Crassus was not interested in the living. He was here to glory in what his legionaries had done. He took immense satisfaction that almost none of the bodies were Roman. So far, there had been perhaps a dozen. The victory here had not just been decisive, he thought triumphantly, it had been total! An outstanding example of how the legions could win a battle. Proof of the effectiveness of discipline, and the deadliness of scutum and gladius.
As far as the eye could see lay men who had lost legs or arms; or who had taken a blade in the guts; or who had suffered wounds to their lower legs or ankles, easy targets on men without shields, and been finished off with thrusts to the belly or chest. The ones who had died most easily, Crassus reflected, were those who had had a gladius rammed into their throat in the textbook manoeuvre taught to all new recruits. Open-mouthed, blank-eyed, they lay; the gaping wounds under their chins a mark of his legionaries’ good training. Crassus could hear the centurions repeating over and over: ‘Ram the scutum boss at your opponent’s face. When he pulls back, stick the fucker in the neck. Twist the blade to make sure, then tug it out. Job done. Man down.’
Finally, he began to see Roman casualties. It was inevitable, he supposed. Thousands of soldiers cannot stand face to face with their enemies, hammering blows at one another, without suffering some losses. Yet his men had not broken and run as so many of their comrades had done in the two years prior. Crassus knew this from the evidence before him, but also because he had watched the entire battle from a vantage point on the slopes of Mount Camalatrum, the first of the peaks that rolled off to the east. It had been an incredible sight, watching the hordes of slaves sweeping forward at his regimented cohorts. Their ranks had been swept by bolts and stones from his artillery, and then by slingshot bullets and javelins, but their charge had not checked. The crash when they had struck his men’s lines had reverberated through the air like a thunderclap. Yet the slaves had not broken through. Instead, they had washed off the shield wall like waves off a rock. ‘How many legionaries did we lose?’
‘Just over three hundred killed, sir,’ answered Rufus quickly.
‘Injured?’
‘Two hundred men and fifteen officers will never fight again, sir. About twice that number suffered minor injuries.’
‘And the number of enemy dead?’ Crassus had been told the figure already, but he had to hear it again.
‘At a rough count, sir, something over twelve thousand, sir,’ said Rufus with great satisfaction.
‘So the enemy lost about forty men for each of ours, or my mathematics isn’t what it was.’
‘That’d be about right, sir.’
He glanced around, smiling. ‘We can live with casualties like that, eh? Especially when five eagles and more than two dozen standards have been recaptured in the process!’
His officers muttered in agreement.
I can lose a damn sight more men than that, thought Crassus ruthlessly, just as long as I do it before the others get here. There had been no recent word of Lucullus’ progress towards Italy from Thrace, but the man would certainly arrive within the next two months. And unless the gods had done him a huge favour, Pompey’s legions would reach them within a matter of weeks. Curse him! Time was of the utmost. Spartacus had to be brought to bay, and fast.
‘Were many prisoners taken?’
‘Three or four score, sir,’ said Rufus. ‘Perhaps three times that number got away.’
‘Let them go.’
Rufus goggled. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard me! They are to be released.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. They’re vermin, who deserve nothing but a cross. Some of them might try to rejoin Spartacus.’
‘That’s precisely what I want them to do, fool. A few slaves less or more in the rabble we fight is nothing to me. I want Spartacus to hear of this defeat as soon as possible.’
‘A shrewd move, sir,’ said Quinctius smoothly; behind him, Rufus coloured again.
Crassus’ gaze turned to the north. He wasn’t a man for continually asking things of the gods, but at times, it felt right. Great Jupiter, All Powerful Mars, I ask you to help me find Spartacus. Soon.
Spartacus stood outside his tent with a blanket around his shoulders. It was his favourite time of the day — just after dawn. To the east, the sky was marked a vivid pink colour by the rising sun. Tiny trickles of smoke rose from the fires that had not gone out overnight. It was late enough to be light, but early enough that most men were still asleep. In the distance, a mule brayed softly at one of its companions. Apart from that, the huge camp was quiet.
Spartacus’ thoughts had only one place to go. Crassus and his legions. He did not like retreating from the enemy, not without a battle. Retreat? That was what men who’d been beaten did. Yet again, he wished that his assassination attempt on Crassus had succeeded. The man was turning out to be a half-decent tactician. Three days before, Spartacus had been delighted when his arrival had thwarted Crassus’ intended ambush of Castus and Gannicus’ forces. Yet his opponent’s response the following day had stolen all his pleasure.
A daring feint made by Crassus’ horse — a series of stinging attacks followed by measured withdrawals — had fooled first Spartacus’ cavalry commanders and then he himself into thinking that Crassus wanted to fight both them and the Gauls simultaneously. They had pursued the Roman horsemen with haste for some miles. It had been nothing but a ruse, engineered so that Crassus’ full strength could be deployed against Castus and Gannicus. By the time Spartacus had realised, it had been far too late to think about turning his army around. Choose the ground you fight on; do not let it be chosen for you, went the old maxim, and he stuck to that with religious fervency. He hawked and spat. Forty-odd thousand legionaries against thirteen thousand slaves? Such an unequal contest would only ever have one result.
His presumption had been proved correct the previous evening, when a few dozen survivors had straggled into his camp. They had been brought straight to him, bloodied and battered; he’d heard the sorry story from their cracked lips. The Gauls and their men had died well enough, he thought bitterly. They had fought right to the end. ‘What fucking use is that, though?’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’re all dead. If the fools had stayed with me, they would still be alive.’ And my army wouldn’t have been reduced in size by a quarter.
By now, his entire army would have heard of the crushing Roman victory. The shocking news would have passed from tent to tent faster than the plague, and would have a profound effect on his men’s morale. The same would be true of Crassus’ legionaries, but in reverse. They would now be raring to confront his soldiers, and with good reason. While the odds weren’t as badly stacked against him and his men as they had been for the Gauls, Spartacus was still chary of an open battle against Crassus. If it had to happen, the ground had to be right. Otherwise he might as well lay down his arms.
There were other problems to consider too. Crassus’ close proximity and Spartacus’ need to keep his army on the move meant that few slaves were coming to join them. Then there was Pompey. How soon would he bring his legions into the equation? Say a month at the earliest, he thought darkly, three months at the outside. Not long. Scarcely enough time to recruit and train ten thousand men, let alone five times that number. With an army sixteen legions strong, the Romans would hunt them down with ease. It won’t matter where we go. They will find us.
‘Can’t sleep?’
He looked up in surprise. ‘Carbo. I’m just enjoying the quiet. What are you doing here?’
‘I had a poor night’s rest, decided to go hunting. I wondered if you’d come?’
A weary smile. ‘Another time, maybe.’
Carbo glanced at Spartacus, and then looked away. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what will happen when Pompey arrives.’
This is the real reason he’s here. ‘Things will get a lot worse, that’s what will happen.’
‘Maybe we should fight Crassus now, before Pompey arrives?’ Carbo ventured.
‘We might have to,’ came the grim reply. ‘But we need a battlefield that would suit us, and I haven’t seen too many of those in the last couple of days. Somewhere narrow is vital, where Crassus wouldn’t be able to use his superior numbers to flank us. Or a good spot for an ambush. That would do.’
Carbo did not know how to say what he’d been brooding about all night, so he just came out with it. Spartacus might think he was mad, but he had to try. ‘Have you considered Brundisium?’
‘The town in the south-east?’
‘That’s the one. From what I know, it’s not that well defended. There’s no need for it to be. We could easily take it.’
