Carbo’s tongue felt thick in his dry mouth. ‘Thank you,’ he croaked.
‘You won’t regret this, sir,’ said Navio.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Spartacus stepped up and patted his cheek. ‘There’s no need to call me “sir” either. We’re not in the damn legions!’
‘What should I call you?’
‘What everyone else calls me. Spartacus.’ With that he was off, waving at them to follow. ‘Come on. Every hour counts!’
‘I judged you correctly, didn’t I?’ muttered Carbo to Navio.
‘You did,’ said Navio solemnly. ‘I swear before all the gods that I am no spy. I hate Rome with all my heart, and I will do my utmost to help Spartacus. Is that enough?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘It’s I who should be thanking you. Not only did you save my life, but you’ve given me new purpose.’ Navio punched him on the chest. ‘Let’s get a move on. Spartacus is waiting.’
As they walked off, neither could help but notice the two Scythians dogging their footsteps.
It mattered less to Carbo than he’d have thought possible a few moments previously.
Six days later …
Alerted by the hissed warning, Spartacus shinnied up the holm oak tree, climbing from black-barked branch to branch. Halfway up, he found the sentry, a young shepherd who’d recently joined them. ‘Firmus? Is that your name?’
Firmus beamed at being remembered. ‘Yes, sir.’
Spartacus had given up telling his men not to call him ‘sir’. It made no difference. ‘What have you seen?’
‘A Roman column, sir.’
Spartacus peered through the gap in the leathery, dark green leaves. The tree they were sitting in was situated at the edge of a large, thicketed area about four miles from the base of Vesuvius. The road which led from the Via Appia to the latifundia in the surrounding area ran right through it, making the spot perfect for an ambush. If it was worth doing, thought Spartacus, spotting the column’s dust cloud about half a mile away. They might be completely outnumbered.
When word had come the previous afternoon that the enemy was approaching, he had convened with the three Gaulish leaders. In just five days, Navio’s input had made a noticeable difference to their new recruits’ resolve, but that didn’t mean most wouldn’t cut and run the minute they faced a wall of Roman scuta. Spartacus had argued that using their better-trained recruits – including the gladiators, about thirteen hundred men – in another surprise attack was their best chance of success. The rest would be more risk than they were currently worth. Of course Crixus had argued against his plan, wanting more of a full-scale attack. Thankfully, the others had agreed with Spartacus. It seemed that his idea of using vine ropes and their success in attacking Glaber’s camp still carried some weight.
Newly arrived slaves had reported that the Roman commander had divided his force into three. If this information was incorrect, and Varinius’ entire force of six thousand legionaries was approaching, they’d simply melt away into the bush. Abandon Vesuvius that night, and make for the mountains to the east. From the safety of broken terrain, Spartacus knew that they could serve as a thorn in the Romans’ side for months, if not years. Just as he’d wanted to do in Thrace. Fierce excitement – and pride – gripped him at what he’d achieved thus far. Even when Crixus’ and Castus’ foot-dragging over training were taken into account, the gladiators were in a far stronger position now than they had been when Glaber arrived. Let the slaves’ reports be true, Spartacus asked silently. We face no more than two thousand soldiers under the legate Lucius Furius.
They’d been in place since well before dawn. It had been a long wait. Now Spartacus was relieved that one way or another, something would happen soon. He watched intently as the first troops tramped into sight. They were infantry. The legionaries marched six abreast, with their scuta slung from their backs, and a yoke carrying their spare equipment balanced on one shoulder. They carried two pila each in their other hands, which served as staffs when on the march.
‘They’ve got no horse. In the name of all the gods, why?’ Spartacus saw Firmus’ confused look. ‘Glaber had none either. It’s the most basic mistake that a commander can make. Few foot soldiers will stand against cavalry, not least men like ours, who have hardly any military experience. The presence of horsemen would increase the Romans’ chances of success enormously, but the whoresons are so damn arrogant that they haven’t bothered.’
Firmus shrugged. ‘We’re only slaves, sir.’
‘Eh?’
‘We’re only slaves. Why would they need cavalry?’
