by Ben Kane
Steely resolve took hold of him. It was time to stiffen his troops’ morale with a savage demonstration of what they could all expect. If he didn’t, their attack was doomed before it even began. He drew his sica and began walking along the face of the cohorts. Atheas and Taxacis followed, shoving the prisoner before them. ‘What’s my name?’ Spartacus shouted.
‘Spar-ta-cus!’ cried a voice he recognised.
He gave Marcion a tight nod. ‘That’s right. I want to hear it again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ Many more men joined in this time.
He strode on, stabbing his sword into the grey, clammy air. ‘Again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
‘That’s more like it.’ He bestowed a wintry smile on the nearest soldiers.
Up and down he went, until all three cohorts had seen him. He returned to the centre of the line. ‘Bring the cross! Now!’
Men gaped at him, and the prisoner’s face went grey with fear.
Orders rang out; led by an officer, half a dozen soldiers, Marcion and Zeuxis among them, broke away from their positions and scurried off to the side. They soon returned. Marcion and a pair of his companions were carrying two lengths of roughly carved timber that had been prepared the night before. The longer piece had had an iron hook hammered into one end. The others were carrying mallets, a set of wooden steps, lengths of rope and bags of nails.
‘Put it up thirty paces out there,’ commanded Spartacus. ‘Get a move on!’
His men hurried to a spot opposite him. Fastening several ropes to the longer of the two pieces of wood, they pulled it upright. The steps were moved in close, and two soldiers began hammering the timber into the ground. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The legionary’s mouth worked in silent terror.
Soon the vertical post had been pounded in to the depth of a man’s forearm.
Spartacus gestured at the prisoner. ‘Strip him naked. Then take him out and crucify him.’
‘I’m a citizen! Please! You can’t do this to me!’ screeched the Roman as his tunic and undergarment were ripped off.
‘Bullshit! You’re identical to every man here!’ roared Spartacus, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You eat and drink, breathe, sleep and shit the same as us. This punishment is no different to what your kind would do to us.’ He scanned his men’s faces. ‘Do you hear me? This is what you can expect if we don’t break out today.’
Yelling at the top of his voice, the legionary was hauled out to the vertical post and forced down on to what would be the crosspiece. A soldier knelt on each of his arms, holding him so that his wrists and hands were exposed. The officer in charge glanced at Spartacus.
‘Get on with it!’
A barked order, and Zeuxis touched a long iron nail to the point where the bones of the legionary’s right arm met those of the wrist. The prisoner began gibbering in fear, praying to the every god in the pantheon. Zeuxis raised his mallet high, and without hesitation, brought it down with all his strength. ‘This is for Gaius,’ he hissed. A shriek of indescribable pain shredded the air, but the mallet came down again and again. Marcion looked away, but Zeuxis didn’t stop until the nail was flush with the legionary’s flesh. The captive’s screams reached a new pitch as the same process was repeated with his left wrist.
Spartacus studied his men, and was pleased to see how shocked and revolted they looked. The message had to sink in. If it didn’t, they were all damned. Angry shouts carried from the wall. The Romans’ blood would be up, but that couldn’t be helped.
Lapping a rope around the hook at the top of the vertical post, his soldiers fastened it around both ends of the crosspiece and then hauled the crucified legionary up until his feet came off the ground. He roared in agony as his arms took the strain of his body weight. The steps were moved in front of him, and a number of nails were pounded in over his shoulders, fixing the crosspiece to the vertical length of timber.
Without ado, his left leg was seized and his foot nailed to the cross. He kicked frantically with his free leg, striking Zeuxis in the face. Cursing, he heaved the man’s right foot sideways on to the timber and hammered in another nail through his heel. It was too much for the legionary. ‘Mother! Please, Mother,’ he babbled. ‘Mother, help me!’ Piss began leaking from his shrunken member, spattering Zeuxis. He leaped back in disgust as his fellows roared with laughter. Even Marcion’s lips twitched.
Zeuxis grabbed the mallet again and stepped up to the cross. ‘Can I break his legs, sir?’
‘No. Leave him,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘I want the bastard alive for every man to see as he marches by.’
