Spartacus: Rebellion

  Spartacus was making an appraisal of his men’s mood. What he saw was pleasing. Organised into centuries and cohorts, trained and armed like the Romans, they were ready. He was ready. Here was another chance to shed Roman blood. To seize more vengeance for Maron, his brother who had died fighting the legions. The legions that had laid waste to their homeland, Thrace. I might yet see it again. Gellius and his men are about all that stand in the way. He half smiled. Kotys, the malevolent king of Spartacus’ tribe, the Maedi, and the reason for his enslavement, would get the shock of his life when he returned. I can’t wait. Spartacus placed the brass whistle that hung from a thong around his neck to his lips. When he blew, signalling the advance, the trumpeters would let the entire army know.

  His plan was simple. He had arrayed his soldiers in two deep lines about thirty paces apart. Castus was in charge of the left wing: a Gaulish gladiator who had aided Spartacus in their escape; short, stubborn and with a temperament as fiery as his red hair. Gannicus, another Gaul from the ludus, commanded the right; he was as strong-willed as Castus, but more even-tempered, and Spartacus had more in common with him. At his signal, they would all move forward in one great bloc and, after throwing volleys of javelins, engage the Romans head on. If things went well, their superior numbers and high morale would quickly allow them to envelop Gellius’ legions. This while their cavalry swept away the enemy horse and then took the legionaries in the rear. The Romans’ defeat would be total, their casualties far higher than in any of the previous encounters.

  By sunset, Rome will have learned another lesson. Great Rider, grant that it be so. Watch over us all in the hours to come, Spartacus prayed. Dionysus, lend us the strength of your maenads. While the Thracian hero god was his main guide in life, he had also learned to revere the deity associated with wine, intoxication and religious mania, whom his wife Ariadne worshipped. His remarkable dream, in which a venomous snake had wrapped itself around his neck, had marked him out as one of Dionysus’ own. May it always be thus.

  He filled his lungs and prepared to blow.

  Tan-tara-tara-tara went the Roman bucinae.

  Spartacus held his breath, waiting for the legions to advance.

  The enemy trumpets sounded again, but nothing else happened.

  What the hell is Gellius playing at?

  To his surprise, a horseman emerged from a gap in the centre of the Roman line. Not a legionary stirred as he guided his mount straight at Spartacus.

  Spartacus’ men were so keen to begin the fight that few noticed.

  ‘Let’s be having them!’ shouted Pulcher to a roar of approval.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Gellius has something to say. A messenger comes.’

  ‘What do we care?’ cried a voice from the ranks. ‘It’s time to kill!’

  ‘You won’t lose that opportunity. But I want to hear the rider’s message.’ Spartacus gave his men a granite-hard stare. ‘The first fool who moves a muscle or throws a javelin will answer to me. Clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the muted reply.

  ‘I can’t hear you!’

  ‘YES!’

  Spartacus watched the approaching horseman. I don’t like it. Fortunately, he didn’t have time to brood. Less than a quarter of a mile separated the two armies. As the Roman drew near, he slowed his horse, a fine chestnut, to a walk. He appeared unarmed. Spartacus noted his polished bronze cuirass, scarlet crested helmet and confident posture. This was a senior officer, probably a tribune, one of the six experienced men who assisted the consul in commanding each legion. ‘That’s close enough,’ he called out when the envoy was twenty paces away.

  Raising his right hand in a peaceful gesture, the Roman walked his mount several steps closer.

  ‘Don’t trust the bastard!’ shouted Aventianus.

  The Roman smiled.

  Spartacus lifted his sica menacingly. ‘Come any nearer and I’ll send you to Hades.’

  There was no acknowledgement, but at last the Roman tugged hard on his reins. ‘I am Sextus Baculus, tribune of the Third Legion. And you are?’ His tone couldn’t have been more patronising.

  ‘You know who I am. If you don’t, you’re a bigger sack of shit than you look.’

  Spartacus’ men jeered with delight.

  Baculus’ face went bright red, and he bit back an angry response. ‘I have been sent by Lucius Gellius, consul of Rome. I—’

  ‘We met his colleague Lentulus a few weeks back,’ Spartacus interrupted. ‘Did you hear about that little encounter?’

