by Ben Kane
‘I predict that you will have a violent end.’
‘Ha! Nothing wrong with that!’ roared Castus.
Some of his men shouted in agreement. Gannicus even laughed. ‘That’s what every warrior wants.’
‘It will be soon, however,’ intoned Ariadne. ‘In a matter of days. And it will come at the hands of the Romans.’
Gannicus scowled, but Castus’ confidence oozed out of him like piss out of a pricked bladder. ‘You’re lying!’
Ariadne raised her snake high. The gesture was met by a hushed, reverential Ahhhhh. ‘This is Dionysus’ sacred creature, and I am one of his priestesses! I do not lie about such things. Best hope that someone is left to bury your body, Castus! Otherwise your tormented soul will be cursed to wander the earth for ever.’
‘That kind of superstitious claptrap doesn’t scare me, you stupid bitch!’
Ariadne was delighted. Castus’ bluster couldn’t conceal the fact that he was severely rattled. Most of the men within earshot looked unhappy, including Gannicus.
‘Unless you want to head for Hades right now, watch your mouth, cocksucker,’ roared Spartacus. Sure that Castus wouldn’t take up his challenge, he took a few steps forwards.
‘Shit for brains! You’re outnumbered a hundred to one!’ snapped Castus.
‘That wouldn’t stop me killing you, and taking great pleasure as I did so,’ hissed Spartacus. Ariadne touched his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Just say the word and we can get down to it.’
Castus held Spartacus’ eye for a moment before his gaze dropped away. ‘Time to move,’ he growled.
Coward! thought Spartacus. You know I’d kill you. His risk-taking side wished that the Gaul had taken his challenge, but the rest of him knew it would have led to pointless bloodshed, and possibly his own death. A stupid way to die.
‘If you’ve stopped quarrelling,’ said Gannicus sourly, ‘are you ready?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Castus shouted a command to his officers and stalked off.
Gannicus didn’t immediately follow. He glanced at Spartacus and gave him a respectful nod, as if to say, ‘In other circumstances, things might have been different.’ Then he too walked away.
Spartacus’ shoulders relaxed a fraction. ‘May they kill thousands of legionaries, wherever they go. And may Crassus never catch them,’ he said quietly. He looked at Ariadne. ‘How many days will it be before he dies?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But you said—’
‘I know what I said,’ she retorted. ‘That doesn’t mean I saw it. It’s true that he’ll die in a matter of days anyway. One day. A hundred days, a thousand, what does it matter? I didn’t state the number.’
‘Did the god really send you a message?’
She glared at him. Her anger at Castus had overflowed at last. Spartacus happened to be in the way. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to make men think that the gods have decided their path. As when you told the soldiers that you were marching to the Alps, and I said it was Dionysus’ will.’
‘You made that up?’
‘Of course I did. Don’t tell me that you didn’t have some inkling that I might have. Most likely you didn’t ask because it suited you to think that your mission had divine backing.’
He looked taken aback, and then angry. ‘And your interpretation of my dream with the snake? Did you invent that too?’
‘No,’ she said, sorry now that her temper had got the better of her. ‘I would never lie about something so serious.’
His eyes probed hers. Spartacus was relieved to see no sign of deceit. He probably would have acted in the same way, but thinking that his mission had divine approval had helped to fuel his convictions. He hoped that her falsehood hadn’t angered the gods. That possibility was one more thing he didn’t need weighing down on his shoulders.
A doubt nagged at him. ‘Have you seen ought about my future lately?’
An image of Egbeo on the cross flashed before Ariadne’s eyes. She’d had the nightmare enough times – thankfully, though, not in recent weeks – to place some store in it. Spartacus hadn’t been in it, but that didn’t mean he would be safe if the horror came to pass. Should she tell him? Her gut answered at once. No. It took all of Ariadne’s self-control to meet his gaze. ‘Sadly, not a thing,’ she lied.
His trusting grin relieved her. ‘Good. I’m not sure I want to know what the gods hold in store for me. Better to make my own way in life rather than always be looking over my shoulder to see what might happen.’
