Those gladiators who weren’t drunk were organised. Using a stock of torches that had been found to illuminate the scene, systematic checks were made of every Roman body. Unsurprisingly, many legionaries were still alive – injured, unconscious or simply playing dead in the hope of escape later. On Spartacus’ orders, every single man was to be executed. Universal whooping broke out at this announcement. ‘It’s better treatment than the bastards would give us,’ he snapped, catching the burst of anguish in Carbo’s eyes. ‘All we would get is a cross. The women too. Have you ever seen someone die on one of those?’
‘Yes. My father took me when I was a boy to witness a local criminal being crucified.’ If he concentrated, Carbo could still hear the man’s piercing screams as his ankles were nailed to the wooden upright. Within a short time, his noises had died away to a bubbling, animal whimper. It only increased in volume when he attempted to take the pressure off his roped arms by standing up on his ruined, pinioned feet. The criminal had lasted until the next afternoon, but his body wasn’t taken down for weeks. Walking past the stinking, blackened thing, seeing all the stages of decay before it ended up as a grinning skeleton, had almost been worse than seeing the crucifixion, Carbo thought. Almost. ‘It was horrific.’
‘Exactly. It’s far better to have a sword slide between your ribs and end it in the blink of an eye.’
‘I suppose,’ admitted Carbo. He’d slain at least two legionaries that night. He had no desire to kill more of them in cold blood. He surprised himself with his next thought: I would if I had to.
It must be hard for him, reflected Spartacus. But he fought well during the attack. That is sufficient evidence of his loyalty.
Ariadne tried tossing her knucklebones over and over, but she saw nothing of any relevance in the patterns in which they fell. She was relieved, therefore, when her meditation carried her far beyond the levels she’d achieved in recent weeks. Although she was used to long periods when Dionysus would give absolutely no indication of his intentions, it had never been more frustrating. Spartacus’ dream about the snake was of great importance. Was it a good omen or a bad one, however? Like Spartacus, Ariadne burned to know. Her concerns over it ate her up, yet she knew they paled in comparison to the unease Spartacus must feel. He hid it well, but she saw it all the same. As far as she was concerned, matters had reached the stage where it would be better to know – even if the indications were bad. An enemy named was an enemy that could be fought. Unnamed, it was like a disease, eating the flesh from within.
All the same, it was horrifying when an image of Spartacus, with the snake around his neck, flashed into her mind. No wonder he was frightened. Ariadne could feel her own heart beating faster. She waited. The serpent uncoiled and reared up in Spartacus’ face and, terrified, Ariadne prepared for the worst. The characteristic pattern on its skin was the same as that on her own lethally poisonous snake. If Spartacus was bitten, he would die as fast as Phortis had.
Ariadne could not quite believe her eyes when Spartacus lifted his left arm. The serpent did not attack. Instead, it smoothly uncoiled from his neck and slithered over, coiling itself around his arm, as Ariadne’s did. Spartacus raised his right arm and, with a thrill, Ariadne saw the sica in his hand. Armed thus with sword and snake, he turned to the east, the direction in which Thrace lay. He called out in a great voice, but she could not make out the words. With that, he was gone.
This can mean only one thing. He has been marked by Dionysus.
A great and fearful power surrounds him.
Ariadne’s vision wasn’t over, however. The mountaintop he’d occupied was none other than Vesuvius. And the crater was filled with tents. Hundreds of them.
Do they belong to his followers?
Ariadne waited for a long time, but nothing more was forthcoming. She offered a last heartfelt prayer for Spartacus’ safety, and then she covered herself with her blanket and lay down. If the god wished to send her more insight, he could do it as she dreamed. Falling asleep was not as easy as Ariadne might have wished, however. Her mind raced endlessly. What was going on in the Roman camp? Had Spartacus’ plan worked, or had the gladiators all been massacred? Ariadne batted the various outcomes around until she was exhausted. Just because Dionysus had marked him out didn’t mean that a stray sword couldn’t find its home in his flesh, ending the dream before it even started. Do not let it be so. When sleep finally claimed her, the first pink-red fingers of light were tingeing the eastern horizon.
