So, one army scratching at their backs, another waiting in the mountains for them, still another rolling south toward them. There’s nothing to do except to make a stand here. He moves them just a little distance farther, to position their camp at the far end of the valley, above which it becomes woody and constricted. They turn and look behind them. There. The place where the battle will be fought. It’s irregular ground, hemmed in on one side by the river and the forested hillside beside it. It’s more open to the other side. The land is shrubby in places, but mostly it’s a bumpy pastureland, open enough to fight a pitched battle upon. That, then, is what they must do. And soon. Better to fight one army than three.

  The Romans, when the bulk of them arrive, seem to accept the situation and the playing field. They camp a couple of miles away. They throw up their fortifications and prepare for the clash of arms that will decide this. Or that may decide this. Before that, Spartacus has one last thing he must try, an idea he’s had for some time. Now, apparently, is the time for it. He sends messengers to approach the Roman army. He has an offer to make, and he wishes for Crassus to hear it from him personally.

  —

  It takes two days to agree to the terms of the meeting. It’s a fairly quick negotiation, especially for being carried out with no mutual trust. But both sides seem to want this matter concluded without interference from the other Roman armies. The two commanders ride forward to meet in the center of the open space that may become the battlefield. Each is escorted by a contingent of twenty mounted men, as arranged. The sides stop about two hundred paces from each other. The commanders dismount. Alone, they’ve agreed to walk forward—unarmed—until they’re near enough to speak. The soldiers are to keep their distance.

  Spartacus does this. Crassus, he does most of it. He walks forward from his contingent, but another man walks just behind him. The two of them close the distance. Spartacus hears Drenis and Gaidres call to him, but he doesn’t turn. He just motions with a hand that he hears them and that they should stay as they are. They’re nervous about this meeting, dubious about what it can achieve. Reasonable enough, but it has to be attempted. Spartacus keeps walking. He weaves through the occasional low shrubs. The vise of pain still grips his head, but he makes sure that no one watching him will know it. He strides easily, letting his body go loose, arms swaying in a manner that expresses his ease. He’s taller than the Roman, wider, more muscled. None of this surprises him, but it’s satisfying in some small way. He’s dressed for the occasion in the Thracian style, showing his nonchalance with his lack of armor or helmet or weapons. He wears a fine tunic decorated with geometric designs in myriad colors. Someone had given it to him after the sack of Nola. Booty, he supposed, once taken from Thrace and now returned to a Thracian. He doubted the Romans would know it, but it was a noble’s tunic, a chieftain’s. He also wears a pointed cap sewn by one of Skaris’s Celtic women. He’d never seen a design exactly like it in his homeland, but he liked the oversize droop of the point, and the way the side flaps hung so low, he could wrap them around his neck like a scarf.

  The Roman stops farther away than Spartacus would have. He motions with the flat of his palm that Spartacus should come no closer. He plants his legs and stands with his left hand resting on the hilt of a sword that, contrary to their agreement, shouldn’t be there. He wears all the regalia of his command: the molded leather body armor with all its intricate decorations, the pleated skirt, the sash wrapped around his torso, tied in a bow at the center of his abdomen. His shoulders are draped in a scarlet cloak. Such a rich shade of red—Spartacus wonders what they use as a dye. His head is snugly ensconced in a gleaming iron helmet, with long cheek pieces tied securely in place. It’s adorned with a ridge running from his forehead back, a crest of red horsehair bristling from it. Spartacus has a helmet like this himself. It had belonged to long-ago-defeated Clodianus. He’ll wear it, he decides, if nothing comes of these negotiations and they have another battle instead.

  The attendant stops just behind the Roman commander. He’s a dark brown man, Ethiopian perhaps. He sets to work unfolding the legs of a small table. He sets a scroll on it and checks the points of several styluses that he holds fanned out between his fingers. In place of a necklace, an ink pot hangs on his chest. Spartacus knows he’s a slave by the deferential way he holds himself, how he stays focused only on his work. He manages to convey “slave” in his demeanor, making it as clear as if his unblemished forehead had the word branded upon it. He’s slim, narrow-shouldered like a youth, though his age is hard to gauge. Spartacus imagines he has good teeth, but the man isn’t smiling, and he can’t see them.

  “You are Spartacus,” Crassus says curtly. His Latin has a gruff, nasal quality to it. Spartacus wonders if that’s a personal characteristic or an accent of his class.

