Spartacus: The Gladiator

  Chapter XXI

  SPARTACUS EYED THE sky, which was filled with dark, lowering thunderclouds. It wouldn’t be long until the heavens opened. At this altitude, it wouldn’t be surprising if the precipitation fell as hail, or even snow. He wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Men were casting nervous eyes upwards, and whispering unhappily to each other. Damn it all. The weather’s been fine for weeks. Why does it have to change now? Spartacus refused to countenance what his troops were thinking: that the gods were angry. The plan is good. It will work. Those were the words that Ariadne had whispered in his ear as he’d left her in the camp.

  All the same, their fates hung by the slimmest of threads. He would have to move among the men now or panic would spread. And the damn rain had to hold off, or there might be no battle. The enemy scouts had been and gone some time before. By now, Lentulus knew where they were. Yet if the ground was going to be reduced to a mud-soaked swamp, he’d probably choose not to advance. Only a fool chose to fight in such treacherous conditions, and Spartacus doubted that a man who’d become consul fell into that category. Let’s hope that Lentulus is possessed of the same arrogance that I saw in Crassus. Spartacus was relying on that overweening Roman sense of superiority: that despite hearing of his successes, Lentulus would refuse even to entertain the notion that he, a renegade gladiator, would be capable of more than the most primitive battle plan. With his men in plain sight, what else could he be trying here but a full-blown battle?

  It will work, Spartacus told himself. Carbo will succeed in blocking the gorge. His men would hold before the savagery of the Roman assault. Pulcher and Egbeo would fall on the Romans like Vulcan’s hammers. Castus’ and Gannicus’ forces would also prevail. Squaring his shoulders, Spartacus strode out in front of his troops. They bellowed their love for him, and he raised his arms in recognition of it. As the noise abated, he told them of their bravery in following him from the ludus or in running away from their masters. He praised their efforts during the arduous training, the sweat they’d shed and the hardships they had endured beneath Navio’s iron discipline. ‘For a Roman, he’s not bad,’ Spartacus shouted, and they roared with laughter.

  The tension eased a little, and he paced to and fro, reminding them of each incredible victory that they’d won. How, despite being betrayed, he and seventy-odd men had broken out of the ludus. How the impossible task of defeating three thousand soldiers had been achieved by climbing down a cliff and causing panic in Glaber’s camp. How they’d repeated their success against first Furius, and then Cossinius. As if that wasn’t remarkable enough, they had given Varinius the slip, and when he had finally found them at Thurii, they had virtually annihilated his entire command. Although the fool had survived, the Senate had ordered him to fall on his sword when he’d brought the news of his disgrace to Rome.

  The yells of delight grew louder and louder with every detail.

  Spartacus encouraged his men with fierce waves of his arms. They’d need every scrap of self-belief possible in the fight to come.

  The clamour abated gradually, and he glanced up. Miraculously, the black clouds had moved on without drenching them. The rain or hail would now fall on the peaks to the south, he judged. Thank you, Great Rider. He drew his sword and pointed it at the sky. ‘Look! The gods’ favour is still with us! The storm is passing.’

  ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ cried a voice.

  ‘I try my best, Aventianus,’ Spartacus replied with a wink. Hoots of amusement rose from his men. What perfect timing. I must thank Aventianus afterwards. Instantly, doubt flared up in his mind. Don’t tempt fate. I’ll tell him if he survives. If I survive.

  A man nearby cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that?’

  A hush fell over the slaves.

  For a heart-stopping moment, there was silence. Then the unmistakable blare of trumpets carried down the wind.

  ‘They’re here!’

  A visible tremor passed through the ranks.

  Spartacus’ misgivings, however, vanished like dawn mist beneath the rising sun. This was his purpose. To fight Rome. It was not in his homeland, as he’d wished, but that didn’t matter. He had been granted the chance to take on a Roman army commanded by one of its consuls. What more could he ask for? Victory, he thought. That’s what I want. Nothing else is good enough.

  Spartacus filled his lungs. Throwing back his head, he cried, ‘There are only ten thousand of the whoresons. How many are we?’

  ‘Fifty thousand!’ Aventianus called out.