‘You do that anyway!’
A lopsided grin twisted his face. ‘I suppose I do. And you love me for it, don’t you?’ He pulled her to him, and she did not resist. He was right, she thought, relishing the feel of his body against hers. Despite his faults, she loved him. It was why she would stand by him, come what might.
Chapter XVII
A week later . . .
Northern Lucania, near the town of Paestum
FOLLOWED BY A gaggle of his senior officers and an escort of legionaries, Crassus had come to survey the battlefield. The site was about five miles inland, on a plain below a range of hills that ran eastwards to join the Apennines. The earth was littered with thousands of bodies: bloodied, mangled, mutilated. There was a disquieting order to the dead. Crassus paced slowly to what had been the front of the enemy position. There lay the victims of the artillery volleys. Thousands of acorn-shaped pieces of lead or baked clay dotted the ground here too, the work of his slingers, who could rain down a withering hail of fire from about three hundred paces out. The slingshot bullets had caused few casualties at this distance. Not so the artillery, which had wreaked a terrible slaughter. It was a revolting sight, Crassus reflected, taking care not to get the splattered gore on his red leather boots. There was no dignified way of describing men whose innards had been ripped out by a bolt the length of one’s forearm, or whose flesh had been crushed to a crimson, oozing pulp by a large chunk of rock.
‘Interesting, eh?’ He gestured at an enemy soldier who had been decapitated. The body lay like a puppet with cut strings, a half-circle of scarlet staining the earth around the stump of its neck. There was no sign of its head.
‘What is, sir?’ asked Lucius Quinctius, the officer in charge of his cavalry.
Today, Quinctius was in Crassus’ good books. Rather than rebuke him, therefore, he smiled. ‘Normally, an injury like that would put undisciplined savages to flight. Not today.’
‘It was unusual, sir. A measure of their determination.’
‘Indeed. And you know about determination, Quinctius. You showed real skill in tricking Spartacus earlier today. If your horsemen hadn’t succeeded in making him think that you wanted a fight, matters here could have taken an entirely different course. It was annoying enough yesterday when he arrived just as I was about to crush these slaves.’
‘You do me great honour, sir,’ said Quinctius proudly. ‘Taking Spartacus off on a wild goose chase while you got to grips with this lot was the least that I could do.’ He didn’t mention what had happened to Mummius or his men. If anything, the memory of their fate had been the greatest spur to his efforts.
‘Which way did he go?’ asked Crassus. There had been no word from the spy for days now. The fool had either run away, or was dead. It was annoying, but of little consequence. The man had served his purpose.
‘North, sir.’ Quinctius’ smile was wolfish. ‘They haven’t gone that far either. I had some of my men follow their trail.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ With luck, I will still have defeated him before Pompey gets here.
‘This group had clearly split off from Spartacus’ main force, sir. I wonder why he tried to intervene on their behalf twice?’ asked Quintus Marcius Rufus.
Inbred fool. Crassus threw him a patronising frown. ‘It’s not that odd at all. Imagine that you took a quarter of my strength away, the result of which was that my enemies outnumbered me. In such a situation I’d do my best to win you back, even if I thought you w
ere a useless whoreson.’
A couple of the others hid their smiles, but Rufus flushed as red as his hair. He knew better than to say more. Crassus didn’t care that what had happened the day before wasn’t his fault. The main reason that the enemy had escaped was because Spartacus had mounted a surprise attack and driven the legions away from his former followers. However, Crassus wasn’t going to admit to that. Nor was he about to let Rufus forget his ‘mistake’ in a hurry. The redhead just had to suck on the bitter marrow of it until his general’s attention moved on.
Fortunately for Rufus, Crassus was more interested in today’s triumph and the carnage it had left. They walked on, disturbing the crows which were hopping from one corpse to another, pecking out the men’s eyeballs. Despite the strong sea breeze, a low moaning sound carried through the air – the sound of those still alive, but too weak to move. Some of the officers studied the fallen with revulsion, but Crassus strode ahead, oblivious. ‘After the catapults and ballistae come the pila,’ he mused.