Chapter XII
AN HOUR AFTER the sun had risen, Spartacus came trotting up the path to the crater. There had been no sign of any Romans on the plain and he was content leaving the gladiators to gather the weapons and equipment together and pack it on to the mules. They could follow him up later. Crixus had mentioned taking the Roman camp as their own, but Spartacus had advised against it. ‘We’re far too few to defend the damn thing. Better to stay on the peak. It’s easier to hold, and the lookouts can spot anyone coming for miles.’ Bleary-eyed and weaving where he stood, Crixus had grumbled but protested no further. Castus and Gannicus seemed happy enough with the decision, so Spartacus waited no longer. Carrying the news to Ariadne was now the most important thing on his mind.
He found her asleep by the fire they’d shared. Seeing the knucklebones, he bit back the ‘Hello’ rising in his throat. She could have been up half the night, praying. Treading quietly to where she lay, he squatted down on his haunches. Strands of her dark hair lay across her cheek. She looked very peaceful. Beautiful too. Pride filled Spartacus that she was his wife. She was strong and fierce. And brave. Ariadne wouldn’t sleep with him, but he could bear the sexual frustration for the moment because she was such a good catch.
He shifted position, scuffing some gravel with one of his heels.
Ariadne’s eyelids fluttered and opened. A fleeting look of incomprehension flashed across her face, and then she was leaping up. Throwing her arms around him. ‘You’re alive! Oh, thank the gods!’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ He crushed her to him. Awkwardly, because they’d never been so close. ‘I’m covered in blood.’
‘I don’t care.’ Deliberately, she buried her face in his neck. ‘You’re here. You’re not dead.’
Spartacus was doubly glad that Getas had saved his life.
They stayed like that for a long time before Ariadne pulled away. ‘Tell me everything,’ she ordered.
Taking a deep breath, Spartacus began. Ariadne did not take her eyes off his face as he spoke. ‘Getas died that I might live,’ he concluded. ‘It was a great gift, and I must honour him for that.’
‘He was a fine warrior,’ said Ariadne sadly. Inside, she was rejoicing. Thank you, Dionysus, for taking Getas instead.
‘Oenomaus is gone too.’
Her hand rose to her mouth. ‘No!’
‘Yes. But he did not die in vain. The Germans have made me their leader.’ He threw her a fierce smile. ‘I now have more men than any of the Gauls. That is a strong position to be in.’
Jubilation filled Ariadne. Elements of her vision were making more sense. ‘The god visited me last night,’ she said.
He pinned her with his gaze. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw you here, on the top of the mountain. A snake was wrapped around your neck. In your right hand you held a sica.’
‘Go on.’ I will accept whatever she has to say. Whatever the gods have sent for me.
‘The snake reared up in your face, but it did not bite you,’ she revealed, smiling. ‘Instead, it wound itself around your left arm. You turned to the east and raised your sword. You cried out, as if you were honouring someone. Then you vanished.’
‘What—’
She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. ‘I’m not finished.’
‘When I looked back at the crater, it was filled with tents.’ She gestured around her. ‘There were hundreds of men here. They were your followers.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘I am
saying that Dionysus has favoured you. It was his snake around your neck. You are surrounded by a great and fearful power. Men will see that. They will come to offer you their loyalty.’
‘You are sure of all this?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes.’ Ariadne’s voice rang with confidence. ‘As I am a priestess of Dionysus.’
‘I thought that perhaps this would happen to me in Thrace, if I succeeded in overthrowing Kotys,’ Spartacus said wonderingly. ‘But my path did not unfold in that way. Instead I am in Italy, in the heartland of our people’s worst enemy. So be it. It is Dionysus’ will that I should lead men against the Romans. Who am I to argue with a god?’