  ‘That’s right! FIFTY THOUSAND!’ Spartacus bawled. ‘Five of us for every stinking Roman! We will have VICTORY – OR DEATH!’

  There was the slightest delay, and then his men echoed the refrain until the very cliffs resounded with it. ‘VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!’

  Spartacus picked up his scutum and began to hammer his blade off its iron rim. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Do the same. The Romans must take our bait, and march into the gorge without thinking.’

  There were fierce grins from those who heard. At once they began to emulate him. More slaves joined in. The noise spread through the army like wildfire. For the moment at least, the fear that the thunderclouds had engendered was gone. So too was the uncertainty of facing a full-strength Roman legion. Battle rage took some men, who screamed until their faces went purple. A mad euphoric feeling descended on others. Cracked laughs rang out, and the front ranks swayed forward a few steps until their officers chivvied them back into line.

  Spartacus had never heard a racket like it since he’d first ridden with his tribe to war against Rome. An age ago, in Thrace, when the Maedi had lost. Pride filled him now, however. For all that these men were slaves, they had the courage of true warriors. If a battle began, they would stand and fight. Spartacus felt the certainty of that in his heart. Today perhaps the bloodstained shame of the previous defeat would be erased once and for all.

  A series of angry trumpet blasts echoed through the defile.

  Spartacus smiled with satisfaction. Lentulus did want a fight.

  Now it was down to Carbo to spoil the consul’s party.

  * * *

  High on the cliff tops, Carbo heard the Roman bucinae too. He was lying on his belly at the northernmost end of the gorge, observing the first legion emerging around a bend in the road. Before it rode several squadrons of cavalry, the scouts who had brought the news of the slave army to Lentulus. As he watched, a large group of horsemen broke away and rode forward into the defile. Carbo stared at them in alarm. What in Hades are they doing? He was grateful that his common sense kicked in. They’re going to ensure that Spartacus hasn’t blocked off the exit. That’s it. So Lentulus isn’t a fool, Carbo thought, glancing around uneasily. Maybe that’s not all he wants checked out.

  Rock scraped off rock, and Carbo craned his neck to see over the edge. He’d never been more grateful to be lying down, not to be profiled against the sky. Climbing up the scree-covered slope from the direction of the legions were four – five – six dark-skinned, bearded men. Barefoot, they were clad in short-sleeved tunics. Their only weapons were the slings draped around their necks. Carbo had seen Balearic slingers once before, in Capua. They were fast-moving skirmishers who also acted as scouts. Clearly, these men had been sent to reconnoitre the cliff top. Carbo’s mouth went bone dry with fear.

  They had to be killed, and fast, or Spartacus’ whole plan would fall apart, and Carbo’s task of saving Ariadne would become a dreadful reality.

  Carbo rolled away, out of sight, and jumped to his feet. Sprinting to the nearest of his soldiers, he explained what was going on. Alarm filled their faces, and a new urgency filled Carbo. ‘None can escape, or we’re all fucked! Get it?’

  They nodded grimly.

  ‘The dogs will see what’s going on the moment they reach the top, so they have to be taken down instantly. Out of sight of the legions too.’

  One man picked up a hunting bow. ‘I can deal with two, if not three of them.’

/>   ‘Good,’ said Carbo. If only I had more archers! ‘Make it two, so you don’t miss. The last ones to come up as well.’ He pointed at three other slaves in turn. ‘We’ll hide behind the last piles of stones. You take the first man; you the second; and you the third. I’ll take the fourth. None of you make a damn move until I do. Clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ they muttered.

  Quickly ordering everyone else to conceal themselves, and to remain silent, Carbo ran back to the piles of stones nearest to where he thought the slingers would emerge. There was precious little cover for all of them. Carbo prayed it would be sufficient. A heartbeat later, the next shortcoming of his plan hit him like a hammer blow. What if the first scout who got to the top realised what the mounds of rocks meant, and turned to flee? They’d have to pursue the slingers down the slope in full view of Lentulus’ army. All hopes of surprising the Romans would be lost. Acid washed the back of Carbo’s throat, and he had to swallow it to prevent himself from retching. The only way his spur-of-the-moment ambush would work was if the enemy scouts decided to investigate the cliff top properly.

