He stalked outside, determined to end the farce once and for all. Like chastened pups, they clung to his heels.
Cossinius could not have imagined the scene of utter chaos that met his eyes. Instead of serried ranks of legionaries pressing home the attack under the calm direction of their officers, he saw isolated pockets of men fighting desperately against encircling groups of yelling slaves. In the time it took him to scan the field from left to right, Cossinius saw at least six soldiers hacked to pieces. Slowly but inevitably, his troops were being driven backwards or, more often, wiped out. Scores of the attackers were already pressing forward into the gaps in the Roman lines, towards the camp. There was no one to halt their progress.
The ground was littered with the injured and dying, the maimed and the blind. In threes and fours, legionaries were retreating, or even running from the fight. Here and there, a centurion valiantly tried to regain control, but there was no order, no design to the bitter struggle. Of the troops who’d been laying out the camp, Cossinius could see no sign. He looked to the defensive ditch, where he’d last seen them working. It was full of discarded tools. Alongside the trench stood neat stacks of shields and pyramids of javelins. The cold realisation of what had happened clutched at his vitals. The shitbags have left their weapons and run already. Suddenly, Cossinius’ mouth was as dry as the bed of a desert stream. This kind of misfortune did not happen to him. Half the men under his command did not just run away. Slaves did not overwhelm regular legionaries. The world’s gone mad.
‘Sir?’
Cossinius was dimly aware of someone tugging at his arm.
‘What are your orders, sir?’
He looked stupidly at the more senior staff officer. ‘Eh?’
The officer gestured at the carnage with a trembling arm. ‘What shall we do, sir?’
An image of Glaber falling on his sword filled Cossinius’ mind. Not for him the ignominy of that end. He would not leave such a shameful stain on his family’s good name. Far better to die in battle, facing the enemy with a sword in his hand. He felt a passing twinge of regret. He’d never get to screw the attractive slave now. ‘We advance,’ Cossinius said calmly.
‘A-advance, sir?’
‘You heard me. Roman senators and noblemen do not run from slaves!’ He reached down and picked up a discarded scutum, the back of which was spattered with blood. Its owner’s blood, thought Cossinius vaguely. ‘Find shields, both of you. We’ll show these whoresons how Romans can die.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The officer grabbed a scutum. Shamefaced, his companion did the same. They drew their gladii.
‘Form up either side of me,’ ordered Cossinius. ‘Stay close.’
As the officers obeyed, a group of nearby slaves saw their pathetic shield wall. Without hesitation, they charged in a heaving, screaming mass. Swords and javelins waved, promising death in all kinds of ways.
‘Prepare to meet an enemy attack,’ ordered Cossinius. Crassus was right, he thought wryly. Spartacus is a man to be respected.
Chapter XVI
THE SUN WAS dropping in the sky as Spartacus worked his way through the camp, which now sprawled over a huge area, far beyond the earthen ramparts erected by Glaber’s men. Greetings rang out from everyone who noticed him, and he made sure to smile in return or engage in a few words of encouragement before moving on. Inside, Spartacus was troubled by the number of gaunt faces on view.
After Cossinius’ defeat and death, the tide of new recruits seeking to join him – men, women and children – had turned into a veritable flood. The camp at the top of Vesuvius had rapidly swelled to bursting point. With more severe weather imminent, he had taken the decision to move everyone down to the remnants of Glaber’s encampment at the bottom of the mountain. While this meant that his fifteen thousand followers were shielded from the worst extremes of the elements, it did not provide them with any food.
