Spartacus: Rebellion

by Ben Kane

  ‘Stop. Ready an arrow.’

  Chests heaving, they stared out at the Romans, of whom five or so remained uninjured. The cavalrymen made no attempt to dismount or to enter the woods.

  ‘If they come in here, they’ll lose all their superiority. The whoresons have had enough!’ said Spartacus with savage delight. He was still alive! Never had he survived such insane odds.

  Carbo and Navio began howling like wolves. Was there anything Spartacus couldn’t do? Following his example, they loosed more shafts until the horsemen had retreated further. ‘Keep an eye on them,’ Spartacus ordered Navio. ‘Best check on the men whom we nearly died for, eh?’ he barked at Carbo. They trotted to the two fugitives, who were a little further under the canopy. The man who’d been injured was lying on his back, moaning.

  Carbo winced as he drew near. The Roman’s sword had sliced in above the hipbone, opening his abdomen like a ripe fruit. Blood was oozing, pouring, jetting from the scarlet-lipped edges of the massive wound. Numerous loops of bowel were exposed. Everything was coated in a layer of grit and dirt from where the man had rolled on the ground. Carbo’s nostrils twisted in distaste. ‘I can smell shit.’

  ‘Me too,’ came Spartacus’ grim reply.

  That was it, thought Carbo bleakly. Even if he lived until they got him back to the camp, even if the surgeons could close the horrific cut, the man would die. No one survived when his guts had been pierced. No one.

  They stooped over the third fugitive, who was trying to comfort his companion. ‘You made it, Kineas. Well done.’

  Kineas groaned. ‘Water.’

  ‘Here.’ Spartacus pulled the stopper from his leather carrier and handed it over.

  Kineas’ comrade helped him to take a tiny mouthful. Rather than swallow the water, he inhaled it, which sent him into a paroxysm of coughing that set off a fresh wave of bleeding from his wound.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Spartacus called.

  ‘Still sitting on their horses, waiting,’ shouted Navio.

  The hairs on Spartacus’ neck prickled. ‘Go back and see what’s happening. I want no more stupid risks today,’ he said to Carbo. He knelt down. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Publipor,’ replied the third man, who was perhaps thirty. His thin face was pinched by hunger and suffering, and now sorrow.

  ‘We can do nothing for your friend. He’s dying,’ whispered Spartacus.

  ‘I know,’ said Publipor bitterly.

  Carbo reached Navio, who was watching the group of horsemen. They had withdrawn perhaps a hundred paces, beyond accurate bow range. ‘I don’t like it,’ said Navio. ‘Why haven’t they either dismounted and come in here after us, or just pissed off? There could be other troops in the area.’

  Carbo squinted into the dust cloud that yet hung in the air behind the Romans. He could see nothing. Navio was right, however. Something didn’t feel right. ‘Spartacus?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They look as if they’re expecting reinforcements.’

  Spartacus caught the tone of Carbo’s voice. ‘Time to go.’

  Kineas’ eyes opened. For a moment, they wandered, unfocused, before settling on Publipor. His forehead creased. ‘Why—?’

  ‘Easy,’ murmured Publipor. ‘Don’t try to talk.’

  Kineas finally took in Spartacus. His frown deepened, and he pointed a finger at Publipor. ‘He—’ A fresh bout of coughing took him. More blood gouted from his wound and what colour was left in his hollow cheeks vanished. He sagged down on the earth and his eyelids fluttered closed.

  Publipor let out a deep sigh.

  ‘It’s hard when a comrade dies,’ said Spartacus quietly. I have seen it too many times.

  Publipor’s lips twisted with an unreadable emotion.

  ‘We have to leave him.’

  Kineas’ eyes jerked open and he tried to sit up. ‘I should never have—’

  The effort was too much for him, and he slumped back down on to the crimson-soaked ground. He drew one more shuddering breath, and let it out with a loud rattle. Publipor bent over him, catching the last gasp. Then he gently closed Kineas’ staring eyes.

  Spartacus only let him grieve for a heartbeat. ‘We must go.’

  Publipor got to his feet and eyed them awkwardly. ‘I do not like to ask anyone for money, but I have none. Kineas needs a coin for the ferryman.’