  His entreaties to Jupiter grew frantic. I will build an altar in your honour. In front of it, I’ll slaughter a bull – the best I can find. I will do the same every year, as long as I am able.

  Guttural whispers set Carbo’s pulse racing to new heights. Steadying his nerves, he squeezed the hilt of his sword as hard as he could. With great care, he peered around the rocks. Nothing. Where the fuck are they? Carbo waited. And waited. Every moment lasted an eternity, but he could not move even a step from his position. The slightest sound would alert the scouts to their presence.

  When he finally saw a mop of black, curly hair emerging not fifteen paces from where he stood, Carbo blinked with shock. He watched with bated breath as a tanned face poked over the edge and glanced carefully from side to side. There was a short delay, and then the slinger scrambled up and on to the cliff top. He was soon followed by two more. Crouching low, they began padding towards Carbo’s hiding place.

  Where in Hades are the rest? Waiting until their comrades give them the all clear?

  Carbo was afforded no chance to give thanks as the remaining scouts climbed into view. The first three were almost upon him. ‘NOW!’ he roared, and threw himself around the mound of stones. He had a brief impression of startled faces and shouted curses before, miraculously, he was past, charging for the top of the slope and the trio of slingers there. They took one look at him, and turned to run. Zip! An arrow flashed past Carbo, burying itself deep in one man’s back. He went down with a loud groan. ‘Take the one on the right!’ Carbo bellowed. Praying that the archer had heard him, he aimed for the figure to his left, a short man with prominent cheekbones.

  Luck was on his side. The slinger was so desperate to escape that as he spun, he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Carbo was on him like a wild beast on its prey. He hacked down with his gladius, slicing open the man’s back from his shoulder to his waist. Blood flew up in great gouts, and a bubbling scream of agony left his victim’s lips. It was cut brutally short as Carbo plunged his blade between the slinger’s ribs, shredding one lung and piercing his heart. Instantly, the man slumped down; his arms and legs kicked manically and then relaxed.

  Frantically dragging free his sword, Carbo whipped around to see what was happening. The bowman had not been exaggerating about his ability. Another corpse lay on its back beside the first, an arrow jutting from its open mouth. Carbo’s gaze flickered to the rocks where he’d hidden. Two slingers were down, but the last had killed one of his men, and was now armed with a sword. Spinning on his heel, he pounded straight towards Carbo, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

  Carbo’s vision narrowed. If he didn’t stop this man, he would be to blame for everything.

  Zip!

  An arrow shot over the slinger’s shoulder. It nearly took Carbo’s eye out. ‘Stop shooting!’ he cried, stepping into the other’s path. He raised his sword.

  But the scout had no interest in fighting him. Skidding to one side, he angled around Carbo, aiming for the top of the slope.

  He’d misjudged, thought Carbo, cursing silently. ‘Take him down! Quickly!’ Ducking, and praying that the archer didn’t hit him instead, he sprinted forward. There was a rush of air over his shoulder, and an arrow struck the slinger in the back. He staggered, but then righted himself. Dropping his sword, the man tugged free one of the two strips of cloth that was draped around his neck. He wove closer to the edge, waving the black fabric over his head.

  The grim realisation of what the scout was trying to do hit Carbo at once. The banner meant ‘Enemy sighted’, and if anyone in Lentulus’ army saw it, he would have failed.

  Carbo covered the last few steps at breakneck speed. Ramming his gladius into the man’s back, he reached up and grabbed the cloth with his left hand. Somehow he threw his arm around his moaning victim’s neck, and dragged him backwards, all the while shoving his blade deeper. The slinger’s cries quickly dropped to a low whimpering. A heartbeat later, he’d become a dead weight, so Carbo let him fall. Pulling out his sword, he thrust down twice, adding another blood-spattered corpse to the others lying nearby.

  Carbo scanned the area. All the scouts were down, dying or dead. His men gave him victorious grins, but he did not return the smile. They had not necessarily succeeded. Someone might have seen the fighting. He dropped to his belly and wormed over to the edge. With churning guts, he studied the massive Roman column, his eyes roving to and fro for any indications of alarm or disquiet. To Carbo’s immense relief, he saw nothing.

  ‘Were we seen?’ It was the bowman’s voice.

  Carbo moved back a little. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Thank you, Jupiter.