It also left them open to attack from Varinius, who had regrouped his forces and camped about five miles away. Despite the swelling of his forces’ strength, Spartacus still did not want to fight the Romans in open battle. Perhaps five thousand men were trained to the standards he’d want, but the rest weren’t nearly ready for face-to-face combat; nor did they have enough equipment. Slave chains gave Pulcher and the other smiths limited amounts of iron to forge swords and spears, and fire-hardened sharp-ended stakes would only go so far when fighting fully armoured legionaries. Sometimes Spartacus wished that he were in Thrace, with as many battle-hardened warriors as he had followers here. He didn’t dwell on the pleasing thought, because having that many Thracians under one banner – his – was little more than a fantasy. His quest to unify the tribes against Rome might have succeeded, but it was as likely that he’d have been slain during his attempt. His men here were real. He just needed to train them, and keep the army from splitting up. Damn Crixus for a fool!
Brooding, he approached the fire by his tent, where Ariadne stood. She was tending a blackened pot that hung over the flames. Spartacus’ breath plumed in the chill air. He rubbed his hands together and extended them towards the heat. ‘That smells good. What is it?’
Ariadne looked up. ‘It’s what’s left of last night’s stew, with more water added.’
He shrugged. ‘The men are raiding every farm, and killing whatever game they can. But the Romans are everywhere now. It’s difficult to hunt when you’re keeping one eye out all the time for an enemy patrol. At least we’ve something to eat. There are others in the camp going hungry.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. You have enough to worry about without me complaining.’
‘It’s all right.’ He put an arm around her waist. ‘But we need to move from here. Soon, too.’
She cocked her head at him. ‘Why now?’
‘We might have defeated Varinius and his men twice now, and raided their camps as well, but he has learned from his mistakes – and those of his officers. The fortifications around his new encampment are taller than I’ve ever seen, and the defensive ditch is deep enough to float a damn ship in. We’d have more chance of storming Hades than it.’ He scowled. ‘Winter is coming too. It’s going to get harder to find supplies. The best way to avoid people starving is to find a safer place to camp.’
‘Surely that’s simple enough?’ She looked at his face and used her intuition. The same thought had troubled her since they’d broken out of the ludus. ‘Let me guess. Crixus won’t go along with your idea.’
‘Of course not. He wants to fight Varinius. He says only cowards run from an enemy. Castus agrees with him.’
‘But we wouldn’t be running! Merely moving to a more secure base.’ There was another option, thought Ariadne guiltily. She and Spartacus and a few others – the Scythians, the Thracians and maybe Carbo – could leave. Make their way out of Italy. It seemed cowardly even to think it, so she did her best to bury the idea.
‘I told him that,’ said Spartacus. ‘It’s not as if we won’t have to fight the Romans again! The prick wasn’t having any of it, though. He’s talking about leaving, taking his men with him. Castus might go too.’
The Gaulish leaders had quickly realised that the recruits flooding in were a source of recruits to their own factions. All three had won great popularity among countless hundreds of the slaves. If Crixus and Castus departed, it would considerably reduce Spartacus’ strength. Worried now, Ariadne stared at him. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to enjoy my stew, and then I’m taking my wife to bed. Maybe she can warm the chill from my bones.’ He squeezed her hip.
Ariadne wanted the same thing too, but she forced a frown. ‘I’m being serious.’
His grin faded. ‘I know you are. I’ve called a council of war for the morning.’
‘And?’
‘With the Great Rider’s blessing, I will persuade them both to stay with us.’ The muscles in his jaw worked. ‘If they have any sense at all, they’ll have come to that conclusion anyway.’
She pulled aw
ay from his embrace. ‘Feed yourself,’ she said crisply, reaching for her cloak. ‘I’ll be back in a while.’
Spartacus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To ask for Dionysus’ support. We need all the help we can get.’
Spartacus’ thoughts of sex faded. He stared grimly after Ariadne as she vanished into the gloom. She’s right.
Reluctant to turn in before he heard whether Ariadne had any news, Spartacus stayed by the fire. Wrapping a pair of blankets around himself to ward off the cold, he poured out a bowl of stew and sat down to eat. The food was gone all too soon, but his still grumbling belly was the least of his concerns. Crixus. It always came down to the arrogant and argumentative Crixus. I could fight him again. Spartacus dismissed the idea at once. After their previous clash, the Gaul would insist on fighting with weapons. Even if he beat Crixus, he’d probably have to kill him, which would be counter-productive. There was no guarantee that Castus would stay in that instance either. Take him on too? No. I can’t fight everyone in the damn army. There must be a way of convincing them not to leave.
