“Take me there first. After I have had my satisfaction, I am yours.”
* * *
The warren of filthy streets seemed closed off from the life and light of Rome. The two men Cato had sent trod warily through the refuse and excrement, trying not to react to the scrabbling sounds of rats and larger predators in the dark alleyways. Somewhere a child screamed and then the sound was cut off as if stifled. The two men held their breaths waiting for it to start again, wincing in understanding after the silence went on too long. Life was cheap in that place.
They counted the number of turnings at each stage, occasionally whispering to each other whether a tiny gap between the tenements was part of the count. These were sometimes less than a foot wide and filled with a dark mass they didn’t dare to investigate. One of them had a dead dog half sunk in refuse that seemed to lean toward them as they passed, shuddering slightly as the buried part was eaten away by unseen mouths.
The two men were desperately uneasy by the time they reached the crossroads where Cato had told them to wait. It was nearly deserted, with only a few scurrying people moving past them without acknowledgment.
After a time, a shadow detached itself from the darkness under an overhang and moved silently toward them.
“Who do you seek here?” a voice whispered.
Both men swallowed in fear, their eyes straining to make out features in the gloom.
“Look away from me!” the voice snapped.
They turned as if pushed, staring down the rubbish-strewn lane. A sickening smell washed over them as the dark figure stepped close enough to touch.
“Our master told us to mention the name of Antonidus to whoever came,” one of them said, breathing through his mouth.
“He has been sold as a slave, far north. Who is your master now?” the voice returned.
One of the men suddenly remembered the smell from when his father had died, and he vomited, bending over and spilling his last meal into the unrecognizable slop that covered the lane. The other spoke haltingly, “No names, we were told. My master wishes to continue the association with you, but there must be no names.”
A warm scent of rot sighed over them.
“I could guess it, you fools, but this is a game I know how to play. Very well then, what would your master have of me? Deliver your message while I still have patience for you.”
“He . . . our master said you were to forget the one Antonidus asked for, now that the general has been taken for slavery. He will have other names for you and will pay your price. He wants the association to continue.”
The figure let out a soft grunt of regret. “Tell him to name them and I will decide. I will not promise service to any man. As for the death bought by Antonidus, it is too late to call back the men I have sent. That one is dead, though she still walks unknowing. Now go back to your master and take your weak-stomached companion with you.”
The pressure disappeared and Cato’s servant took a deep breath in reaction, preferring the stench of the street to the soft odor that seemed to have sunk into his clothes and skin as they talked. It lingered with the two men as they made their way back to the open streets and a world that laughed and shouted, unaware of the festering alleys so close to them.
CHAPTER 37
A crest of white-topped mountains lined the horizon. Somewhere between the teeth were the three passes they hoped to use to escape the wrath of Rome. The cold peaks brought an ache of homesickness as Spartacus looked up at them. Though he hadn’t seen Thrace since his childhood, he remembered scrambling on the lower slopes of the great range there. He had always loved high places where the wind was a constant force against the skin. It made a man feel alive.
“They are so close,” he said aloud. “We could cross them in a week or two and never see a Roman uniform again.”
“Until they come next year and tear Gaul apart looking for us, if I know them,” Crixus said. The man had always been blunt compared to the gladiator he followed. Crixus reveled in the reputation of being a practical man, allowing no dreams or wild schemes to detract from the leaden reality of what they had achieved. He was a short squat figure next to Spartacus, who still retained the litheness that suggested speed even when he was standing still. Crixus had no such grace. Born in a mine, the man was as ugly as he was strong and the only one of the gladiators who could wrestle Spartacus to a draw.
“They couldn’t find us, Crix. The Gauls say the land over the mountains is filled with battling tribes. The legions would have to wage war for decades and they haven’t the stomach for that. Now Sulla’s gone, they haven’t a decent leader in the whole pack of them. If we cross the Alps, we’ll be free.”
“Still the dreamer, Spartacus?” Crixus said, his frustration evident. “What sort of freedom do you see that is such a prize? Freedom to work harder than we ever did as slaves, scratching out a few crops on land threatened by the locals? They won’t want us any more than the Romans do, you can be sure of that. It’ll be a backbreaker, this freedom of yours, I know it. Get the women and children clear, that’s all. Leave a hundred men to take them through the passes and we can finish what we started.”
Spartacus looked at his second-in-command. Crixus had a thirst for blood in him that had only been whetted in the triumph at Mutina. After what he had lived through at Roman hands, that was easy enough to understand, but Spartacus knew there was more to it.
“Is it their soft life you want, Crix?” he said.
“And why not?” Crixus demanded. “We have turned over their hive, now the honey should be ours for the taking. You remember the civil war and so do I. Whoever has Rome has their balls. If we could take the city, the rest of them would fall over. Sulla knew that!”
“He was a Roman general, not a slave.”
“That doesn’t matter! Once you’re in, you can change the rules to suit you. There are no rules except what you choose when you have the strength. I tell you, if you miss this chance, you will throw away everything we’ve done. In ten years, the scribes will say the garrison at Mutina were the rebels and we were loyal Romans!
