seen it before. I have to act fast. Stooping, he picked up Crixus’ mangled head and brandished it at his soldiers. ‘Everyone knows that Crixus and I didn’t get on.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ shouted Pulcher.
This raised a laugh.
Good. ‘While we weren’t friends, I respected Crixus’ courage and his leadership. I respected the men who chose to leave with him. Seeing this’ — he held Crixus’ head high — ‘and knowing what happened to our comrades makes me angry. Very angry!’
A rumbling, inarticulate roar met his words.
‘Do you want vengeance for Crixus? Vengeance for our dead brothers-in-arms?’
‘YES!’ they bellowed back at him.
‘VENGE-ANCE!’ Spartacus twisted to point his sica at the legions. ‘VENGE-ANCE!’
‘VENGE-ANCE!’
He let them roar their fury for the space of twenty heartbeats. Happy then that their courage had steadied, he blew his whistle with all of his might. The sound didn’t carry that far, but the well-trained trumpeters were watching him. A series of blasts from their instruments put an abrupt end to the shouting.
Spartacus shoved Crixus’ head and hand back into the bag. If he left the remains where they were, he’d never find them again. Crixus — or at least these parts of him — deserved a decent burial. He tied the heavy sack to his belt and asked the Great Rider not to let it hinder him in the fight to come. With that, he resumed his place in the front rank. Smiling grimly, Aventianus handed him his scutum and pilum. Carbo, together with Navio, the Roman veteran he’d recruited to their cause, nodded their readiness. Taxacis, one of two Scythians who, unasked, had become his bodyguards, bared his teeth in a silent snarl. ‘Forward!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Keep in line with your comrades. Maintain the gaps between ranks.’
They moved forward in unison, thousands of feet tramping down the short spring grass. On the wings, Spartacus’ cavalry whooped and cheered, urging their horses from a walk into a trot. ‘Gellius’ riders will be pissing their pants at the sight of that lot,’ cried Spartacus. His nearest men cheered, but then the Roman bucinae sounded. The legionaries were advancing.
‘Steady, lads. Ready javelins. We throw at thirty paces, no more.’ Spartacus’ stomach twisted in an old and familiar way. He’d felt the same mix of emotions before every battle that he’d ever fought. A snaking trace of fear that he wouldn’t survive. The uplifting thrill of marching side by side with his comrades. Pride that they were men who would die for him in an instant — as he’d do for them. He gloried in the smells of sweat and oiled leather, the muttered prayers and requests of the gods, the clash of javelins off shields. He gave thanks to the Great Rider for another opportunity to wreak havoc on the forces of Rome, which had repeatedly sent its armies to Thrace, where they had defeated most of the tribes, laid waste to innumerable villages and killed his people in their thousands.
Before he’d been betrayed and sold into slavery, Spartacus’ plan had been to unite the disparate groupings of Thracians and throw the legions off their land for ever. In the ludus, such ideas had been nothing more than fantasy, but life had changed the day he and seventy-two others had smashed their way to freedom. Spartacus’ heart pounded with anticipation. He had proved that almost anything was possible. After Gellius’ soldiers had been defeated, the road to the Alps lay open.
He squinted at the line of approaching legionaries, now making out individual men’s features. ‘Fifty paces! Do not loose! Wait until I give the order.’
Several javelins were hurled from the Roman ranks. Scores more followed. The enraged shouts of centurions ordering their soldiers to cease throwing could be heard as the pila thwacked harmlessly into the earth between the two armies. Spartacus laughed. Only a handful of his men had responded by launching their own missiles. ‘See that? The Roman dogs are nervous!’
Cheers rose from his troops.
Tramp, tramp, tramp.
Sweat slicked down Carbo’s forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away, focusing his gaze on a legionary directly opposite him. The soldier was young — similar in age to him in fact — and his smooth-cheeked face bore an expression of unbridled fear. Carbo hardened his heart. He chose his side. I chose mine. The gods will decide which of us survives. Carbo steadied his right arm, making sure that his javelin was balanced. He took aim at the legionary.