  More gleeful cheers erupted. Baculus’ mount’s ears went back, and it skittered from side to side. The tribune regained control of it with a muttered curse. ‘You and this rabble of yours will pay dearly for that day,’ he snapped.

  ‘Will we indeed?’

  ‘I am not here to bandy words with slaves—’

  ‘Slaves?’ Spartacus twisted his head around. ‘I see no slaves here. Only free men.’

  The roar that went up this time was three times as loud as before.

  ‘Listen to me, you Thracian savage,’ hissed Baculus. He lifted his left hand, which had been held down by his side. Drawing back his arm, he tossed a leather bag at Spartacus. ‘A present from Lucius Gellius and Quintus Arrius, his propraetor,’ he cried as it flew through the air.

  Spartacus didn’t like the meaty thump that the sack made as it landed by his feet, or the faint stench that reached his nostrils. He made no move to pick it up. He had an idea of what might be inside. A number of his scouts had gone missing over the previous weeks; he’d assumed that they had been captured by the Romans. Which one is this, I wonder? Poor bastard. He won’t have had an easy death.

  ‘Go on, take a look,’ Baculus sneered. ‘We’ve kept them packed in salt especially for you.’

  Not a scout then. I know who it is. ‘Have you anything else to say?’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘You arrogant prick.’ The bag wasn’t tied shut, so Spartacus upended it. He wasn’t surprised that the first thing to fall out was a severed head, but didn’t expect the man’s hand that followed. Spartacus took in the blood-spattered blond hair, and his guts wrenched. He rolled over the head, which was partly putrefied. Granules of salt stuck to the eyeballs, the slack grey lips and the reddened stump of the neck. The once-handsome features were barely recognisable, but it was Crixus. There could be no doubt. The massive scar on the man’s nose was sufficient proof. Spartacus had inflicted the wound on the Gaul himself. Their fight had been inevitable from the first time they’d met – and disliked – each other. Yet he was still sorry to see Crixus dead.

  After they had fought, and Spartacus had defeated Crixus, the Gaul and his followers had joined him. They had played a big part in their escape from the ludus. A dangerous and aggressive fighter, Crixus had been a thorn in Spartacus’ side, questioning his leadership and constantly trying to gain Castus’ and Gannicus’ support. Crixus had broken away from the main army after a battle at Thurii in which they had vanquished the praetor Publius Varinius. Between twenty and thirty thousand men had gone with him. Spartacus had heard rumours since of their progress through central Italy, but had had no further contact. Until now. This grisly trophy didn’t bode well for the fate of the men who had followed Crixus, but Spartacus kept his face impassive. ‘He didn’t deserve to be treated like this.’

  ‘Did he not?’ cried Baculus. ‘Crixus’ – he smiled at the shocked reactions of Spartacus’ men – ‘yes, that’s who it is. Crixus was nothing but a murdering slave who maimed brave Roman soldiers for no good reason. He deserved everything that was done to him and more.’

  Spartacus remembered how Crixus had ordered the hands of more than twenty legionaries at Thurii to be amputated. He had been disgusted but unsurprised by the Gaul’s act. The Romans wouldn’t forgive – or forget – such a deed. ‘You did this to his corpse! Crixus would never have been taken alive,’ he shouted. His inclination was to slay Baculus on the spot, to prevent him from deliverin
g his message, but the man was an envoy, and brave too. It had taken balls to ride up to his army, alone and unarmed.

  ‘Crixus went to Hades knowing that more than two-thirds of the scum who trailed in his wake had died with him,’ announced Baculus. He raised his voice. ‘Do you hear me, you whoresons? Crixus is dead! DEAD! So are more than fifteen thousand of his followers! One in ten of the prisoners that we took had their right hands chopped off. Be certain that one of those fates awaits you all here today!’

  After hearing the name ‘Crixus’, Carbo was deaf to the rest of Baculus’ threats. His world had just closed in around him. Crixus is dead? Jupiter be thanked. Dionysus be thanked! This had been one of his most fervent prayers; one that he had thought would never be answered. At the sack of a town called Forum Annii some months before, Crixus and two of his cronies had raped Chloris, Carbo’s woman. Spartacus had helped to save her, but she had died of her injuries a few hours later. Incandescent with grief, Carbo had been set on killing Crixus, but Spartacus had asked him to swear that he would not. At the time the Gaul had still been a vital leader of part of the slave army. It was a request that Carbo had reluctantly agreed to.

