Chapter XV
TIME DRAGGED ON. Carbo’s heart was thudding like that of a trapped beast. Where are they? A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked to his right. Through the gaps in the branches, he saw the red tunics and silver mail of rank upon rank of legionaries marching past. His nausea returned with a vengeance. Carbo bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood. To his relief, the pain pushed the nausea into the background. He refocused his attention on the enemy. The enemy, because that’s what they are. Ten rows went by, then fifteen and twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Still they kept coming, none so much as glancing to either side. They were so near that their banter was discernible. Some were singing ribald tunes; others complained about the distance they’d marched; still more cursed Spartacus and his cowardly slaves, whom they’d butcher to a man. Cheers rose up at that prospect.
The tension was growing unbearable. Carbo glanced at Spartacus, whose whistle was clenched between his lips. Then at Navio, whose face was strained too. Even Atheas and Taxacis were leaning forward like hounds eager to slip the huntsman’s leash. Beyond them the slaves were looking ever more nervous. Carbo wanted to scream at Spartacus. Are you going to give us the damn signal?
Spartacus was oblivious to his men’s anxiety. He still had not decided what to do. The wrong decision would see his men massacred. What he most wanted to know – how many Romans there were – would not be clear until they’d all passed by. By then, it would be too late. Another line of legionaries came into view. Not one of them was more than twenty-one or-two years of age. However many there are, they don’t look like seasoned veterans. With that realisation, Spartacus’ uncertainty vanished. He took a in a deep breath and blew with all his might.
Peeeeeeep!
The shrill sound rose to the very heavens. No one in any proximity could fail to hear it.
Spartacus’ right arm went back, and he threw his javelin, low and short.
Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! went the Gauls’ whistles.
Carbo’s instincts took over and he threw his pilum. Beside him, he sensed Navio and the two Scythians also hurling theirs. Hundreds of other javelins joined them from either side, and, for the briefest moment, the tops of the bushes were topped by a bizarre layer of wood and metal. Then the missiles were gone, dropping down among the unsuspecting legionaries in a deadly, barbed rain.
Peeeeeeep!
Spartacus began hauling branches out of the way. Carbo and Navio rushed to join him.
The screams and shouts of confusion hit their ears in a cacophony of sound.
‘Move! Move!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Speed is everything!’
Two heartbeats later, the gap had been cleared. Carbo stared wide-eyed at the mayhem their javelins had caused. The column’s neat formation had fallen apart. Instead of precise ranks of legionaries, all he could see was a heaving mass of yelling, confused men. Fallen soldiers lay everywhere. Many were dead but the majority were wounded, roaring in agony and clutching at the javelins that had pierced them through. Carbo couldn’t see an officer anywhere.
Spartacus clattered his sica off his scutum, once, twice, thrice. ‘CHARGE!’ With that, he was gone, bounding up like an Olympic sprinter of old.
Roaring like madmen, Atheas and Taxacis were next.
I can’t let Navio get out there before me, thought Carbo. He felt his feet begin to move of their own volition. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, watch over me. He’d already drawn his gladius, holding it close to his right side. With only his eyes visible over the metal rim of his shield, he charged forward. Other men were scrambling out with him. The legionaries were ten to fifteen paces away. What surprised Carbo was the shocked expression on their faces. They don’t know what’s hit them!
Awestruck, he watched Spartacus.
‘For Thrace!’ shouted Spartacus, smashing his shield boss into that of a soldier who looked even younger than Carbo. The impact drove his opponent back several steps and off his feet. Spartacus was on him in a flash. His sica flickered in the sunlight; a stream of blood spouted into the air. The young legionary’s legs kicked spasmodically and relaxed.
‘Watch out!’ Navio cried.
