‘Of course. He ran like a rat escaping a sinking ship. But I don’t really care about him.’ Spartacus tapped the bag hanging from his waist. ‘It’s this, and what it means.’
Ariadne caught the whiff of decaying flesh, and her stomach turned. ‘What is it?’
‘All that’s left of Crixus,’ Spartacus grated. ‘His head and his right hand.’
Horror engulfed Ariadne. ‘How-’
‘Before the battle began, a conceited bastard of a tribune rode up and tossed them down in front of me. Gellius wanted it to panic our men, and it did. I rallied them, though. Fired their anger. Offered them revenge for those who had fallen.’
‘Was it many?’
‘More than half of Crixus’ army.’ Spartacus’ eyes lost focus. ‘So many lives lost unnecessarily.’
Ariadne just felt grateful that Spartacus was alive. ‘They left of their own free will.’
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘I intend to hold a funeral in their remembrance tonight. There will be an enormous fire, and before it, we shall watch our own munus.’ He saw her enquiring look. ‘But the men who’ll take part won’t be slaves or gladiators. Instead, they’ll be free men. Roman citizens. I think Crixus would like that. My soldiers certainly will. An offering of this magnitude will please the rider god and Dionysus. It should ensure that our path to the north remains open.’
‘They’ll fight to the death?’
He barked an angry laugh. ‘Yes! I thought four hundred would be a good number. They can fight each other in pairs. The two hundred who survive the first bouts will face one another; then the one hundred, and so on, until a single man is left standing. He can carry the news to Rome.’
Ariadne was a little shocked. She had never seen Spartacus so ruthless. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I have never been surer. It will show those whoresons in Rome that we slaves can do as we wish. That we are in every way equal to them.’
‘They won’t think that. They’ll just think that we are savages.’
‘Let them think what they will,’ he responded sharply. Spartacus’ battle rage had been replaced by a cold, merciless fury. It was a feeling that descended upon him occasionally. When Maron, his brother, had died in screaming agony, his body racked with the poison from a gut wound. When Getas, one of his oldest friends, had run on to a blade meant for him. And most recently, just before the battle against the consul Lentulus. He took a deep breath, savouring his icy anger. At that very moment, Spartacus would have slain every Roman who existed. That is the only way they would learn to respect me, he thought. To fear me. The munus will be a start.
‘The humiliation will enrage the Romans. They will gather their legions and come after you again.’
‘We’ll be long gone,’ he asserted.
Thank all the gods. Ariadne had been worried that this latest success would change his decision to leave Italy. With luck, my son will be born in Gaul, or even Illyria. She clung to that hope for dear life.
Chapter II
By the time darkness fell, Spartacus’ orders had been carried out. Using fallen wood, captured Roman wagons and unwanted equipment, a huge bonfire had been lit at the edge of the army’s encampment. Its flames climbed high into the night sky, radiating a massive heat that kept the chilly mountain air at bay. Scores of sheep and cattle seized from Gellius’ abandoned camp had been slaughtered and butchered. Javelins were being used as makeshift roasting forks to cook bloody hunks of meat over the fire. The necks had been smashed off amphorae, allowing easy access to the wine within. Everywhere men were drinking, laughing, toasting each other. Some danced drunkenly to tunes from drums, whistles and lyres. The sounds of the different instruments clashed in a jangling cacophony but no one cared. It was time to celebrate. They had lived through another battle, and defeated the second Roman consul, setting his army to flight. Spartacus’ soldiers felt like the conquering heroes of legend, and their leader was the greatest of them all. Spontaneous chants of ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ kept bursting out. Whenever he was seen, men offered him drinks, clapped him on the back, and swore to him their undying loyalty.
Carbo had heard the rumours too. He didn’t quite believe them. Filled with unease, he stood with Navio, a stocky man with high cheekbones and two different coloured eyes. It’s odd, thought Carbo, watching the thousands of former slaves. They’re my comrades, yet I’m standing with another Roman. Made up half a dozen races, the men were every size and shape under the sun. Hard-faced gladiators, wiry shepherds and sunburned herdsmen. Long- haired Gauls, burly Germans and tattooed Thracians. They were still carrying their weapons, bloodied from the battle against Gellius’ army. Clad in Roman mail shirts and breastplates, in simple tunics, or even bare-chested, they made a fearsome, threatening spectacle. ‘Is he really going to do it?’
‘Be sure of it.’
‘It’s barbaric.’
Navio threw him a shrewd look. ‘Brutal or not, this is justice to Spartacus and his men.’
‘Does he have to sacrifice so many?’
‘It’s common practice for dozens of gladiators to fight at a munus commemorating the death of one person. You know that. Tonight Spartacus is remembering thousands of his comrades. It’s no surprise that he picked this number of legionaries.’
‘Don’t you care?’ hissed Carbo, jerking his head at the four hundred prisoners who were roped together nearby. Scores of Spartacus’ men ringed them on three sides, drawn swords in their hands. The fourth side lay open towards the fire. There a pile of gladii had been stacked up. ‘They’re our people.’
‘Whom you fought today. Whom you killed.’
‘That was different. It was a battle. This-’
‘I hate everything that the Republic stands for, remember?’ Navio interrupted. ‘My father and younger brother died fighting men like those over there. As far as I’m concerned, they can all go to Hades.’
Carbo fell silent before his ire. Navio and his family had followed Quintus Sertorius, a Marian supporter. After Marius’ death, the Senate had proscribed Sertorius. Betrayed, Navio had fought with Sertorius against the Republic for several years, but eventually their fortunes in Iberia had ebbed. But, Carbo thought, it was one thing taking on your own kind in a battle, when it was kill or be killed. It was quite another making prisoners fight each other to the death. The idea revolted him. He resolved to say something to Spartacus.
It wasn’t long before their leader appeared, accompanied by Ariadne, Castus and Gannicus. Behind him walked soldiers carrying four silver eagles and a large number of cohort standards. There were even several sets of fasces, the ceremonial bundles of rods carried by magistrates’ bodyguards and the symbols of Roman justice. An enormous cheer went up as the Thracian strode to stand by the heap of weapons. Despite his anger, Carbo was filled with awe at the sight of his leader with the battle trophies.
Unsurprisingly, the prisoners’ terrified eyes also focused on Spartacus. They knew who he was, even if they didn’t recognise him. The Thracian was renowned and vilified throughout the Republic as a monster, a man without morals, who defied all societal norms. Here he was, a crop-haired figure in Roman armour, his muscular arms and sword blade covered in their comrades’ blood. Unremarkable in many ways. Yet everything about him, from his emotionless expression to his bunched fists, inspired fear, and threatened death.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ the slaves chanted.
Spartacus raised his arms in recognition of his men’s acclaim.
Castus threw Gannicus a sour look, which was reciprocated. No one noticed.
Ignoring Navio’s cry of ‘Wait!’, Carbo trotted over to Spartacus. ‘Can I have a word?’
‘Now?’ Spartacus’ voice was harsh. Cold.
‘Yes.’
‘Make it quick.’
‘Is it true that these men but one are to die fighting each other?’
Spartacus’ gaze pinned him to the spot. ‘Yes.’
‘Damn right it is!’ said Gannicus.
‘You got a problem with that?’ growled Castus, fingering the hilt of his sword.
Carbo stayed where he was. ‘They deserve better than this.’
‘Do they? Why?’ Suddenly, Spartacus’ face was right in his. ‘It is how gladiators up and down the length of