His men’s javelins had accounted for fewer of the slaves’ losses than the artillery. It was easy to see where the first volley had landed. There the ground was covered in peppered shields, but not that many bodies. The second volley of pila had showered down thirty paces on, a rain more lethal than any clouds could emit. A good number of the slaves had not possessed mail shirts; after the fashion of their own kind, many had gone into battle wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. Some were stark naked, carrying only their weapons. As a consequence, the human toll here had been far heavier. Even the smallest slingshot bullet could stave in a man’s skull if it hit the right spot.
Crassus paused by a dead slave who had been struck by no less than three javelins. He pointed to the pilum that had run through the victim’s thigh and pinned him to the earth. ‘This must have hit first.’
‘Poor bastard, he would have known what was coming afterward,’ muttered Quinctius, looking up at the sky. ‘No signs of any of them fleeing, though, sir,’ he added. ‘They continued to advance in good order.’
‘I’ll give them that much,’ admitted Crassus. ‘Outnumbered, without artillery or horse of their own, they didn’t back away from this fight. Even when it came to hand-to-hand combat.’
They moved on, to where the main fighting had taken place. Soon there was barely space to see the ground for the corpses. More scavengers, both animal and human, were at work here. Vultures flapped down awkwardly in ones and twos, their target the men whose bellies or arses were on view. Ripping open these soft areas with their strong beaks, they fought over the purple loops of intestine that came spilling out into the spring air. Peasants of all ages skulked among the dead, rifling for purses or jewellery, even amputating fingers for the rings thereon. They were careful to keep well clear of the large, well-armed party.
Crassus was not interested in the living. He was here to glory in what his legionaries had done. He took immense satisfaction that almost none of the bodies were Roman. So far, there had been perhaps a dozen. The victory here had not just been decisive, he thought triumphantly, it had been total! An outstanding example of how the legions could win a battle. Proof of the effectiveness of discipline, and the deadliness of scutum and gladius.
As far as the eye could see lay men who had lost legs or arms; or who had taken a blade in the guts; or who had suffered wounds to their lower legs or ankles, easy targets on men without shields, and been finished off with thrusts to the belly or chest. The ones who had died most easily, Crassus reflected, were those who had had a gladius rammed into their throat in the textbook manoeuvre taught to all new recruits. Open-mouthed, blank-eyed, they lay; the gaping wounds under their chins a mark of his legionaries’ good training. Crassus could hear the centurions repeating over and over: ‘Ram the scutum boss at your opponent’s face. When he pulls back, stick the fucker in the neck. Twist the blade to make sure, then tug it out. Job done. Man down.’
Finally, he began to see Roman casualties. It was inevitable, he supposed. Thousands of soldiers cannot stand face to face with their enemies, hammering blows at one another, without suffering some losses. Yet his men had not broken and run as so many of their comrades had done in the two years prior. Crassus knew this from the evidence before him, but also because he had watched the entire battle from a vantage point on the slopes of Mount Camalatrum, the first of the peaks that rolled off to the east. It had been an incredible sight, watching the hordes of slaves sweeping forward at his regimented cohorts. Their ranks had been swept by bolts and stones from his artillery, and then by slingshot bullets and javelins, but their charge had not checked. The crash when they had struck his men’s lines had reverberated through the air like a thunderclap. Yet the slaves had not broken through. Instead, they had washed off the shield wall like waves off a rock. ‘How many legionaries did we lose?’
‘Just over three hundred killed, sir,’ answered Rufus quickly.
‘Injured?’
‘Two hundred men and fifteen officers will never fight again, sir. About twice that number suffered minor injuries.’
‘And the number of enemy dead?’ Crassus had been told the figure already, but he had to hear it again.
‘At a rough count, sir, something over twelve thousand, sir,’ said Rufus with great satisfaction.
‘So the enemy lost about forty men for each of ours, or my mathematics isn’t what it was.’
‘That’d be about right, sir.’
He glanced around, smiling. ‘We can live with casualties like that, eh? Especially when five eagles and more than two dozen standards have been recaptured in the process!’