More than two hours passed. Full night had fallen, and the moon was climbing from the distant horizon. It was growing steadily colder, and the camp had gone quiet. Apart from the sentries, everyone had sought the comfort of their shelters. Thanks to the equipment seized after their victories over Furius and Cossinius, a sizeable number had leather tents. Hunching his shoulders, Spartacus moved his feet closer to the edge of the fire. There could be a frost tonight.
‘You’re still up,’ said Ariadne, emerging from the darkness.
‘Of course.’ He studied her face for clues, but her expression was closed.
‘Is there any stew left?’
‘Yes, I left you half.’
She tutted at him. ‘You need food far more than I do.’
‘I’ve had plenty,’ Spartacus lied, knowing that she usually gave him the lion’s share. He watched in silence as Ariadne scraped out the pot and sat down to eat.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I saw something?’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
As ever, his belly tightened. ‘What was it?’
She countered with a question. ‘What are your long-term plans?’
‘I haven’t got any,’ he replied frankly. ‘In my game, it’s best not to. A warrior never knows when his life might end.’
‘You must have had some thoughts about it.’
He considered her words. ‘I’d like to forge an army, a proper army. Beat the Romans in open battle.’
‘To what end? That wouldn’t be enough,’ she retorted. ‘The bastards never give up.’ That’s been my plan since I first left my village all those years ago.
‘I know. Even after Hannibal wiped out their army at Cannae, they didn’t despair. It took them nearly twenty years but they beat him in the end. And Hannibal had a proper army. What have I got? A few thousand slaves!’
Ariadne hadn’t heard him talk like this before. ‘Don’t give up,’ she urged.
‘You mistake me,’ he retorted. His eyes glittered fiercely in the firelight. ‘I have more men here than the warriors of several tribes in Thrace. I haven’t had to fight to unify them either. While that number follows me, I will never give up! Nor will I ever be a slave again. But I also know the realities that we face. The Republic did not become the power that it is for no reason. Its people are proud, warlike and brave, but most of all, they are stubborn. The majority of races eventually accept defeat – Thracians included,’ he added bitterly. ‘Not the Romans, however. They would rather be wiped out than give in. That simple fact is what someone like Crixus will never understand. Varinius is but one commander of a score that the Senate could call upon. His troops are a tiny fraction of Rome’s manpower. Each time we defeat them, we make it more inevitable that ever greater numbers of soldiers will be sent against us. That’s why it is so important not to run off and offer battle to Varinius like a wild beast defending its territory, but to make every encounter take place at a time and a place of our choosing. Another truth that Crixus does not see.’
‘There is a different option,’ said Ariadne softly.
He gave her a sharp glance. ‘What – to leave Italy?’
‘Yes. It would be easy enough to do. A small band, travelling fast, could easily avoid the troops looking for us. Carbo says that it’s only three hundred miles or so to the Alps.’
‘Winter is just around the corner. The mountains are no place to be when snow is falling.’
‘Hannibal crossed them at this time of year,’ she challenged.
‘But he was coming into Italy, to fight the bastard Romans. Not to run away from them.’
‘That’s not what you would be doing,’ Ariadne protested.
‘Is it not? Supposing we made it back to Thrace and I overthrew Kotys. Would I just forget all about what we’re doing here?’
Ariadne felt her cheeks flame.
‘Is that what you saw?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I can hear the whispers in my village even now. “Spartacus raised an army of slaves, and just when they needed him most, he abandoned them to their fate.”’ He scowled. ‘Because that’s what I’d be doing. If I left, what do you think would happen to the people in the camp here?’
‘They’d splinter into small groups. Get picked off by the Romans, probably.’