“If we take the city, we’ll be able to shove their history and their pride down their throats and make them accept the new order. Just give the word, Spartacus. I’ll see it done.”
“And the palaces and great estate houses?” Spartacus probed, his eyes narrowing.
“Ours! Why not? What is there in Gaul but scrubland and villages?”
“You’ll need slaves to run them, Crixus, have you thought of that? Who will take in your crops and tend your vines?”
Crixus waved his scarred fist at the man he loved above all others. “I know what you’re thinking, but we won’t do it like those cursed bastards. It doesn’t have to be like that.”
Spartacus watched him in silence and he went on angrily. “All right, if you want an answer, then I’ll have the Senate work my fields and I’ll even pay the bastards a wage.”
Spartacus laughed. “Who’s dreaming now, Crix? Look, we’ve come this far. We’ve reached a place where we can leave all that behind, make a new start to our lives. No, go back to our lives as they should have been. They may come for us in the end, but as I said, Gaul is big enough to hide more than one army. We’ll keep going north until we find a place where Rome is just a word, or not even known at all. If we turn south again, even without the women and children, we risk losing everything we’ve won. And for what? So you can sit in a marble house and spit at old men?”
“You’d let them chase you out of their land?” Crixus asked bitterly.
Spartacus gripped his arm with one of his powerful hands. “You’d wait for them to kill you?” he said gently. The anger went out of Crixus at his words.
“You don’t understand, you Thracian whoreson,” he said with a tight smile. “This is my land too, now. Here I am your general, the slave hammer who broke a legion on its own ground and two more at Mutina. In Gaul I’m just another tribesman in badly tanned furs. You would be as well. We’d
be mad to turn away from all that wealth and power just to spend our remaining years hoping they never find us. Look, we have Antonidus now. He knows where they’re weak. If I didn’t think we could win, I would turn my arse to them and vanish before I ever saw another legionary, but we can win. Antonidus says they’re tied up on every one of their borders, in Greece, Africa, everywhere. There aren’t enough legions in the country to take us. Gods, the north is open, you’ve seen that. Antonidus says we can put three men in the field for every legionary. You won’t find better odds than that, not in this life. Whatever they have, we can beat, and after them, Rome, the cities, the country, the wealth—it’s all ours. Everything.”
He put out his hand and whispered the words that had marked each stage of their rebellion, from the first wild days to the dawning belief that they could break the order that had existed for centuries. “All or nothing, Spartacus?” he said.
The gladiator looked at the hand and the bond of sworn friendship it represented. His gaze strayed to the Mutina eagle where it leaned against the wall of his tent. After a moment of silent contemplation, he let out his breath.
“All right, all or nothing. Get the women and children clear away and then I want to see Antonidus before putting it to the men. Do you think they will follow us?”
“No, Spartacus, but they will follow you anywhere.”
Spartacus nodded. “Then we will turn south and strike at the heart of them.”
“And rip the bastard out.”
* * *
Pompey had ordered Lepidus to the head of the column with his legion, forcing them to set the pace. Behind them, Primigenia marched with Crassus and Pompey at the head. The message was clear and the first hundred miles had been covered at the speed Pompey wanted without losing a man to injury.
The evenings were quieter times in the two great camps than they had been on the Via Flaminia. The pace sapped the energy of the legionaries, and by the time the halt was called, they were ready to eat and sleep and little more. Even Brutus had ceased his sword bouts, claiming a draw with two losses and two wins against Domitius by the end. At intervals, Cabera would bring up the money they had lost with some bitterness.
Riders from the extraordinarii reported back each day, scouting far ahead of the main force. The messages they brought were worryingly brief, with no sign of the slave army within their range. Pompey sent out more and more of the scouts with orders to move north and west to find them. It wasn’t said aloud, but the worry was that in such vast country the rebels could slip past them and move against the unprotected south.
Each night, the generals’ meeting was fraught with argument and snapping tempers. Rather than take it as proof of Pompey’s displeasure with him, Lepidus seemed to delight in leading the column, and Pompey grew less and less willing to hear his complaints. By Lepidus’s account, only his authority could force the pace Pompey wanted from the legions, and each night he claimed the final price could be disastrous for them. He was a master at knowing when to stop pushing at Pompey’s patience, and the meetings had become almost a battle of wills between the two men, with Crassus powerless to intervene. Julius hoped Lepidus could fight as well as he could argue.
After two weeks on the western road, Lepidus reported triumphantly that men had fallen and been left at the guard posts or in villages with orders to rejoin when they had healed. Every night was an agony of blisters and sprains for hundreds of the legionaries all the way down the column. The legions were approaching exhaustion and the other legates had begun to side with Lepidus in their call to rest the men. Pompey acceded reluctantly rather than see his authority undermined, standing them down for four days. Only the extraordinarii were denied rest as Pompey sent them all out in a last bid to find the slave army.
At last the riders came galloping back into camp with sightings. The rebels were moving south and east back from the mountains to the plains. Pompey gathered his generals that evening to give them the grim news.
“They are striking back toward Rome and the scouts say they have more than eighty thousand men on the march. Every slave in the north has gone over to them.”
