‘Begin at once.’
Caepio swivelled about. ‘You heard the general! Fifty men, step forward in groups of ten!’
With dragging heels, the first couple of ranks began walking towards him. Other centurions shoved them into files of ten. Caepio produced a bag, which he shook vigorously. ‘This contains nine white pebbles and one black. Each of you is to take one. Obviously, the one who gets the black stone is to die.’ He held open the bag. ‘First!’
Encouraged by a centurion wielding a vine cane, a soldier stepped up to Caepio. Plunging his hand into the bag, he pulled out a stone. It was white. His face sagged with relief.
‘Next!’ yelled Caepio.
The second pebble was white.
So were the third, fourth and fifth ones.
But the sixth was black. The man who drew it let out a cry of anguish.
‘Stay where you are!’ roared Caepio. The shaking soldier obeyed, and Caepio gestured at the pile of clubs. ‘The rest are to pick up a weapon and get back here.’ When the nine had returned, he bellowed, ‘Form a circle.’
As soon as the legionaries had done as they were told, Caepio shoved the chosen man into the rough ring’s centre. ‘Get on with it!’
No one moved except the condemned, who fell to his knees and began praying in a loud voice.
‘Roman citizens are not supposed to be crucified, but that won’t stop me ordering it for every last one of you fools!’ screamed Crassus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘Kill him! NOW!’
For a heartbeat no one reacted, but then a big legionary took a step forward. And another step. He was joined by three others, and in a rush, by the five remaining men. They closed in on their comrade, who was now begging for mercy. No one replied, and no one would meet his eye.
The big legionary acted first. As he brought down his club, the condemned man raised his right arm in defence. Thump. The heavy blow snapped his arm bones like a twig, and the nails in the club’s head ripped scarlet lines all through his scalp. Screaming, he fell on to his back. ‘Help me, Jupiter, please! Help me!’
Like a pack of wolves falling upon their prey, the nine soldiers surrounded him. Their clubs rose and fell in a terrible rhythm. Spatters of blood flew up, covering their arms and faces. The screaming quickly died to a low moaning sound, and that too was silenced fast. Yet the legionaries kept pounding away. It was only when Caepio called them off that they stood back, chests heaving. A combination of horror and demented rage contorted their faces. It wasn’t surprising, thought Crassus. Their comrade resembled a badly butchered piece of meat. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, and his features were unrecognisable, a bloody mess of torn flesh, fractured bone and exposed teeth. Crassus fancied he could see brain matter on several of the clubs, which was curiously satisfying. ‘Leave his body where it lies,’ he ordered. ‘Next!’
The dazed soldiers were marched away and the next group of ten forced to come forward. Each picked his pebble from Caepio’s bag. When it was time to take a club and do the unthinkable, no one protested. The mould had been broken by the initial decimation, and everyone knew that if they resisted, a cross awaited them. Soon a second bloodied corpse lay beside the first. Then it was a third and a fourth. As the number of dead grew, Crassus had the bodies heaped on one another, like carrion.
And so it went on, for more than an hour.
When the last man had been beaten to death, silence fell over the assembled troops. Crassus’ gaze moved over the legionaries, assessing their mood. He saw no resentment or even anger, just resignation, disgust and fear. ‘Let this be a lesson to you and to your comrades.’ He pointed at the pile of broken flesh and bone, and the pool of blood that was spreading around it. ‘Spread the word. This is the end that awaits anyone who runs from the enemy!’
Chapter XIV
By now, Spartacus was sick of the view of the great island. Sicily filled the western horizon; the most prominent feature being the headland that was formed by the coming together of the isle’s northern and eastern coasts. Near it was Charybdis, the famous whirlpool that would suck ships and their crews down to a terrible, watery death. The island was near enough to make out some of the large houses on the high ground above the shore. Beyond them mountains rose steeply up, vanishing in a blue-purple haze when they met the sky. They reminded him of Thrace. A sour taste rose in his throat. It was only a mile to Sicily’s hinterland, but after more than two months of waiting, that distance felt as far as the moon. Even the merchant ships that sailed within a few hundred paces of the shore were wholly unreachable.
At first, the time had gone by easily. Thanks to the defensive screen of infantry that he’d thrown up across the peninsula, and the cavalry that kept the main road clear, Crassus’ legions had made no real effort to break through to his main force. Instead they had busied themselves building ramparts and ditches that sealed Spartacus’ troops into the isthmus that curved out towards Sicily. He hadn’t liked this one bit, but there was the consolation of knowing that Carbo had completed his mission successfully. The announcement that a number of pirate vessels would soon arrive had been an enormous boost to morale. Once his two thousand men had sailed over the strait and seized the grain ships, the evacuation of his army could begin. With the gods’ blessing, Crassus wouldn’t suspect a thing about it until it was too late.
The knowledge that a battle wasn’t imminent had eased Spartacus’ tension a fraction. Life had continued much as it had at Thurii the previous year. There had been stints of drilling his troops, or listening to reports from the officers who were monitoring the Roman forces. Hours in the company of his quartermasters, making sure that the rations were divided equally and with the smiths, ensuring that every house and farm in the area was stripped of everything useful. Some of his men were still not that well armed. Forging weapons had to continue every day. He’d had nothing to do with Castus and Gannicus, who had camped with their men some distance from the main force. In essence, the army had already split up. It didn’t matter. Crassus was unaware of the schism, and once they had reached Sicily, it would become immaterial. Spartacus tried to block the troublesome pair from his mind. He had wasted enough time on them. He had concentrated instead on his evenings, the favourite part of his days, which were spent with Ariadne and Maron, who was growing fast.
There had also been opportunities to walk the coastline, searching for the best place to embark when the pirate ships arrived. Spartacus had done this alone the first time, managing to give the Scythians the slip. He grinned. The roasting that Ariadne had given them on his return had ensured that had never happened again. While Castus and Gannicus appeared to be honouring their truce, he wouldn’t put it past them to make another attempt on his life. And actually he liked the tattooed Scythians’ company. They felt like old friends, even though he’d known them for less than two years. The pair were discreet, shadowing him from a distance, thereby allowing him the pretence of being on his own. As he walked, his mind had turned over every possibility a score of times. If things went on Sicily as he wished, he would be able to defend the island from Roman attack rather than just wait until they sent an expeditionary force against him.
Yet as the days had turned into weeks, it had become harder and harder not to let his thoughts become troubled. Autumn had come and gone. Winter had arrived, and with it, colder weather. The berries and nuts from the bushes that covered the mountain slopes had vanished. The area’s farms had long since been stripped of all their grain. Spartacus wondered if the pirate captain had played Carbo false, taken the money and sailed away, never to return. It seemed unlikely. Only a fool or a madman would turn down fifty times that amount of coin for what was a simple task. That belief was what seemed to be keeping his troops’ spirits up. His eyes turned to the south, searching the waves for a sail. For the thousandth time, he saw nothing. A scatter of gulls scudded overhead in the chill air, their sharp calls seeming to mock him. His mood darkened. If Heracleo was coming, where in the Great Rider’s name was he? How long did it take to find a few cursed vessels and sail around Italy’s tip?
He wondered again about climbing the high ground to the sacred cave opposite Charybdis, there to make another offering to Scylla, the monster with twelve feet and six heads that guarded the straits. No. Twice was enough. If the gods thought he was desperate, they could become even more capricious than they already were.
His stomach rumbled, reminding Spartacus that he hadn’t eaten since dawn. He had ordered rations to be
