Spartacus

by Robert Southworth

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

  CLAYMORE PRESS

  An imprint of

  Pen & Sword Books Ltd

  47 Church Street

  Barnsley

  South Yorkshire

  S70 2AS

  Copyright © R C Southworth, 2012

  9781781590843

  ISBN 9781781599822 (epub)

  ISBN 9781781599822 (prc)

  The right of R C Southworth to be identified as Author of this work has

  been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

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  For my parents, no son could ask more of those that love him.

  Prologue

  The year was 73 BC and the Roman Empire was beginning to gather momentum. Its navy dominated the trading routes of the Mediterranean, while its legions began to look hungrily at neighbouring lands. The empire required land, wealth and slaves, commodities which they had in abundance but they still yearned for more. A third of the great city of Rome were enslaved but still they wanted more, the backs of slaves carried the aspirations of a great empire. Many of those slaves were sold into the ludus - gladiator schools. Here they would learn the art of warfare and become lethal killers. Many would die in the arena and all for the entertainment of the masses. Their masters became rich and cared nothing for the loss of blood, dignity and life. However, just 100 miles to the south of the great city stood Capua, a prosperous trading city eager to match the splendour of Rome. It was within this city the first blow would be struck for the slaves of the Roman Empire, a blow which would shake the very foundations of Rome.

  Batiatus had been away, the slave markets had disappointed him again. He prayed that the Roman legions would soon go to war and bring new blood to the slave markets. He needed to stay ahead of his competitors. Luckily both Spartacus and Crixus were the envy of his peers. They filled his purse with coin but he knew sooner or later they would fall. If he just had a few more like them, his name would begin to be whispered in Rome itself. He entered his home and went straight to the balcony to observe the training area. It was dark and no gladiators would be there, but he liked to survey his own little empire. He spied a slave who had been castrated and hung on the wall to serve as a lesson to his comrades. Batiatus would not permit insolence and those who would try to escape would pay the ultimate price. He smiled as he looked at the corpse, bemused as to why the man should even try. Did he not look after them? They wanted for nothing and this was how they repaid a generous master. From the corner of his eye he saw an object, partly lit by the dim torches which circled the training ground. He tried to focus on it, trying hard to decipher its unusual form. As he did his hand moved on the rail, recoiling immediately from a sticky substance. The object's true form now announced itself to his mind, a body and then another and another. He raised his hand to his face and dark blood covered his pale skin. Panic gripped his insides, the urge to run matched only by his urge to find his family. He backed from the balcony into the safety of the main building.

  Crixus slaughtered the children as though they were vermin. He held all Romans accountable for the death of his family and his enslavement, whether they were young or old. Spartacus turned away from the carnage in disgust, he wanted no part of these actions. He wanted to run, to protect his own wife and children but there was safety in numbers and he knew that staying with the gladiators afforded him the best chance of procuring passage to a distant land. He walked from the slaughter, bile rising in his throat. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the terror he had just witnessed. He reached an isolated room only for that isolation to be interrupted by a panic stricken Batiatus backing into it. Spartacus stopped still but it was too late, Batiatus turned and confronted him.

  ‘What have you done to my family?’ Batiatus part asked, part screamed.

  ‘They are dead,’ Spartacus replied. Though he did not wish their death, he had only hatred for this man and refused to feel pity.

  ‘Bastards! I will have every one of you torn to pieces, starting with your family,’ Batiatus ranted with insanity. The look of insanity changed to surprise as a gladius ripped through his torso, spilling his insides to the floor. Above him stood Spartacus, defiance radiating from every sinew

  ‘You will not harm my family anymore,’ he said, his blade sweeping down, puncturing the throat of his master.

  The rebellion had begun, tens of men became thousands and then tens of thousands. Slaves throughout Roman lands rallied to the banner, eager to cast off the yoke of slavery. Rome was slow to react believing slaves incapable of forming a proper army, considering it at first just a local policing matter. However, a gladiator rose from the ranks to command. His skill in the arena would be matched by his skill to mobilise an entire army and Rome would pay the price for its slumber. Spartacus became the bringer of nightmares, Roman towns burned and Roman soldiers died in their hundreds. Rome had faced aggression before, mighty empires wishing to invade and take their precious lands but this was new, the enemy was from within and Rome stuttered in its response.

  For two years the slave army made Roman lands bleed. For a while the plebs of Rome even believed the great city might fall. Finally the Roman senate were forced to act, legions were recalled to deal with the internal beast which had the citizens of Rome trembling in their beds. Two armies were dispatched to deal with the threat and these were not raw recruits but veterans made tough on the battlefields of the known world. From the south came Crassus, a political genius intent on winning military glory. From his campaign in Spain came Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus known as Pompey the Great, the best Rome had, a general used to victory. Each army raced to gain glory and the slave army was trapped. With no possibility of escape they turned to face the legions of Crassus in one last show of force against a cruel master. Spartacus had little choice but to fight but he could not battle both Roman armies at the same time. With so many of his warriors dead, including the mighty Crixus, Spartacus resigned himself to the fates. He gathered his army about him and as the legions approached the slave army roared its defiance. Vengeance and wrath clashed against perfect military precision.

