be darting in and out like clouds of mosquitoes, annoying the legionaries, preventing them from forming up properly. Panicking them a little.’
‘Then you’ll advance?’
He nodded. ‘Our first charge will be the one that counts. It nearly always is. With the Rider’s help, we’ll break through. The cavalry will be working their flanks, and I hope to roll the bastards up until their backs are against the river. That’s when they’ll break, and the slaughter will start.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll be back before dark.’
Ariadne forced herself to return the smile, but she wanted to break down and cry. She had never thought to find a man she could love, but then she had met Spartacus. Now, after all they had been through, this might be the end. Her pain was exquisite, but she made herself speak. ‘What happens if you don’t come back?’
His eyes met hers without wavering. ‘Know that I will have died fighting. All my wounds will be on my front.’
A sob escaped her lips at last. She moved forward, into the welcome circle of his arms. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘I have to, Ariadne, you know that. This is the most important battle of my life. My men need me.’
Your men, it’s always your fucking men! Ariadne wanted to rage. What about me and Maron? She didn’t say a word, however. There was no point.
There was silence between them for a long time. They stood, savouring the warmth of the other’s flesh, the rhythm of each other’s breathing.
Great Rider, Spartacus prayed. I ask that you watch over Ariadne and my son, especially if I should fall today. Dionysus, look after this woman, your loyal priestess, and her baby, who will learn to follow your ways.
Ariadne was offering up similar, fervent prayers. All too soon, she felt Spartacus’ grip fall away. Stricken, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. ‘Come back to me.’
He smiled, more gently than she could ever remember. ‘If I can, I will. I swear it. Atheas and a man called Aventianus will watch over you here. If the battle goes badly, they are to take you and Maron to safety. There are bags of coin under my spare clothes, enough to last you for many years if you’re careful.’
She nodded, unable to speak.
He walked to the cot and scooped up Maron, who stirred and then woke. He scrunched up his eyes and stretched. Enfolding him in his arms, Spartacus rocked his son to and fro for several moments. Maron soon settled. ‘Grow up to be strong and healthy. Honour your mother, and my memory. Remember that Rome is your enemy,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘Know that I will always be watching over you.’
He handed Maron to Ariadne. Tears trickled from her closed eyelids as he embraced them both. Ariadne did not open her eyes as Spartacus let go, because she could not bear to see him leave. Instead, she buried her face in the crook of Maron’s neck, letting his baby smell wash over her.
‘Goodbye, wife.’ He spoke from some distance away.
Panic ripped through Ariadne. In the dreadful eventuality that he did not return, she did not want his last memory to be of her avoiding his gaze. Nor that hers would be of letting him walk away without a last look at his face. She lifted her head, dabbed away the tears. ‘Goodbye. I will see you after it’s over.’
He smiled. ‘You will.’
And then he was gone.
Ariadne’s tears began to flow in earnest. Gone was the composed priestess that most people knew. In its place was a woman who had just sent her husband into battle, perhaps for the last time. Although Maron was in her arms, she had never felt more alone.
The sun had emerged from behind the massif to their rear and was bathing the valley by the time Spartacus’ troops were ready. He had assembled them in two strong lines, more than thirty cohorts wide rather than the typical Roman triplex acies pattern that Crassus’ legionaries were adopting five hundred odd paces opposite. His attack, a gamble, required the maximum force his men could muster. He had therefore placed his best soldiers, the ones who possessed mail shirts and Roman shields and weapons, in the centre with him. It was where the fighting would be hardest, bloodiest, deadliest.
Beyond these eight cohorts slightly more than half of the men were as well armed. Of the rest, few had helmets. Some had shields; others had mail. Their weapons were swords, spears and even axes. He hoped that what they lacked in equipment, they would make up in bravery. Egbeo and Pulcher would exhort the best from them, he was sure of that. On the flanks, his cavalry waited, hundreds of riders on shaggy mountain ponies. They didn’t look that fearsome, but Spartacus had seen what they’d done to the Romans on numerous occasions.
Normally, he’d have been cursing the fact that less than half of his original force of horsemen remained. Today it didn’t matter, because there wasn’t room on either side for more riders to manoeuvre. His cavalry’s role would be vital; he had given the officers in charge detailed instructions on what to do. He wanted them to act like Hannibal’s famed Numidian horsemen, whose tactic of attacking and withdrawing had so often led enemies to break ranks, thereby exposing themselves to danger. If his cavalry could replicate that even to a small extent, Egbeo and Pulcher would capitalise on the advantage to its fullest, which in turn would increase the likelihood of the Roman flanks folding. And if that happened, Crassus’ legions would break.
As he’d supervised the men, Spartacus had kept half an eye on the struggle around the enemy trenches and half an eye on what Crassus’ soldiers were doing. Thus far, the legions were making no move to advance. Like him, Crassus was merely marshalling his forces in case the battle proper began. Spartacus began to give the clashes on the flanks his full attention. The two bouts were some distance away, making it difficult to see what was happening. It was clear, however, that neither Egbeo nor Pulcher had succeeded in driving the Romans back far, if at all. The figures of fighting men ebbed to and fro, accompanied by the usual clatter of weapons, shouts and screams. ‘What the hell’s going on down there?’
‘The Romans have brought up their catapults, sir,’ said Navio. ‘Listen.’
Spartacus pricked his ears. After a moment, he heard the familiar twangs that signalled the release of bolts and stones. The noise was coming from both Egbeo’s and Pulcher’s positions. He hoped that Crassus didn’t have too many of the deadly machines. Suddenly, his attention was drawn by a large formation of troops marching towards the enemy’s left flank. His eyes swivelled, seeing a similar force moving in the direction of the right flank. Crassus was reinforcing the men in the trenches, not ordering them to withdraw. His decision had just been made for him. ‘We advance. Now.’
‘The whole army?’ asked Carbo nervously.
‘Yes.’ He pointed down the slope. ‘Look at those cohorts. We’ve got to move now, or Egbeo and Pulcher’s troops will get massacred.’ He glanced at them both. ‘Ready for this?’
They both gave him a grim nod.
‘Egbeo and Pulcher will be up to their eyeballs with what’s going on. Someone else needs to lead their men down there. Navio, I want you to take charge of the left flank.’
Navio saluted. He exchanged a quick glance with Carbo and then trotted off at the double.
Spartacus called for a messenger. ‘The most senior centurion on the right flank is to take command there. The order to advance will come very soon.’ The man saluted and sprinted away. ‘Bring me my stallion!’ cried Spartacus.
A soldier who’d been waiting off to one side hurried forward, leading the horse.
Beckoning, Spartacus walked out some thirty paces from his troops.
Gods, but he looks magnificent, thought Carbo. Spartacus’ Phrygian helmet glittered in the sun, drawing everyone’s attention. His mail shirt had been burnished until it shone like silver, and on his left hip sat his sica, the blade that had led them to victory so many times before.
Spartacus cupped a hand to his lips. ‘You see this magnificent beast?’
There were puzzled nods of agreement. ‘We see him,’ shouted a voice. ‘And we all wish that we had one too!’
This raised a few laughs.
‘In Thrace, a white horse is regarded as a mount fit for a king. They are to be honoured, and treated with respect. It is why I picked this stallion to ride. He has served me well, but today I will use him for another purpose. He is to be a sacrifice to the gods! To ask them for victory at any cost.’
The shock among his troops was palpable. This was a powerful rite indeed. Men whispered to one another, and the word began to spread.
Spartacus smiled. This had been his intent. ‘Instead of riding into battle, I would fight beside you, my
