Or perhaps not, Matilda reminded herself. Her only hope was that their white clothes were once again hiding them from their pursuers. Without a backward glance, she kept going, struggling to keep her footing on the ice.
With a surge of relief, Matilda stepped onto the opposite bank. The clamor of enemy soldiers sounded distant now. How remarkable, she thought suddenly. To think I have crossed with dry feet, without wetting any of my garments, the very waters into which the king and his troops plunged up to the neck!
But her odyssey was far from over. Six miles of frozen countryside lay between her and her nearest friends. The four escapers trudged close together for fear of getting lost in the blizzard — through snow and ice, down steep ditches and up treacherous hills. Exhausted and frozen, they stumbled toward Abingdon, where supporters of Matilda’s cause gave them horses.
They did not dare rest at Abingdon for long. Mounting their horses, the group galloped to Matilda’s stronghold at Wallingford, where her allies welcomed her with astonished joy.
When Earl Robert heard of Matilda’s daring escape he rushed to join her. He had been at Cirencester, trying to rally an army of supporters to march to her aid at Oxford. Upon Robert’s arrival Matilda sprang forward to greet him, but was stopped in her tracks by the odd smile that played on her brother’s features. As he stepped to one side, she saw what he had been hiding behind his back — her nine-year old son, Henry, brought with him from France. No other sight could have so restored Matilda’s hopes. As she wrapped her arms around him, the past months seemed to slip away, forgotten.
Once Matilda’s getaway was assured, her garrison at Oxford surrendered to Stephen’s army. Stephen stayed a while in Oxford, bringing that rebellious part of the country under his control at last. And the townspeople and peasants of the ravaged countryside — always the first to suffer hunger and loss during a siege — began to piece their lives back together.
The chroniclers of the Middle Ages marveled at Matilda’s cunning. One wrote, “Certainly I have never heard of any woman having such marvelous escapes from so many enemies threatening her life, and from such exceeding perils.” But for all her cleverness, Matilda was never able to take the throne back from Stephen. In time she was rewarded, though — when her son became King Henry II.
The Gladiator War
Capua, Italy, 73 B.C.
THE YOUNG THRACIAN LIFTED HIS SWORD to ward off the blow. Then another. Sweating now, he dodged around his larger, heavily armed opponent, looking for an opening to make a thrust with his own weapon. The combat was fierce, and the midday sun beat mercilessly upon the two men. Then, lunging desperately forward, the Thracian opened himself to attack. Quickly he swiveled behind his small shield, but it was too late — with a forceful blow his opponent’s sword fell across his bare chest.
Panting, the young man stopped and looked down to where the weapon pressed against his skin, but drew no blood. In the heat of the contest, he’d almost forgotten — the sword was wooden.
But in the arena it will be real, he thought, as he let his own wooden blade and shield fall to his side. And I won’t get off so easily then.
Standing nearby, his trainer shook his head and spit into the sand. It was his job to turn the slaves assigned to him into gladiators — men who fought each other with weapons in public spectacles. The young man’s name was Spartacus, but to his trainers he was just another slave, like the rest of the outcasts who crowded the barracks of the ludi, or gladiatorial school.
To Spartacus, it seemed like a lifetime since he was captured by the Roman army in his homeland of Thrace, a land of nomadic shepherds. Bound in chains, he had been taken over sea and land to Rome, to be sold as a slave. Seeing that he was young and strong, his captors forced him to serve in the Roman army for a time, before selling him to be trained as a gladiator.
His story was a common one. As the Roman army conquered the lands around the Mediterranean Sea, more and more prisoners were shipped back to Italy to work as slaves for wealthy Romans. The Roman Republic’s demand for new slaves seemed endless — they needed them to farm their huge tracts of land, to shepherd their flocks, to work in their dangerous mines, to entertain them.