  Spartacus takes a moment to study the Roman’s face. The wide stretch of his forehead, the deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, clean-shaven cheeks and chin
. Deep creases run from his nostrils to the corners of his lips. His expression manages to convey both belligerence and uninterest. He looks like a man summoned to deal with some annoying trifle. Does he look like a warrior to be feared? Spartacus wouldn’t say so, but he’s never been able to measure Romans by their appearance. Their soldiers often achieve more than they appear capable of.

  Spartacus knows his Latin is passable, though not accented like a native speaker. He tries to look easy with his knowledge of the language, even as he attempts to speak as clearly as possible. He holds up his arms, merrily. “And you are Crassus. I come to you alone as we agreed. You bring a man with you. And”—he nods at Crassus’s scabbard, where the hilt of his sword shows the blade is home; he wears a dagger as well—“weapons. Yet I’m alone and unarmed, as we arranged.”

  “You’re a brute Thracian, a slave without honor. I’m not fool enough to be unarmed in your presence. Give me no cause, and this sword will be as if it weren’t here.”

  “I’m without honor,” Spartacus says, “and yet you break the terms of our agreement from the very start.”

  Crassus stares at him without answering.

  Spartacus decides not to press the point. If the Roman feels more secure, he may be easier to talk sense to. And though he’ll know how to use his weapons, he’s not a gladiator. He’s not Spartacus, who knows his chances of disarming the Roman are good, if it comes to a fight between them. He might kill the man before the waiting soldiers on both sides converge on them. He’s done it that quickly before, in the arena. He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Unless you want to decide this here, like men. I could retrieve my sword, and we could see which of us the gods favor.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Crassus says.

  Spartacus says, “Have you also an excuse for bringing the man?”

  “He is my slave. He’s of no consequence to anyone but me.”

  “I’m sure he’s of consequence to himself.” Consulting the Ethiopian, Spartacus asks, “You’re of consequence to yourself, yes?”

  The man, who is seated now, with the table pulled close, lifts his eyes, but to glance at his master, not at Spartacus.

  “Speak to me, not him!” Crassus snaps. “You asked to speak to me. Say what you wish to.”

  “You are direct. I will be as well.” He clears his throat. “Marcus Licinius Crassus, I am Spartacus, a Thracian of the Maedi people. I lead the army behind me, and I speak for them. I offer you a way to avoid further bloodshed. We are willing to make peace with you.” He states this simply and pauses to await a response. None comes. “Don’t you wish to know my terms?”

  “Roman armies do not accept terms from an enemy in arms against them. I deigned to meet you for one reason only—so that I could hear you surrender with my own ears.”

  “With what guarantees as to our fates?”

  “None.”

  The Thracian shakes his head. “I would be a foolish man to surrender without guarantees. I’d not be worthy of those I represent. I come with terms agreed upon by my leaders. We are willing to surrender, but only under the terms of your policy of fides.”

  This, for the first time, gets an unscripted reaction from the Roman. Surprise. And just behind it, indignation. “Fides?” He spits the word as if it were an insect that had just flown into his mouth. “You are not a sovereign nation that can assert your rights to me.”

  “We are the nation of the Risen,” Spartacus says. “We’ve made ourselves so by declaring it and by defeating Roman armies on the field of battle. The soldiers behind me have never been bested while under my leadership. Your people defeated Crixus and Gannicus, but never me. Consider that as you hear this offer. We could end this without shedding more Roman blood. It will be a victory for you. It will save your people from further strife. Surely the people of Rome don’t want the misery of any more defeats, or the fear that we’re soon to come for them. At a word, they can have these things. We want a few modest things as well. Some of my people will wish to depart for their own countries. Some, I think, would settle for a plot of land in Italy, perhaps in the north. Modest requests. You’ll find them hardworking citizens. As they were once slaves, they understand labor.”

  “I should kill you for your arrogance,” Crassus says through his tight, thin lips.

  Spartacus smiles. “Listen, these are not unreasonable terms. I know that Romans have accepted fides from sworn enemies before and have lived peacefully with them afterward. Why not now?”

  “Because you are murderous slaves. You insult me by even proposing this. No. The answer is no.”

  “Think carefully. You can’t know that you will win the day tomorrow. I yet have surprises in store for you. If you spurn this today, I will make you regret it tomorrow. At least take my offer to your people, so that—”

  “Nobody will ever even know the offer was made.”

  Spartacus glances at the slave, whom he catches watching him. Spartacus asks, “Is this man not someone? Aren’t you—”

  “Do not talk to him!” Crassus changes his grip on his sword hilt. Grasping it with his right hand, he takes a step forward. The men in the distance behind him noticeably stiffen at this. Spartacus stays at ease. “If you do not surrender, without conditions, you are condemned. Surrender, and Rome may be merciful in response. Which do you choose?”

