‘They’d need to chop down the entire forest to have enough wood. What did they use?’
‘Mules, sir. They didn’t have enough, though, so they led out about a hundred of our lads whom they’d taken prisoner. The poor bastards were executed in cold blood and then their bodies were thrown on top of the beasts, like so much carrion. It was as bad as the Esquiline Hill, sir,’ he said, referring to the place outside Rome where the corpses of slaves and criminals were disposed of alongside household rubbish and the carcases of animals.
‘That is monstrous, but Caepio didn’t send you here to tell me that. Did their attack come immediately afterwards?’
‘I wish it had, sir, but that savage Spartacus wanted to make an even bigger statement. He’d held one of our boys back in order to crucify him in front of his own men. The fuckers loved that.’
‘Are there no lows that these slaves will hold back from?’ Crassus was furious now. ‘So they attacked after that?’
‘Indeed, sir. They came on hard and fast.’
‘The artillerymen must have wreaked havoc.’ Crassus was pleased by the centurion’s nod of agreement. ‘Did the scum break and run as they did yesterday?’
Another dart of the eyes. ‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘ Not exactly,’ repeated Crassus.
The centurion straightened his shoulders. ‘Between the artillery, the slingers and the men’s javelins, they must have lost hundreds of men. It seemed to make no difference, sir. They were like wild beasts, or demons of the underworld.’
Crassus’ nostrils pinched white with fury. ‘What are you telling me, centurion? Has the wall been breached?’
‘It hadn’t when I left, sir, but things weren’t looking good. Caepio sent me to inform you, and to ask for reinforcements.’ The centurion hesitated, but didn’t have the courage to remind Crassus that it was he who had elected not to send any fresh soldiers up to the ridge after the previous day’s encounter. ‘He said to say that he would hold on as long as he could, sir.’
Crassus’ jaw clenched and unclenched. He clutched his fury to him as he would a lover, using it to fuel his loathing of Spartacus. He had underestimated the Thracian’s determination. It had been a reasonable decision not to send fresh troops to the ridge, he told himself. There had been no word from the spy. Besides, what enemy would mount such a daring attack so soon after a heavy defeat? Spartacus would, and did, his inner critic shot back. And now he had no chance of responding. Any reinforcements sent up the mountain would arrive too late. The battle would have been won or lost, the wall held or breached. Crassus knew in his gut that it would be the latter. Caepio, his best officer, would probably be among the dead. Even worse, his chances of ending the campaign before Pompey arrived had just vanished into thin air. The letter asking for Lucullus’ recall would have to be sent to Rome with all speed. Damn Spartacus to Hades and back!
Crassus rubbed his temples, trying to decide what to do. Carry on, he decided. ‘Have two of the legates assemble their legions and march them to the ridge. There may still be slaves trying to get across the wall.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion didn’t argue, which told Crassus that he also thought Spartacus had escaped. ‘Which ones, sir?’
‘I don’t fucking care! The remaining legates are to have their men strike camp. We march as soon as possible.’
‘Where are we heading, sir?’
‘Where do you think?’ shouted Crassus. ‘After fucking Spartacus of course!’
When the Romans had been driven back from a large enough section of the wall, Spartacus had had several thousand of his troops continue engaging them. Some of his soldiers had been ordered to set fire to the ballistae while the rest had begun tearing a hole in the fortifications. It wasn’t long before a gap wide enough for ten men to pass through abreast had been made.
Spartacus had immediately sent a messenger to Egbeo, ordering him to bring his cohort forward. The moment that had been done, and he had seen Ariadne and Maron were safe, he’d sent word for the rest of the army to advance. It had been an orderly enough procedure, oddly accompanied by the sound of fighting to either side, where the outnumbered Romans were retreating further.
It had been a wise decision to have the remainder of his men trail the footsteps of those who would lead the attack. In little more than two hours, the vast majority of his forces had crossed the wall. Even Castus and Gannicus had made it, skulking by without so much as a nod or wave. When word reached him that Roman reinforcements were making their way up to the ridge, only half the cavalry remained without the enemy fortifications. Cursing, Spartacus had ordered the mounts that could not be brought through in time to be set free. Riders were worth more to him than horses, more of which might be captured as they marched. The myriad of camp followers — tradesmen, whores, itinerant priests and hucksters of every hue who had trailed after his troops for months — were absent. Spartacus had ordered them, on pain of death, to stay behind. Their fate did not concern him. It was time to move fast.
Leaving five thousand men under the command of Pulcher and Navio to hold the passage to their rear, Spartacus had ordered his army to move out. They had taken the mountaintop road that snaked its way along Bruttium’s spine to join the Via Annia some fifty miles to the north. At first, it had been understandable that Castus and Gannicus had done the same thing. There were legions on both coastal plains but none at this altitude. After three days, however, Spartacus’ patience had worn thin.
He had wandered the camp each night, assessing his soldiers’ spirits, and had seen plenty of Gauls talking to men by their fires. They had sloped off at his approach, but there was little doubt that they returned when he’d gone. Much as he tried, he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Castus and Gannicus’ motives were obvious. Morale had been boosted by their audacious escape, but memories of the pirates’ failure to appear and of the defeat suffered at the wall were still raw. Men were also unhappy because they were hungrier than ever. Until they renewed their stores of grain, Spartacus had ordered that everyone was to receive one-third of his normal daily ration.
‘Those Gaulish bastards are like vultures picking over a corpse,’ he ranted to Ariadne. ‘They want to win over as many soldiers as possible before they split off.’
‘You can’t stop them.’
‘Oh yes, I fucking can! I’ll take a cohort over to their tents and kill the pair of them! It’s what I should have done a long time ago.’
Ariadne’s temper flared. ‘Do you think their followers would take that lying down? You’d set the entire army at each other’s throats. Crassus would piss his pants when he heard that you had done his job for him.’ Spartacus glowered at her, but she was determined to say her piece. ‘Do you really want to keep men who are so easily persuaded to leave?’
‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.
‘What do you care if Castus’ and Gannicus’ followers talk to the faint-hearts then?’ He didn’t answer, which encouraged her. ‘We know now that Crassus’ soldiers are wary of attacking us, but we didn’t at first. It’s been no harm having the Gauls at hand while the legions were only a few miles behind us.’
‘So I’m supposed to do nothing while they spread their poison?’
‘Did I say that? You need to be seen by as many of the troops as possible. Men love to see their commander appear among them. Your words help to give them courage. You know that as well as I do.’
Brooding, Spartacus stared into the fire. He knew that Ariadne was right, but that didn’t douse the fury he felt towards the Gauls. After all he’d done for them, this was how they repaid him? He longed to crucify both men, to smash their legs and arms in multiple places, to stand over them as they cried for their mothers and pleaded to die. Like the legionary on the ridge. But he wouldn’t do it. Any short-term satisfaction he gained from such an action would surely be lost by the benefit gained by Crassus.
As if that whoreson needed any more advantage handed to him, he thought grimly. The cost of breaking out of the toe had been high. Nearly a thousand men had been killed, perhaps twice that number wounded. These were in addition to the eleven thousand lives lost during the first, failed assault. About half of the cavalry’s horses and a similar number of mules had been left behind. Of the sixty thousand or so soldiers who had hoped to sail to Sicily, about forty-six thousand able-bodied men remained. And that was before Castus and Gannicus were taken into account. They wouldn’t stick around for much longer. As soon as they reached the fertile lands of Campania and Samnium, Spartacus reckoned, they would leave.
There would be no fixed battles from now on if he could help it. Crassus’ soldiers now outnumbered his. The