And Roman taste in entertainment ran to the spectacular — and the violent. In a warrior state such as theirs, martial skill and courage were highly prized. The strongest and healthiest of the slaves might be bought by a lanista, a man who owned and trained gladiators — “men of the sword.” In giant amphitheaters these trained fighters would engage in armed combat for the entertainment of crowds, and the honor of the powerful men who paid for the spectacle.
For even more variety and excitement, gladiators with different fighting styles and armor would be pitted against each other. A lightly armed retiarius, holding a trident and a net to entangle his opponent, might face off against a slower, armored secutor, whose helmet and large shield offered some protection from the retiarius’s three-pronged spear.
The rituals of the arena may have been dramatic, but there was nothing staged about the fighting. Contests were often fought to the death. The defeated gladiator’s only hope was to appeal to the crowd and the patron of the games for a missio, a decision to let him live. But this was granted only if he had fought bravely enough to capture the spectators’ sympathy. And they were not easy to impress.
For while the Roman crowds adored the performances, at the same time they held the gladiators in contempt. These fighters were the dregs of society, only slightly better than bestiarii, the slaves trained to fight wild animals.
Of course the Romans knew enough to keep a close guard on these men they had trained for combat but doomed to slavery. In the barracks that circled the ludi’s sandy training yard, the fighters were locked in cells at night, their weapons secured in an armory well away from them.
Still, the Romans weren’t unduly alarmed. Everyone knew Rome’s army was all-powerful. And these slaves — riffraff from Gaul, Germany, Thrace, Syria. They couldn’t be much of a threat.
No one seemed to realize just how desperate Spartacus and men like him were. What could he hope for at the end of his harsh training? After the discipline and punishments of the school barracks, with its stocks and chains? A banquet the night before the gladiatorial games. A few hours before the cheering crowds. What then? Some of his fellow slaves clung to the hope of winning their freedom — they’d heard stories of a few talented fighters who’d been set free. Or maybe they’d survive long enough to become trainers themselves.
But Spartacus knew the chances of that were slim at best. Most gladiators could hope to fight two, maybe three times in the arena before being killed. It wouldn’t be long now before he was riding in a cart, on the way to his first combat. His first and perhaps his last. Yet what choice did he have?
Master and slave. It was the way things were, and always would be.
Wouldn’t they?
In the days and months ahead, Spartacus would shatter this idea, and others the Romans held dear, forever.
Word quickly spread through the cramped barracks: There’s going to be a breakout. Will you come? More and more of the desperate gladiators agreed, until 200 men were in on the secret.
It was the height of summer in the rich city of Capua in southern Italy, the center for gladiator training. For weeks, Spartacus had eyed the gladiators around him, sizing up these men from far-off countries — Thracians like himself, as well as Gauls, Germans, and Syrians. Some were slaves, some condemned criminals, others prisoners of war. But many of them were free-born, and still carried the memory of freedom. It had been easy to convince them to act.
Their scheme was bold and simple: to gather in the training yard, slowly, without raising suspicion. There they would grab the training weapons at hand and rush the guards. With luck they’d overpower them by their sheer numbers. Beyond that they had no plan, and no idea what would be waiting outside for them. For now, getting out was all that mattered.
But on the humid summer evening befor
e the escape, terrible news reached Spartacus: someone had talked. Their master and lanista, Lentulus Batiatus, knew of the plan and who the ringleaders were. A local militia was on its way to make an example of the would-be escapers. The gladiators looked at one another helplessly. What could they do?
“We go now,” Spartacus replied firmly, “before the guards lock us in for the night.” He knew they still had a chance if they acted swiftly.
Over half the plotters slunk away to their cells, fearing it would be crazy to plunge ahead now that the plan had been discovered. Those left behind quickly weighed their options. Their weapons were locked in the armory, leaving them defenseless.
“Think!” hissed a Gaul named Crixus, keenly aware that armed officials could be on the grounds at any moment. “Is there nothing to defend ourselves with?”