‘Forty paces,’ Spartacus called out. ‘Hold steady!’ He selected his target, the nearest centurion in the Roman front rank. If by some good fortune the officer went down, resistance in that section of the line would falter or even crumble. He frowned. Why hadn’t the legionaries thrown their pila yet? Gellius must have ordered his soldiers not to act until the last moment. A risky tactic.
Thirty-five paces. With increasing excitement, Spartacus counted down the last five steps and then roared, ‘Front three ranks, loose!’ Drawing back his right arm, he heaved his javelin up into the blue sky. Hundreds of pila joined it, forming a dense, fast-moving shoal that briefly darkened the air between the armies before it descended in a lethal rain of sharp metal. The Roman officers roared at their men, ordering them to raise their shields. Spartacus’ lips peeled up with satisfaction as he watched. Slow. They were too slow. His men’s javelins hammered down, rendering scores of scuta unusable, but also plunging deep into the flesh of legionaries who hadn’t obeyed orders fast enough. It was rare for javelin volleys to be so effective. Seize the chance. ‘Throw your second pilum,’ he yelled. The instant that those missiles had been thrown, ‘Front three ranks, drop to one knee.’ He glanced to either side, and was pleased to see that the nearest officers were copying his command. The trumpeters quickly relayed the order along the line. ‘Ranks four, five and six, ready javelins. On my order — RELEASE!’
A third shower of pila went soaring up in a low, curving arc. To his left and right, countless more missiles joined them. Spartacus could not see any Roman javelins being thrown in response. The legionaries were in considerable disarray. With luck, his cavalry were causing mayhem on the flanks. Burning hope filled him, and he ordered a fourth volley. ‘On your feet! Draw swords. Close order!’
Smoothly, his men in the front ranks moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. They slammed their shields off one another while the soldiers in the subsequent rows ran in right behind, using their scuta to strengthen the line.
The instant that they were ready, Spartacus roared, ‘CHARGE!’
In a screaming mass, they thundered towards the Romans. An occasional javelin scudded at them, but there was no concerted response. Spartacus had seen his pilum strike the centurion in the chest, punching him backwards on to the shield of the man behind. He had no idea where his second javelin had gone, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was hitting the Romans as hard as was humanly possible. They covered the last few steps in a blur. Time lost all meaning for Spartacus. He stuck close to the soldiers on either side of him; tried not to lose his footing; killed or disabled his opponents in the swiftest ways he could. At times the swinging bag containing Crixus’ head and hand threatened to unbalance him, but Spartacus learned to anticipate its movements. His burden fed his rage, his hatred of Rome. Crixus and his men must be avenged.
He fought on. Punch with the shield boss; watch his enemy pull his head back in reflex. Stab him in the throat. Lift the shield to avoid the hot wash of blood that jetted as he withdrew his sica. Check left and right to make sure his comrades were all right. Search for a new target. Thrust him through the belly. Watch him crumple in agony. Brace with the scutum. Rip the sword free. Step over the shrieking mess that had been a man. Scream like a maniac. Parry a legionary’s frantic hack with his shield. Slide his blade over the top of the other’s scutum, taking him straight in the mouth. Hear the choking scream of agony cut short. Feel the iron catch in the Roman’s neck bones. Watch the light in his eyes go out like a snuffed lamp. Push forward. Kill another soldier. Tread on his corpse. Look for another enemy to slay. And another.
On and on it went.
Suddenly, there were no more legionaries facing him.
Spartacus scowled. His bloodlust was not even close to sated. He became aware of someone shouting in his ear. Bemused, he turned his head and recognised Taxacis’ squashed nose. ‘Eh?’
‘Romans… run.’
The red mist coating Spartacus’ vision began to recede. ‘They’re running?’
Taxacis laughed. ‘Yes. Look!’
This time what Spartacus saw made sense. The entire centre of Gellius’ line had given way, and was fleeing the field. Hundreds of legionaries lay all around them, dead, dying or screaming from the agony of their wounds. Discarded weapons and shields littered the area. The consul had vanished. Here and there, however, small pockets
