a long time.
Zeuxis gave Marcion and Arphocras a friendly nod. ‘My thanks for that. You can prepare dinner again tomorrow if you like!’
‘Don’t think that I don’t know that it’s your bloody turn to cook tomorrow, Zeuxis!’ retorted Marcion to hoots of amusement.
‘All right, put us out of our misery,’ demanded Gaius. ‘Where did you get it?’
Marcion glanced around the fire and was gratified by the intense interest in his comrades’ faces. ‘We were heading back here to cook, when I spotted a patrol returning to their tents. They seemed particularly happy, so we hung about for a bit to see why. It became obvious that they had come upon a farm that hadn’t been raided before, and ransacked it. Naturally enough, their officer took much of it for himself. He had his men put it in his tent while he went off to report whatever he’d seen.’
‘He must have left a guard, surely?’ asked Zeuxis in a disbelieving tone.
‘He did,’ replied Marcion with a grin. ‘Two of them. At the front of his tent.’
His comrades exchanged delighted looks.
‘Arphocras kept watch while I slit a hole in the back and took all that I could carry.’
‘Hades below, it’s as well that you weren’t caught,’ said Zeuxis, whistling in appreciation. ‘You’d have been whipped within a hair of your life!’
‘The things Arphocras and I do for you miserable whoresons, eh?’ said Marcion. ‘Nothing’s too good for you!’
As their laughter rose into the night sky, it was almost possible to forget that the following dawn, they would be facing death once more. Almost, but not quite.
By sunset the next day, Spartacus had suffered his first defeat. Of the thirty-five cohorts that he had led up to the ridge, only five thousand shattered survivors remained. More than twice that number had been left bleeding, screaming and dying in the lethal traps that were the Roman defences.
Spartacus realised he had badly underestimated his enemy’s ability to build fortifications and to defend them with obstinate determination. Having rallied the last of his men into a semblance of order, he led them away from the carnage, from the churned up, glutinous, red mud and the ground covered in mutilated corpses and discarded weapons. The air was thick with the reek of blood, piss and shit, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. So too did the Roman taunts that followed them through the trees. A last stone was fired from a ballista, thumping into the earth some distance to their rear, its purpose not to kill but to hammer home the depth of their defeat. The slaves had lost more than two-thirds of their force, but no more than a hundred legionaries had been slain.
Spartacus hawked and spat a defiant lump of phlegm in the stone’s direction. What in the Rider’s name had gone wrong? The march up to the ridge had passed without major incident, and the day itself had started well enough. His men had been full of high spirits, laughing and joking, and boasting to one another about how many legionaries they would each kill. Looking at them, he had been full of pride, sure that they were capable of taking on any enemy. The reality of the fight at the bottleneck had been very different. In retrospect, the Roman defences reminded him of the way fishermen caught vast numbers of tuna, placing complex systems of nets across their migration routes. That thought stopped him in his tracks. A trap. It had been a trap. Crassus had known he was coming, told no doubt by the same damn spy who had managed to thwart his assassination attempt on the general.
He cursed. Why hadn’t he anticipated that his cover might have been blown? The answer was simple. All he’d seen was a way out, a road north, away from Crassus’ ten legions. He had let his desire for that prize dull him to the dangers of the Roman defences. His troops had gone along with his wishes. Despite taking horrific numbers of casualties during the first attack, they had not argued when he had ordered them to advance for a second time. There had been less shouting, less enthusiasm, but they had bravely walked into another withering hail of enemy projectiles. Spartacus had seen the effect of such concentrated missile attack when he had fought as a Roman auxiliary, but he had never been on the receiving end. It was impossible to blame his soldiers for breaking and running. Only a madman or a god would continue to march forward when his fellows are being cut down in their hundreds. He hadn’t run, but he had eventually pulled back. There had been no option. A handful of men had stood with him; if he hadn’t retreated, they would have all been slain, and that would have served no one but Crassus.