“The kitchen — we can still get in there!” Spartacus cried suddenly. Storming through the barracks, the gladiators burst into the school’s kitchen. They grabbed knives, forks, cooking spits — anything sharp that could serve as a weapon.
Armed now, they streamed out of the kitchen into the moonlit training yard. Barely slowing down, Spartacus stooped to pick up a handful of stones, and hurled them at the startled guards. With cries and shouts the other gladiators followed his example, and the guards raised their arms to shield themselves. In that instant the gladiators rushed upon them with their knives and spits.
In minutes they had broken out of the school and flooded onto the streets of Capua, their hearts pounding.
“Look!” Crixus cried, breathless.
The gladiators stopped in their tracks, openmouthed. Spartacus couldn’t believe their luck. Before them were two wagons loaded with gladiatorial weapons, destined for a contest in another city! Seeing the gladiators, the drivers quickly jumped off the carts and ran. The escaped men eagerly snatched up swords and shields and armed themselves.
About 70 gladiators had made it out. Now they’d need a plan if they were to have a chance of staying free. They chose their leaders on the spot. Two Gauls, Crixus and another man named Oenomaus, were quickly voted captains. But the overwhelming choice for commander was Spartacus. It was obvious to all that the Thracian had the brains and the courage to help them survive. What was more, Spartacus had a special insight into the enemy, having fought in their ranks. That could prove to be a valuable weapon.
But first, the new leaders agreed, they must get out of Capua.
Suddenly, distant shouts and the sound of running feet made Spartacus look up. From all directions, armed citizens were running down the city streets. In moments the escapers would be cornered.
Their backs to the wall, the gladiators clenched their swords and braced themselves for the attack. But in the fierce struggle that followed, the locals were no match for men trained to fight and desperate to stay free. The gladiators quickly overpowered and disarmed them.
Spartacus picked up a Roman weapon and balanced its weight in his hand. With his other hand he threw down the gladiator’s sword he’d been holding, as did the others. Barbaric object, he thought. Tainted with dishonor. He’d never touch one again.
In Rome, the senators listened impatiently to the messenger’s story of gladiators breaking out of a school in Capua. Let the local forces take care of it, they sniffed. Then word came that the rebels had left the city. A slave named Spartacus had led his followers up the treacherous mountain path to the very top of Mount Vesuvius. The gladiators had set up a camp in the volcano’s crater. Worse, other runaway slaves were joining them daily, and their growing numbers posed a risk to the region.
Very well, the Roman authorities sighed. They would send a Roman commander. Not a consul — it would be beneath his dignity — but a praetor, a lesser official. They’d draft a force of 3,000 men to put under his command. That kind of muscle would surely put a quick end to the revolt, the senate reasoned. There was no need to use Rome’s highly trained regular army. They were dealing with slaves, after all.
In a confident and boastful mood, the newly drafted troops marched swiftly south to the foot of Vesuvius. There they prepared to surround and lay siege to the rebel slaves.
High above, Spartacus and his scouts peered over the tangle of wild vines that covered the mountaintop, and watched grimly as the Roman army gathered in numbers far below. Roman guards were taking up their posts along the narrow road up the mountain — the only route down. All the other sides of the mountain were as steep and smooth as cliffs.
“They’re trapping us,” the scouts muttered. “We’ll starve up here.”
Spartacus was silent for a moment. “If it comes to that,” he said at last, “I’d rather die by steel than perish by hunger.”
Without another word he crept back from the edge and turned toward the camp in the crater. He wasn’t going to give in so easily. Glancing up, he noticed the sun was already high in the sky. There was much to do before dark.
Spartacus put the gladiators to work until nightfall, ripping out the vines that grew all around them. Carefully they twisted the stems into chains, until they were long enough to snake down the face of the mountain. When darkness came they were ready.
Fastening their ropes to the cliff top, the slaves silently scaled down one of the steep, unguarded mountainsides. Above them, one gladiator stayed behind with the weapons until the last of his companions had reached the foot of the mountain. Then he rapidly tossed down the weapons one by one. When the last weapon hit the ground below, he slithered down the vines himself.
