Let it be so, Great Rider.
Ariadne’s worries about Spartacus had consumed her from the moment he’d left. She’d spent hours praying and making offerings to Dionysus, but typically, had seen nothing that remotely reassured her. She knew better than to get angry with the capricious god, so she funnelled her frustration into marshalling the camp’s women and preparing them for the inevitable influx of wounded after the fighting was over. Even that supposition was disquieting. If the slaves lost the battle, there’d be no need for bandages, dressings and poultices but that, like Spartacus’ death, didn’t bear thinking about. And then there was Atheas, who’d been shadowing her every move. Ariadne found it unnerving. Before Spartacus had left, she had asked him what would happen if things went against them. He had touched a finger to her lips, saying, ‘That isn’t going to happen.’ Ariadne had insisted, however, and so he’d told her of how the Scythian and Carbo would escort her to safety.
She glanced at Atheas. His attempt to reassure her, a smile full of sharp brown teeth, made her feel worse. Yet interacting with the Scythian was preferable to talking with the other women. Every sound that reached them from the direction of the battlefield was either met with tears or wails of dismay. Even when, as now, the noises died away, the lamentations went on. Ariadne peered at the sky. How long had it been since Spartacus had set off with the army? Four hours? Five?
‘What do you think has happened?’ she whispered to Atheas. ‘Is it over?’
He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Impossible … say. Maybe they … rest … before fight again.’
The agony of not knowing was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I’m going to the cliffs to see what’s going on.’
Atheas was on his feet before she’d even finished speaking. ‘That … very bad idea.’
Ariadne gave him a frosty glare. ‘You will stop me?’
‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic look.
She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but felt the need to argue anyway. ‘I’ll do what I want.’
‘No.’ Atheas’ tone was firm. ‘Too dangerous. You … stay here.’
‘Your women fight, do they not?’
He grinned, sheepishly. ‘Yes.’
‘Why should I not even go to watch the battle then?’
‘Because Spartacus … said so.’ Atheas hesitated for an instant. ‘Because of … child.’
‘He told you.’
‘Yes,’ replied the Scythian awkwardly.
A poignant image of Spartacus giving Atheas his final instructions filled Ariadne’s mind, and her breath caught in her chest. The gods bless him and keep him safe forever. ‘Let us hope that you and Carbo are never called on to fulfil the duty that he asked of you.’
‘I also ask … my gods … that.’ There was a gruff, unusual note to his voice.
Tears pricked at Ariadne’s eyes. In the chaotic months after they’d escaped the ludus, the unswerving devotion that he and Taxacis had showed to Spartacus had gone unacknowledged, by her at least. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d come to take it for granted, and of how dear the grim, tattooed warrior had become to her. ‘Why do you follow him?’
His thick eyebrows lifted. ‘Spartacus?’
She nodded.
There was a tiny smile. ‘No one … ever ask me.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘When Taxacis and I … captured … other slaves refuse … talk with us. Think all Scythians … savages.’ Atheas spat his contempt on the ground. ‘But Spartacus … different.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Ariadne.
‘In ludus … he act like … leader.’ He shrugged. ‘No chance … return … Scythia, so we decide … follow him.’
‘He is grateful for your loyalty. I want you to know that I am too.’
Atheas dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘You chose wisely,’ said Ariadne. ‘When we cross the Alps, you will be free to travel to Scythia once more.’
He grinned fiercely. ‘I look forward … that day.’
‘And so do I.’ May Dionysus grant that it happens, thought Ariadne, doing her best to ignore the pangs of concern that were tearing at her heart.
By trotting from one end of the cliff tops to the other, Carbo was able to monitor the fight on both fronts. He had a bird’s-eye view of the battle, and so it was patently clear when the tide turned not just for Spartacus, but for the Gaulish leaders as well. Smashed apart by the slaves’ cavalry, Lentulus’ second legion was then slaughtered by Castus’ and Gannicus’ men. At least a third of its legionaries fell on the field, and the rest were harangued as they fled, losing countless more men in the process. The story was little different on Spartacus’ side of the defile.