‘You’re right, lad.’ Spartacus chuckled at the simplicity of it. ‘That’s exactly what they must think.’ Long may they hold that opinion! He looked out at the marching soldiers again. Still no sign of any cavalry. He could see the end of the dust cloud too. A gut feeling told him that there were fewer men than the five thousand in a legion marching towards them. Far fewer, in fact. Thank you, Great Rider. ‘Leave it as late as you can before you come down. Whatever you do, make sure you’re not seen. Return to our position.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Spartacus scrambled down to the road, which was little more than a wide dirt track through the dense mixture of trees and shrubs. With a backward glance in the direction of the Romans, he trotted towards Vesuvius, which was just visible over the treetops. A thousand paces or so further on, Spartacus saw the first eager faces appearing between the gaps in the buckthorn and juniper bushes. ‘Get down, you fools!’ he barked. ‘This isn’t a fucking game!’
The heads popped out of sight.
Spartacus came to a halt by a twisted evergreen myrtle tree. White starlike flowers covered its surface. His lips twisted at the irony. The blooms had medicinal uses; so too did the dark green leaves. Perhaps later there would be time to use them on the wounded. If we survive. He had hidden his and Gannicus’ men – half the force – to his left, and the rest to the right. They had been allocated into centuries. Once Navio had started his training, it had seemed logical to do so. The Gaulish leaders had grumbled, but having their followers all appointed as officers had appeased them. Every gladiator who could fight was here. They were mixed among the new recruits, roughly half a dozen to a century. Gaps had been cut in the thick vegetation, wide enough for four men to charge out at a time. The spaces had been filled with cut branches, which could be hauled out of the way in the blink of an eye.
‘Gannicus! Castus! Crixus!’
The Gauls were with him in a heartbeat. All three were clad in mail shirts and bronze-bowl helmets with white or red horsehair crests, and were carrying Roman scuta and gladii. Spartacus grinned fiercely. But for their long hair and moustaches, they looked like legionaries.
‘Are they coming?’ demanded Crixus.
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’ Gannicus’ expression was wary.
‘It’s not the full six thousand men, or even five; I know that. Half that number, or even less. There is no cavalry visible either.’
Gannicus clenched his fists. ‘Do we attack?’
‘Eh?’ Crixus shot him a hostile look. ‘Of course we do!’
Castus said nothing.
‘I asked Spartacus, not you, Crixus,’ Gannicus snapped.
‘You lapdog—’ accused Crixus.
‘What did you say?’ Gannicus’ face went puce with rage, and he laid a hand to his sword.
Crixus’ eyebrows rose. ‘You want to pick a fight with me? Come on then!’
‘Let’s not quarrel now,’ said Spartacus firmly. ‘We have more important business to hand.’
Like children who have been rebuked by a parent, the Gauls subsided, glowering at each other with obvious dislike.
‘We’ll fight if I say so. I won’t make that decision until the last moment. If I think that our attack will fail, I won’t use this.’ Spartacus lifted up the centurion’s bone whistle that hung from a thong around his neck. At Navio’s request, he’d had Glaber’s abandoned camp ransacke
d for examples like it. The Gauls now had one each too. ‘You all know what it sounds like. Unless you hear me blow one long blast, tell your men to stay down. We’ll just lie hidden until they’re gone. It’s imperative that they understand that! If any of those Roman bastards catch as much as a glimpse of us, we’re fucked. Clear?’
They all nodded, although Castus’ face bore a dubious expression.
‘If you hear the whistle, however, blow your own, and then immediately launch your pila.’
‘When will you sound it?’ asked Gannicus.
Spartacus pointed at the bend in the road, some three hundred paces towards Vesuvius. ‘Once the vanguard has disappeared around that.’ He glanced at Crixus. ‘Your position is closest to the curve. Are you happy not to let any escape?’
Crixus’ lips peeled back into a feral snarl of agreement.
Good. He thinks that he’s got the most important job. Fool.
Spartacus’ assumption couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘Make sure you whistle at the first opportunity. I might not be able to hold my men in otherwise,’ said Crixus offhandedly.