  “What is Roman mercy?” When Crassus starts to answer, Spartacus stops him. “No, no. Don’t say whatever lie you have in mind. Just the truth. If you lie, I will see it on your slave’s face. We have ways of communicating, you know? When you say ‘merciful,’ what do you really mean?”

  Crassus glances back at the mention of his slave. He watches him write a moment, seems to consider something, then visibly dismisses it. He meets Spartacus’s eyes, more directly than he’s done so far. “Now that I see you and hear your arrogance, I know there is only one way this can end. If you surrender, only your leaders will be tortured and crucified. The rest of the men will be killed in some more expedient manner. The children as well, for having been corrupted so early. The old will die, for having been so ungrateful and unwise. Some of the women may live on, as slaves to my soldiers. That is Roman mercy.”

  “I would not call it that.”

  “Then it will be decided through clash of arms.”

  “Not if your chickens don’t eat,” Spartacus says. “You Romans ask permission from them before doing battle, don’t you? You should’ve brought them with you so we could know for sure.”

  Sour-faced, Crassus begins to turn away.

  “Wait!” Spartacus takes a step forward.

  Hearing the scrape of his sandal on the pebbly soil, Crassus spins around. He crouches slightly, with sword hand ready to draw. His face is grim, challenging. One of the soldiers in the Roman contingent spurs his horse forward. He looks to be starting into a gallop, but the other men shout at him and he pulls up. He spins, hesitates.

  “Wait,” Spartacus repeats, more softly. With one hand, he shows Crassus that he’s making no threat. With the flat of his other hand, he signals back toward his men. He knows Gaidres and Drenis will see it and understand it as a command to hold steady. He waits a moment, until the Romans manage to call the anxious soldier back. He goes, though Spartacus can feel the fury of his glare over the distance. “Crassus, we are not concluded. If these are all the words we are to have with each other, don’t you wish to know…” He hesitates, feeling suddenly unsure of what he was getting at. He tries again. “Even if you end this tomorrow, this will not be the last time men rise against Rome. Don’t you want to know why we declared our freedom? What it means to be one of the Risen? If I die tomorrow, I’ll be happy. If you die tomorrow you won’t be. If you want, I’ll explain why we are different in that respect. I’ll tell you our hearts, if you want to know them.”

  For the first time, Spartacus can tell that the Ethiopian is staring at him without hiding it. He can see him low in his vision, though he keeps his focus on the Roman.

  Crassus, his f
ace framed in iron, stares hard at Spartacus, throughout his speech and then for a time afterward. It’s time enough for Spartacus to begin to compose what he will say. Just the truth. Why not speak it now? Why not make it so that at least one Roman understands that to make someone a slave doesn’t end their humanity? He can do that, he thinks, and that makes him want to. He’s never spoken truth to Rome before. He’s never even considered it, and no Roman ever asked him. Crassus hasn’t either, but he is here. Because of the Risen, they are speaking face-to-face. It’s an opportunity. He feels the possibility of it. He feels a whole lifetime’s worth of memories spooling out behind him, so many moments to choose from, not just of slavery but of before. If he tells it right, this Roman will know him as a man. He’ll know who he had been before and see that enslavement hasn’t ended that. And if he knows him as a man, how can he still think him a slave? He realizes that this, perhaps, is why he came here. Not to surrender. Not to win concessions he knew the Romans would never allow him. Baebia, who had told him about fides, had also conveyed the depth of loathing Rome would always have for him, for any slaves that didn’t know their place.

  He is about to give words to all these thoughts when Crassus straightens. He relaxes his grip on his sword hilt. He says, “When a dog bites its master, does the master ask after the dog’s heart? No, he kills it, as he should.” With that, he turns and strides away.

  Watching the man recede, Spartacus wants to call out again, to pull him back one last time. He almost does, but the Roman’s back is full of disdain, his steps so determined. He thinks, Always grasping, Spartacus, even when you know it’s futile. Let it go. He lifts his chin and shouts, “Crassus! Look for me on the battlefield tomorrow. I’ll look for you. Maybe if the gods allow it, I’ll cut your head off.” The man trudges on, and Spartacus says, more softly, “I’ll be kind and make it quick.”

  The Roman keeps walking. Spartacus watches him, hearing his last words, letting hate swell inside him. He memorizes his back, his shoulders, the way his skirt shifts with his strides, the flare of his helmet’s crest. It’s no idle threat he made. He will look for this man on the battlefield. If it’s within his power, he’ll kill him. For himself. For Rome’s slaves. For the dogs. He’ll kill him.