As the scale of the victory became clearer, Carbo’s men grew more and more ecstatic. They danced and sang, praising every god in the pantheon for the interventions on their behalf. He, while also delighted by the victory, was struck by the shame of the Roman defeat. He was furious with himself for even feeling that emotion, but it couldn’t be denied. The sooner they crossed the mountains and left Italy, Carbo thought, the better. There at least he would have no regard for their enemies. He would be able to follow Spartacus without feeling in some way disloyal to his heritage. Perhaps, too, he could forget Crixus, and what he had done to Chloris.
Yet if it ever came to it, Carbo also knew that he would follow the Thracian into battle against the legions again. Too much water had gone under the bridge since he’d left home. Too much blood had been shed for there to be any going back.
He was Spartacus’ man, whatever the future held.
And that, despite all the uncertainty, was a good feeling.
More than two hours passed. Finally, the noise of loud cheering carried into the camp. Ariadne’s heart jolted in her chest. She raced with everyone else to the track which led north, and waited. Shivers racked her body, but they weren’t caused by the cooling mountain air. Just because the slaves had won didn’t mean that Spartacus had survived. She saw the same fear mirrored in every woman’s expression. They all had loved ones in the army’s ranks, but it was likely that many of them would never return. Guilt suffused Ariadne at the very thought of it, but she hoped that others had died rather than Spartacus, that she would not be the one to be left alone forever. She stole a glance at the pinched faces around her. Even Atheas looked concerned. They’re all thinking the same thing. That realisation made her feel fractionally better.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
The loud cry filled Ariadne with an unquenchable joy. She was running before she knew it, her feet pounding along the track. A disorganised mass of slaves rounded the bend, and she scanned them frantically. It was impossible not to notice the dozen standards that were being brandished aloft. Despite her worries, Ariadne’s eyes widened at the sight of two silver eagles amongst them. Then, recognising Spartacus, bloodied from head to foot, without a helmet but walking without help, she let out a yelp of happiness. A moment later, she had reached him, and thrown herself into his arms.
His men’s cheering redoubled. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’
‘You’re alive, you’re alive,’ she murmured.
‘Of course I am,’ he replied, squeezing her tight. ‘Were you worried about me?’
Shocked, Ariadne pulled back to stare at him, and saw that he was joking. She didn’t know whether to laugh, to cry, or to kiss him. In the event, she did all three, in that order. She didn’t care that he stank of sweat and other men’s blood, that everyone was watching, that a priestess of Dionysus was not supposed to act in such a manner. All Ariadne cared about was that the man she loved had not died that day on the battlefield. That the child growing in her belly still had a father. Those two things were enough.
There were shouts of delight as the other women arrived and were seen by their men. The slaves streamed forward to be reunited with their loved ones, leaving Spartacus and Ariadne like an island in a river, oblivious, lock
ed in each other’s arms.
‘You won,’ she said at last.
‘We did,’ he declared. ‘Everything went according to plan, thank the gods. Lentulus took the bait, and advanced into the gorge. Carbo split the legions apart, and shook their confidence. The moment the battle began, Egbeo and Pulcher emerged with their men to take them in the left flank. The bastards never knew what had happened. They broke and ran like a flock of sheep with a wolf amongst them.’
‘And Castus and Gannicus?’
‘They fared just as well.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Pursuing the Romans. Butchering every man they find, and making sure that they can’t regroup. Not that there’s much chance of that. The rest of the men are stripping the Roman dead of their weapons and equipment, or ransacking their camp for supplies.’
‘Was Lentulus captured or slain?’