  Yet when Crixus had announced that he was leaving, thereby releasing Carbo from his promise, he had done nothing – because the Gaul would have carved him into little pieces. Telling himself that Chloris would have wanted him to live had worked thus far, but staring at Crixus’ rotting head, Carbo knew that he’d simply been scared of dying. The immense satisfaction that he now felt, however, outweighed any concerns that he had about being slain in the impending battle. The whoreson died aware that he failed – that’s what matters.

  Spartacus could tell without looking the level of dismay that Crixus’ head and Baculus’ news had caused among his men. He raised his sica and moved towards the tribune. ‘Fuck off. Tell Gellius that I’m coming for him! And you.’

  ‘We’ll be ready. So will our legions,’ Baculus replied stoutly. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘My men are hungry for battle! They will slaughter you in your thousands, slaves!’

  Spartacus darted in and dealt Baculus’ steed a great slap across its rump with the flat of his blade. It leaped forward so suddenly that the tribune almost lost his seat. Cursing, he sawed on the reins and managed to bring it under control again. Spartacus jabbed his sica at him. With a glare, Baculus turned his mount’s head towards his own lines.

  ‘Count yourself lucky that I honour your status,’ Spartacus shouted.

  Stiff-backed, Baculus rode silently away. He did not look back.

  Spartacus spat after him. I hope they’re not all as brave as he. Putting Baculus from his mind, he turned to his men. Fear was written large on many faces. Most looked less confident. An uneasy silence had replaced the raucous cheering and weapon clashing. It was changes in mood like this that could lose a battle: Spartacus had seen it before. I have to act fast. Stooping, he picked up Crixus’ mangled head and brandished it at his soldiers. ‘Everyone knows that Crixus and I didn’t get on.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ shouted Pulcher.

  This raised a laugh.

  Good. ‘While we weren’t friends, I respected Crixus’ courage and his leadership. I respected the men who chose to leave with him. Seeing this’ – he held Crixus’ head high – ‘and knowing what happened to our comrades makes me angry. Very angry!’

  A rumbling, inarticulate roar met his words.

  ‘Do you want vengeance for Crixus? Vengeance for our dead brothers-in-arms?’

  ‘YES!’ they bellowed back at him.

  ‘VENGE-ANCE!’ Spartacus twisted to point his sica at the legions. ‘VENGE-ANCE!’

  ‘VENGE-ANCE!’

  He let them roar their fury for the space of twenty heartbeats. Happy then that their courage had steadied, he blew his whistle with all of his might. The sound didn’t carry that far, but the well-trained trumpeters were watching him. A series of blasts from their instruments put an abrupt end to the shouting.

  Spartacus shoved Crixus’ head and hand back into the bag. If he left the remains where they were, he’d never find them again. Crixus – or at least these parts of him – deserved a decent burial. He tied the heavy sack to his belt and asked the Great Rider not to let it hinder him in the fight to come. With that, he resumed his place in the front rank. Smiling grimly, Aventianus handed him his scutum and pilum. Carbo, together with Navio, the Roman veteran he’d recruited to their cause, nodded their readiness. Taxacis, one of two Scythians who, unasked, had become his bodyguards, bared his teeth in a silent snarl. ‘Forward!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Keep in line with your comrades. Maintain the gaps between ranks.’

  They moved forward in unison, thousands of feet tramping down the short spring grass. On the wings, Spartacus’ cavalry whooped and cheered, urging their horses from a walk into a trot. ‘Gellius’ riders will be pissing their pants at the sight of that lot,’ cried Spartacus. His nearest men cheered, but then the Roman bucinae sounded. The legionaries were advancing.

  ‘Steady, lads. Ready javelins. We throw at thirty paces, no more.’ Spartacus’ stomach twisted in an old and familiar way. He’d felt the same mix of emotions before every battle that he’d ever fought. A snaking trace of fear that he wouldn’t survive. The uplifting thrill of marching side by side with his comrades. Pride that they were men who would die for him in an instant – as he’d do for them. He gloried in the smells of sweat and oiled leather, the muttered prayers and requests of the gods, the clash of javelins off shields. He gave thanks to the Great Rider for another opportunity to wreak havoc on the forces of Rome, which had repeatedly sent its armies to Thrace, where they had defeated most of the tribes, laid waste to innumerable villages and killed his people in their thousands.