  Spartacus fumbled in the little purse that hung around his neck and produced a denarius. ‘Here.’

  Publipor accepted it with mumbled thanks. He bent, opened Kineas’ mouth and slipped the coin on to his tongue. ‘Rest in peace,’ he said heavily.

  Carbo and Navio came trotting in. ‘There’s another dust cloud coming,’ said Carbo.

  ‘Is that so?’ snapped Spartacus.

  Carbo didn’t see the fist that cracked into the side of his head. Stars burst across his vision, and he dropped to the ground. A kick in the belly made him retch. Dazed and nauseous, he looked up at Spartacus.

  ‘What in the name of all the gods were you thinking? Did you want to die?’

  Navio glowered at him, adding to the pressure.

  Carbo spat out a gob of phlegm. ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’ Spartacus’ voice cracked like a whip.

  ‘I-I thought one of the men was a slave belonging to my family. A man who was dear to me. I couldn’t stand by and watch him be butchered like a pig.’

  ‘Were you right? Was it he?’

  ‘No,’ replied Carbo miserably.

  ‘Even if you had been correct, charging out like that was the wrong decision to make. You answer to me! Unless I tell you, you do not run off like a fucking maniac trying to commit suicide.’ Another mighty kick was delivered.

  Carbo rolled into a ball, trying to protect himself. No more blows landed.

  ‘Look at me!’

  He dragged his eyes up to meet Spartacus’ flinty stare.

  ‘If you ever do such a damn stupid thing again,’ and he bent over, ramming a forefinger into Carbo’s chest for emphasis, ‘I will shoot you in the back myself. I only risk my life for a soldier once. Do. You. Understand?’

  Carbo had never seen Spartacus so angry. ‘Yes.’

  ‘LOUDER!’

  ‘YES!’

  Without another word, Spartacus led the way up the slope.

  Carbo stumbled to his feet. Navio didn’t help him, and he knew that if he couldn’t keep up, they would leave him behind. I deserve no less, he thought miserably. His stupidity had nearly got them all killed. He was fortunate that Spartacus hadn’t slain him.

  Spartacus’ pace was brutal but no one complained. Apart from picking up Arnax, he didn’t stop running until they had gone a couple of miles. Even then, it was but a brief pause to listen for sounds of pursuit. I have tested the Rider’s regard for me enough for one day. He only let up when the army’s tents came into view.

  Publipor’s jaw dropped at the sight. ‘You must be some of Spartacus’ men.’

  Carbo was able to raise a grin at that. ‘You’re not far off.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re looking at the man himself.’ He indicated his leader.

  ‘Y-you are Spartacus?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The gods be praised!’ Publipor clutched at Spartacus’ hands like a supplicant to a king. ‘I owe you and your men my life. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s Carbo you should be grateful to.’ Spartacus’ smile did not reach his eyes.

  Publipor’s attention moved to Carbo. ‘How can I ever repay you?’

  ‘Join our army. Swear allegiance to Spartacus,’ replied Carbo awkwardly. He knew that this gesture would not restore him to the Thracian’s favour, but he wanted to show that he was still loyal.

  ‘Of course. That is all I want to do.’

  ‘You were trying to reach my army?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘Yes. We had been on the run for four days.’

  ‘You did well to evade the riders for that long.’

 
; Publipor shuddered. ‘No, they only happened upon our trail today, about three miles back. We hid as best we could, but they kept finding our tracks. When they flushed us out, the woods were the best cover we could see. We had no chance, but then the gods intervened to bring you here with your men.’ Awe filled his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that mad charge that you did to save me and Kineas.’

  ‘The gods were definitely on hand,’ agreed Spartacus. Acting in combat as I did today wouldn’t just get me killed. It would get scores of men slain, perhaps even lose the battle. I am eternally in your debt, Great Rider. I will not make the same mistake again. ‘You want to become a soldier?’

  ‘Yes.’ He bobbed his head. ‘I’d be honoured to serve you.’

  ‘Good. Have you come far?’

  ‘I detect a southern accent in your words,’ added Carbo.

  ‘You do.’ Publipor sounded surprised. ‘I’m from Apulia.’

  ‘You’ve travelled as far as we have, or further,’ said Spartacus. ‘Did your master bring you up here?’

