The enemy trumpets sounded again, but nothing else happened.
What the hell is Gellius playing at?
To his surprise, a horseman emerged from a gap in the centre of the Roman line. Not a legionary stirred as he guided his mount straight at Spartacus.
Spartacus’ men were so keen to begin the fight that few noticed.
‘Let’s be having them!’ shouted Pulcher to a roar of approval.
‘Stay where you are!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Gellius has something to say. A messenger comes.’
‘What do we care?’ cried a voice from the ranks. ‘It’s time to kill!’
‘You won’t lose that opportunity. But I want to hear the rider’s message.’ Spartacus gave his men a granite- hard stare. ‘The first fool who moves a muscle or throws a javelin will answer to me. Clear?’
‘Yes,’ came the muted reply.
‘I can’t hear you!’
‘YES!’
Spartacus watched the approaching horseman. I don’t like it. Fortunately, he didn’t have time to brood. Less than a quarter of a mile separated the two armies. As the Roman drew near, he slowed his horse, a fine chestnut, to a walk. He appeared unarmed. Spartacus noted his polished bronze cuirass, scarlet crested helmet and confident posture. This was a senior officer, probably a tribune, one of the six experienced men who assisted the consul in commanding each legion. ‘That’s close enough,’ he called out when the envoy was twenty paces away.
Raising his right hand in a peaceful gesture, the Roman walked his mount several steps closer.
‘Don’t trust the bastard!’ shouted Aventianus.
The Roman smiled.
Spartacus lifted his sica menacingly. ‘Come any nearer and I’ll send you to Hades.’
There was no acknowledgement, but at last the Roman tugged hard on his reins. ‘I am Sextus Baculus, tribune of the Third Legion. And you are?’ His tone couldn’t have been more patronising.
‘You know who I am. If you don’t, you’re a bigger sack of shit than you look.’
Spartacus’ men jeered with delight.
Baculus’ face went bright red, and he bit back an angry response. ‘I have been sent by Lucius Gellius, consul of Rome. I-’
‘We met his colleague Lentulus a few weeks back,’ Spartacus interrupted. ‘Did you hear about that little encounter?’
More gleeful cheers erupted. Baculus’ mount’s ears went back, and it skittered from side to side. The tribune regained control of it with a muttered curse. ‘You and this rabble of yours will pay dearly for that day,’ he snapped.
‘Will we indeed?’
‘I am not here to bandy words with slaves-’
‘Slaves?’ Spartacus twisted his head around. ‘I see no slaves here. Only free men.’
The roar that went up this time was three times as loud as before.
‘Listen to me, you Thracian savage,’ hissed Baculus. He lifted his left hand, which had been held down by his side. Drawing back his arm, he tossed a leather bag at Spartacus. ‘A present from Lucius Gellius and Quintus Arrius, his propraetor,’ he cried as it flew through the air.
Spartacus didn’t like the meaty thump that the sack made as it landed by his feet, or the faint stench that reached his nostrils. He made no move to pick it up. He had an idea of what might be inside. A number of his scouts had gone missing over the previous weeks; he’d assumed that they had been captured by the Romans. Which one is this, I wonder? Poor bastard. He won’t have had an easy death.
‘Go on, take a look,’ Baculus sneered. ‘We’ve kept them packed in salt especially for you.’
Not a scout then. I know who it is. ‘Have you anything else to say?’
‘It can wait.’
‘You arrogant prick.’ The bag wasn’t tied shut, so Spartacus upended it. He wasn’t surprised that the first thing to fall out was a severed head, but didn’t expect the man’s hand that followed. Spartacus took in the blood- spattered blond hair, and his guts wrenched. He rolled over the head, which was partly putrefied. Granules of salt stuck to the eyeballs, the slack grey lips and the reddened stump of the neck. The once-handsome features were barely recognisable, but it was Crixus. There could be no doubt. The massive scar on the man’s nose was sufficient proof. Spartacus had inflicted the wound on the Gaul himself. Their fight had been inevitable from the first time they’d met — and disliked — each other. Yet he was still sorry to see Crixus dead.