The slaves crept silently around the base of the mountain, circling the sleeping Roman camp from behind. Spartacus and his captains paused, listening in the dark for any sounds of enemy movement. But they heard nothing, only their own breathing. Then, at a signal from Spartacus, the slaves rushed forward in a fierce surprise attack. Overwhelmed and bewildered in the darkness, many of the Roman soldiers fled. Spartacus and his followers seized the camp and plundered it for weapons and supplies.
It was a stunning victory, beyond their hopes. And to the slaves of the surrounding countryside, it was the moment they’d dreamed of. Herdsmen and shepherds from the region ran to join the gladiators, who welcomed them. Spartacus knew how valuable such men could be. Their work made them strong and fast, and they could handle weapons — defending their flocks against wild animals and thieves had taught them that. Then came slaves fleeing from surrounding farms. Many weren’t trained to fight, but they put their skill at weaving baskets from branches to good use, making shields for the rebels.
Spartacus quickly organized the newcomers according to their skills. Some were given heavy weapons, some turned into light-armed troops, others were made scouts. This was no longer a band of runaways. They were an army now. And a threat that Rome could no longer ignore.
Burning with shame, the Roman Republic sent another praetor to lead soldiers against Spartacus — with orders to swiftly undo the dishonor of the first one’s failure.
The Roman defeats that followed were humiliating. The slave army harried the Romans with sudden attacks, surprising one commander while he was bathing, stealing another commander’s horse out from under him! Frightened, Roman soldiers began to desert the army. A few tried to join Spartacus, but he turned them away. All the while Spartacus’s army grew, from hundreds to thousands. Now, slaves boldly ran from their masters’ homes to join them as they passed. The sight of the gladiator army made two things clear. Escape from slavery was possible, and even the Roman army couldn’t force them back!
Rome no longer worried about the indignity of fighting slaves. This was no sordid rebellion. The slave army had swelled to tens of thousands of men and women and was moving freely through southern Italy. The whole Roman way of life — balanced so carefully upon slavery — was at risk of falling to pieces. Now fear spurred the Roman senate to put both of the Republic’s consuls in command of two legions of infantry and cavalry, over 10,000 men. This time they would fight as they would against a powerful enemy.
But Spartacus knew better than to take on the full force of the Roman army. Some of his men, thrilled by their victories, clamored to march on Rome itself. Spartacus proposed another goal — they would march north to the Alps, and out of Italy to freedom.
“We’ll cross the mountains, and then every one to his own homeland. To Gaul, to Germany... and to Thrace.”
As the mid-winter of 71 B.C. approached, Spartacus stood on the southernmost tip of Italy and gazed out over the choppy waves. He and his army were camped on the bank of the Strait of Messina. Across the water lay the island of Sicily. He was about as far from the Alps as he could be.
It had been a stormy two years. The march north to the mountains had been slowed by arguments among Spartacus’s followers, who had become unruly and hard to control. Many were overconfident, fired up by their freedom and victories, and thought only of sweeping through the cities of Italy for plunder.
“It’s not gold and silver we need,” Spartacus had warned them, “but iron and copper.” Basic material for weapons and survival would keep them alive, not stolen ornaments and jewelry.
Other commanders in the slave army had taken revenge on their Roman prisoners of war, holding gladiatorial games and forcing the Roman prisoners to fight each other. Crixus had even split from Spartacus, taking with him a huge number of German slaves. On their own, Crixus’s men had been savagely defeated by the consuls’ forces.
Yet the two Roman legions had been powerless to stop the bulk of Spartacus’s army, and the slaves kept pushing north. Then, just as freedom had seemed within their reach, a Roman governor of Gaul had moved thousands of his soldiers to block the slaves’ escape route through the Alps. Spartacus had been forced to turn back. He led his army south, sticking to remote areas far from the cities.
Escapes! Page 9