Spartacus: Rebellion

  ‘That’s right, sir. The land here is poor. It’s better for cultivating olives than grain. There will be little in the way of stores on most farms.’

  ‘We had best prepare for them to attempt a breakout soon then, eh?’

  Spartacus, your days are numbered.

  Chapter XV

  CARBO HAD BEEN ecstatic when Spartacus had told him of Heracleo’s arrival. His trust in the pirate had been repaid, and his leader would think well of him for succeeding in his mission. They would escape from Crassus’ legions! He had talked for hours with Navio, Publipor and Arnax about it. Navio had been to Sicily, and knew the lie of the land. ‘Spartacus has made a good choice,’ he had declared the first night. ‘The latifundia there are immense. Most have hundreds of slaves. Some have far more. Tough bastards, the lot of them: you know what agricultural slaves are like. When the word gets out that we’ve arrived, they’ll flock to us in their thousands.’

  Publipor had winked. ‘More men for you to train.’

  ‘Good. The more soldiers we have, the more legionaries we can kill,’ Navio had snarled.

  Carbo had flinched, but said nothing: he knew his friend’s insatiable appetite for the blood of his own kind was born from the anguish of losing both father and brother to Pompey’s troops. As far as Navio was concerned, his war would end only when the Senate burned down and Spartacus had destroyed the Republic. It was an impossible dream, thought Carbo, but it made Navio the perfect soldier. He, on the other hand, was fighting because he was loyal to Spartacus. He would fight whomever the Thracian did and follow him anywhere, because he believed in him. Loved him.

  That was why, by dawn on the fourth day after Heracleo’s departure, Carbo’s spirits had plummeted. There had been no storms, no intemperate weather to send the bireme off course. No Roman vessels to scare it away or to stop it from anchoring offshore. Heracleo must have reconsidered, thought Carbo miserably. He would not be coming back. Later that morning, he wasn’t surprised to be summoned to Spartacus’ tent. No doubt their leader wanted to grill him again about what had been arranged, or even to punish him.

  Atheas and Taxacis greeted him in a friendly manner but the Thracian’s face was as black as thunder.

  ‘You called for me?’ Carbo asked.

  ‘I did.’

  Carbo shifted from foot to foot. ‘Is it about Heracleo?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ blurted Carbo. ‘I never should have trusted him. It’s all my fault.’

  Spartacus reached down to pick up a leather bag. He tossed it at Carbo. ‘A Roman catapult shot that over the ramparts earlier. Take a look inside.’

  Seeing the red stain on the bag’s bottom, Carbo’s stomach wrenched. Gingerly, he peered in and was stunned to recognise Heracleo’s waxen features, still twisted in an expression of terror. Revolted, angered and a little relieved, Carbo dropped the bag.

  ‘I wanted to be sure. You think it’s Heracleo too.’

  ‘I do,’ said Carbo. ‘The Romans caught him then?’

  ‘Evidently,’ replied Spartacus in a dry tone.

  Carbo wanted to scream at the sky. ‘How? They have no ships worth talking about!’

  ‘My guess is that Heracleo put in for water and was unlucky enough to be surprised on the beach by a Roman patrol. Maybe they questioned him; maybe they found his money. Either way, they discovered what he was up to. Why else would he have been killed and had his head thrown over the wall? I can’t think of a better way for Crassus to say, “Fuck you, Spartacus.” Can you?’

  ‘No,’ he muttered.

  ‘A real shame that we didn’t manage to kill him in Rome, eh?’ Spartacus’ right hand bunched into a fist for a moment. ‘But what’s done is done. We have to deal with the present, and the fact that we have no way of crossing to Sicily. There must be men of every profession under the sun in my army – except shipbuilders! Apparently, some fools tried to build rafts yesterday, but after a score of them drowned, the rest soon gave up. It only leaves one option as far as I can see. Unless you’ve got any bright ideas?’

  Carbo shook his head.

  ‘Cheer up, man! It wasn’t down to you,’ cried Spartacus, his eyes flashing. ‘And you don’t think a stinking wall is going to hold us in, do you? We’ll just smash the fucking thing to pieces. Focus your anger on that.’

  Carbo’s misery lifted somewhat. ‘When do we attack?’

