or by the Rider, I’ll do the same to you!’
‘NO, SIR!’
Spartacus stepped back. ‘That’s one man who knows what he wants at least. What about the rest of you? Is that the end you want?’
‘NO, SIR!’ they yelled.
He walked for fifty paces, eyeballing every soldier that he passed. ‘Are you fucking sure?’
‘YES!’ they roared.
On he went, defying any man to answer him back, to look in any way uncertain. ‘Sure? Sure?’
‘YES!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ yelled Marcion. He glared at Zeuxis, who joined in.
This time, the chant was taken up with gusto.
Finally. Spartacus stepped up and clashed his sica off a man’s shield boss. ‘Louder!’
The soldier’s companions quickly copied him. So too did the men behind, and to either side. Clash. Clash. Clash. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Soon the racket was deafening.
Spartacus let them shout for some time. He wanted every soldier in the army to hear the noise, to feel the blood rush in his ears, the battle rage begin to stir. When he saw the confidence appearing in men’s faces, he knew it was time. A signal, and the waiting trumpeters sounded their instruments, a strident call to arms that no one could mistake.
The fanfare was met by an equally forceful set of blasts from behind the wall.
Spartacus hastened back to his position with the Scythians, who slotted in to his left and right. Atheas took a ladder from someone. A shield was handed to Spartacus; grounding it, he rested it against his body. He glanced to either side. Atheas and Taxacis gave him their usual feral grins; the men beyond looked tense but ready. ‘On my command, advance at the walk! Open order!’ His words went echoing both ways down the line. Spartacus took hold of the brass centurion’s whistle that hung from a thong around his neck and stuck it between his lips.
Peeeeeeep! Spartacus emptied his lungs.
The shrill sound repeated itself through the cohorts.
‘ADVANCE!’ Spartacus walked forward with an even tread. On either side, his soldiers matched his pace. His gaze travelled along the enemy ramparts. The catapults would start shooting at any moment. So too would the ballistae. In the Romans’ eyes, the more bolts and stones that could be launched before he and his men arrived, the better.
Sure enough, he heard the familiar noise of thick gut strings being ratcheted back, and the thump as stones were loaded into place. Next, the indistinct sound of officers’ voices, followed by a shouted order. ‘Close order! Raise shields!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Keep moving.’
All around him, men moved shoulder to shoulder. If they were in the front rank, they lifted their scuta up, so that the curved shields protected them from eye level to their ankles. Those behind heaved theirs up to protect their heads. Only those who were carrying ladders remained unprotected, needing both their hands to carry their awkward burdens.
They drew near to the crucified legionary, whose legs were now soiled with urine and faeces. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning softly, ‘Motherrr…’ He kept shifting position, letting his bloodied arms take the strain, and when that was too much, trying to stand on his nailed feet. Poor bastard, thought Spartacus. He’s served his purpose. He was going to slide his sica into the man’s belly as he passed, end his suffering. But he didn’t. His troops had to witness the savagery of such a death. Spartacus threw up a heartfelt prayer. I ask for any end but that. Grimly, he moved on.
The Romans let them approach for another ten paces. Then, with a rush, the air between Spartacus’ soldiers and the wall filled with missiles. Stones the size of a man’s head. Metal-tipped arrows the length of a man’s forearm. Slingshot bullets smaller than a hen’s egg. Whoosh. Whirr. Whizz. They covered the distance in a frightening blur of movement.
Great Rider, let Caepio be lying about the legion. Let my casualties be few, Spartacus prayed. We have to succeed here.
With loud crashes, the stones landed. Their effect was devastating. Whatever they hit, be it man or scutum, was struck as if by the fist of a god. Shields were smashed in two, ribs splintered into fragments, and limbs and skulls crushed. The rocks’ force was so great that often the soldier behind was also killed, his final moment a screaming terror as his comrade’s head burst apart before his eyes. The bolts were no less lethal, slicing through shields, mail and flesh with ease. Gutting the first man, they drove on, wounding others grievously or just lodging in another scutum, forcing the bearer to discard it.
The only consolation during the barrage was that the slingshot bullets were far less dangerous than the other missiles. For the most part, they clattered and banged off the soldiers’ shields like massive hailstones off a roof during a summer storm. On occasion, they shot through the little gaps between scuta, making men yelp in pain as their mail shirts took the brunt of the strike. More unlucky individuals were hit in the face, suffering fractured cheekbones or, if the clay hit their foreheads, a mortal blow.
‘Close the gaps! Move on!’ yelled Spartacus. He blew his whistle again. If they faltered at all, men would lose heart.
Stepping over the wounded and dying, they walked on. It was a hundred paces to the wall, he judged. The trees had thinned out, exposing them entirely to the enemy barrage. The legionaries manning the catapults were working at blinding speed. Scores more bolts and stones came humming towards them. Soon the javelins would come scudding in too. It was now, or never, he thought.
‘Cohort to my left, cross at the first space over the ditch. Cohort to my right, take the third. My cohort takes the middle one. CHARGE!’ Trusting that the officers leading the following units would remember to advance towards the final two crossing points, Spartacus began to run. As always, he counted his steps. It helped to keep him focused, to ignore the sounds of men going down screaming, the curses of their comrades as they tripped over the unexpected obstacle, the prayers of soldiers trying to conquer their fear.
Eighty. A shower of javelins arced over them in a graceful pattern. Reaching their zenith, they sped downwards, their barbed points promising injury or death to those who were unprotected. Spartacus raised his shield so that his head was protected, and prayed that a catapult stone didn’t take him in the belly instead. Seventy. His stomach was a balled, painful knot, and there was a tang of fear in the salty sweat that ran down his face and into his open, gasping mouth. With an almighty bang, a pilum hit his scutum. The barbed head punched through, missing Spartacus’ helmet by a finger’s breadth. He dropped the useless shield with a curse. Fifty steps. Run. Run. The Great Rider’s shield is before me, protecting me from harm.
Forty paces to the wall. There were gaps in the line to either side of him now, but Spartacus did not order them closed. Everything was moving far too fast. What mattered was reaching the base of the Roman wall, and getting out of the withering hail of missiles. They’d have a moment’s respite before more stones were dropped on their heads, but that would be enough time to encourage his men to swarm up their ladders.
They reached the filled-in ditch. Because of the prisoners who had been dumped in last, it looked as if it contained only corpses. Except, as Spartacus realised, they weren’t all dead yet. Here and there amid the careless sprawl of bloodied men, an arm or a leg moved, a voice called out for a comrade, or for someone to end the pain. Even if he had been inclined to provide the killing stroke, there was no time. In two heartbeats, he had pounded over the soft ‘ground’ and was tearing across the forest floor again.
Twenty paces. They had passed under the lower limit of the catapults’ arc of fire. The Roman slingers had redoubled their efforts. So many of Spartacus’ men had dropped their shields that their work was now easy. It was the same for the legionaries still with pila. Despite this, Spartacus’ front rank, which had been eighty men wide, was ragged but unbroken. ‘Ladders at the ready!’ he yelled, increasing his speed to a sprint. He sensed the Scythians matching his pace. Encouraged, the soldiers to either side swarmed forward, screaming insults at the defenders atop the wall. Ten paces. Five, and then Spartacus slammed into the fortification’s wooden stakes. ‘Ladder!’
Atheas was already by his right shoulder, shoving the ladder’s foot into the ground, leaning it against the wall, supporting it, gesturing at him to start climbing.
Spartacus eyed the remaining scuta held by his men. Things would be far worse on the rampart without them, but there was no way they could safely ascend carrying such a weight. ‘Leave your shields!’ he shouted.
