from the main army. Yet while they were still physically present, Spartacus’ hunch was that if the situation demanded it, they would fight alongside him.
On this occasion, the pair arrived outside his tent still dressed for battle, wearing mail shirts, crested bronze helmets and Gaulish patterned trousers. Both had long since given up their native longswords in favour of gladii, finding the stabbing blades easier and more efficient to use in a shield wall.
Hearing Atheas’ challenge, Spartacus came out to meet them. He was pleased to see that they had no retinue. They weren’t here to quarrel. ‘Will you have wine?’
‘No,’ growled Castus.
‘Gannicus?’
‘Say what you have to say and have done.’
‘Fair enough. I know that you took part in the fight earlier.’
‘Of course we did. We’re no cowards,’ retorted Castus.
‘You’re both brave men, I know,’ Spartacus acknowledged in a peaceable tone. ‘All the same, it wasn’t easy today. Those legionaries were keen to fight, and they didn’t give way easily.’
‘They were better than the soldiers we’ve faced before,’ admitted Gannicus grudgingly.
Castus scowled, but he didn’t argue, which told its own story.
‘Imagine if all ten legions fought like that,’ said Spartacus.
They glowered at him.
‘We’ll fight them anyway,’ snapped Castus. ‘And if we lose, at least we’ll die like men.’
‘You both know that I’ll also take them on if I have to.’
Resentful nods.
‘There is an alternative, though. To take the army over to Sicily.’
They looked at him as if he’d gone mad. Rallying his patience, Spartacus explained his plan.
‘Has Carbo returned?’ asked Gannicus. ‘Did he find a captain willing to help?’
‘He’s not back yet.’
‘So this is based on hot air,’ cried Castus. ‘Who’s to say that the little bastard hasn’t failed? We could march down there to find that we’re cornered like rats in a trap.’
‘Autumn is practically here too,’ warned Gannicus. ‘There’ll be fuck all farms down there to plunder.’
‘Carbo won’t let us down,’ asserted Spartacus. Inside, he was less certain, but his faith in the Great Rider, whom he had been praying to daily, was strong. He winked. ‘When we arrive, there’ll be pirate ships waiting to take us across.’
Gannicus smiled sourly, but Castus was still not happy. ‘I don’t like it. It feels wrong.’
‘What should we do then?’ demanded Spartacus. ‘Fight a battle on ground we haven’t chosen? On Sicily, there’d be an opportunity to continue the war on an indefinite basis! Or have you got another bright idea?’
Castus flushed with a combination of anger and embarrassment, and Spartacus hoped that he hadn’t pushed the hot-headed Gaul too far. ‘We’ll still have the chance to fight Crassus, you know. He isn’t going to let us just march down to Rhegium. The whoreson will be on our tails the whole way. If Carbo hasn’t managed to make a deal with any pirates, we’ll have a battle on our hands within days.’
‘It’s worth the risk, Castus. I don’t fancy staying behind to face ten legions while the majority of the army buggers off,’ said Gannicus. ‘Sicily is big enough for us to do our own thing.’
‘All right,’ said Castus from between gritted teeth. ‘But this is the last sodding time we follow one of your suggestions. I’m leaving the moment that my feet touch Sicilian soil.’
‘Me too,’ added Gannicus with passion.
‘We’re not there yet. More than one party of enemy scouts has been seen watching us. Crassus knows where we are. If he can harry us on the way south, he will. Whoever is in charge of the rearguard will need to be ready to fend off Roman attacks every day, and if things go wrong, we’ll all have to fight. Let’s put our differences aside one last time, at least until we’ve left the mainland behind. Up to then, we remain one army.’ It was pushing things further than necessary, but Spartacus had to be sure. He was pleased and a little relieved when, after a moment, they both nodded.
‘We’ll leave tomorrow.’
Since the first contact with Spartacus’ troops, Crassus had been in ebullient mood. The clash had been inconclusive, but that did not matter a jot. What was important was the fact that, unlike the vast majority of their fellows who had faced the slaves, Crassus’ legionaries had not run away. They had stood their ground against sustained assaults, sending out a firm message to the enemy. Things are different now, Spartacus. I am in charge.
The day after the skirmish, Crassus had been even more pleased by another first. Instead of seeking battle again, the slaves had withdrawn — retreated — down the Via Annia. He’d heard of Spartacus’ plan first from his spy, but hadn’t believed it. When the truth of it became apparent, he’d had it announced to every cohort in the army. He could still hear the cheering now. Without delay, he and eight legions had set out after Spartacus. Mummius’ two legions, both of which contained many veterans of Lentulus’ and Gellius’ defeated forces, had been sent inland, to shadow the enemy host. Mummius was under strict orders not to engage with the slaves. His mission was to discourage them from trying to break away to their previous haunts in the south-east.
A week had passed without event. Crassus issued orders; the legions broke camp, marched and erected another encampment. On the eighth day, surrounded by his bodyguard and with Caepio keeping pace alongside him, Crassus was some two miles from the front of the column. He had spent the morning deep in thought. Spartacus appeared intent on reaching the point of Italy’s ‘toe’. Could he really have delusions of escaping to Sicily? he wondered scornfully. That’s what his spy had thought, although the fool hadn’t known how it would be done. Perhaps Spartacus thinks he can hold us off at the straits while his men try to build ships! That would never happen. His forces were following the Thracian’s too closely.
Soon, thought Crassus exultantly, the door would have closed on the slaves. Beyond Consentia, a town some thirty miles south of Thurii, they would enter a geographical bottleneck, all but doing his job for him. Once a blockade had been built across the peninsula, the legions would starve Spartacus and his men out, or force them into doomed attacks against their fortifications. Crassus already had pictures in his head of the siege of Numantia, which had been successfully prosecuted by Scipio Africanus sixty years before, in Iberia. The incredible feat of engineering was still celebrated. He would do the same. The campaign would end there, within sight of Sicily.
With luck, I could be back in Rome in time for Saturnalia. How the public will love me!
Crassus became aware of a cavalryman clattering along the verge towards him. ‘Message for you from my decurion, sir,’ cried the rider as he drew near. ‘We’ve been scouting along the trails and valleys to the east.’
‘Speak.’
The cavalryman wheeled his horse so that he could ride parallel to Crassus. ‘We’ve just encountered some of Mummius’ men, sir.’
Crassus frowned. ‘Messengers, like you?’
A heartbeat’s hesitation. ‘No, sir. They weren’t messengers.’
‘Are you trying to confuse or annoy me, man? Because you’re doing both.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s not my intention.’ The cavalryman swallowed. ‘It appears that they clashed with some of Spartacus’ forces.’
‘When?’ asked Crassus, his nostrils flaring. Mummius will pay for this!
‘Yesterday, sir.’
‘And the men you met were the wounded sent back by Mummius, is that it?’
‘No, sir. Apparently, they were driven back by Spartacus’ troops.’
Crassus shot a disbelieving glance at Caepio, whose face bore an unhappy scowl. His eyes returned accusingly to the cavalryman. ‘Say that again.’
‘They were driven from the field, sir. Routed, is what some of them said.’
‘Routed,’ repeated Caepio in evident disbelief.
‘Gods above, what part of my orders did Mummius not understand? Under no circumstances was he to engage with the enemy!’ shouted Crassus.
The cavalryman did not dare answer. He locked his gaze on the backs of the soldiers in front.
‘Where is Mummius? Is the fool even alive still?’
‘His men didn’t know, sir,’ muttered the cavalryman. ‘We haven’t seen him either.’
