Laughing Wolf

by Nicholas Maes

  Stung by these insults, the soldier drew himself straight and brought his sword down full force on Felix. Twisting like a fish, he dodged the attack and watched as his opponent tumbled to the soil. That was when he dropped his sword and faced Magonus with a look of contempt.

  “Of all people, you should know the loathsome nature of such combat. And yet you copy your enemy’s worst sins, and rob your cause of all its justice. Despite your freedom, you’re still slaves to your passion!”

  “You know nothing of slavery!” Magonus thundered. “How dare you tell us what is right and wrong! Kill him, miles,” he urged the panting soldier. “And we will let you live and see your wife and children!”

  Unable to believe his luck, the soldier mustered his remaining strength. His sword upraised and gleaming murderously in the torch-light, he fell upon Felix. He was neither grateful for his show of mercy, nor in any way reluctant to stab his benefactor. From far away, a million miles away, Felix heard Carolyn calling his name, even as he prepared for the steel’s final kiss, the agony as his soul was ripped from its moorings, and his final gasps as the shadows claimed him.…

  It wasn’t to be. There was a rush of motion and the Roman fell backwards, knocked off his feet by a well-aimed stone. Felix cringed, sure that Carolyn had interfered, and that death would be visited on both of them now. But no, she was still in the grip of Borgo’s henchmen. Who …?

  A tall, lean figure jumped into focus. There were no surviving portraits of the man, no sculptures, no mosaics, no paintings, no frescoes, but Felix knew his identity well, as surely as if he’d been looking at his very own father.

  And so he caught his first glimpse of the gladiator Spartacus.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Felix woke to the sound of muffled voices. It was black around him and the air was rank with sweat and garlic. He was perspiring beneath a woollen blanket, his legs were sore, and his right temple was throbbing. Sitting upright, he strained to catch his bearings.

  “We’ve lost half our men since the winter snows melted.”

  “But we’re thirty thousand strong still.”

  “For two years we have plundered, with what end in sight?”

  “To teach the Roman scum a lesson.”

  “Surely our purpose is nobler than that. And won’t they learn a lesson if we retreat from Italy and return to our homes?”

  It was all coming back to him: the long march, the camp, his match with the Roman, and Spartacus’s dramatic arrival on the scene: with a look of disgust, he had ended the munus and insisted that their “guests” be properly received. When Magonus had declared he wouldn’t share his food with Romans, and the other slaves had murmured their agreement, Spartacus had decided to host the pair. He had led them to his tent in perfect kindness, where they’d been fed and washed and their wounds had been treated.

  “We can’t leave Italy until Rome is in ruins.”

  “Do you suppose, Magonus, we will win such success? Rome is strong and will never be beaten.”

  “Our cause is just.”

  “And our homes are sweet. Let us disband while fortune smiles on us still.”

  “I disagree. We must fight. Are you with me, boys?”

  As a chorus of men expressed their approval, Felix considered the bundle beside him. Carolyn. She’d had a hard night. Feverish and restless, she had tossed and turned and talked in her sleep — several times she had called out to her mother. He remembered groping in the dark for some water and giving her a drink and wiping her forehead. Eventually she had slept like a stone.

  Reassured to see her fever had broken, Felix crawled toward the tent door and pushed the leather flap aside. Stepping into a perfect summer’s day, he shielded his eyes from the low sun in the east. The tent had been pitched on the verge of the meadow and confronted him with the pretty sight of ferns and scrub and knee-high grass, whose blades were bright with the morning dew. Behind him were innumerable encampments, whose inhabitants were beginning to stir. To his right was a bonfire, around which several men were huddled. Among them sat Spartacus. Although he wasn’t the biggest man in their circle, a subtle glow enhanced his features and marked him as their natural leader. As if sensing Felix’s gaze upon him, he raised his eyes and took his presence in.

  “Our guest is up,” he announced. “Let’s include him in our council.”

  “So he can tell our plans to the Romans?” Magonus sniffed.

  “Make room, Boaz,” Spartacus addressed a thin, bearded figure. “He will sit next to you.”