  ‘Tomorrow or the day after. There’s no point hanging around. The grain won’t last much more than a week, maybe two at the outside. Rhegium has more within its walls, but we have no way of getting in there.’

  ‘It’s all thanks to you.’ Gannicus came striding up, the Scythians dogging his footsteps. ‘No wonder the grain’s nearly gone. We’ve done nothing but waste our time here.’

  ‘You’ve heard the news then,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘Just a rumour.’ Gannicus eyed the bag at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s the evidence, is it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the pirate captain who agreed to find us the ships.’

  ‘How in damnation did he get captured?’

  ‘No idea. It’s immaterial now anyway,’ Spartacus replied. ‘We need to talk about getting out of here.’

  ‘Damn right we do!’ cried Gannicus.

  ‘Where’s Castus?’

  ‘He wouldn’t come.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘He was furious. Said he wouldn’t trust himself if he saw you.’

  Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘It would be more in character for the lowlife to come storming up here with a drawn sword.’

  Gannicus said nothing and Spartacus didn’t probe further. ‘I take it that you’ll both be doing your own thing from now on?’

  ‘Without a doubt!’

  ‘Will you help to break through the Roman defences?’

  ‘That depends. What are you planning?’

  ‘The ridge is the only place to do it. Anywhere else, and we’d have to fight nine legions on the other side.’

  Gannicus tugged on his moustache, thinking.

  You bastard, thought Carbo. You and Castus can just hang back while Spartacus’ men take all the casualties.

  ‘I’ll bring one cohort of my best men,’ said Gannicus after a moment. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Spartacus knew he was wasting his breath, but he had to ask. ‘And Castus?’

  ‘He won’t help.’

  ‘Was he scared of saying that to my face?’

  Gannicus shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s in a funny mood today.’

  ‘A funny mood? Him and me both!’ growled Spartacus. ‘He had better be armed and ready the next time we meet. If he’s got any wits, though, he’ll stay well clear of me.’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ replied Gannicus with a sneer.

  ‘You know the ridge where the Roman defences are?’

  A nod.

  ‘Have your men there no later than midnight. The rest are to follow at dawn. By the time they reach the top, it will all be over one way or another.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘We climb up there once it gets dark. Make a full-scale frontal assault through the centre—’

  ‘Have you seen the defences?’

  ‘Of course I have!’ snapped Spartacus.

  ‘Desperate measures for desperate times.’

  ‘You’d be well advised to follow the same plan, or you’ll find yourself in Hades quicker than you think.’

  ‘D’you think you’re the only tactician in this army?’

  Spartacus’ anger overflowed. He no longer cared whether Gannicus worked with him or not. ‘Maybe not, but I’m certainly the best! You and Castus wouldn’t know how to surround an army of blind men.’

  ‘Hades take you! You can do this on your own, and when you cock it up, we’ll be there to finish the job for you.’ Gannicus spun on his heel and walked off.

  ‘So ends the pretence,’ said Spartacus quietly. Although his casualties the
next day would be heavier, it was a relief. He was better off without the murderous, quarrelsome pair. It was a pity about their followers, but it couldn’t be helped. With the help of the Great Rider, I will replace them once we get out of here.

  The next day would be hell, thought Carbo, his guts twisting. It was easy to imagine the bloodshed when trying to scale a wall manned by thousands of legionaries armed with javelins and catapults.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’

  Carbo met Spartacus’ gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said calmly. Given the choice between a chance of survival and the certainty of death, he would take the former.

  ‘Good. Thirty-five cohorts will march up with me tonight.’

  ‘What about Ariadne and Maron?’

  ‘You’re to stay here, with your unit.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘As before: I want you to protect them.’

  Carbo felt a mixture of relief and guilt. ‘But I—’

  ‘This is as important as being in the first rank when we attack,’ said Spartacus in a low voice. ‘Please.’

  Carbo swallowed hard. How could he say no? ‘Very well.’

  ‘Once we we’ve broken through, and it’s safe, I’ll send a messenger. The rest of the army can make it up there under Egbeo’s command. We’ll meet on the far side of the Roman wall.’

  ‘Very well.’ Carbo was pleased how firm his voice sounded.

