by Ben Kane
They hurried to obey.
Spartacus shoved in behind them. The outcome of the attack still hung in the balance, but at last he had a good feeling in his belly.
Chapter XVI
DESPITE CRASSUS’ WEALTH, he was a man of moderate taste. It was a small weakness to like a comfortable bed. The mattress in his quarters was purportedly of good quality – gods, it was thick enough – but he hated it with a vengeance. At first, when they had left Rome, it had seemed fine. Now, though, it felt lumpier than a straw tick used by the poorest of the poor. It was the reason that he was already up, a good hour before dawn. A scowl twisted his handsome face. The damn thing would have to do for the moment. There was no chance of locating a better one around here. As far as he’d seen, no one lived in Bruttium but primitives and latrones. And Spartacus.
Crassus put the mattress from his mind, but felt no less irritated. He was sick of everything about this shithole. It felt laughable now, but he had been glad to enter Bruttium. He had enjoyed the sea breezes and the escape from the filthy heat that they had endured in Campania and Lucania. No one could deny that the wild, mountainous countryside was magnificent or that the views of Sicily were incredible. Yet as autumn had passed into winter, these pleasures had soon soured. Weeks of lowering grey cloud, damp cold air and frequent rain had worn him down.
Crassus longed to finish the campaign not just because he wanted to crush Spartacus, but so that he could go home. In the capital, he could bask in the winter sun and the adulation of the Roman public, who would rightfully revere him. He could finish the account of his campaign and the superb generalship that had given him victory over the slaves. He would be the talk of the bath houses and the markets, cheered wherever he went. Crassus glanced at the letter he had begun composing, and the momentary improvement in his mood vanished. Would he have time to end the affair before that golden-tongued, arrogant little shit Pompey arrived? When he’d first heard the news that the Roman assembly had recalled his biggest rival from Iberia, Crassus hadn’t believed it. The effrontery of it! Fucking plebeians.
Yet the senators, unhappy as they must have been at the thought of such a prominent general returning to Italy with his legions at his back, had approved the order. That wouldn’t have happened if I had been there, Crassus thought furiously. Like all sycophants, however, his supporters in the Senate wouldn’t have been organised or vocal enough to prevent the decree from being carried. They’re a shower of pompous, self-serving whoresons! Couldn’t they and the rest just leave a man to do a job properly? He had only been in command of the Republic’s armies for a few months.
In the biggest clash since, his troops had proved their mettle by standing up to the slaves. Yes, there had been the inglorious rout of Mummius’ legions, but he had dealt with that in the most vigorous fashion possible. The practice of decimation had not been used for more than a hundred years, and its effect had been dramatically successful. Subsequent to that, he had cornered Spartacus in the toe and denied him the chance of escape to Sicily! Best of all, his soldiers had yesterday thrown back the slaves’ attempt to break through his fortifications on the ridge. Caepio had reported enemy losses of more than ten thousand men, which was a sizeable chunk of Spartacus’ forces. The end was surely nigh.
Not that the Thracian would admit it! Remembering the filthy legionary who had been brought to him the night before, Crassus felt his face purple. He hadn’t wanted to believe the soldier’s story, but he had definitely been a prisoner of the enemy.
‘How dare he? How dare he ask for such a thing? Fides, for a savage such as he?’ Crassus ranted at the bronze mirror which stood to one side of his desk. ‘The fucking cheek of it!’
Calm yourself, he thought. This is just what the whoreson wanted. The request had been designed to goad him – and it had worked admirably. Crassus took a deep breath, remembering how through a supreme effort, he had not ordered the immediate execution of the unfortunate legionary who had carried the message. Let it go, as you did the soldier. After a moment, he felt more composed.
A tiny, devilish part of him couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to lead a combined force of over one hundred thousand men against Pompey, to seize control of Italy once and for all. The Republic was weak, and so too were most senators. As in the days of Sulla, a strong leader was needed. Crassus knew that he was the right man for the job. He had been born for it. Regrettably, this was not the time. The Roman people would never stand by and let an army of slaves help to take control of their destiny. Crassus’ lips twisted. He could never trust a man like Spartacus – a Thracian, a former gladiator? – anyway. It was beneath his dignity even to think of replying. The stony silence would tell Spartacus all that he wanted to say.