  ‘No. I was with Publius, my master, on business when I heard news of Crixus’ army in the area. I ran away and joined them, to be free. That’s where I met Kineas and the other man. Things went well for a while, until Gellius arrived.’

  ‘By the Rider! You were at Mount Garganus?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No other survivors have reached us thus far. I’m glad to have you.’ Spartacus gripped Publipor’s shoulder, which elicited a small smile. ‘It must have been a black day.’

  Publipor’s eyes clouded over again. ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘But you survived. You did not run?’

  ‘No,’ replied Publipor steadily. ‘I did not run. At least not until Crixus had been killed, and it was clear that all was lost.’

  ‘I want to hear the full story,’ Spartacus announced. ‘But not here.’

  He was keen to understand how, despite his superior numbers, Crixus had lost the battle. Maybe Gellius had outmanoeuvred him? Just because Spartacus’ own forces had had the better of him didn’t mean that the consul had not directed his forces skilfully. Roman generals were famous for their resourcefulness. I must be careful with Longinus. The smallest error and we could lose tomorrow. Even this close to complete freedom, we could fail.

  The thrill of saving Publipor, of surviving when he shouldn’t have, vanished.

  Spartacus began brooding again about the Alps. He had been trying to avoid the question, although it swirled around in the back of his mind like a repetitive bad dream. Going on the hunt had been a way to forget his troubles, albeit briefly. Don’t try to deny it, he thought. When it comes down to it, it’s not certain if the army will follow me out of Italy. And if they won’t leave, I’m not sure I want to either.

  The answer will come to me. The Rider will show me the way.

  For once, his staple prayer rang very hollow.

  Some days later . . .

  Rome

  Crassus pursed his lips in disapproval as Longinus’ lictores filed through the Curia’s massive bronze doors. ‘The man has some nerve allowing them to precede him in here,’ he hissed.

  A nearby senator heard. ‘As a proconsul, Longinus is entitled to eleven bodyguards.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of how many lictores a proconsul merits,’ Crassus shot back. ‘My point is that he is showing an indecent amount of cheek to show up in this fashion. If the stories are to be believed, Longinus didn’t just lose to Spartacus, he was thrashed! His legions were almost wiped out, losing yet more eagles in the process, and the man was fortunate to escape with his life. It would be more appropriate if Longinus came in with no pomp, no ceremony. Humbly, seeking our forgiveness for his failures.’

  The senator considered replying, but Crassus’ fury made him think better of it. He turned his back.

  ‘It is unbecoming that he’s making such an entrance,’ commented Caesar, who was standing close by.

  Crassus smiled. Thus far, he was pleased with his decision to lend Caesar the three million denarii. His new ally had brought scores of the younger senators into his camp, and was being proactive in recruiting more. His attention returned to the lictores. His face went a shade of purple. ‘The arrogant bastard hasn’t even had them remove the axes from their fasces!’

  His words sent a ripple of shock through the six hundred senators. Within Rome’s sacred boundary, only a dictator’s lictores were allowed to carry the axes in the fasces that signified the right to execute wrongdoers. To break this rule was sacrilege of the most serious kind.

  ‘A bad time to seek out such bad luck,’ said Caesar loudly.

  Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Clodianus and Lucius Gellius, the two consuls, strained their ears to hear the scandalised whispers, but their rosewood chairs at the end of the rectangular room were placed too far from their senatorial colleagues.

  Longinus’ lead lictor rapped his fasces on the marble floor.

  A disapproving silence fell.

  ‘I announce the proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, Gaius Cassius Longinus.’

  ‘Savour your position, because you won’t be in it for much longer,’ said Crassus, making no effort to be quiet.

  His supporters, who now numbered more than 150, tittered.

  ‘Silence!’ said the lictor, but his bark lacked its customary authority.

  Crassus’ pleasure grew. He didn’t yet have enough senators to command a majority, but Longinus’ defeat would only lend fuel to his fire and, by all the gods, he would make the most of this situation. Since the news of Spartacus’ latest victory had reached Rome a day and a half before, Crassus had spent every waking moment considering what he would say.