With a disappointed look, Zeuxis stepped away. Marcion wondered if it would have been better to let him take his revenge. No one deserved to die in such pain, not even a Roman. But the decision wasn’t down to him. He was just a foot soldier.
‘Back to our place in the line,’ hissed their officer. They hurried to obey.
Spartacus turned his back on the crucified legionary and began pacing along the front of the cohorts again. ‘Watch his suffering, you maggots, and learn! It could take two or three days for the dog’s pain to end, perhaps even longer. Is that the death you want? Do you want to end your life begging the Romans to break your legs so that you can die quicker?’
No one had the balls to speak.
Spartacus shoved his face into that of the nearest soldier. Their helmets knocked off each other. ‘Answer me, or by the Rider, I’ll do the same to you!’
‘NO, SIR!’
Spartacus stepped back. ‘That’s one man who knows what he wants at least. What about the rest of you? Is that the end you want?’
‘NO, SIR!’ they yelled.
He walked for fifty paces, eyeballing every soldier that he passed. ‘Are you fucking sure?’
‘YES!’ they roared.
On he went, defying any man to answer him back, to look in any way uncertain. ‘Sure? Sure?’
‘YES!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ yelled Marcion. He glared at Zeuxis, who joined in.
This time, the chant was taken up with gusto.
Finally. Spartacus stepped up and clashed his sica off a man’s shield boss. ‘Louder!’
The soldier’s companions quickly copied him. So too did the men behind, and to either side. Clash. Clash. Clash. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Soon the racket was deafening.
Spartacus let them shout for some time. He wanted every soldier in the army to hear the noise, to feel the blood rush in his ears, the battle rage begin to stir. When he saw the confidence appearing in men’s faces, he knew it was time. A signal, and the waiting trumpeters sounded their instruments, a strident call to arms that no one could mistake.
The fanfare was met by an equally forceful set of blasts from behind the wall.
Spartacus hastened back to his position with the Scythians, who slotted in to his left and right. Atheas took a ladder from someone. A shield was handed to Spartacus; grounding it, he rested it against his body. He glanced to either side. Atheas and Taxacis gave him their usual feral grins; the men beyond looked tense but ready. ‘On my command, advance at the walk! Open order!’ His words went echoing both ways down the line. Spartacus took hold of the brass centurion’s whistle that hung from a thong around his neck and stuck it between his lips.
Peeeeeeep! Spartacus emptied his lungs.
The shrill sound repeated itself through the cohorts.
‘ADVANCE!’ Spartacus walked forward with an even tread. On either side, his soldiers matched his pace. His gaze travelled along the enemy ramparts. The catapults would start shooting at any moment. So too would the ballistae. In the Romans’ eyes, the more bolts and stones that could be launched before he and his men arrived, the better.
Sure enough, he heard the familiar noise of thick gut strings being ratcheted back, and the thump as stones were loaded into place. Next, the indistinct sound of officers’ voices, followed by a shouted order. ‘Close order! Raise shields!’ bello
wed Spartacus. ‘Keep moving.’
All around him, men moved shoulder to shoulder. If they were in the front rank, they lifted their scuta up, so that the curved shields protected them from eye level to their ankles. Those behind heaved theirs up to protect their heads. Only those who were carrying ladders remained unprotected, needing both their hands to carry their awkward burdens.
They drew near to the crucified legionary, whose legs were now soiled with urine and faeces. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning softly, ‘Motherrr . . .’ He kept shifting position, letting his bloodied arms take the strain, and when that was too much, trying to stand on his nailed feet. Poor bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s served his purpose. He was going to slide his sica into the man’s belly as he passed, end his suffering. But he didn’t. His troops had to witness the savagery of such a death. Spartacus threw up a heartfelt prayer. I ask for any end but that. Grimly, he moved on.
The Romans let them approach for another ten paces. Then, with a rush, the air between Spartacus’ soldiers and the wall filled with missiles. Stones the size of a man’s head. Metal-tipped arrows the length of a man’s forearm. Slingshot bullets smaller than a hen’s egg. Whoosh. Whirr. Whizz. They covered the distance in a frightening blur of movement.