  Before he’d been betrayed and sold into slavery, Spartacus’ plan had been to unite the disparate groupings of Thracians and throw the legions off their land for ever. In the ludus, such ideas had been nothing more than fantasy, but life had changed the day he and seventy-two others had smashed their way to freedom. Spartacus’ heart pounded with anticipation. He had proved that almost anything was possible. After Gellius’ soldiers had been defeated, the road to the Alps lay open.

  He squinted at the line of approaching legionaries, now making out individual men’s features. ‘Fifty paces! Do not loose! Wait until I give the order.’

  Several javelins were hurled from the Roman ranks. Scores more followed. The enraged shouts of centurions ordering their soldiers to cease throwing could be heard as the pila thwacked harmlessly into the earth between the two armies. Spartacus laughed. Only a handful of his men had responded by launching their own missiles. ‘See that? The Roman dogs are nervous!’

  Cheers rose from his troops.

  Tramp, tramp, tramp.

  Sweat slicked down Carbo’s forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away, focusing his gaze on a legionary directly opposite him. The soldier was young – similar in age to him in fact – and his smooth-cheeked face bore an expression of unbridled fear. Carbo hardened his heart. He chose his side. I chose mine. The gods will decide which of us survives. Carbo steadied his right arm, making sure that his javelin was balanced. He took aim at the legionary.

  ‘Forty paces,’ Spartacus called out. ‘Hold steady!’ He selected his target, the nearest centurion in the Roman front rank. If by some good fortune the officer went down, resistance in that section of the line would falter or even crumble. He frowned. Why hadn’t the legionaries thrown their pila yet? Gellius must have ordered his soldiers not to act until the last moment. A risky tactic.

  Thirty-five paces. With increasing excitement, Spartacus counted down the last five steps and then roared, ‘Front three ranks, loose!’ Drawing back his right arm, he heaved his javelin up into the blue sky. Hundreds of pila joined it, forming a dense, fast-moving shoal that briefly darkened the air between the armies before it descended in a lethal rain of sharp metal. The Roman officers roared at their men, ordering them to ra
ise their shields. Spartacus’ lips peeled up with satisfaction as he watched. Slow. They were too slow. His men’s javelins hammered down, rendering scores of scuta unusable, but also plunging deep into the flesh of legionaries who hadn’t obeyed orders fast enough. It was rare for javelin volleys to be so effective. Seize the chance. ‘Throw your second pilum,’ he yelled. The instant that those missiles had been thrown, ‘Front three ranks, drop to one knee.’ He glanced to either side, and was pleased to see that the nearest officers were copying his command. The trumpeters quickly relayed the order along the line. ‘Ranks four, five and six, ready javelins. On my order – RELEASE!’

  A third shower of pila went soaring up in a low, curving arc. To his left and right, countless more missiles joined them. Spartacus could not see any Roman javelins being thrown in response. The legionaries were in considerable disarray. With luck, his cavalry were causing mayhem on the flanks. Burning hope filled him, and he ordered a fourth volley. ‘On your feet! Draw swords. Close order!’

  Smoothly, his men in the front ranks moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. They slammed their shields off one another while the soldiers in the subsequent rows ran in right behind, using their scuta to strengthen the line.

  The instant that they were ready, Spartacus roared, ‘CHARGE!’

  In a screaming mass, they thundered towards the Romans. An occasional javelin scudded at them, but there was no concerted response. Spartacus had seen his pilum strike the centurion in the chest, punching him backwards on to the shield of the man behind. He had no idea where his second javelin had gone, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was hitting the Romans as hard as was humanly possible. They covered the last few steps in a blur. Time lost all meaning for Spartacus. He stuck close to the soldiers on either side of him; tried not to lose his footing; killed or disabled his opponents in the swiftest ways he could. At times the swinging bag containing Crixus’ head and hand threatened to unbalance him, but Spartacus learned to anticipate its movements. His burden fed his rage, his hatred of Rome. Crixus and his men must be avenged.