Crassus returned his attention to the campaign, and his frustration mounted. Pompey, it came back to fucking Pompey, and whether he could engineer total victory before the prick arrived with his legions. To end the rebellion, he would need to force a pitched battle with Spartacus’ army within days. Tactically, though, it would be foolish to do anything other than wait. His men were secure behind their defences; javelins and ammunition for the catapults had been stockpiled by the wall. The legions had plenty of grain and meat; fresh supplies arrived daily down the Via Annii. This while Spartacus’ followers were slowly starving on the bare ground that led down to Cape Caenys, the southernmost point of Italy. All he had to do was sit tight until Spartacus and his men had rallied their courage enough to essay another attempt at breaking the blockade. Weakened by hunger, demoralised by their previous failure, the slaves would be slaughtered. The matter could be ended in one fell stroke.
What, however, if that battle didn’t take place for another month or more? The messengers recalling Pompey had been sent ten days before. They would have already reached him. With a curse, Crassus stabbed his stylus on to the desk so hard that the tip broke. Pompey could appear at the head of his army inside the next six to eight weeks.
There was nothing for it, he decided. He would have to move first. Force the slaves into open battle. Yet doing that wouldn’t be easy. Spartacus was a wily general, not a man prone to making mistakes. At last, a slow smile spread across Crassus’ face. A night attack might do it. The Thracian’s major strength was his cavalry. Crassus had fewer horsemen and, although he hated to admit it, they were of inferior quality to those of the enemy. A cohort of legionaries, whose sole mission was to panic and injure Spartacus’ horses, might succeed. It would be good to use the same trick on the Thracian as the dog had used on Glaber’s troops, thought Crassus with glee. He knew the men to use too. Some of Mummius’ disgraced soldiers would leap at the chance to redeem their honour. They wouldn’t have to shinny down a cliff on vine ropes, just make their way unseen to where the enemy’s horses were tethered. If they succeeded, the prospect of a pitched battle would be something to anticipate. After their recent losses, the slaves would be wary; spurred on by the threat of decimation, his legionaries were eager to fight. Without the advantage of their cavalry, victory would be there for the taking. Crassus could picture the scene already. Pompey would arrive too late.
The glory would all be his.
His gaze returned to his letter. Was it even worth finishing? He was on the verge of consigning it to his brazier, to erase even the idea of what he had been asking for. Then his more prudent side took control. The message had to be sent. By the time it had reached Rome and been acted upon, he would have crushed Spartacus as a man stamps on a scorpion. Crassus placed the letter back on the desk, smoothed it down and found another stylus before reading what he’d written.
‘To the Senate of Rome. I, Marcus Licinius Crassus, commander of the Republic’s armies, send loyal greetings.’ His lip curled. Given half a chance, he’d put the names of more than half of the senators on a proscription list. Instead, he had to pretend that he respected their decision to recall Pompey. He read on:
Word has reached me that the illustrious general Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is to re
turn with his legions to Italy, his mission to assist me with the prompt quelling of Spartacus’ uprising. As ever, I submit to the Senate’s wishes. I shall be honoured to serve the Republic alongside another of its faithful servants.
Crassus mouthed a curse. He loathed every word on the parchment – yet he had to keep up the pretence. I will have the last laugh.
He dipped the stylus point into the glass pot that sat by his right hand, gently shook off the excess ink and prepared to write. His lips twitched with sardonic amusement. Pompey would hate what he was about to ask as much as he hated the idea of Pompey returning to Italy.