  Chapter 1

  The orders were shouted and troops began to move and so the battle had commenced. On one side the experienced troops of the Roman legions moved in step. Ever onwards they closed the gap between themselves and the horde. The perfect rhythm of thousands of perfectly drilled professional soldiers moving in unison was a fearful sound, so much so it sapped the will of many opposing armies long before the violence erupted. The Roman legions were commanded by Crassus an extremely powerful figure within Roman politics but, as yet, untried as a military commander.
He had chased this slave army around the countryside and they had evaded him at each step. However, with a further Roman Army approaching from the north under the control of Pompey, the slave army was now trapped and Crassus wanted victory before Pompey arrived to steal away his glory.

  The members of the slave army watched the Roman legions steadily march on and knew that they must fight. Retreat was not an option and they could ill afford to be caught between two Roman armies. The more astute of the warriors, now faced by the true might of Rome, knew the end was near. For over two years they had roamed free in Roman lands, looting towns and growing in size. They had even defeated the Roman legions on a number of occasions but the armies they now faced were different. They were made up from veterans who were not easily forced to turn their back. A powerfully built gladiator, of which there were many within the slave army, glanced towards the sea hoping his family had reached the waiting vessel he had paid to carry them to safety far from the clutches of the Roman Empire. He glanced to his comrades, some were gladiators like him, others were impoverished Roman citizens who joined the slave army rather than sell themselves into servitude, but for the most part the army consisted of escaped slaves.

  Rome relied heavily on the beaten backs of slaves and few masters treated their slaves with anything but cruelty. It had only been a matter of time before a rebellion took place but the enormity of it had shocked even those who had warned against it. A revolt in a small ludus in Capua, where just a handful of gladiators had fought their way to freedom, had grown until the ranks of the rebellion swelled to as many in number as 70,000. The great empire began to shake and at one point it seemed that even Rome might fall to the rabble. However, the opportunity was lost and the gladiator, who had only ever wished to escape the lands of Rome, now knew he would die within them. The battle had begun and already the experienced legions were making progress despite the valiant efforts of his comrades. He stood with a number of other gladiators watching a detachment of Romans approach along the river's edge. If the advance was not halted then, with the enemy on the flank, the battle would be over quickly and the slave army cut to pieces in moments. He gathered some men around him and led the charge, releasing a deafening roar in defiance of those who would enslave him.

  His eyes were heavy, like the chains which bound him, but he forced them open scanning the local area. Night was marching on, beginning to hide away the surrounding countryside. The chains were secured to a large tree stump which prevented too much movement, not that his weary body would permit much movement anyway. He managed to pick out a guard hunched over his spear sheltering as best he could against the cold breeze which whipped at his extremities. The guard faced away from him, secure in the knowledge the battle was won and the enemies of Rome lay dead or dying. The prisoner himself was bloodied and exhausted and awaited the death that would surely be delivered brutally and without mercy. His eyes searched out other members of his forlorn army. They had known going against the full might of Rome would eventually lead to one result, but still they had dared to believe, against all hope, this small band could escape the manacles the despotic empire had placed upon them. His mind began to wander to thoughts of his family, hoping they had made it to the ships on time and safe carriage to a far and distant place.

  A large centurion approached the gladiator, grinning at the state of a vanquished enemy.

  ‘Up on your feet scum, you have a visitor, though why such a man of importance would wish to have a meeting with the likes of you?’ He spat out the words as if tasting rancid meat. The visitor approached. Two men walked at each side of him, although to call them men was such an understatement. These men were Goliaths, as dark as ebony with bodies which were made of granite stone. It seemed this was a man intent on showing his power.

  ‘Well gladiator it seems you're having a bad day. The slave army is destroyed, as we speak the survivors are being taken to be crucified upon the Appian Way. Defeat was always going to be the only outcome. Now tell me, what should we do with you?’ There was no malice in his voice more a mocking interest. The gladiator never spoke in reply he just stared unflinchingly at this man who held his very existence within his hands. A sharp burning pain smashed into the side of his face, the centurion had used his vine.

  ‘Your Roman master asked you a question.’

  ‘Kill me and be done with it!’ The gladiator snarled back.

  ‘It's clear to me that simply killing one of the men who challenged the might of Rome, no matter how foolhardy, is no reward for such courage. Your actions were misguided perhaps but nevertheless they were courageous. No, I think I have better services for your skills.’

  ‘You think I would serve Rome? Then you had better kill me, for the release of the manacles only serves to free my hands to strangle Rome.’ Again the vine struck bringing another welt upon the gladiator's features.