His officers muttered in agreement.
I can lose a damn sight more men than that, thought Crassus ruthlessly, just as long as I do it before the others get here. There had been no recent word of Lucullus’ progress towards Italy from Thrace, but the man would certainly arrive within the next two months. And unless the gods had done him a huge favour, Pompey’s legions would reach them within a matter of weeks. Curse him! Time was of the utmost. Spartacus had to be brought to bay, and fast.
‘Were many prisoners taken?’
‘Three or four score, sir,’ said Rufus. ‘Perhaps three times that number got away.’
‘Let them go.’
Rufus goggled. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard me! They are to be released.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. They’re vermin, who deserve nothing but a cross. Some of them might try to rejoin Spartacus.’
‘That’s precisely what I want them to do, fool. A few slaves less or more in the rabble we fight is nothing to me. I want Spartacus to hear of this defeat as soon as possible.’
‘A shrewd move, sir,’ said Quinctius smoothly; behind him, Rufus coloured again.
Crassus’ gaze turned to the north. He wasn’t a man for continually asking things of the gods, but at times, it felt right. Great Jupiter, All Powerful Mars, I ask you to help me find Spartacus. Soon.
Spartacus stood outside his tent with a blanket around his shoulders. It was his favourite time of the day – just after dawn. To the east, the sky was marked a vivid pink colour by the rising sun. Tiny trickles of smoke rose from the fires that had not gone out overnight. It was late enough to be light, but early enough that most men were still asleep. In the distance, a mule brayed softly at one of its companions. Apart from that, the huge camp was quiet.
Spartacus’ thoughts had only one place to go. Crassus and his legions. He did not like retreating from the enemy, not without a battle. Retreat? That was what men who’d been beaten did. Yet again, he wished that his assassination attempt on Crassus had succeeded. The man was turning out to be a half-decent tactician. Three days before, Spartacus had been delighted when his arrival had thwarted Crassus’ intended ambush of Castus and Gannicus’ forces. Yet his opponent’s response the following day had stolen all his pleasure.
A daring feint made by Crassus’ horse – a series of stinging attacks followed by measured withdr
awals – had fooled first Spartacus’ cavalry commanders and then he himself into thinking that Crassus wanted to fight both them and the Gauls simultaneously. They had pursued the Roman horsemen with haste for some miles. It had been nothing but a ruse, engineered so that Crassus’ full strength could be deployed against Castus and Gannicus. By the time Spartacus had realised, it had been far too late to think about turning his army around. Choose the ground you fight on; do not let it be chosen for you, went the old maxim, and he stuck to that with religious fervency. He hawked and spat. Forty-odd thousand legionaries against thirteen thousand slaves? Such an unequal contest would only ever have one result.
His presumption had been proved correct the previous evening, when a few dozen survivors had straggled into his camp. They had been brought straight to him, bloodied and battered; he’d heard the sorry story from their cracked lips. The Gauls and their men had died well enough, he thought bitterly. They had fought right to the end. ‘What fucking use is that, though?’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’re all dead. If the fools had stayed with me, they would still be alive.’ And my army wouldn’t have been reduced in size by a quarter.
By now, his entire army would have heard of the crushing Roman victory. The shocking news would have passed from tent to tent faster than the plague, and would have a profound effect on his men’s morale. The same would be true of Crassus’ legionaries, but in reverse. They would now be raring to confront his soldiers, and with good reason. While the odds weren’t as badly stacked against him and his men as they had been for the Gauls, Spartacus was still chary of an open battle against Crassus. If it had to happen, the ground had to be right. Otherwise he might as well lay down his arms.
There were other problems to consider too. Crassus’ close proximity and Spartacus’ need to keep his army on the move meant that few slaves were coming to join them. Then there was Pompey. How soon would he bring his legions into the equation? Say a month at the earliest, he thought darkly, three months at the outside. Not long. Scarcely enough time to recruit and train ten thousand men, let alone five times that number. With an army sixteen legions strong, the Romans would hunt them down with ease. It won’t matter where we go. They will find us.