While recent days have seen Spartacus suffer a major setback at the hands of my troops, the outrages committed by his followers have continued for too long. His uprising must be crushed with all haste and with no effort spared. I therefore ask that the Senate recall not just Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, but also Marcus Terentius Varro Lucullus, the governor of Macedonia. His recent successes against the Thracian Bessi have marked him out as a general of note. His skills and his experienced legions would add immeasurable strength to my forces, but also to those of Pompey. Spartacus and the vermin who follow him will have nowhere to turn, no sewer in which they can hide. Faced by the dedicated leadership of three of the Republic’s most able servants, this shameful uprising will soon be nothing but a distant, unpleasant memory. Rome’s besmirched honour – and the reputation that was the envy of the Mediterranean – will have been restored.
I ask the gods that you see fit to agree to my request. Rest assured that as I humbly await your response, the campaign against Spartacus is being prosecuted with all the vigour and courage that Rome’s finest soldiers can bring to the conflict.
With filial piety, I remain your servant, Marcus Licinius Crassus
He reread the letter carefully, and was pleased with his efforts. His words contained just the right mix of humility, cajolery and flattery to win over most senators. They would no more be able to resist the idea of Lucullus also returning than a man with dysentery could stop himself from shitting. When Pompey found out, he would be incandescent. But he would be unable to do a thing about it.
Not that it mattered, thought Crassus in triumph as he rolled up the parchment and sealed it with wax. Before either Pompey and Lucullus had come upon the scene, he would have ended the rebellion. With a little bit of luck, he would be able to invite both of his fellow generals to his victory feast, the highlight of which would be to display the Thracian’s head on a silver platter.
A discreet cough brought him back to the present. Crassus turned his head. One of his guards stood in the doorway.
‘A centurion is here to see you, sir. He’s come from the ridge.’
A finger of unease tickled Crassus’ spine. ‘What does he want?’
‘He didn’t say, sir. Just that Caepio sent him,’ replied the soldier awkwardly. He wouldn’t have dared to ask such a senior officer his business, but he couldn’t say that to Crassus.
‘Send him in.’ It’s probably Caepio asking again for blankets, he thought irritably. The veteran had already mentioned that his soldiers on the ridge were suffering from exposure. Crassus had meant to do something about it, but it had slipped his mind. Damn Caepio for being impatient! A night or two in the cold would do the men good. It’d sharpen them up.
A middle-aged centurion with a sharply pointed nose and close-cut beard entered. He approached the desk and came to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘At ease.’ Crassus noted the spatters of mud that covered the officer’s legs and the pteryges protecting his groin. This wasn’t about blankets, he thought in surprise. The man had come in a hurry. ‘You’ve come from Caepio? From the ridge?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’ snapped Crassus. ‘Why are you here?’
‘There’s been another attack, sir.’
Scorn twisted Crassus’ face. ‘What, a morale-building exercise for Spartacus’ men after yesterday’s humiliation? One of our patrols ambushed, is it, or have the ditches been filled with burning branches again?’
‘It’s worse than that, sir.’ The centurion’s eyes flickered towards him, and then darted away.
‘Explain yourself, centurion,’ said Crassus in a wintry tone. ‘Quickly.’
‘It started before dawn, sir. At first we thought it was just a probing attack, something to keep us on our toes, but it soon became apparent that it was a full-scale assault.’
There had been no word from the spy about this, mused Crassus. ‘So soon? They must be even shorter of grain than I thought. It was fortunate that I ordered more ammunition to be carried up there after yesterday’s skirmish, eh?’
An unhappy grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it, man? The ditches were cleared by last night, weren’t they?’
‘They were, sir, but Spartacus’ men filled them in a number of places.’
‘They’d need to chop down the entire forest to have enough wood. What did they use?’
‘Mules, sir. They didn’t have enough, though, so they led out about a hundred of our lads whom they’d taken prisoner. The poor bastards were executed in cold blood and then their bodies were thrown on top of the beasts, like so much carrion. It was as bad as the Esquiline Hill, sir,’ he said, referring to the place outside Rome where the corpses of slaves and criminals were disposed of alongside household rubbish and the carcases of animals.