There was little point in holding back the worrying figures from the generals, with the rebels only a few hundred miles away. Now that the scouts had found them, they would not be allowed to escape. Regardless of numbers, it only remained to choose the best place of attack.
“If they’re coming south, we can either march to meet them or wait for them to reach us,” Pompey continued. “No matter what happens, they cannot pass or we’ll lose Rome. Make no mistake, gentlemen, if they break through our line, Rome will fall and all we love will die, like Carthage before us. We will make a stand here to the last man if need be. Make that clear to your men. There is nowhere to retreat to, no safe haven where we can regroup and strike again. The Republic stands with us alone.”
Lepidus looked as shocked as the others. “Eighty thousand! I have as much confidence as anyone in our soldiers, but . . . the legions in Greece and Spain must be recalled. The Senate didn’t know the size of the threat when they sent us out.”
For once, Pompey bore his outburst without a rebuke. “I have sent messages back to Rome, but we are here now. Even if the borders could be stripped without losing everything we’ve gained in a hundred years, those legions couldn’t reach us in time to make a difference to this battle.”
“But we could mount a fighting retreat until support arrives. Eighty thousand could overwhelm us. We’d be flanked and broken in the first hour of fighting. It’s impossible!”
“Speak like that in front of the men and that’s exactly what will happen,” Pompey barked at the general. “These are not trained soldiers we’re facing, Lepidus. They could have escaped across the mountains in all likelihood, but instead they are after riches and plunder, while our men fight for our home city and the lives of everyone in it. They will break for us. We will stand.”
“The commander at Mutina probably said the same thing,” Lepidus muttered, not quite loudly enough for Pompey to be forced to answer, though he glared at the legate.
“My orders are to engage and destroy, gentlemen. We will do exactly that. If we wait for them, they could go right round us, so we will carry this war to them. Make the men ready to march north. Lepidus, you will take the left flank and keep a wide line to prevent encirclement. They have little in the way of cavalry except a few stolen mounts, so use ours to hold the wings steady. Julius, I want you on the left to support Lepidus if that becomes necessary. Crassus and I will take the right flank as always and I will concentrate the bulk of the cavalry there to prevent them spilling round us and making south and east toward Ariminum. They must not be allowed to reach that city.”
One of the two legates from Ariminum cleared his throat.
“I would like to take the right flank with you, sir. Many of my men have families in Ariminum. I do myself. They will fight all the harder knowing what could happen if the right breaks.”
Pompey nodded. “All right. The Ariminum legions will be the core of the right flank. The rest of you make the center. I want the hastati maniples on the front line instead of the velites. We need weight more than speed to break them on the first charge. Bring the triarii up quickly if the advance is slowed or turned. I’ve yet to meet a force that can withstand our veterans.”
It was dawn before the meeting ended, and the day was spent breaking the camp ready for the march. Julius stayed with Primigenia, passing on the orders and positions to Brutus and the centurions. By that evening, every man knew the seriousness of the battle to come, and many of the injuries they had taken on the march were forgotten or ignored in the thoughts of the conflict they welcomed. Even with the rumors of huge numbers of the enemy, every soldier was determined they would not leave Rome and their families open to the invader. Better than anyone, they knew that their discipline and skill were unmatched, no matter who came against them, or how many.
* * *
The army of Spartacus was
sighted at sunset. The order signals went out to create a hostile camp, with the borders twice the normal height and every soldier sleeping on short watches ready to repel a night attack. The soldiers spent the time awake checking their armor and swords, oiling leather and polishing metal. Spears were sharpened or replaced with fresh-cast heads from the smithy. Heavy ballistae and onagers were assembled and stone shot made ready for the dawn, their bulk leaving ruts in the soil. The slave army had nothing like the great war machines, and though they had but one range, the “mule’s kick” onager could cut swaths through an enemy charge.
Brutus woke Julius from a light sleep by shaking his shoulder.
“Is it my watch?” Julius said sleepily, sitting up in the dark tent.
“Shhh. Come outside. I want to show you something.”
Vaguely irritated, Julius followed Brutus through the camp, stopping twice to give the watchword of the day to alert sentries. Within striking range of the enemy, the camp was far from quiet. Many of the men who couldn’t sleep sat outside their tents or around small fires taking quietly. Tension and fear tightened their bladders through the night, and Julius and Brutus saw the urine trench was sodden and stinking already as they passed it.
Julius realized Brutus was making straight for the praetorian gate in the north wall of the camp.
“What are you doing?” he hissed to his friend.
“I need you to get us out of the camp. They’ll let a tribune through if you order it.” He whispered his idea and Julius squinted at his friend in the darkness, wondering at the wild energy that seemed such a part of him. He considered refusing and going back to his tent, but the night air had cleared his head and he doubted he would be able to sleep again. He didn’t feel tired. Instead, his muscles trembled with nervous energy, and waiting idle would be worse than anything.
The gate was guarded by a century of extraordinarii, still dusty from their scouting rides. The commander trotted his horse over to them as they approached.
Emperor: The Death of Kings Page 43