angering the men on the wall, the executions would drive shards of fear into their hearts. ‘Kill them!’
The ground had already been soaked by the mules’ blood. Now it was bathed anew. With savage dedication, Spartacus’ men set about slaying the captives, who were wailing with fear. A few muttered prayers to their gods, and a couple spat curses over their shoulders at their executioners. It made no difference. With terrible soughing sounds, gladii sliced through the flesh in their backs to emerge, crimson-tipped, from their chests and bellies. A couple of thrusts were enough to inflict mortal wounds. Spartacus’ men shoved their victims off their blades and set upon the last prisoners. The Romans toppled in twos and threes into the ditch, where they twitched and moaned as they bled out. It was over fast.
‘Bring the next lot!’ ordered Spartacus.
‘Spartacus, you whoreson!’ yelled a voice from the ramparts. ‘By the gods, you’ll suffer a thousand deaths for this.’
Shouts of agreement rang out all along the parapet.
‘Go fuck your mother! If you even had one,’ roared Spartacus. ‘At least we’re giving them a swift end.’
His soldiers whooped and cheered.
‘That’s something you won’t have, or my name’s not Gnaeus Servilius Caepio!’
An alarm bell began to toll in Spartacus’ mind. ‘What are you doing here, old man?’
‘Not much. Polishing my sword. Making sure that the legion I guided up here last night is ready to repel your attack.’
Spartacus’ heart thumped in his chest. Had the spy somehow got word to Crassus, or was Caepio just trying to put the fear of the gods into his troops? He glanced at the nearest men and was angered to see the first traces of panic in their eyes. ‘You’re lying, Caepio! I know you are.’
‘Am I? Why don’t you climb up here and see what awaits you then?’ retorted the centurion.
‘We’ll do that. After the ditches have been levelled,’ Spartacus announced loudly. The next group of prisoners shuffled into view. ‘Kill them! Quickly!’ He moved to the second ditch, making sure that it was also being filled, and gauging the mood of his soldiers there. He was angered to see that Caepio’s words had also affected them. The idea he had considered was required. He ordered one from the last group of prisoners to be spared. The final captive, quaking with fear, was forced by the Scythians to walk with Spartacus as he returned to the first of his cohorts. They were waiting some two hundred paces from the wall — the outer limit of accurate catapult range. They stood silently, three cohorts wide, with their centurions in the front ranks. Behind them, the densely packed soldiers extended for more than a mile. He would have had them spread out further, but the beech trees prevented it.
The distance hadn’t been enough to mask Caepio’s voice, Spartacus noted sourly. The front cohorts had clearly heard what he’d said too. There was no chanting of his name, no clashing of weapons off shields. Those who were holding ladders looked less than enthusiastic. Few soldiers would meet his eye. The officers he could see were scowling, or reprimanding their men.
Steely resolve took hold of him. It was time to stiffen his troops’ morale with a savage demonstration of what they could all expect. If he didn’t, their attack was doomed before it even began. He drew his sica and began walking along the face of the cohorts. Atheas and Taxacis followed, shoving the prisoner before them. ‘What’s my name?’ Spartacus shouted.
‘Spar-ta-cus!’ cried a voice he recognised.
He gave Marcion a tight nod. ‘That’s right. I want to hear it again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ Many more men joined in this time.
He strode on, stabbing his sword into the grey, clammy air. ‘Again!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
‘That’s more like it.’ He bestowed a wintry smile on the nearest soldiers.
Up and down he went, until all three cohorts had seen him. He returned to the centre of the line. ‘Bring the cross! Now!’
Men gaped at him, and the prisoner’s face went grey with fear.
Orders rang out; led by an officer, half a dozen soldiers, Marcion and Zeuxis among them, broke away from their positions and scurried off to the side. They soon returned. Marcion and a pair of his companions were carrying two lengths of roughly carved timber that had been prepared the night before. The longer piece had had an iron hook hammered into one end. The others were carrying mallets, a set of wooden steps, lengths of rope and bags of nails.
‘Put it up thirty paces out there,’ commanded Spartacus. ‘Get a move on!’
His men hurried to a spot opposite him. Fastening several ropes to the longer of the two pieces of wood, they pulled it upright. The steps were moved in close, and two soldiers began hammering the timber into the ground. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The legionary’s mouth worked in silent terror.
Soon the vertical post had been pounded in to the depth of a man’s forearm.
Spartacus gestured at the prisoner. ‘Strip him naked. Then take him out and crucify him.’
‘I’m a citizen! Please! You can’t do this to me!’ screeched the Roman as his tunic and undergarment were ripped off.
‘Bullshit! You’re identical to every man here!’ roared Spartacus, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You eat and drink, breathe, sleep and shit the same as us. This punishment is no different to what your kind would do to us.’ He scanned his men’s faces. ‘Do you hear me? This is what you can expect if we don’t break out today.’
Yelling at the top of his voice, the legionary was hauled out to the vertical post and forced down on to what would be the crosspiece. A soldier knelt on each of his arms, holding him so that his wrists and hands were exposed. The officer in charge glanced at Spartacus.
‘Get on with it!’
A barked order, and Zeuxis touched a long iron nail to the point where the bones of the legionary’s right arm met those of the wrist. The prisoner began gibbering in fear, praying to the every god in the pantheon. Zeuxis raised his mallet high, and without hesitation, brought it down with all his strength. ‘This is for Gaius,’ he hissed. A shriek of indescribable pain shredded the air, but the mallet came down again and again. Marcion looked away, but Zeuxis didn’t stop until the nail was flush with the legionary’s flesh. The captive’s screams reached a new pitch as the same process was repeated with his left wrist.
Spartacus studied his men, and was pleased to see how shocked and revolted they looked. The message had to sink in. If it didn’t, they were all damned. Angry shouts carried from the wall. The Romans’ blood would be up, but that couldn’t be helped.
Lapping a rope around the hook at the top of the vertical post, his soldiers fastened it around both ends of the crosspiece and then hauled the crucified legionary up until his feet came off the ground. He roared in agony as his arms took the strain of his body weight. The steps were moved in front of him, and a number of nails were pounded in over his shoulders, fixing the crosspiece to the vertical length of timber.
Without ado, his left leg was seized and his foot nailed to the cross. He kicked frantically with his free leg, striking Zeuxis in the face. Cursing, he heaved the man’s right foot sideways on to the timber and hammered in another nail through his heel. It was too much for the legionary. ‘Mother! Please, Mother,’ he babbled. ‘Mother, help me!’ Piss began leaking from his shrunken member, spattering Zeuxis. He leaped back in disgust as his fellows roared with laughter. Even Marcion’s lips twitched.
Zeuxis grabbed the mallet again and stepped up to the cross. ‘Can I break his legs, sir?’
‘No. Leave him,’ ordered Spartacus. ‘I want the bastard alive for every man to see as he marches by.’
With a disappointed look, Zeuxis stepped away. Marcion wondered if it would have been better to let him take his revenge. No one deserved to die in such pain, not even a Roman. But the decision wasn’t down to him. He was just a foot soldier.
‘Back to our place in the line,’ hissed their officer. They hurried to obey.
Spartacus turned his back on the crucified legionary and began pacing along the front of the cohorts again. ‘Watch his suffering, you maggots, and learn! It could take two or three days for the dog’s pain to end, perhaps even longer. Is that the death you want? Do you want to end your life begging the Romans to break your legs so that you can die quicker?’
No one had the balls to speak.
Spartacus shoved his face into that of the nearest soldier. Their helmets knocked off each other. ‘Answer me,