Spartacus’ mind was full of shocking images. A soldier struck in the head by a bolt from a catapult, whose skull had burst apart like an overripe fruit. The men for ten paces in every direction had been sheeted in his blood and nervous tissue. A javelin that had taken a soldier just above the top of his mail shirt, running deep into his chest cavity. Spraying pink froth from his mouth and keening like a stuck pig, the man had knocked two comrades to the ground before someone had put him out of his misery. Spartacus could still hear the clatter, clatter, clatter sound of slingshot bullets striking shields and the screams of the soldiers who’d suffered a shattered cheek or jawbone. Could still see the startled expression on the face of the man whose eyeball and following that, his brain, had been ruptured by a piece of lead no bigger than a bird’s egg. Oddly, he’d recognised the unfortunate as one of the tent party he’d overheard on his return from Rome. Spartacus was damned if he could remember the man’s name.
The Romans had ranged their catapults in well, using markers on the ground to show them where to aim. Spartacus had been surprised by the number of enemy artillery pieces. Hundreds of slaves must have toiled like oxen at the plough to transport the heavy weapons up from the coast. Their presence proved that Crassus wasn’t just a canny politician. He was a shrewd general as well. That knowledge made Spartacus even more wary of trying to break through the Roman defences on the flat ground by the sea. His troops might batter their way through, but he doubted if they could then stand up to nine legions. Not without the help of Castus’ and Gannicus’ men at least.
Spartacus ground his jaws with frustration. It would have been better to burn his bridges with the Gauls not when he had, but at the very last moment. He considered his options. It was doubtful that the pair would be open to a new approach. Why even bother trying? he thought savagely, remembering the attempt on his life. Old anger surged through him once more. Fuck them both! I’ll do it on my own.
Where? he wondered. His gut answered at once. The ridge. It had to be the ridge. But if they failed again, Crassus would have won the war. His fury began to glow white-hot. He was damned if that was going to happen. There was little point waiting either. With every day that went by, his troops’ morale would plummet even further, and the chance of escaping would vanish. Men were already deserting — Carbo had seen them with his own eyes. They’d be better off without such cowards, thought Spartacus angrily. Yet he had to act fast, or his numbers would shrink further. And that was before fucking Pompey arrived from Iberia. He hadn’t wanted to believe the taunts being thrown at them as they withdrew, but the legionaries’ voices had sounded so delighted that he suspected they were. The Senate must have grown impatient with Crassus. Pompey was the flashy general who had crushed Sertorius’ rebellion. Before that, he had had a prominent role in Sulla’s war to seize control of the Republic. Would his bad luck never end? Pompey was an able tactician and his legions were battle-hardened. According to Navio, he had at least six of them too. His mood darkened further at the thought of seeing sixteen legions take to the field against his men.
Back at the camp, he went to speak with Ariadne. She gasped with horror as he entered the tent. Surprised, Spartacus glanced at his arms and mail, which were spattered with blood. He guessed that his face bore the same gory evidence. ‘It’s all right. I’m not hurt.’
She rushed to him. ‘Men have been saying that you were thrown back from the Roman wall. That thousands of our soldiers have been killed. Is it true?’
Nodding grimly, he filled her in.
Was this the beginning of the end? wondered Ariadne. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to walk from tent to tent, campfire to campfire. Speak with the men. Make them understand that tomorrow we cannot fail.’
‘You’re going to attack again so soon?’
‘Damn right I am. I have to.’ He saw her confusion. ‘The Romans knew we were coming. The spy must have told them. Attacking again tomorrow and preventing anyone from going near the enemy defences are about the best ways to prevent another slaughter like the one today. There are other reasons I have to act now too. Some men are leaving already. A few more days, and the grain will begin to run out. Imagine what will happen to morale then.’ He touched her cheek, and was glad that she did not recoil from the encrusted gore on his fingers.