Too late, Carbo’s head spun away from Spartacus, to his front. He had barely enough time to take in the snarling face of an unshaven legionary not three steps away, his gladius lunging at Carbo’s eyes. He ducked down behind the curve of his shield and heard the blade whistle overhead. There was a thump as the legionary’s scutum connected with his, and Carbo staggered. Frantically, he shifted one foot back and managed to brace himself as the legionary drove into him again. The man’s sword came sliding around Carbo’s scutum and grated off his mail shirt. Carbo lifted his head, aware that if he didn’t get a blow in quickly, the show was over. He was just in time to see Navio’s sword thrusting through the legionary’s armour and deep into his side. The man crumpled untidily to the ground. With a snarl, Navio ripped his blade out. Rage replaced Carbo’s panic and he stepped in and rammed his gladius into the legionary’s open, screaming mouth. His arm came to a juddering halt when the hilt of his weapon chinked off the man’s few remaining teeth.
With a grunt, Carbo tugged it free. He had the briefest impression of a red, ruined maw and two dead, staring eyes before Navio thumped his helmet. ‘Keep moving! Stay close to Spartacus!’
Everything then became a blur, a succession of disjointed tableaux that Carbo struggled to remember afterwards. Shoving his way with Navio to stand by Spartacus. Seeing Atheas and Taxacis on their leader’s other side. The clash of arms and men’s shouts being so loud that he could barely hear himself think. Having to tread on bodies, some of which were moving. Or screaming. Forming a shield wall with several others. Driving forward. Seeing the fear blossom on the legionaries’ faces. The crash as they hit home. Spartacus’ deep voice, urging them on. Atheas and Taxacis’ ululating cries, which to Carbo sounded like those of demons in Hades. Repeatedly thrusting with his gladius. Seeing legionaries go down, one after another, with blades buried in their faces, chests, bellies and groins. Laughing manically. Advancing. Killing again. Noticing that the blood of the men he’d slain coated not just his entire blade, but his right arm too. He had totally forgotten that the men he was fighting were his own countrymen.
‘There! There!’ shouted Spartacus.
Carbo peered, seeing the scarlet crest on a centurion’s helmet bobbing up and down behind the nearest legionaries. Beside the officer was a man with a lion-skin headdress carrying a gilded standard. He heard the centurion’s frantic cries to rally around the standard-bearer. Spartacus pointed at the silver hand surrounded by a wreath. ‘Take that and they’ll break!’ He threw himself at the Roman ranks, not looking to see if anyone followed.
Spartacus had no idea how the battle was going elsewhere, but in his section, his men were more than holding their own. It would take but one great effort to turn the tide of battle in their favour. He’d seen before the effect when a Roman standard was taken. Courage leached from the legionaries’ veins as quickly as if their throats had been cut. Their legs turned to jelly, and they ran like cowards. It wasn’t that simple, of course. To retain a standard, they would commit suicidal acts of bravery. But in the immediacy of battle, Spartacus knew that this was his next task. He could only hope that the Gauls were doing well too.
Right on cue, a legionary carrying the jagged stump of a gladius threw himself at Spartacus. The Thracian parried the broken weapon easily with his shield and hooked his sica around to take the soldier in the groin, below his mail shirt. It slid in like a hot knife through cheese. Spartacus didn’t bother with a second stroke. He’d severed a major artery in the Roman’s groin.
Atheas’ scutum clinked off the left side of his. Stained teeth shone from his laughing, open mouth. ‘We take … standard?’
‘Yes!’
Working together, they dispatched a pair of legionaries, and another lone one. And then there was nothing between them and the standard-bearer but the centurion, a squat man with a
beaked nose. A leather harness over his mail was covered with phalerae, and a gold ring encircled his upper right arm.
‘I’ll fight you one-to-one!’ the centurion shouted.
Spartacus sensed Atheas’ eyes on him, felt the Scythian begin to draw back. A deep, coursing anger took hold of him. ‘What do you think this is – the damn ludus?’ he shouted at the centurion. ‘You’re just another fucking Roman. With me, Atheas.’
They split left and right, sliding their feet carefully across the gore-spattered ground.
The centurion was a brave man. He didn’t back away. He couldn’t advance without endangering the standard-bearer, so he raised his scutum and grimly prepared to meet their attack. ‘Come on, you bastards,’ he growled. ‘I’ve killed better men than you before!’
Spartacus was in no mood for skilful sword play. ‘Ready?’
The Scythian bellowed his assent.
‘Now!’ shouted Spartacus. He’ll try to kill me first. He knows I’m the leader.