  With a smile of embarrassment, Felix sat with the captains.

  “Let’s continue,” Spartacus said. “Please excuse us, Felix, if we mention facts that are not known to you.”

  Felix smiled at this apology. Little did this leader guess that he had read Appian, Plutarch, and other writers, who had chronicled Spartacus’s slave rebellion. In other words, he was intimately acquainted with the man’s history. His grin quickly faded, however, as the gravity of their situation struck home.

  The slaves were at the end of their tether. They had recently arrived in the Silarus valley after losing their captains Castus and Crixus together with a huge number of men. Spartacus had won a battle soon after, but at the cost of an additional ten thousand troops, leaving him with thirty thousand warriors in all. For his part, Crassus had six full legions, and reinforcements would be arriving soon. The conclusion seemed obvious: they were fated to lose. This was why Spartacus wanted to flee, dissolve the army, and make his way home.

  “Crassus is a brute,” he was telling his generals. “And that Roman brat Pompey has never been beaten.”

  “We bruised them before,” Boaz spoke. “We can bruise them again.”

  “And we can use the river as a defence,” Gannicus added.

  Felix started when he heard the river mentioned. Far from serving as a bulwark, it would be a tomb for these slaves. His expression grew more downcast.

  “Felix,” Spartacus said, desperate to find someone who would agree with his plans, “you seem to me the thoughtful sort. What do you propose? Should we meet the Romans in combat, or should we run to the north?”

  “He’s a stripling and a spy,” Magonus rasped. “His voice shouldn’t be heard at our council.”

  “Magonus is right,” Felix stammered, wishing he could speak the truth and save the army from annihilation. “I am ignorant of war. Consider your friends Crixus and Castus, both seasoned warriors who were worsted in battle. How can I advise you when such leaders failed?”

  “The boy’s no fool,” Magonus laughed. “Although I’m not acquainted with these men he speaks of.”

  “Perhaps he refers to Mors and Dolor,” Boaz said.

  “Perhaps,” Spartacus mused, with a neutral look. He was about to add something, but was interrupted. A gangly teen broke in on the group, dressed in a tunic and a shirt of rusting mail. His hair was matted and grass was clinging to his clothes. His news was urgent, but he was self-controlled. Felix knew the Romans had been spotted.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” he gasped, “but Crassus draws near.”

  “Already?” Magonus barked. “I thought we had time to prepare.”

  “We count six legions,” the scout continued. “At their present rate of progress, they’ll be here in three hours.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Spartacus sighed, climbing to his feet. Calmly and methodically, he told his captains to arrange their units for battle. As soon as they were fed and mustered, they would march due north along three different routes, concealing themselves in the surrounding hills. When they had advanced two miles, they would await his instructions.

  As his captains scurried off, he asked if Felix could ride a horse. When Felix answered no, he said his horse would bear them both and that they would ride to take a look at the Romans. He then directed him to awaken his sister and to eat a quick breakfast so that they could leave soon. These orders given, he called for his horse. Returning to the tent, Felix saw Carolyn just outside i
ts entrance. She was bleary-eyed and bruised all over, but her expression signalled she was fit for action.

  Relieved to see that she was feeling better, he led her toward a fire pit where three bulls were being roasted on spits. As they walked, he explained how Crassus’s troops were advancing and Spartacus wanted them to scout things out. Carolyn nodded vaguely. She was distracted by the tumult and couldn’t focus on this news.

  By now the camp knew the enemy was close. With a discipline and energy that would have impressed Crassus, everyone was setting about his appointed task. Some were packing up the bedding and tents, in case they had to leave in a hurry. Others were carrying helmets and breastplates, which they fitted on the fighting population, wishing them luck, kissing them repeatedly, and voicing fervent prayers aloud. Swords, spears, and shields soon followed, and men who only moments before had been talking to their wives or dancing children on their knees were transformed into engines of destruction.

  And it wasn’t just the men who were intending to fight. Boys younger than Felix were holding bows and slingshots. Their features were a curious mix of fear, resolve, and … optimism.