  The bowman let out a long sigh.

  ‘Good work,’ said Carbo.

  ‘I should have taken the last bastard down with one arrow.’

  ‘He was strong and desperate,’ replied Carbo. ‘Anyway, he’s dead now.’ His eyes strayed to the slinger’s body and took in the second strip of cloth around his neck. It was red, the same colour as the vexilla flags used by the legions. A new wave of panic swamped him. The banner could have only one purpose. It was to signal that there was no danger on the cliff tops. If it wasn’t seen, more Roman troops would be sent to investigate. Carbo glanced down and cursed. His tunic was saturated in blood. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled the sodden fabric over his head and threw it down. ‘Quick! I need the tunic with the least blood on it.’

  The bowman gaped at him.

  ‘So I can wave the red cloth at the Romans and not arouse suspicion.’

  At last the bowman understood. Together they checked the dead. It didn’t take long to see that the cleanest tunic was the one belonging to the slinger who’d been struck in the mouth. They stripped the corpse and Carbo shrugged on the sweaty garment. Then, grabbing the red strip of cloth from the last man’s neck, he strode to the top of the slope. With his heart thumping like a drum, he raised it over his head and waved it from side to side. ‘Nothing here!’ he shouted in accented Latin. ‘Not a soul to be seen!’

  There was no response from below.

  Carbo was glad. It made it more likely that the slingers’ fight for survival hadn’t been spotted. He redoubled his efforts, cupping a hand to his lips so that his voice carried further. A last his efforts paid off. Followed by a signifer, an officer in a cohort near the front shoved his way out of the ranks. A moment later, the standard was raised and lowered a number of times. Without even waiting to see how he responded, the officer returned to his position. Sheer exultation seized Carbo. ‘We did it!’ he hissed to the bowman.

  ‘Well done, sir.’

  Unused to being addressed in such a manner, Carbo blinked. Then he squared his shoulders proudly. ‘We’d best keep a good watch in case any more of the bastards come poking around. You stay here with the others. If you see as much as a rock fall, I want to know about it.’

  There was a fierce grin of ackno
wledgement.

  Carbo inclined his head and began calling his men together. They’d need strict orders not to move until he told them to.

  Spartacus’ two biggest concerns as Lentulus’ forces spilled out of the defile were that Egbeo and Pulcher would attack too soon, and of how much damage the Roman cavalry could do. The enemy riders pulled off to one side, allowing their foot soldiers to manoeuvre into position, a process which took considerable time. Sitting calmly on their horses some three hundred paces away, they looked quite harmless. From bitter experience, Spartacus knew otherwise. It had been a calculated decision to afford himself no horsemen. He’d decided to leave his riders with Castus and Gannicus. They had been training solidly since their formerly wild mounts had been captured in the mountains around Thurii, but unlike the slaves who fought as infantry, Spartacus’ riders had never been tested in battle. As one great bloc, they’d be more confident, and more likely to succeed.

  Besides, he wanted the cream of his men – those around him – to learn the taste of a victory that they’d won alone against the most invincible of enemies: the legionary. He was pleased by the barrage of insults that they were already hurling at the Romans. Naturally enough, one or two overeager fools had thrown their javelins, but the rest were holding their lines in good order. It was proof that the training he’d started, and which Navio had continued, had paid off. Proof that they’d shed their slave mentality.

  He had a calm confidence that Carbo would play his part well. The young Roman was as loyal as any of his men – even Atheas and Taxacis. Great Rider, I ask that Carbo never has to do what I asked of him. With that request, Spartacus closed his heart. It was time to ready himself for battle. He deliberately filled his mind with the graphic images of Thracian villages that had been overrun by the Romans. The mounds of mutilated bodies. The sheets of gore and hacked-off limbs that had coated the ground. The grinning, empty-eyed heads on pila that had been stabbed into the mud. Old men who had been crucified on the gable ends of their own houses. Countless women who’d lain motionless, like dolls discarded by children. The pools of blood spreading from between their thighs that had given the lie to any such innocent notion. The tiny crumpled forms that turned his stomach still: babies who’d had their brains dashed out against walls. And his brother Maron, wasted to little more than a skeleton, dying in screaming agony.