After they had fought, and Spartacus had defeated Crixus, the Gaul and his followers had joined him. They had played a big part in their escape from the ludus. A dangerous and aggressive fighter, Crixus had been a thorn in Spartacus’ side, questioning his leadership and constantly trying to gain Castus’ and Gannicus’ support. Crixus had broken away from the main army after a battle at Thurii in which they had vanquished the praetor Publius Varinius. Between twenty and thirty thousand men had gone with him. Spartacus had heard rumours since of their progress through central Italy, but had had no further contact. Until now. This grisly trophy didn’t bode well for the fate of the men who had followed Crixus, but Spartacus kept his face impassive. ‘He didn’t deserve to be treated like this.’
‘Did he not?’ cried Baculus. ‘Crixus’ — he smiled at the shocked reactions of Spartacus’ men — ‘yes, that’s who it is. Crixus was nothing but a murdering slave who maimed brave Roman soldiers for no good reason. He deserved everything that was done to him and more.’
Spartacus remembered how Crixus had ordered the hands of more than twenty legionaries at Thurii to be amputated. He had been disgusted but unsurprised by the Gaul’s act. The Romans wouldn’t forgive — or forget — such a deed. ‘You did this to his corpse! Crixus would never have been taken alive,’ he shouted. His inclination was to slay Baculus on the spot, to prevent him from delivering his message, but the man was an envoy, and brave too. It had taken balls to ride up to his army, alone and unarmed.
‘Crixus went to Hades knowing that more than two-thirds of the scum who trailed in his wake had died with him,’ announced Baculus. He raised his voice. ‘Do you hear me, you whoresons? Crixus is dead! DEAD! So are more than fifteen thousand of his followers! One in ten of the prisoners that we took had their right hands chopped off. Be certain that one of those fates awaits you all here today!’
After hearing the name ‘Crixus’, Carbo was deaf to the rest of Baculus’ threats. His world had just closed in around him. Crixus is dead? Jupiter be thanked. Dionysus be thanked! This had been one of his most fervent prayers; one that he had thought would never be answered. At the sack of a town called Forum Annii some months before, Crixus and two of his cronies had raped Chloris, Carbo’s woman. Spartacus had helped to save her, but she had died of her injuries a few hours later. Incandescent with grief, Carbo had been set on killing Crixus, but Spartacus had asked him to swear that he would not. At the time the Gaul had still been a vital leader of part of the slave army. It was a request that Carbo had reluctantly agreed to.
Yet when Crixus had announced that he was leaving, thereby releasing Carbo from his promise, he had done nothing — because the Gaul would have carved him into little pieces. Telling himself that Chloris would have wanted him to live had worked thus far, but staring at Crixus’ rotting head, Carbo knew that he’d simply been scared of dying. The immense satisfaction that he now felt, however, outweighed any concerns that he had about being slain in the impending battle. The whoreson died aware that he failed — that’s what matters.
Spartacus could tell without looking the level of dismay that Crixus’ head and Baculus’ news had caused among his men. He raised his sica and moved towards the tribune. ‘Fuck off. Tell Gellius that I’m coming for him! And you.’
‘We’ll be ready. So will our legions,’ Baculus replied stoutly. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘My men are hungry for battle! They will slaughter you in your thousands, slaves!’
Spartacus darted in and dealt Baculus’ steed a great slap across its rump with the flat of his blade. It leaped forward so suddenly that the tribune almost lost his seat. Cursing, he sawed on the reins and managed to bring it under control again. Spartacus jabbed his sica at him. With a glare, Baculus turned his mount’s head towards his own lines.
‘Count yourself lucky that I honour your status,’ Spartacus shouted.
Stiff-backed, Baculus rode silently away. He did not look back.
Spartacus spat after him. I hope they’re not all as brave as he. Putting Baculus from his mind, he turned to his men. Fear was written large on many faces. Most looked less confident. An uneasy silence had replaced the raucous cheering and weapon clashing. It was changes in mood like this that could lose a battle: Spartacus had