‘That is monstrous, but Caepio didn’t send you here to tell me that. Did their attack come immediately afterwards?’
‘I wish it had, sir, but that savage Spartacus wanted to make an even bigger statement. He’d held one of our boys back in order to crucify him in front of his own men. The fuckers loved that.’
‘Are there no lows that these slaves will hold back from?’ Crassus was furious now. ‘So they attacked after that?’
‘Indeed, sir. They came on hard and fast.’
‘The artillerymen must have wreaked havoc.’ Crassus was pleased by the centurion’s nod of agreement. ‘Did the scum break and run as they did yesterday?’
Another dart of the eyes. ‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘Not exactly,’ repeated Crassus.
The centurion straightened his shoulders. ‘Between the artillery, the slingers and the men’s javelins, they must have lost hundreds of men. It seemed to make no difference, sir. They were like wild beasts, or demons of the underworld.’
Crassus’ nostrils pinched white with fury. ‘What are you telling me, centurion? Has the wall been breached?’
‘It hadn’t when I left, sir, but things weren’t looking good. Caepio sent me to inform you, and to ask for reinforcements.’ The centurion hesitated, but didn’t have the courage to remind Crassus that it was he who had elected not to send any fresh soldiers up to the ridge after the previous day’s encounter. ‘He said to say that he would hold on as long as he could, sir.’
Crassus’ jaw clenched and unclenched. He clutched his fury to him as he would a lover, using it to fuel his loathing of Spartacus. He had underestimated the Thracian’s determination. It had been a reasonable decision not to send fresh troops to the ridge, he told himself. There had been no word from the spy. Besides, what enemy would mount such a daring attack so soon after a heavy defeat? Spartacus would, and did, his inner critic shot back. And now he had no chance of responding. Any reinforcements sent up the mountain would arrive too late. The battle would have been won or lost, the wall held or breached. Crassus knew in his gut that it would be the latter. Caepio, his best officer, would probably be among the dead. Even worse, his chances of ending the campaign before Pompey arrived had just vanished into thin air. The letter asking for Lucullus’ recall would have to be sent to Rome with all speed. Damn Spartacus to Hades and back!
Crassus rubbed his temples, trying to decide what to do. Carry on, he decided. ‘Have two of the legates assemble their legions and march them to the ridge. There may still be slaves trying to get across the wall.’
‘Yes, s
ir.’ The centurion didn’t argue, which told Crassus that he also thought Spartacus had escaped. ‘Which ones, sir?’
‘I don’t fucking care! The remaining legates are to have their men strike camp. We march as soon as possible.’
‘Where are we heading, sir?’
‘Where do you think?’ shouted Crassus. ‘After fucking Spartacus of course!’
When the Romans had been driven back from a large enough section of the wall, Spartacus had had several thousand of his troops continue engaging them. Some of his soldiers had been ordered to set fire to the ballistae while the rest had begun tearing a hole in the fortifications. It wasn’t long before a gap wide enough for ten men to pass through abreast had been made.
Spartacus had immediately sent a messenger to Egbeo, ordering him to bring his cohort forward. The moment that had been done, and he had seen Ariadne and Maron were safe, he’d sent word for the rest of the army to advance. It had been an orderly enough procedure, oddly accompanied by the sound of fighting to either side, where the outnumbered Romans were retreating further.
It had been a wise decision to have the remainder of his men trail the footsteps of those who would lead the attack. In little more than two hours, the vast majority of his forces had crossed the wall. Even Castus and Gannicus had made it, skulking by without so much as a nod or wave. When word reached him that Roman reinforcements were making their way up to the ridge, only half the cavalry remained without the enemy fortifications. Cursing, Spartacus had ordered the mounts that could not be brought through in time to be set free. Riders were worth more to him than horses, more of which might be captured as they marched. The myriad of camp followers – tradesmen, whores, itinerant priests and hucksters of every hue who had trailed after his troops for months – were absent. Spartacus had ordered them, on pain of death, to stay behind. Their fate did not concern him. It was time to move fast.