Great Rider, let Caepio be lying about the legion. Let my casualties be few, Spartacus prayed. We have to succeed here.
With loud crashes, the stones landed. Their effect was devastating. Whatever they hit, be it man or scutum, was struck as if by the fist of a god. Shields were smashed in two, ribs splintered into fragments, and limbs and skulls crushed. The rocks’ force was so great that often the soldier behind was also killed, his final moment a screaming terror as his comrade’s head burst apart before his eyes. The bolts were no less lethal, slicing through shields, mail and flesh with ease. Gutting the first man, they drove on, wounding others grievously or just lodging in another scutum, forcing the bearer to discard it.
The only consolation during the barrage was that the slingshot bullets were far less dangerous than the other missiles. For the most part, they clattered and banged off the soldiers’ shields like massive hailstones off a roof during a summer storm. On occasion, they shot through the little gaps between scuta, making men yelp in pain as their mail shirts took the brunt of the strike. More unlucky individuals were hit in the face, suffering fractured cheekbones or, if the clay hit their foreheads, a mortal blow.
‘Close the gaps! Move on!’ yelled Spartacus. He blew his whistle again. If they faltered at all, men would lose heart.
Stepping over the wounded and dying, they walked on. It was a hundred paces to the wall, he judged. The trees had thinned out, exposing them entirely to the enemy barrage. The legionaries manning the catapults were working at blinding speed. Scores more bolts and stones came humming towards them. Soon the javelins would come scudding in too. It was now, or never, he thought.
‘Cohort to my left, cross at the first space over the ditch. Cohort to my right, take the third. My cohort takes the middle one. CHARGE!’ Trusting that the officers leading the following units would remember to advance towards the final two crossing points, Spartacus began to run. As always, he counted his steps. It helped to keep him focused, to ignore the sounds of men going down screaming, the curses of their comrades as they tripped over the unexpected obstacle, the prayers of soldiers trying to conquer their fear.
Eighty. A shower of javelins arced over them in a graceful pattern. Reaching their zenith, they sped downwards, their barbed points promising injury or death to those who were unprotected. Spartacus raised his shield so that his head was protected, and prayed that a catapult stone didn’t take him in the belly instead. Seventy. His stomach was a balled, painful knot, and there was a tang of fear in the salty sweat that ran down his face and into his open, gasping mouth. With an almighty bang, a pilum hit his scutum. The barbed head punched through, missing Spartacus’ helmet by a finger’s breadth. He dropped the useless shield with a curse. Fifty steps. Run. Run. The Great Rider’s shield is before me, protecting me from harm.
Forty paces to the wall. There were gaps in the line to either side of him now, but Spartacus did not order them closed. Everything was moving far too fast. What mattered was reaching the base of the Roman wall, and getting out of the withering hail of missiles. They’d have a moment’s respite before more stones were dropped on their heads, but that would be enough time to encourage his men to swarm up their ladders.
They reached the filled-in ditch. Because of the prisoners who had been dumped in last, it looked as if it contained only corpses. Except, as Spartacus realised, they weren’t all dead yet. Here and there amid the careless sprawl of bloodied men, an arm or a leg moved, a voice called out for a comrade, or for someone to end the pain. Even if he had been inclined to provide the killing stroke, there was no time. In two heartbeats, he had pounded over the soft ‘ground’ and was tearing across the forest floor again.
Twenty paces. They had passed under the lower limit of the catapults’ arc of fire. The Roman slingers had redoubled their efforts. So many of Spartacus’ men had dropped their shields that their work was now easy. It was the same for the legionaries still with pila. Despite this, Spartacus’ front rank, which had been eighty men wide, was ragged but unbroken. ‘Ladders at the ready!’ he yelled, increasing his speed to a sprint. He sensed the Scythians matching his pace. Encouraged, the soldiers to either side swarmed forward, screaming insults at the defenders atop the wall. Ten paces. Five, and then Spartacus slammed into the fortification’s wooden stakes. ‘Ladder!’
Atheas was already by his right shoulder, shoving the ladder’s foot into the ground, leaning it against the wall, supporting it, gesturing at him to start climbing.