Spartacus ground his teeth with rage. ‘If they break cover too soon, it could entirely screw up the ambush.’
‘That would be down to you not sounding your whistle quickly enough,’ said Crixus, his eyes glittering with malice.
Utter fury took hold of Spartacus. A cunning time to pick an argument, he thought. He could think of nothing else but calling Crixus’ bluff. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, pulling the leather thong from around his neck and shoving it at the Gaul. ‘Is this what you want? If it is, we’d better move the men around quickly.’
Immediately, the others looked dismayed. ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Gannicus. ‘The damn Romans will be on us any moment. Leave it, Crixus,’ he advised. ‘It doesn’t matter that much who blows the bloody whistle. And Spartacus will pick the right moment. Eh, Castus?’
Spartacus held his breath.
‘He will,’ growled Castus.
Crixus’ jaw bunched with anger. ‘You do it then,’ he snarled at Spartacus. ‘What do I care?’
Spartacus nodded curtly. ‘Launch one volley of javelins only. Aim short and low.’ Most of the men had never thrown pila before, but he’d insisted that everyone armed themselves with some of the hundreds of missiles that had been left in Glaber’s camp. Even thrown by novices, they would cause confusion at such close range, as well as plenty of casualties. So too would the Nubians with their slings. ‘At my second whistle, charge.’
Castus still wasn’t completely happy. ‘What if they make formation and hold it? Our men will never break through a Roman shield wall.’
‘True enough,’ said Spartacus with an accepting shrug. ‘We’ll pull back, disappear into the scrubland. But only do that if you hear three short blasts on my whistle, repeated. Otherwise, press home the assault.’
‘It still seems like complete madness,’ protested Castus.
‘What?’ exclaimed Crixus.
‘We’re outnumbered. Most of our men are slaves, with little training, yet we’re about to attack thousands of legionaries. In broad daylight.’
Great Rider, don’t let him back out now. ‘It feels fucking great, doesn’t it?’ Spartacus grinned savagely. Confidently. ‘Far better than fighting in some shitty arena for the amusement of a Roman mob.’
Castus held his gaze for a moment before he too smiled. ‘That’s true.’
‘We’ll teach the whoresons a lesson they’ll never forget,’ promised Crixus, his bullishness returned.
Spartacus caught the uncertainty in Gannicus’ eyes. Even if Crixus is too pigheaded to see it and Castus has been won over, he knows that our fate hangs on a thread. Gods, how I wish that Getas and Seuthes were here with two hundred warriors of our tribe. But they weren’t. ‘Remember: Ariadne said this morning that the omens were good.’
Gannicus looked happier. ‘And she should know.’
‘That’s right!’ Spartacus gave silent thanks to Dionysus as well. Since he had revealed what Ariadne had said about his dream, her status had grown even further. He gripped Gannicus’ shoulder. ‘Ready to repeat what we did to Glaber?’
‘Yes!’
‘Into position, then. Remember, wait for my whistle.’
He waited until the others had disappeared from view before checking the road for a final time. Nothing. Unsheathing his sica, Spartacus made his way to the rear of the myrtle tree. There he found an edgy-looking Carbo. Navio was beside him, jiggling with excitement. Atheas and Taxacis hovered in the background. They won’t be necessary, thought Spartacus. If Navio is a traitor, I’m no judge of men. Carbo too. ‘All set?’
‘Yes,’ replied Carbo. ‘Are they coming?’
‘They’ll be here soon.’
Carbo squared his shoulders. ‘I’m ready.’
‘May Mars watch over us with his spear and shield,’ said Navio with fierce enthusiasm.
‘And the Great Rider,’ added Spartacus. Stay with me, as you have done until now.
Spartacus trotted up and down his lines, pausing regularly to mutter encouragement in men’s ears, and slap them on the back. He told them what brave soldiers they were, and of how their deeds that day would be sung about for a hundred years. Lying through his teeth, he said that the legionaries who were approaching were cowards to a man, who would run at the sight of slaves with swords. That raised a laugh from most, but it was a nervous laugh, and Spartacus knew that his words would be forgotten the instant that the battle began. Then, as always, it would come down to each man’s resolve, and the resolve of his comrades. To the impact of the volley of javelins. To the level of surprise and fear their attack generated in the Romans. To the number of legionaries that they could kill in the first few moments. If all those factors went in their favour, perhaps they had a chance.