  ‘We march at sundown, from the eastern edge of the camp. Tell Navio to be ready.’ Spartacus turned his back.

  Carbo was about to go when he remembered Heracleo’s head. ‘Can I take this?’ he asked, lifting the bag. ‘The poor bastard deserves for this part of him to be buried at least.’

  ‘Do as you wish.’

  Carbo walked away with his grisly trophy.

  Ariadne awoke as Spartacus re-entered the tent. Worn out by a sleepless night looking after Maron, she had been asleep for much of the morning and had missed Spartacus’ conversation with Carbo and Gannicus. His grim expression hit her like a bucket of cold water in the face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The pirates won’t be coming.’ He filled her in quietly. Emotionlessly.

  Ariadne felt sick. She wondered again if she should have left and instantly hated herself for it. ‘So we’re trapped?’

  ‘Trapped?’ His laugh was fierce. ‘No more than a wild boar that’s been caught in an old, worn hunter’s net.’

  Ariadne had not seen the Roman fortifications on the ridge, but she had heard about them. ‘Many men will die.’

  ‘They will,’ growled Spartacus, ‘but by the Rider, that won’t stop us forcing our way through. Nothing and no one will. And as for Castus and Gannicus – fuck them!’

  ‘They’re not going to help?’

  He shook his head angrily.

  Ariadne’s pulse quickened. ‘Were they here?’

  ‘Gannicus was. Castus didn’t have the balls to come and tell me what he was going to do.’

  He was too damn scared that I’d told you what happened, thought Ariadne with relief. She knew Spartacus well. If he’d found out, nothing would have held him back from killing Castus. She would have liked nothing more than to have seen the Gaul bleeding to death outside their tent, but their position was precarious enough without trying the gods’ goodwill further. For whatever reason, Castus was not to be punished at this time.

  Ariadne took in a deep breath. ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘North.’

  She gave him a blank look.

  ‘I was thinking of Samnium, east of Capua. The people there hold no love for Rome. The farms are rich too. There will be plenty of grain to be had.’

  ‘Crassus will follow us.’

  ‘He will, but the whoreson can’t march as fast as we can. By the time he catches up, we’ll have thousands of new recruits.’ He flashed a confident grin and kissed her. ‘I’d best start spreading the word. There’s a lot to arrange by nightfall.’

  Hiding her concern as best she could, Ariadne nodded. She had made her decision to stand by Spartacus and she would stick to it. Great Dionysus, she prayed, watch over us all. After the way the snake had saved her, Ariadne’s belief was still fervent. She felt her resolve stiffen. Heracleo’s death was nothing more than a setback. They would win tomorrow, and escape Crassus’ blockade.

  Zeuxis was first to notice Marcion swaggering up to their tent with Arphocras at his heels. ‘Hey! You fuckers are supposed to be cooking! It’s nearly dinner time, and you haven’t even started.’

  There was an angry rumble of agreement from the others. Marcion eyed his comrades as he approached. They were slouched around the fire, picking their nails with their daggers or pretending to scrub rust spots from their mail shirts. He wasn’t surprised. Since their hopes of sailing to Sicily had vanished, his tent mates’ morale had been suffering, like everyone else in the army. Their mood had soured even further since the order had come around, not two hours since, that their cohort was to take part in an attack on the Roman defences at the ridge. With stress rising to new highs, routine, especially that to do with meals, was not to be disturbed. Hopefully, this will cheer them up.

  ‘Where in Hades have you been?’ demanded Zeuxis.

  Marcion lowered the sack from his right shoulder with a contented sigh. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Quite the joker, aren’t you?’ sneered Zeuxis. ‘I’ll soon wipe the smile off your face if our dinner isn’t ready on time. I bet the other lads will help me too, eh?’

  ‘Damn right!’ growled Gaius. ‘A man has to eat well before battle. Woe betide the cook who doesn’t provide a decent—’ He turned the word last into a muffled cough. ‘—meal for his contubernium.’ An unhappy silence followed his words. Flushing, Gaius made the sign against evil.

  ‘Aye, well,’ muttered Zeuxis after a moment. ‘There might only be fucking porridge to eat, but we want it hot, and we want it now. Get on with it!’