‘I will stand at your side.’
He smiled, and her stomach fluttered.
‘Good. That is where I would have you.’
‘It is where a wife should stand.’ Before she could stop herself, Ariadne forced her feet to move. She stepped up to Spartacus. Leaning in, she kissed him on the lips.
He responded with fierce enthusiasm.
For the first time in her life, Ariadne felt a rush of sexual desire. She did not fight it.
At length, Spartacus pulled away.
Panic immediately flared in Ariadne’s lower belly. He doesn’t like me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing at all. Much as I’d love to stay here, there is too much to be done.’ He grinned. ‘We can take up things right where they left off later.’
Reassured, she gave him a last, shy kiss. ‘Good.’ Ariadne’s stomach twisted at the thought of lying with him, but she ignored it. ‘What are your plans?’
‘To get all the equipment we’ve seized up here. To arm every man properly. Then I’m going to explain to the other leaders that our victory last night was a one-off. The Romans won’t ever make that mistake again. If we’re not to be crushed by the next force sent against us, the gladiators have to start training. Like soldiers. The Thracians will do what I tell them. So will the Germans, but I need the Gauls too.’
‘They’ll listen to you now.’
‘They’d fucking well better. Fighting as a disciplined unit is our only hope,’ replied Spartacus grimly. ‘Can you take charge of the women? An inventory of the food and wine would be useful.’
‘Of course.’
‘My thanks.’ Despite his concerns over their future, Spartacus walked off with a spring in his step. Gods, but I can’t wait until tonight.
Conscious that most gladiators wanted to do nothing more than drink the Roman wine – copious amounts of which remained – Spartacus placed Atheas, Taxacis and half a dozen Thracians on guard over the majority of the amphorae. Chaffing the fighters about how much they could knock back that night, he made a big show of helping to load a train of mules with bundles of weapons and then slogging all the way up to the crater with it. When he got back, Spartacus did the same thing again. His tactic worked. While the men continued to grumble, they followed his orders. That was good enough. A certain amount of complaining is healthy anyway. It shows that they’re throwing off the slave mentality. He’d made the decision to say nothing about training until the following day. That issue was potentially far more contentious than denying the fighters wine, and it would be easier to propose when everyone had a hangover.
It took the whole day for the military paraphernalia and supplies to be transported to the camp. The respite between the departure of one column of mules and the arrival of another provided ample time for the freshly arrived cargo to be counted and arranged in piles. Arming a delighted Carbo with a stylus and parchment, Spartacus had him draw up the records. The stacks of pila – javelins – gladii and shields were soon taller than a man and more than twice his height in length and breadth. They had arms enough for thousands of men. This realisation darkened Spartacus’ good mood again. There are still less than one hundred of us.
He didn’t feel bad for long. Yes, and look what we managed to achieve.
Spartacus intentionally had the amphorae brought up last of all. Raucous cheering broke out as the mules and their precious load arrived at the lip of the crater. Without waiting until the column reached the tents, the most eager fighters ran over and unloaded one of the large clay vessels. Everyone watched as it was opened and then hoisted up on to a man’s shoulder. He held it in place while his comrades took it in turns to stand, mouths open, beneath the stream of ruby liquid that poured out. Applause and laughter filled the evening air as the soaked fighters raised their arms in triumph.
‘There it is, boys!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘More wine than you can drink!’
‘Do you want to make a wager on that?’ roared a broad-chested Gaul. ‘If I have anything to do with it, there won’t be a drop left by dawn.’
His comment was met by hoots and cackles of amusement.
Spartacus smiled. ‘It’s all yours. After last night, you’ve earned it.’
The gladiators bellowed their delight at him.
Spartacus waited until the drinking had been going on for a while before he approached Castus and Gannicus. United perhaps by their achievement, the two were sitting by a fire over which chunks of wild boar were cooking. There was no sign of Crixus and his men.
‘Look, the smell draws him in,’ teased Gannicus.