  ‘Oh, I think I can restrain you much more adequately than with mere manacles, for instance let's see…’ The visitor gave a wave of his hand and for the first time the gladiator's fight left him utterly and completely. Behind the centurion, figures were being dragged forward. To the gladiator's horror his family were brought nearer. ‘You see gladiator it is my job to find weakness in both friend and foe and, if I do say so, I am rather good at it.’

  ‘What is it you want from me?’

  ‘What I want? I want you to do whatever I wish, when I wish it.’

  ‘And my family?’

  ‘They, or should I say all but one, will be released to a place where they can be watched. They will have comfortable carefree lives, unless of course you give reason for that to change.’

  ‘All but one?’ The fear was already in his voice as he asked the question.

  ‘It is important you understand the lengths my masters are willing to go to, to ensure their plans are fulfilled.’ With this the visitor nodded and, without a moment's hesitation, the centurion slit the nearest child's throat.

  The gladiator roared, his powerful arms strained at his chains and just a flicker of anxiety crossed the visitor's face. For a moment he thought the chains would break.

  ‘I am truly sorry to have to resort to such tactics, but do not think I will not act in that way again. Do I have your word or will we move to the next child?’

  ‘You have it!’ Cried the gladiator through the anger and tears.

  ‘Very well. You will rest at a location I have chosen, you will regain your fitness and your family will be removed to a place of safety. I will arrange for them to visit you. Now have you anything else to say?’

  ‘Grant me one request to cement our agreement,’ the gladiator spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘You have a nerve. Very well if it's within my power,’ the Roman replied.

  ‘The centurion is a fine soldier at killing children and striking unarmed men, but let me show you what you get from me in this bargain.’

  ‘Absolutely not, I need you alive for the time being. I will kill you when I require it.’ The visitor was calm and clear in his response.

  ‘If I can't kill one centurion then I am probably not the man for the job.’

  The centurion butted in before the visitor could say anything in reply.

  ‘Excuse me Sir I'd be delighted to show this gladiator what a Roman centurion of twelve years is capable of. Besides it's time a proper Roman soldier showed this scum how to fight, not the raw recruits this scum has bested.’

  ‘Very well centurion. Gladiator you shall have your wish, but be warned should you lose your life, so too will your family.’ The gladiator just nodded his agreement. ‘Centurion make the arrangements, one hour I think.’ The Roman aristocrat walked away without looking back.

  The gladiator stared at his family. His beloved was beaten and bloodied but she stood proud, their dead son at her feet. Tears streamed from her eyes but she let out no cry. She cradled their young daughter close to her breast. Her eyes were lost in his, he felt her pain as deeply as any sword thrust. He noted the men arou
nd him, from the arrogant aristocrat to the centurion, down to the guards. Deep within him an oath was made, each and every one of the men who stood before him would die slow and hard. But only one today, the centurion.

  More of the aristocrat's personal guard formed an unbreakable ring. Each carried a sword and shield but the gladiator didn't recognise the type or origin. Beyond them more guards held his family secure so, for now, he must behave as required. The centurion stretched his powerful limbs, limbering up for the fight ahead. Confidence oozed from him, for four years he had been legion champion. He had fought many battles and never received a scratch. He smiled, with a gladius within his hands he was invincible. He smiled at the gladiator.

  ‘You have the honour of fighting Marcus Flavius. Your death at my hands will be an honour to your people. I have killed many with this weapon, Gauls, Greeks and many more have all fallen before it, which are you?’

  ‘Thracian,’ replied the gladiator. ‘And it's a quality sword. I will look after it when you are rotting in the ground.’ There was no malice in the way the gladiator spoke. Gone now was the anger, to be replaced as it always was, by a cold calculating killing animal. For the first time the centurion portrayed just a flicker of uncertainty. No-one else observed this except the gladiator who simply smiled.

  ‘And your name Thracian, if the parents of scum like you deemed it necessary to name you?’

  ‘You know not the man you challenge, I think you will know it by the end,’ replied the gladiator.

  ‘Plinius you worthless scab, give him a sword,’ ordered the centurion. A young guard walked to the gladiator. He placed a blade in the gladiator's hand and whispered.

  ‘By the gods, I hope you kill this bastard.’

  The gladiator glanced at the young soldier, his face was battered and bruised but not from the recent battle. This boy had endured torment over a long period of time, it seemed the centurion didn't restrict violence to the enemy. He knew all about these types of men, they were a sore on life, whose only enjoyment came from the misery of others and the only cure was the same as a mad beast and that was death. Soon enough the centurion would be cured. The warriors began to circle. Flavius was powerfully built but the gladiator noticed how light he was on his feet. His uniform sparkled and was marked with hardly a speck of dust. This compared to the battle torn rags of the gladiator, gone was his armour but he was used to fighting without it. He had once fought naked to please the mistress of the gladiator school. The centurion went on the offensive raining blow after blow, all of which the gladiator parried. He stayed on the defensive just allowing the centurion to exert himself. The centurion began to blow his cheeks out hard. He had thrown his best moves against this man, but it had been like trying to hit mist. The gladiator smiled.