  A couple more derogatory comments were made about Longinus. Crassus was pleased to note that they came from the other side of the floor, traditionally the area where Pompey’s faction stood. He heard the words ‘A disgrace to his office’ and ‘Another stain to the Republic’s honour’ and exulted. I will gain control of the legions – I know it, he thought. Be careful, warned his cautious side. Let Longinus place his own head on the block.

  Lentulus, who was an unremarkable-looking man with receding brown hair, spoke to his chief lictor, who rapped out an order. At once his fellows hammered their fasces off the floor.

  A hush fell. When the consuls – even those who had been defeated – demanded silence, they got it.

  ‘Let the proconsul approach,’ cried Lentulus’ lictor.

  The bodyguards’ formation parted, and Longinus stepped smartly forward. He was a man of medium height and build, with a hard-bitten look. As a general who had been on campaign, he was wearing a red tunic. A sash of the same colour was tied around the lower part of his gleaming bronze cuirass. Layered linen pteryges covered his groin, and he wore a magnificent crested helmet. Even his calf-high boots were polished. He very much looked the part, and under normal circumstances, his appearance would have garnered approving comments from the senators. Not so today, Crassus observed with delight. In a clear sign that his peers were unhappy with his conduct, Longinus walked the length of the Curia in complete silence. He halted at the low dais upon which the two consuls sat, and saluted.

  ‘Proconsul,’ said Lentulus.

  Gellius inclined his head. ‘You have returned.’

  ‘Yes, consuls,’ replied Longinus stiffly. ‘I have come to make my report about recent events in the north.’

  Crassus held in his explosive reaction. He mustn’t move too soon.

  Someone else did it for him. ‘“Recent events”?’ cried a senator off to his right. ‘Is that what you call your humiliation by a rabble of slaves?’

  A loud growl of agreement met these words, and Longinus scowled.

  ‘Order! I will have order!’ shouted Lentulus. Twin spots of scarlet marked his cheeks. Crassus revelled in the consul’s anger. Lentulus had had precisely the same experience at Spartacus’ hands just a short time prior. The taunt could as well have been aimed at him or Gellius as Longin
us, and there was nothing that Lentulus could do to deny it.

  A resentful silence fell once more.

  ‘Why are your lictores’ fasces still decorated with axes, Longinus?’ Caesar shouted. ‘Are you trying to anger the gods even further than they already are?’

  Longinus was stunned by the intervention of the Pontifex Maximus. ‘I—’

  Lentulus’ eyes bulged as he took in the lictores standing by the entrance. He exchanged a look of outrage with Gellius. ‘What is the meaning of this, proconsul?’

  ‘It was an oversight, nothing more. We had been riding all night to get here. Of course I did not wish to upset the gods!’ He called to his lictores: ‘Remove the axes at once! Sacrifices of atonement are to be made at the major temples. See that it is done!’ His bodyguards hurried from the building, and Longinus regarded the consuls again. ‘I will perform my own penitence to the gods as soon as I may,’ he said humbly. ‘It will never happen again.’

  ‘Damn right it won’t,’ snapped Crassus.

  Other comments – angry and concerned – filled the air.

  ‘Let us have your report,’ ordered Gellius.

  ‘As every senator here knows, I have command of two legions. The slave Spartacus leads in excess of fifty thousand men. Knowing that these men had come fresh from their victories’ – Longinus cleared his throat while pointedly ignoring the consuls – ‘over other Roman forces, I decided that my best option was to mount a surprise attack on his army as it marched towards the Alps. To this end, I located a suitable position a short distance from the road near Mutina. Upwards of thirty ballistae were built and transported there in secret. My plan was for the catapults to rain down an intense bombardment on the unsuspecting slaves, creating havoc, before my legions advanced on them from the north.’

  ‘Something tells me that it didn’t quite happen that way,’ said Crassus quietly.

  Beside him, Caesar’s lips twitched.

  ‘A good plan,’ admitted Gellius. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Somehow Spartacus got wind of what I was up to. A strong force of slaves attacked the soldiers guarding the ballistae at night. They caught my men off guard. The cunning dogs were armed with axes, and they brought barrels of oil. The catapults that weren’t incinerated were chopped into kindling.’ Longinus sighed. ‘Spartacus’ army marched north the following morning. I could not just let the whoreson pass by Mutina without a fight, so I led my men out and confronted him.’