  Arphocras, who had unslung his sack, swung it on to his back again with one smooth movement. He turned as if to go. ‘Very happy to jump to the conclusion that we’ve been skiving, aren’t you?’ He glanced at Marcion. ‘I reckon we should keep this grub for ourselves. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re right. It’ll last us at least a week.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Zeuxis, suddenly keen. ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ replied Marcion in an offhand tone. All eyes were on him, however, as he reached into his bag. With a flourish, he pulled out a whole ham. ‘Just this.’

  Amazed gasps rose from around the fire. There were jealous looks from the soldiers outside other tents. Gaius gave an appreciative whistle. ‘Where in the gods’ names did you get that?’

  Marcion didn’t answer. He just looked at Arphocras, who produced a large round of cheese. He clutched it to his body so that others could not see what he was holding. ‘No point upsetting our neighbours even more,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘What else have you got?’ asked Zeuxis greedily, his bad temper forgotten.

  ‘A pot of garum and another of olives,’ answered Arphocras. ‘And Marcion has an amphora of wine.’

  ‘You’re a pair of magicians,’ said Gaius, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘Damn right,’ agreed Zeuxis with a rare smile. He whipped out his knife. ‘Are you going to let us starve to death looking at your haul?’

  Zeuxis hadn’t thanked them, but the lift in his comrades’ mood was so marked that Marcion didn’t care. He took out the wine and then laid the ham on the sack. ‘Get stuck in.’

  There was a rush forward. Soon the only sounds were those of chewing and loud appreciation. Marcion’s belly grumbled, reminding him that it had been many hours since he’d eaten. He didn’t mind. There was enough food for all. Life was still good, he thought. Tomorrow was another day.

  Conversation vanished as the eight soldiers devoured Marcion and Gaius’ haul. It wasn’t long before most of it was gone. Satisfied belches and farts
filled the air, and the soldiers’ faces grew more contented than they had in a long time.

  Zeuxis gave Marcion and Arphocras a friendly nod. ‘My thanks for that. You can prepare dinner again tomorrow if you like!’

  ‘Don’t think that I don’t know that it’s your bloody turn to cook tomorrow, Zeuxis!’ retorted Marcion to hoots of amusement.

  ‘All right, put us out of our misery,’ demanded Gaius. ‘Where did you get it?’

  Marcion glanced around the fire and was gratified by the intense interest in his comrades’ faces. ‘We were heading back here to cook, when I spotted a patrol returning to their tents. They seemed particularly happy, so we hung about for a bit to see why. It became obvious that they had come upon a farm that hadn’t been raided before, and ransacked it. Naturally enough, their officer took much of it for himself. He had his men put it in his tent while he went off to report whatever he’d seen.’

  ‘He must have left a guard, surely?’ asked Zeuxis in a disbelieving tone.

  ‘He did,’ replied Marcion with a grin. ‘Two of them. At the front of his tent.’

  His comrades exchanged delighted looks.

  ‘Arphocras kept watch while I slit a hole in the back and took all that I could carry.’

  ‘Hades below, it’s as well that you weren’t caught,’ said Zeuxis, whistling in appreciation. ‘You’d have been whipped within a hair of your life!’

  ‘The things Arphocras and I do for you miserable whoresons, eh?’ said Marcion. ‘Nothing’s too good for you!’

  As their laughter rose into the night sky, it was almost possible to forget that the following dawn, they would be facing death once more. Almost, but not quite.

  By sunset the next day, Spartacus had suffered his first defeat. Of the thirty-five cohorts that he had led up to the ridge, only five thousand shattered survivors remained. More than twice that number had been left bleeding, screaming and dying in the lethal traps that were the Roman defences.

  Spartacus realised he had badly underestimated his enemy’s ability to build fortifications and to defend them with obstinate determination. Having rallied the last of his men into a semblance of order, he led them away from the carnage, from the churned up, glutinous, red mud and the ground covered in mutilated corpses and discarded weapons. The air was thick with the reek of blood, piss and shit, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. So too did the Roman taunts that followed them through the trees. A last stone was fired from a ballista, thumping into the earth some distance to their rear, its purpose not to kill but to hammer home the depth of their defeat. The slaves had lost more than two-thirds of their force, but no more than a hundred legionaries had been slain.