Spartacus eyed the remaining scuta held by his men. Things would be far worse on the rampart without them, but there was no way they could safely ascend carrying such a weight. ‘Leave your shields!’ he shouted. ‘Grab one from the first Roman you kill. Up! Up! Up!’ More and more ladders came smacking in against the barrier. Spartacus gritted his teeth and began to climb. This was the most dangerous part. He peered grimly up at the pointed stakes that formed the lip of the rampart. It was difficult to climb with one hand – the other held his sica – and easy to miss his footing on the rungs. Even more perilous were the defenders who awaited him. He was two-thirds up the ladder when a legionary appeared above, gripping a forked length of stick. With fierce concentration, he placed it against the top of Spartacus’ ladder and began to push.
Shit! Adrenalin surged through Spartacus’ veins and he shot up several more rungs. His ascending body weight made it much harder for the Roman to push the ladder outwards. Cursing, the legionary braced his feet and put all of his strength into it. Spartacus felt himself begin to move backwards. He climbed another rung and stabbed forward with his sica. His blade skidded off the Roman’s mail, causing no injury. For an instant, however, it distracted the soldier from what he was doing.
Spartacus came up another rung. A quick glance to the right revealed no defenders close enough to skewer him in the armpit. Up went the sica. Down it came, striking the legionary in the neck. The curved blade nearly clove him in two. His torso split apart, exposing neatly bisected muscles, the white of ribs and the purple-blue of pumping organs. Spartacus was showered in blood as he came leaping on to the walkway. The Roman’s body fell backwards off the wall, spraying sheets of crimson over the soldiers below.
Spartacus’ heart leaped. There weren’t more than five thousand of them. Caepio had been lying; the spy had not been able to get the word through to Crassus. After the previous day’s fighting, his enemy had assumed that the slaves had had enough. How wrong he was. Spotting a scutum leaning against the palisade, he scooped it up. He had just enough time to spin and raise it as a legionary thundered in from his right. With a heavy thump, the two shield bosses met.
Spartacus shoved his blade at the Roman’s eyes, but his opponent saw it coming. Sparks flew as the sica h
it the iron rim of his shield. The legionary lunged forward with his gladius, and Spartacus twisted desperately out of the way, smacking his back off the rampart. There was almost no room to manoeuvre. All the advantage was with the Roman, whose blows hammered in, away from the void. With every strike of his own, Spartacus risked hurling himself into space.
He clenched his jaw. If they didn’t gain a foothold on the wall, their attack would fail. Placing his left shoulder behind the scutum, he advanced a step. Clash, clash. Their swords battered off their shield fronts. Spartacus punched forward with his scutum and then his sica. One, two. One, two. He pushed the legionary back a step. And two more. They traded blows again before the Roman’s heel caught on a pilum that had been left lying on the walkway. He stumbled, and Spartacus was on him like a hawk on its prey, barging him backwards so that he fell on his arse, squawking with surprise. The last thing he ever saw was the Thracian’s blade scything in towards his open mouth. The legionary choked to death on a gobful of iron and blood.
Air moved past Spartacus’ head. Instinct made him pull back, which just saved him from being struck in the neck by a pilum. Instead it scudded harmlessly by, over the palisade. He glanced down. The soldiers below were launching volleys at the rampart, regardless of the fact that they could hit their own men. Exultation gripped him. That meant the enemy officers thought the fight on the walkway was being lost. He leaned out over the front of the wall. He could see at least five ladders. ‘Come on!’ he roared at his men. ‘It is I, Spartacus! We have the whoresons on the run!’
Eager shouts met his words.
He spun back to the walkway to find a grinning Taxacis at his side. Behind him, Atheas’ head was emerging into view. ‘Which . . . way?’ asked Taxacis. ‘Left . . . or right?’
To his left was a large bunch of enemy soldiers, and in their midst, the scarlet transverse crest of a centurion. It was Caepio. We won’t get through there quickly enough. Spartacus pointed to his right and the nearest set of steps. ‘There!’ Six legionaries blocked the walkway, but before them, there was a gap perhaps ten paces wide where more and more of their men were spilling over the palisade. He darted forward. The Scythians were right behind him. ‘Get to the stairs!’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘Kill those bastard Romans! MOVE!’