‘But you said-’
‘I know what I said,’ she retorted. ‘That doesn’t mean I saw it. It’s true that he’ll die in a matter of days anyway. One day. A hundred days, a thousand, what does it matter? I didn’t state the number.’
‘Did the god really send you a message?’
She glared at him. Her anger at Castus had overflowed at last. Spartacus happened to be in the way. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to make men think that the gods have decided their path. As when you told the soldiers that you were marching to the Alps, and I said it was Dionysus’ will.’
‘You made that up?’
‘Of course I did. Don’t tell me that you didn’t have some inkling that I might have. Most likely you didn’t ask because it suited you to think that your mission had divine backing.’
He looked taken aback, and then angry. ‘And your interpretation of my dream with the snake? Did you invent that too?’
‘No,’ she said, sorry now that her temper had got the better of her. ‘I would never lie about something so serious.’
His eyes probed hers. Spartacus was relieved to see no sign of deceit. He probably would have acted in the same way, but thinking that his mission had divine approval had helped to fuel his convictions. He hoped that her falsehood hadn’t angered the gods. That possibility was one more thing he didn’t need weighing down on his shoulders.
A doubt nagged at him. ‘Have you seen ought about my future lately?’
An image of Egbeo on the cross flashed before Ariadne’s eyes. She’d had the nightmare enough times — thankfully, though, not in recent weeks — to place some store in it. Spartacus hadn’t been in it, but that didn’t mean he would be safe if the horror came to pass. Should she tell him? Her gut answered at once. No. It took all of Ariadne’s self-control to meet his gaze. ‘Sadly, not a thing,’ she lied.
His trusting grin relieved her. ‘Good. I’m not sure I want to know what the gods hold in store for me. Better to make my own way in life rather than always be looking over my shoulder to see what might happen.’
‘You do that anyway!’
A lopsided grin twisted his face. ‘I suppose I do. And you love me for it, don’t you?’ He pulled her to him, and she did not resist. He was right, she thought, relishing the feel of his body against hers. Despite his faults, she loved him. It was why she would stand by him, come what might.
Chapter XVII
A week later…
Northern Lucania, near the town of Paestum
Followed by a gaggle of his senior officers and an escort of legionaries, Crassus had come to survey the battlefield. The site was about five miles inland, on a plain below a range of hills that ran eastwards to join the Apennines. The earth was littered with thousands of bodies: bloodied, mangled, mutilated. There was a disquieting order to the dead. Crassus paced slowly to what had been the front of the enemy position. There lay the victims of the artillery volleys. Thousands of acorn-shaped pieces of lead or baked clay dotted the ground here too, the work of his slingers, who could rain down a withering hail of fire from about three hundred paces out. The slingshot bullets had caused few casualties at this distance. Not so the artillery, which had wreaked a terrible slaughter. It was a revolting sight, Crassus reflected, taking care not to get the splattered gore on his red leather boots. There was no dignified way of describing men whose innards had been ripped out by a bolt the length of one’s forearm, or whose flesh had been crushed to a crimson, oozing pulp by a large chunk of rock.
‘Interesting, eh?’ He gestured at an enemy soldier who had been decapitated. The body lay like a puppet with cut strings, a half-circle of scarlet staining the earth around the stump of its neck. There was no sign of its head.
‘What is, sir?’ asked Lucius Quinctius, the officer in charge of his cavalry.
Today, Quinctius was in Crassus’ good books. Rather than rebuke him, therefore, he smiled. ‘Normally, an injury like that would put undisciplined savages to flight. Not today.’
‘It was unusual, sir. A measure of their determination.’
‘Indeed. And you know about determination, Quinctius. You showed real skill in tricking Spartacus earlier today. If your horsemen hadn’t succeeded in making him think that you wanted a fight, matters here could have taken an entirely different course. It was annoying enough yesterday when he arrived just as I was about to crush these slaves.’
‘You do me great honour, sir,’ said Quinctius proudly. ‘Taking Spartacus off on a wild goose chase while you got to grips with this lot was the least that I could do.’ He didn’t mention what had happened to Mummius or his men. If anything, the memory of their fate had been the greatest spur to his efforts.
‘Which way did he go?’ asked Crassus. There had been no word from the spy for days now. The fool had either run away, or was dead. It was annoying, but of little consequence. The man had served his purpose.
‘North, sir.’ Quinctius’ smile was wolfish. ‘They haven’t gone that far either. I had some of my men follow their trail.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ With luck, I will still have defeated him before Pompey gets here.
‘This group had clearly split off from Spartacus’ main force, sir. I wonder why he tried to intervene on their behalf twice?’ asked Quintus Marcius Rufus.
Inbred fool. Crassus threw him a patronising frown. ‘It’s not that odd at all. Imagine that you took a quarter of my strength away, the result of which was that my enemies outnumbered me. In such a situation I’d do my best to win you back, even if I thought you were a useless whoreson.’
A couple of the others hid their smiles, but Rufus flushed as red as his hair. He knew better than to say more. Crassus didn’t care that what had happened the day before wasn’t his fault. The main reason that the enemy had escaped was because Spartacus had mounted a surprise attack and driven the legions away from his former followers. However, Crassus wasn’t going to admit to that. Nor was he about to let Rufus forget his ‘mistake’ in a hurry. The redhead just had to suck on the bitter marrow of it until his general’s attention moved on.
Fortunately for Rufus, Crassus was more interested in today’s triumph and the carnage it had left. They walked on, disturbing the crows which were hopping from one corpse to another, pecking out the men’s eyeballs. Despite the strong sea breeze, a low moaning sound carried through the air — the sound of those still alive, but too weak to move. Some of the officers studied the fallen with revulsion, but Crassus strode ahead, oblivious. ‘After the catapults and ballistae come the pila,’ he mused.
His men’s javelins had accounted for fewer of the slaves’ losses than the artillery. It was easy to see where the first volley had landed. There the ground was covered in peppered shields, but not that many bodies. The second volley of pila had showered down thirty paces on, a rain more lethal than any clouds could emit. A good number of the slaves had not possessed mail shirts; after the fashion of their own kind, many had gone into battle wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. Some were stark naked, carrying only their weapons. As a consequence, the human toll here had been far heavier. Even the smallest slingshot bullet could stave in a man’s skull if it hit the right spot.
Crassus paused by a dead slave who had been struck by no less than three javelins. He pointed to the pilum that had run through the victim’s thigh and pinned him to the earth. ‘This must have hit first.’
‘Poor bastard, he would have known what was coming afterward,’ muttered Quinctius, looking up at the sky. ‘No signs of any of them fleeing, though, sir,’ he added. ‘They continued to advance in good order.’
‘I’ll give them that much,’ admitted Crassus. ‘Outnumbered, without artillery or horse of their own, they didn’t back away from this fight. Even when it came to hand-to-hand combat.’
They moved on, to where the main fighting had taken place. Soon there was barely space to see the ground for the corpses. More scavengers, both animal and human, were at work here. Vultures flapped down awkwardly in ones and twos, their target the men whose bellies or arses were on view. Ripping open these soft areas with their strong beaks, they fought over the purple loops of intestine that came spilling out into the spring air. Peasants of all ages skulked among the dead, rifling for purses or jewellery, even amputating fingers for the rings thereon. They were careful to keep well clear of the large, well-armed party.