Spartacus’ grip on his sica tightened. If things go against us …
He’d been on the victorious side in combat enough times to know what happened to the enemy. It would be a rout. Soldiers who broke were the easiest prey of all to kill. As fear overcame them completely, they entirely lost reason and discipline. Their shields were the first things they discarded. Then it was their swords. Comrades who stumbled or fell were ignored or even trampled into the dust. Few, if any, tried to defend themselves. They simply ran. And legionaries were masters at hunting down such men. It was common for ten enemy combatants to be killed for every Roman casualty. If the slaves fled, the figure would probably be even higher.
Stop it. This is what I’ve prayed for over the years. The chance to lead an army against Rome once more. An opportunity to gain vengeance for my tribe’s defeat, and Maron’s death.
Hearing the sound of running feet, Spartacus straightened.
Firmus came hammering into the gap a moment later. ‘They’re coming!’
‘How far away are they?’
‘I kept pace with them through the bush. No more than a quarter of a mile, sir.’
Spartacus pricked his ears. He could just make out the tramp of thousands of hobnailed sandals striking the ground in unison. ‘Seen any horsemen?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How many do you think there are?’ Spartacus barked.
Firmus quailed before him. ‘I’m not sure, sir. More than I can count.’
Spartacus bit back his angry and instinctive rebuke. He’s only a shepherd, same as the other scouts. They’re not used to estimating enemy numbers. ‘Well done. Cross the road and tell Castus and Crixus that their men are to prepare for a volley of javelins. But they must not launch until my whistle!’
Firmus nodded and was gone. At once the gap was filled with branches.
‘Javelins at the ready!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Spread the word.’
Muttering broke out as his order passed through the waiting ranks.
‘Are we going to fight?’ asked Carbo. He was grateful that his churning guts weren’t audible.
‘I don’t kno
w yet,’ admitted Spartacus with a wink. ‘It depends on how many of the mangy dogs there are.’
‘I see.’ Carbo smiled as confidently as he could.
‘It’s all right to feel nervous,’ said Spartacus in a quiet voice. ‘This will be your first pitched battle. Most men are shaking like leaves, or praying like lunatics to every god under the sun. It’s common for soldiers to vomit or even piss themselves. You’re doing none of that. Instead, you’re standing firm, ready to fight.’
Grateful, Carbo felt his resolve strengthen.
‘Good lad. I know you’ll do well.’ Spartacus turned away to peer through the branches at the track.
‘He knows just what to say,’ whispered Navio in Carbo’s ear.
Carbo spun round, and was relieved to see no judgement in Navio’s eyes.
‘It’s one of the signs of a great leader.’
‘I’d follow him anywhere,’ said Carbo passionately.
‘Silence!’ hissed Spartacus.
They crouched down and waited.
Soon all that could be heard was the heavy tread of the approaching legionaries.
Despite Spartacus’ reassurance, Carbo’s stomach was twisting itself in knots. We could easily be slaughtered. He felt saliva pooling around his tongue, and it took a supreme effort not to be sick. A piercing alarm call distracted him and he looked up, catching sight of a blackbird in the myrtle tree. It cocked its head, its beady eye regarding the lines of hidden men with clear suspicion. It trilled again. And again.
We must be on its territory. The damn thing will give away our position.
Spartacus reached up and waved his arm. To Carbo’s relief, the blackbird flew off, still chattering angrily. If any of the legionaries noticed, they would think it was their presence that had disturbed the bird. He dried his palms one by one on the bottom edge of his tunic, and cocked his right arm again. The weight of the javelin was still unfamiliar, but Carbo had been practising with it every day. He could now hit a target most times he threw. He tried not to think about the fact that it would be sinking into Roman flesh.
This is the road I’ve chosen. The legions wouldn’t have me.
I’m with Spartacus now.