Sure enough, the centurion went for him. He used the classic one-two of punching with his scutum and following through with a huge thrust of his gladius. Except Spartacus was ready for the move, twisting to meet the Roman’s shield side on, missing the other’s deadly iron blade, and letting the centurion’s momentum carry him to the left. Where Atheas was waiting. Unbalanced, the officer had no time to react, to defend himself properly. The Scythian’s weapon hacked in, shearing off the cheekpiece of his helmet and rupturing one of his eyeballs before coming to rest deep in his skull. Gobbets of grey brain matter came showering out as Atheas heaved his gladius free, and the centurion dropped like a stone down a well.
Spartacus swarmed forward at the standard-bearer, who had only a small round shield to defend himself. The man knew that death was facing him in the eyes, but he did not run. He backed away carefully, roaring for his comrades. From the corner of his eye, Spartacus saw several legionaries’ heads turn in their direction. Adrenalin surged through him. If he didn’t win the standard now, he never would. He’d be dead too. With a savage grimace, Spartacus feinted with his shield. Then he swung his sword arm around and brought it back in the opposite direction a man would expect – from left to right. The soldier saw it coming, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but raise his standard. If he hadn’t, he would have lost his head. As it was, Spartacus’ sica carved clean through the standard’s wooden staff and cut a deep flesh wound in his neck.
A thin, keening cry left the standard-bearer’s throat, but Spartacus wasn’t interested in that. He exulted as the gilded hand, severed from the rest of the staff, angled to one side and crashed to the ground. There were instant wails of dismay from all around him. Snatching up the stump with the hand attached, Spartacus shoved it at Atheas. ‘Guard that as you would me!’
Taxacis, Carbo and Navio reached him an instant later.
‘Form a ring around the standard!’ shouted Spartacus.
Quickly, the four surrounded Atheas and readied themselves to defend him at all costs.
At least ten legionaries were already closing in on them, and Carbo prepared to sell his life dearly.
It was then that a bloodcurdling roar shredded the air.
Carbo gasped; Castus had arrived on the scene. He had four Gauls with him, all screaming war cries at the tops of their voices. The five men were spattered from head to toe in scarlet gore. Their helmets, their faces, their arms and their mail were covered in it. It was impossible to tell whether the blood was Roman or their own, but the effect was the same. Their appearance was shocking, turning them into very devils of the underworld. The legionaries’ advance stopped dead in its tracks. Laughing, Castus and his men threw themselves at the Romans, whose faces crumpled in complete terror. Without hesitation, they turned and ran.
‘After them!’ yelled Spartacus. ‘Don’t give the fuckers time to think!’
Howling like a pack of wolves, Carbo and the others followed him.
An hour or so later, it was all over. Spartacus paced up and down, staring at the figures of hundreds of legionaries fleeing to the north. There was scarcely room to move on the road. Mangled bodies lay everywhere: ringed by crimson stains, missing limbs, with pila jutting from their bellies. Discarded Roman equipment littered the ground as far as the eye could see.
‘We did it.’ Carbo’s three words conveyed all kinds of disbelief and awe.
‘That’s right,’ replied Spartacus with grim satisfaction. ‘It often takes just one little thing to create panic. But when it starts, it’s like the plague. Unstoppable.’
‘The tipping point was your seizure of the standard.’
‘And Castus’ manic charge. It’s a pity we didn’t kill more of them. Still, it’s to be expected.’ Spartacus jerked a thumb at the nearest slaves. Whoops of delight rose up as they stalked among the Roman injured, killing whomever they found alive and looting choice pieces of equipment. ‘They’re not soldiers yet. In the circumstances, we did well.’
Well? thought Carbo. It was incredible! ‘How many got away, do you think?’
‘It’s hard to say. Half of them; maybe more. It doesn’t really matter. What counts is that we won!’ Spartacus’ teeth shone white amid the blood on his face. ‘We won, Carbo, and that’s what the men will remember. It’s what the slaves in a hundred-mile radius will hear. Mark my words: our numbers will double again in the next week.’
Spartacus’ enthusiasm was infectious, and Carbo’s spirits rose even further. ‘What will you do next?’