  A girl handed Carolyn a handful of daisies. “To celebrate our victory,” she explained with a giggle.

  “Will they win?” Carolyn asked, once the girl had scampered off.

  “They will be ground into the dust,” he replied grimly.

  There was nothing further to say, so the two approached the fire pit in silence. Each asked for a serving of meat and watched as a man who was stripped to his waist carved thick slabs from a bull’s dripping haunch. Wrapping these in leaves, he handed them their breakfast. He smiled when they thanked him, and said he hoped the meat would give them the strength of a bull.

  “I’m not hungry,” Carolyn said, staring at the food. “These people seem nice and I don’t want them to die.”

  “I don’t either,” he agreed. “But we have to eat.”

  As if to underline this point, Spartacus came over, with Boaz close behind. He was dressed in scaled armour and was heavily armed. He was also mounted on an ivory white charger that was eighteen hands tall, had a huge barrelled chest and was bulging all over with veins and muscle. His name was Thrax and he was beautiful.

  “Climb behind me,” Spartacus called, extending his hand to Felix. “Your sister will ride with Boaz. Quickly. We haven’t much time.”

  With no choice in the matter, Felix grasped his hand and leaped toward him. In a practised motion, the warrior swung him up, causing him to land towards the horse’s rump. There was no saddle, no stirrups, only a coarse woollen blanket. With no other means to keep himself steady, he wrapped his arms round Spartacus’s waist. Smiling at his helplessness, the general advised him to cling to the horse with his thighs. After Carolyn was seated on Boaz’s mount — she too was grasping him round his waist — Spartacus produced a clucking noise. Instantly Thrax set off at a trot.

  Like most people of his era, Felix knew little about animals. He had come upon dogs and cats only rarely, and knew horses only from pictures in books. As Thrax raced off, he couldn’t believe its power, its surefootedness on the rough terrain, not to mention its astounding endurance. When the beast hit a canter, he clutched Spartacus so hard that the iron on his breastplate left marks on his skin.

  “Be sure you don’t strangle me,” he called out.

  They rode the full length of the camp, passing crowds of slaves who were getting ready for the day’s campaign. Long columns of men were leaving the meadow and streaming into the neighbouring hills, many of them fitted with Roman equipment, but many dressed in gladiatorial gear, sturdy leather skirts, or reinforced tunics. All were stepping lively, and all looked fierce and full of bluster.

  Thrax left them behind. Mounting one hill, then another and another, its hooves clattering against the sun-baked earth, the horse muscled forward as if toward a formal finish line. It was so used to Spartacus’s clucks and gestures that Felix thought they were one beast combined, a centaur whose human half could detach itself at will. There wasn’t a soul about, apart from Carolyn and Boaz some twenty yards behind.

  They rode for half an hour. Advancing on a hill that was the steepest in the region, Spartacus reined Thrax in and dismounted with the grace of a dancer. Boaz and Carolyn appeared moments later, and Spartacus ordered them to stay with the horses. Bidding Felix to follow him closely, he started up the scrub-covered slope, his scabbard jiggling against his calf. The hill was steep and set with loose stones, but Spartacus was fit and climbed without pause. For his part, Felix thought his muscles would seize up: his attempt to cling to Thrax with his thighs had turned his hamstrings to the hardness of marble. Wincing at each step, he did his best to keep up.

  After climbing a few minutes, they reached the summit. Once there, Spartacus lay upon his stomach, sheltering behind a wall of scrub. Felix joined him and surveyed the valley below. It paraded fields of wheat and barley with a road down their middle — it was like a zipper on an old pair of pants. Because it was summer the wheat was two feet high and swaying hypnotically at each gust of wind. There were very few trees and even fewer houses, and all livestock had long been driven off. Hugging the horizon was the river Silarus, a band of brilliant silver in the early morning light.