‘Unfortunately not. When he saw that the battle was lost, he fled on horseback. Not that it matters!’ His scowl was replaced by a smile. ‘He can carry the news of this defeat to the Senate himself. You’ve seen the eagles we took. The shame of that disgrace will be a far greater sting to Rome’s pride than the men who were killed today. Lentulus will be lucky to survive with his head.’
She kissed him happily on the lips. ‘You are a great general. Truly, Dionysus favours you.’
‘The Great Rider was here today too. He lent me his strength,’ he said reverently. Joy filled him. Maron has finally been avenged.
Silence fell between them as they both offered up thanks to the gods.
‘What next?’ asked Ariadne. Her pulse quickened with new fear. ‘You’re not tempted to go in search of the second consular army?’
‘Tempted? Of course I am! Crixus might even welcome the help!’ He saw her concern, and his fierce expression gentled. ‘No, the Romans are like locusts. There’s no end to their armies. If Gellius appears, we will fight him, but my plan is still to head north, to the Alps.’
‘They are not far now.’ Ariadne let her mind wander. ‘Our son could be born in Gaul.’
‘Maybe,’ said Spartacus, wary of tempting the gods, wary because life had previously handed him so many harsh lessons. ‘Let us reach the mountains first, and cross them before making any assumptions.’ He grinned at her, keen to dispel his worries. ‘Today, though, let us rejoice in our victory and the knowledge that Rome has learned a lesson.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked, smiling.
‘That slaves can also be soldiers. That they can take on the might of a consular army, and win. I knew it could be done, and today I proved it.’
A man could die happy knowing he’d accomplished that.
Author’s Note
I KNOW THAT I am not alone in finding Spartacus’ life compelling. Along with Hannibal Barca, he is one of the most iconic figures I can think of. What’s not to love? His is the story of a man who was wronged and sold into slavery, who is forced to fight for his life for the amusement of the mob. Escaping captivity with a few supporters, he won incredible victories against totally overwhelming odds, gained the support of tens of thousands of escaped slaves, won more amazing battles, and planned to escape from Italy completely. As most of you know, things for Spartacus started to unwind after that, but the tragedy of his tale only adds to the drama.
Capturing people’s imagination in the 1950s, Howard Fast’s book Spartacus sold five million copies. It spawned a blockbusting film starring Kirk Douglas, which just about everyone in possession of a television has seen. Consequently, Spartacus has become a name recognised by all. The man’s renown may have dimmed of recent years, but in the last eighteen months he has been portrayed anew. I was delighted when the series Spartacus: Blood and Sand screened on TV here in the UK. From the two episodes I have allowed myself to watch, it seems to play fast and loose with historical detail, but few can deny that it makes for dramatic and exciting viewing. In September 2011, few people were left untouched by the tragic death from cancer of Andy Whitfield, who brought Spartacus so vividly to life in the series. Recently, word has come of a new Hollywood version of the tale. I only hope it can live up to expectations. Naturally, I wish the same of this book. I have done my very best to do justice to the incredible story of the man who took on the might of the Roman Republic and nearly brought it crashing down. I sincerely hope that you think it brings Spartacus the Thracian to life.
It is a tragedy that little more than four thousand words about Spartacus survive from ancient texts. No one truly knows why this is. I like to believe that the Romans didn’t want a man who trounced their armies on multiple occasions remembered or glorified. After all, it’s the victors who write history. The losers generally get demonised or forgotten. Not Spartacus, thankfully. Perhaps this was because the Romans actually held him in some regard – we’re told that ‘he possessed great spirit and bodily strength’; he was also ‘more intelligent and nobler than his fate’. While the dearth of information means that much detail about Spartacus and his rebellion has, tantalisingly, been lost forever, it also offers the novelist a huge gift: being able to fill in the gaps. It also allows less room for criticism – hopefully! A wealth of knowledge survives from the Roman Republic of the first century BC, which allows the background to be described, and the tapestry of the story to be woven richly around Spartacus. As always, I have stuck to historical detail whenever possible in this tale. Where I deviated from it, I will explain why.