‘Keep training the men.’ Spartacus paused, before fixing Carbo with his steely grey eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten when you brought Navio to the camp, you know. There was a time when I’d have had a man executed on the spot for such a transgression.’
Carbo’s brow went slick with sweat.
Spartacus’ face softened a fraction. ‘I’m glad that I didn’t. I watched him fight today. Navio’s no friend of Rome. He’s also excellent at military instruction.’
‘I—’
Spartacus held up his hand. ‘I’m convinced that the men fought better today because of what Navio has taught them. You have my thanks. And so does he.’
Carbo grinned like a fool.
‘We can’t remain complacent. On the scale of things, today was but a minor victory. The rest of the six thousand legionaries have to be tracked down. I want to know what they’re up to.’
‘Are you going to fight them?’
‘In open battle? Not if I can help it. We’ll try and surprise the dogs as we did here.’ As I would have done in Thrace, if I’d ever got the chance.
The idea of ambushing more of his own countrymen filled Carbo with excitement. Why don’t I feel like a traitor? he wondered. His heart gave him an instant answer. Spartacus believed in him. Trusted him.
Apart from Paccius, no one else ever had.
* * *
Upon returning to their camp, Carbo fell into conversation with Egbeo, a hulking Thracian gladiator who was one of Spartacus’ most loyal followers. He was stunned to hear from Egbeo that Amatokos, Chloris’ lover, had been slain during the fight with Furius’ soldiers. ‘Apparently, he killed more than half a dozen legionaries when his sword snapped,’ said Egbeo sourly. ‘That was it. The poor bastard had no chance after that.’ A dark joy suffused Carbo at the news, but he quickly faked a sorrowful expression. ‘He’ll go straight to Elysium.’
Egbeo’s frown eased a little. ‘The warrior’s paradise? Aye, there’s no doubt about that. I’ll warrant that the Rider himself will welcome Amatokos inside.’
Carbo murmured in agreement, but he was already wondering when to approach Chloris. If he didn’t move fast, another fighter might muscle in on her. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear ghoulish. Amatokos’ corpse hadn’t even been placed in the ground. In the event, he decided to wait. In all likelihood, the funeral would take place that evening, and the chances of anyone staking a claim to Chloris before the following day were slim indeed.
Carbo w
as afforded no chance to talk to her the next morning. Many of the Roman dead had been stripped of their weapons and armour but plenty of equipment still littered the field. Spartacus ordered that every able-bodied man was to do his bit, whether that was standing on guard, on the lookout for Varinius, or collecting discarded gladii, shields and pila. Carbo sweated alongside his troops, loading up the mules that they’d taken from Glaber’s camp, and which had proved immeasurably useful. He was glad when the job was done, not least because of the flies that coated the entire area in black, humming clouds and the stench of death that filled his nostrils: a potent, decaying mixture of blood, shit, vomit and piss.
The first thing Carbo did upon his return to the crater was to strip naked and wash the encrusted grime from his body. Then, wearing his only clean tunic, he headed in the direction of the tent that Chloris had shared with Amatokos. Hearing the sound of raised tones as he neared it, Carbo’s pace quickened.
He made out Chloris first. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘I just thought you might like some company.’ Carbo didn’t recognise the gravelly voice.
‘Well, I don’t. Piss off and leave me alone.’
Instantly, the man’s manner changed. ‘Be like that if you want to, gorgeous. I like a bit of rough.’
Chloris screamed, and Carbo broke into a sprint. Thank the gods I’m wearing my sword. A heartbeat later, he burst on to the scene. Chloris was backed up against the entrance to her tent, her hands raised defensively against a wiry figure in a mail shirt. ‘Aren’t you going to put up a fight? I’d prefer it that way.’
‘Hey! Cocksucker!’ Carbo’s blade was in his hand before he even knew it. ‘I’ll fight you.’
Slowly, the man turned. He had a narrow, weasel-like face, and Carbo recognised him as one of the few Samnites who had escaped from the ludus. His lip curled, and his hand strayed towards the hilt of his own weapon. ‘Will you now?’
‘Step away from her!’ Carbo ordered. ‘She wants nothing to do with shitbags like you.’