  In the distance six squares were stealing over the plain, each a mile long and evenly spaced from its neighbours. Clouds of dust dogged each mass like a shadow, and pinpricks of light struck Felix’s eyes, from the sun glinting off a thousand points of metal. While these squares weren’t moving at a rapid pace, their momentum seemed unstoppable, and the innumerable spears and swords and arrows proclaimed their target would be cut to pieces. They watched the Romans’ progress in silence: if Spartacus was intimidated by this show of strength, he was doing a fine job of concealing his fear.

  “They’re about to dig in,” he said, as the columns stopped their marching and wagons pulled into view. “I wonder how many camps they’ll form. Three, I think.”

  “Five,” Felix spoke.

  The legions deployed themselves across the plain, attended by their engineers who plotted out the camps’ dimensions. They were bent on building five fortifications.

  “Isn’t it interesting,” Spartacus mused. “That you guessed the number of forts correctly.”

  “Pure luck,” Felix replied, cursing himself for speaking out of turn.

  “It’s funny, too,” Spartacus went on, “how you spoke of the captains Crixus and Castus. You referred to them by their given names, and not by Mors and Dolor, the nicknames they were known by. Very few people know this information.”

  Felix’s mouth was suddenly dry. Spartacus’s gaze was burning a hole in his skull.

  “And there’s a slave from Prytan who heard you speak to your sister. He said your language is not spoken on his island.”

  “I’m not a Roman,” Felix croaked, swallowing hard.

  “That much is obvious.”

  “And I’m not your enemy.”

  “Instead of saying what you aren’t, tell me what you are.”

  Felix weighed his options, as he watched the Romans. He couldn’t tell this man the truth, and yet he couldn’t lie outright to him. With a sigh, he tried to find a point in the middle.

  “I’ve been burdened with a dreadful task, one more difficult than the battle that awaits you.” Felix looked the general in the eye. “Billions are depending on the success of my mission. If I fail, if I don’t reach Panarium, the entire human race will die, in Italy, in Prytan and everywhere else. Although my story sounds preposterous, the health of my world hangs upon a simple flower.”

  For a moment they exchanged stares with each other. Spartacus’s features were impossible to read, and Felix was thinking the man had every right to stab him, or to burst out laughing at the tale he’d been told. At the very least he would have him arrested, either as a spy or, worse, a lunatic. Unexpectedly Spartacus looked away and considered the legions in the distance.

  “You know how t
his will end,” he observed, as if stating a fact. “I can see it in your eyes. You can divine the future.”

  “I can divine the past,” Felix replied.

  “Will we win? Will we prevail today?”

  Felix spoke with caution. “There will come a time when no man will be able to enslave his brother. Years from now, remembering leaders like you, people will appreciate the worth of our souls and will guarantee each man his personal freedom. This will come to pass, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

  “I understand,” he said slowly. “You are saying we will lose but that, in some way, we will win.”

  He climbed to his feet, with a near drunken look. Reaching into a pouch that dangled from his belt, he rummaged inside it until he produced a golden ring. Kissing this, he handed it to Felix, who saw that it was embossed with the figure of a horseman.

  “This is for you,” he announced. “In heartfelt thanks for the news you’ve delivered. It is not every day we learn our fate, and the messenger of such bearings must receive his due — even if he speaks of death.”

  “I spoke of life, too,” Felix protested.

  “So you did,” he said, with a mournful smile. “But let us leave this place. It would appear I am fated to lead my army to defeat.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It had been an hour since Felix and Spartacus’s exchange and in that interval the slave had been a whirlwind of activity. His priority had been to ride to his troops and order them to move into a forward position: two divisions were to muster on the Romans’ sides and attack as soon as the signal was given, three flaming arrows in quick succession. He himself was leading the third division and had marched them to the hill that he and Felix had climbed. At its base, he’d arranged them into twenty cohorts, each containing six hundred troops, and deployed these in an unbroken line: it was a mile long and ten ranks deep. Magonus held the right flank, Gannicus the left, while Spartacus assumed command of the centre. Because it was noon already, his captains advised that they wait until the next day to attack. Spartacus disagreed. He argued that any lengthy delay would allow the Romans to complete their camps and that they should go on the immediate attack.