Spartacus (Latin for Sparadakos, which can conceivably be interpreted as ‘famous for his spear’) is usually understood to have come from Thrace, a region covering much of modern-day Bulgaria and beyond. However, this is not a definite fact. He is described in one ancient text as a nomadic ‘Thracian’ of the Maedi people, but this does not completely prove his racial origins, because other texts simply record him as a ‘Thracian’. In other words, he may have been forced to fight as a Thracian gladiator in the arena. Yet the Thracians were recorded as being a fierce, warlike people. Many of them also served as mercenaries with the Roman legions, so in my mind it fits that Spartacus came from Thrace.
We know that for a time, he fought for Rome (as a non-citizen, this would have been in the auxiliaries). It was common for Thracian auxiliaries to fight as cavalry, and it is generally thought that Spartacus may have done so as well. We do not know why Spartacus was enslaved, so my account of his return to his tribe, his encounters with Ariadne and the treacherous Kotys, and his purchase by Phortis are fabricated, but his innocence is not. He really was a gladiator in the ludus in Capua. While Kotys and Phortis are fictional characters, Lentulus Batiatus did exist. So did Spartacus’ woman/wife, who is stated to have been a priestess of Dionysus. History has not honoured us with her name, so I picked the name Ariadne, who in legend married no less a figure than the god Dionysus.
Spartacus’ dream about the snake and its portent is recorded. In these secular days, it is hard to imagine how important the details of his vision could have been to his followers. Two thousand years ago, people believed in a multitude of all-powerful gods. They were superstitious in the extreme and lacked our understanding of science and nature. Random events such as the way a flock of birds flew, whether sacred chickens ate or not and where lightning bolts struck could have immense significance, and determine people’s actions and deeds. In my mind, for Spartacus to have a priestess of Dionysus – a god revered by slaves – as his wife could only have added to his appeal.
It was my decision not to allow Spartacus to fight as a Thracian gladiator. I felt that it was a way for his resentment to increase even further. In the late Republic, there were just three classes of gladiator, which I have detailed. Life in a ludus was much as I have described, but Crassus’ visit to the school is fictional. So too are the scenes in Rome, although Crassus’ manner of purchasing burning buildings is documented, as is his wealth, astute political ability and his rivalry with Pompey. Restio is a product of my imagination, but Spartacus’ escape attempt was betrayed, which is prob
ably why only seventy-odd gladiators escaped. He didn’t have a young Roman follower called Carbo, but Crixus and Oenomaus were real men who got away with him. Oenomaus was killed soon afterwards; it was my decision to make this in the first battle. Castus and Gannicus are mentioned later in accounts of Spartacus’ life, but I felt that they would add to the story by being present from the start.
The fighters marched to Vesuvius, where they were besieged by Glaber and his men. The astonishing account of how they abseiled down cliffs using vine ropes and put three thousand soldiers to flight is true. Glaber’s fate is unknown, but we know that Varinius, Furius and Cossinius were next to be sent to deal with the insurrection. In the meantime, Spartacus was recruiting strong, tough slaves to his cause – farm workers and herders were natural candidates for his army. The rebel Sertorius is known to have sent military advisers to another enemy of Rome, Mithridates of Pontus. It’s not impossible then to think that men like Navio became involved with Spartacus.
There are few details of the battles that followed in the autumn of 73 BC other than that the slaves won them decisively, and that Cossinius was disturbed in a swimming pool, pursued and killed in his camp. The precise details of that priceless scene are my doing. As far as I know, there is no evidence for the use of whistles by Roman officers to relay commands. Trumpets and other instruments were used for this purpose. However, whistles have been found in sites all over the Empire, including in the proximity of the legionary fortresses at Chester in the UK and Regensburg in Germany. It’s not too much of a jump after that for me to have them in the hands of centurions during a battle. A whistle could have been very useful in getting the attention of men who were only a few steps away.