‘That’s right. The lucky ones would be enslaved again. The rest would starve to death or get killed by wolves.’ He stared at her. ‘I can’t leave them. I won’t.’
Ariadne wasn’t surprised by his response. ‘My conscience wouldn’t let me do that either.’ Liar. If the other event I saw comes to pass, I’d try to get away in a heartbeat. I can’t tell him that, however.
‘I’m a warrior who stands and fights, not a yellow-livered coward who skulks off when times get hard, leaving the weak to fend for themselves.’
‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘And if you could take the whole army over the Alps?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘That is an entirely different proposition. However, there’s more chance of the Great Rider appearing before me right now than of persuading the Gauls to go along with that idea. They were born into slavery. So were most of the Germans. They hate Rome and what it stands for, but Italy is their entire world. It’s a rich land, with easy pickings for men like us. Why would they even consider leaving it?’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That’s what came to you? The army crossing the Alps?’
‘It was one thing that I saw, yes.’
‘Were there others?’
She nodded.
‘Tell me.’
‘You’ll believe that I’m making it up. Trying to make you leave Italy.’
‘I won’t think that. Whatever you see is sacred, sent to you by Dionysus.’
She studied his face for a moment. ‘Very well. I am to bear you a son.’
‘A son?’ Spartacus’ face creased into a huge smile. ‘That’s wonderful!’
‘It might not happen,’ she said quickly. ‘Nothing about visions is certain.’
‘I know, I know. But a son!’ He reached over and squeezed her knee. ‘You’ll make a fine mother.’
‘And you a strong father.’ Maybe this will change his mind?
‘If what you saw is true, it’s even more reason to stay with the men,’ Spartacus declared. ‘Let’s say that we left now and travelled to Thrace, and our son grew up safely there. Imagine his opinion of me when he found out what I’d done. He’d think I was a damn coward, and he’d be right too.’
Ariadne was surprised to feel little disappointment. There was a trace of shame that she could even contemplate leaving, but the dominant emotion was pride. Pride in Spartacus. Yes, his ego was surely fed by his exalted position, but that was not his primary reason for staying. Ensuring the care of his men was. A tiny part of her still longed to escape their existence, however. ‘He wouldn’t think that if you’d beaten the Romans
and left them to rot while you took the whole army out of Italy.’
‘Now there’s an idea!’ he said with a smile. ‘All I need to do is win over Crixus and Castus. First things first, however. For you to bear me a son, we have to make one.’ He took Ariadne by the hand and pulled her upright. ‘Let’s go to bed, eh?’
This time, Ariadne did not resist.
Carbo went looking for Spartacus at dawn. Over the previous few weeks, he had barely seen his leader. He’d been too busy himself. When he wasn’t helping Navio train the men, or in his tent coupling with Chloris, he had been out on foraging missions for food. On his most recent expedition, from which he only returned late the previous evening, Carbo and his comrades had spied out the town of Nola, which lay some eight miles to the north-east of Vesuvius. Thus far, it had escaped the slaves’ attentions. The wealth of the estates around Nola, and the visible lack of Roman troops, had been apparent to everyone in Carbo’s party. Here, in a neatly circumscribed area, were warehouses full of grain, stores of wine, dried meat and other foodstuffs, all ripe for the plucking. This was bounty that could not be left untouched. It had fallen to Carbo to bring the matter to Spartacus’ attention.
He met Spartacus heading purposefully towards Glaber’s former headquarters, which had become the leaders’ habitual meeting place. There was no missing his leader. Spartacus was dressed in a mail shirt that had been burnished until it shone. His sheathed sica hung from a gilded Roman military belt, and he wore a stunning Phrygian helmet. Even his leather sandals had been polished. He looked magnificent, thought Carbo admiringly.
‘What do you want?’ barked Spartacus.
Taken aback, Carbo began explaining about Nola.
‘Tell me as I walk,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘I can’t stand around to listen.’
Carbo had to trot to keep up as they made their way along the camp’s main avenue.