‘It’s good enough to wake the dead,’ said Spartacus.
‘Aye. There are few things more appealing than the aroma of roast pork.’ Castus waved genially at a stone beside him. ‘Take a seat. Wine?’
Spartacus accepted the silver cup with a grateful nod. ‘A fine vessel.’
‘They’re from Glaber’s own table,’ gloated Castus, raising his own. ‘He didn’t mind me taking them.’
Spartacus chuckled. ‘To a fine night’s work. To Getas, Oenomaus and the others who fell.’ He raised his wine high.
The two Gauls saluted him with their cups, and they all drank deeply.
They made small talk about what had happened during their attack. Although they must have known, neither Gaul mentioned Spartacus’ accession to power over the Germans. He wasn’t surprised. No doubt they were resentful of it. He tried to judge when would be the best moment to mention training the men. Too soon, and the pair might take offence, thinking that had been his only intention in talking to them. He wanted to leave it until the wine had dulled their senses, but not so late that they became argumentative or too drunk to understand his proposal.
A familiar, mocking voice cut across their conversation.
‘Well, well. What have we here? A gathering of the leaders that I wasn’t invited to?’
‘It’s nothing like that.’ Spartacus took in Crixus’ flushed cheeks. He must have sobered up somewhat to climb the mountain, but it didn’t look like much. Damn it. Why did he have to appear? He patted the ground beside him. ‘Join us.’
‘I will.’ With a sneer, Crixus threw himself down. ‘What’ve you been doing? Claiming how you each won the battle last night?’
‘No, we leave that to you,’ responded Castus sharply.
Crixus glowered as Gannicus roared with laughter. ‘Funny man, aren’t you?’
‘So some say.’ Castus’ words danced, but his eyes were as flat and cold as a snake’s.
‘A man knows when he’s not welcome. I’ll drink elsewhere,’ growled Crixus. He made to get up.
‘Wait,’ said Spartacus. I might as well tackle them all now. Maybe their antagonism against each other will stop them unifying against me. ‘I have something to say.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’ needled Crixus.
Castus’ face took on its usual suspicious expression.
‘Spit it out then!’ said Gannicus.
At least one of them sounds genial, thought Spartacus. ‘What we achieved last night was astounding.’
‘Damn right!’ cried Crixus belligerently, as if it had been his idea all along.
He mentioned Ariadne’s interpretation of his dream, and the trio of Gauls roared with approval. ‘But we can’t just rely on that. The luck we had against Gla
ber won’t come our way so easily again.’
All three men’s eyes focused on him as hovering hawks do on a mouse.
‘Why not?’ demanded Castus.
‘Because plenty of legionaries escaped. They’ll tell of our surprise attack. The next commander that we face will have so many sentries on duty each night that they’ll be falling over themselves.’
‘And you’re sure that they will send another force?’ Gannicus registered his companions’ incredulous reactions and sighed. ‘All right. That’s wishful thinking.’
‘That’s right. It is,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘And there will be more than three thousand of the bastards too. Count on it.’
‘This wine is sour,’ Castus snapped, pouring the contents of his cup on the ground. He poured himself a generous measure from the jug and tasted it again. His face screwed up.
Spartacus raised an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t taste so sweet now, eh?’
Castus grunted irritably.
Gannicus leaned forward. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘If we are to have any chance of surviving’ – Spartacus let the words hang for a moment – ‘then we have to learn to fight as the Romans do. As disciplined infantry.’
‘Oh, it’s back to this, is it?’ mocked Crixus. ‘You want the men to train.’
The fool. Can’t he see it? Spartacus’ temper began to rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. ‘Yes, I do. Every day, with shield and sword, until they can stand in a line like legionaries and respond to orders instead of charging in like maniacs.’ Like Gauls, he wanted to add.
Crixus’ eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘I can tell you now that mine won’t do it.’
‘My lads won’t be too keen either,’ added Castus, sounding regretful to be agreeing with Crixus.