‘What about the spy?’
He shrugged. ‘A needle in a large haystack. We keep our eyes and ears open. Tell only those who need to know about important decisions.’
‘It’s so frustrating. I wish there was more you could do.’
Another shrug. ‘I have a notion to send Crassus a message.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Saying what?’
‘Asking him to take me into his fides.’
She looked at him as if he were insane. ‘That’s the same thing as surrendering! Why would you ask Crassus to become your patron?’
‘First, it would force him to acknowledge me as his equal. Second, he could become my ally against Pompey. He must be livid at the idea of that glory hunter coming to steal his thunder. Imagine the strength of his army if my soldiers were added to it!’
‘Crassus would never agree to something like that.’ Ariadne’s laugh was a little shrill. ‘He wouldn’t let your men leave, free to settle where they chose. To him, they’re just slaves!’
‘I know, but it would show him — in the most uncertain terms — that I do not regard him as my superior. He’d also hate that I’ve heard how pissed off he is about Pompey being invited to the party. Infuriating him like that can only be a good thing, surely?’
‘I’d rather stick a knife between the whoreson’s ribs!’
Spartacus grinned. He had always loved her feistiness.
‘Whom will you send?’
‘A prisoner.’
‘A pity that we can’t send a man who could kill Crassus.’
‘He’d never get close enough.’
‘What about Carbo? He’s a Roman. He could pretend to have deserted; that he had information useful to Crassus.’
He gave her a reproachful look. ‘You might as well ask him to commit suicide! Even if I was prepared to ask Carbo, which I’m not, he has another job, which is far more important.’
Ariadne was about to ask when she remembered squeezing the truth of that from Atheas during the battle with Lentulus. Shame scourged her, that she should have asked Spartacus to send Carbo, the most loyal of men, to his death when his mission was to protect her and Maron if things went awry. She was angry next, for reminding herself of such dread possibilities. ‘You should eat something,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Get yourself clean.’
‘Later.’
‘You look exhausted. Why don’t you lie down? Even an hour’s sleep would help.’
His smile was grim. ‘I can rest when I’m dead.’
Ariadne’s fears resurged. She pulled him close. ‘Don’t say things like that,’ she whispered. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’
He squeezed her tight. ‘Not yet it isn’t! The Rider was by my side today. He’ll be with me tomorrow too, when I have my vengeance.’
Ariadne found the fury in his eyes chilling. It almost made her forget her concern for his safety. ‘I will ask Dionysus for his help.’
The smile became savage. ‘My thanks. We will need it.’
Spartacus was more weary than he could ever remember being. His muscles ached, his joints cracked with every movement, and he had a headache worse than any hangover. He had spent half the night moving through the camp, praising, cajoling, injecting new energy into his men. He had drunk wine with some, argued with others and even arm-wrestled a few. He had shouted, railed and threatened. He had warned the soldiers of the fate they could expect if they failed to break the Roman blockade. Spartacus had promised them that he would, as always, lead from the front. Nothing — absolutely nothing — would stop him from carving a path through for his army. They had cheered him then until they were hoarse, even the bloodied, battered soldiers who had been on the ridge that day. He had gone to his bed satisfied that there was no more to be done. Ariadne had been awake, but Spartacus was in no mood to talk. A couple of hours’ rest, and he’d been up again. It was at least three hours’ march to the Roman wall, and he wanted his troops in place before dawn. There was a lot to do before their attack. He had kissed Ariadne farewell and spoken with Egbeo and Carbo — ordering them to take up the rear with his wife and son. Then he had gone to meet his senior officers.
At least five hours had passed since. Normally, Spartacus would have cursed fog. It made finding one’s way treacherous, marching even harder and battle well nigh impossible. But the grey blanket that had fallen over the steep slopes as the army had made its way to the ridge had been a blessing. It had dulled the sound of their advance, and had provided good cover for his men to approach the Roman ditch with their loads of wood. The fog had also shrouded the scene, meaning that his soldiers had only seen groups of their dead comrades lying stiff and cold, rather than the full, terrible extent of the battlefield. To try and alleviate the horror further, Spartacus had ordered that no one was to look anywhere but forward as they marched.
He had chosen five points along the wall as his focus for their assault. At each point, the trench was to be filled if possible to a width of a hundred paces, in order to allow a full cohort the space to attack. Inevitably, the noise of their approach had alerted the enemy sentries. Close to the foot of the wall, Spartacus had heard the hisses of alarm, the call for an officer and the shouted challenges. To protect against missile attack, he’d ordered two ranks of soldiers to stand before the ditch, their shields raised one on top of the other in a protective wall. The men whose job it was to approach with wood exposed themselves at the last moment, when they threw their loads into the trench.
His tactic had worked: when the Roman officers had ordered several volleys of javelins, only a handful of Spartacus’ soldiers had been injured, and none killed. Encouraged by this, he had ordered the mules to be brought forward. As he’d suspected, the ditches hadn’t even been half filled by the timber. The beasts’ braying had again set the confused enemy to scurrying about on the rampart. Another ragged volley of javelins had rattled off the front ranks’ shields, but that had been all until a couple of stones were fired from the catapults atop the wall. One of those had killed two men and a mule, but because of the fog the Romans had not seen this. The enemy officers had sensibly decided to save their ammunition, which had allowed the process of dragging the mules forward and killing them to continue. The beasts’ bodies had levelled the ground in three of the assault points, but in the last two, a significant difference in the level of the earth had remained.
Spartacus didn’t hesitate. The fog was beginning to thin out. Dawn wasn’t that far off. He ordered the soldiers with shields to withdraw, and for the prisoners to be brought forward to the two ditches which still needed filling. They could have used the bodies of his men who had fallen the previous day, but that would have been terrible for morale. Besides, he had a better plan.
Men hurried off to do his bidding. Spartacus watched them go. He had never been keen on taking captives. They needed to be guarded, fed and watched constantly. From time to time, however, some were taken. This had been the case about a week prior, when a Roman patrol that had been sent over the wall to scout out his forces had strayed into an ambush set by Pulcher. More than a hundred legionaries had surrendered. On a whim, Spartacus had ordered their lives to be spared. He was glad of that decision now.
It wasn’t long before the first file of twenty came into sight, emerging from the fog like a line of ghosts. A dozen soldiers shadowed their every move. The prisoners’ wrists were bound behind their backs, and a long rope held by one of Spartacus’ officers secured each by the neck. Many of the Romans had cuts and bruises on their faces, arms and legs from the falls that they had sustained on the nightmarish climb to the ridge. To a man, they looked absolutely terrified. They had no idea why they were here, but it couldn’t be good. Spartacus didn’t bother speaking to them. In his mind, they were as expendable as the mules.
‘Line them up in front of the ditch.’
Realising their fate, the legionaries began to beg for their lives.
Spartacus’ men ignored their pleas. Using their fists and the points of their swords, they drove the prisoners forward.
A sudden gust of wind moved the fog slightly, allowing the Romans to see their comrades. Roars of anguish rose up, but before the legionaries could react further, the cloud settled again. Curses rained down on Spartacus and his men, but there was nothing that the defenders could do. Spartacus’ lips peeled upwards. As well as
