brothers, in the shield wall. I would take every blow that you do. I will bleed with you, and kill Romans beside you. I will stay to the bitter end with you, though my shield be shattered and my blade broken!’
The oath made Carbo shiver, and stirred his passion as never before. The men around him were comrades, whom he would die for, as they would for him. He glanced to either side, seeing the same emotion on others’ faces.
Drawing his dagger, Spartacus stepped up to the horse. Recognising him, it whinnied and nibbled at his arm. ‘Gently, brave one. I thank you for your faithful service. I ask one more thing of you. This will be your finest moment, and give you a rapid journey to the Great Rider’s side. There you will be received with great honour.’ To the soldier, he whispered, ‘Pull out his head.’
With Spartacus rubbing his shoulder, the stallion let the soldier extend his neck forward.
Great Rider, this is for you. In return, I ask for victory.
Spartacus brought up the knife under the horse’s chin. In one swift movement, he brought it back towards him. The wickedly sharp blade slashed a gaping hole in the stallion’s flesh, severing both its jugular veins and setting free a tidal wave of blood. It staggered, blowing red froth from the hole in its windpipe. Spartacus leaned into it with all his strength, stroking its shoulder with his free hand. ‘Steady, brave heart, steady. The Rider awaits you.’
The horse’s knees buckled, and it dropped to the ground like a stone. More blood flowed, creating a huge pool of crimson around its forequarters. One of its back legs shot out to the side. It kicked madly several times and was still. Spartacus reached down and worked the knife deeper into the stallion’s neck. This time, he cut an artery. Bright red blood sprayed over his hand. He continued to whisper calm reassurances. The broad chest went in and out, in and out, slower and slower. At last it stopped.
Spartacus let his hand rest on the stallion for a moment, honouring its life and its death. Then, dipping his hand in the blood, he smeared a liberal coating on to his cheeks and forehead. Wiping his blade clean, he sheathed it. When he turned to regard his troops, he saw that all eyes were on him. In the cohorts further away, men had moved out of position so that they could witness what was going on. ‘My soldiers! The offering to the gods has been made. My stallion died well, and without protest. The sacrifice has been accepted!’
They roared their approval at that. Clash, clash, clash went their weapons off their shields.
Sica in hand now, Spartacus took a few steps forward. ‘Today, we shall have… VICTORY — OR DEATH!’
A heartbeat’s delay.
‘VICTORY — OR DEATH!’ roared Carbo. Taxacis’ voice echoed his.
‘VICTORY — OR DEATH! VICTORY — OR DEATH!’
Letting his men’s chant wash over him, Spartacus resumed his place in the line, between Carbo and Taxacis. Without ado, he signalled at the trumpeters, and at the riders who would carry the order to advance to the cavalry on the wings.
The instruments’ strident notes had no difficulty carrying through the noise. Still shouting, the soldiers were urged forward by their officers. They walked at first. It was a good five hundred paces to the Roman lines. There was no point in tiring themselves out. They would need all the energy they had to win the fight that was to come.
Carbo could taste bile in the back of his throat. Grant us victory, and give me one chance to kill Crassus, he begged. I don’t care if I die after that. Prayer over, he glanced at Taxacis, who was to his far right. The Scythian gave him a fierce grin. Carbo returned the smile. He couldn’t ask to be in a better place. Spartacus to his right. Beyond him, Taxacis. Both were deadly fighters. On his left was a broad-chested man with a strong chin. Carbo vaguely recognised him, but he wasn’t sure why. He was just proud to be included in their number, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly at home.
‘Keep walking,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Hold the line!’
As they drew parallel with the dead stallion, more than one soldier copied their leader by daubing his face with its blood. Carbo didn’t — the Rider wasn’t his god — but he understood why men were doing it. In a situation such as this, anything that might help one to survive was useful. One hundred paces went by. The Romans were advancing to meet them. Carbo watched Spartacus, who was scanning the enemy lines. He did the same, eventually spotting a scarlet-cloaked man riding back and forth behind the central cohorts. ‘There’s Crassus! The cocksucker!’
‘That’s him,’ agreed Spartacus with a scowl. ‘We’re right where we want to be: directly opposite his position.’
Tramp, tramp, tramp. Carbo counted his footsteps. Another hundred paces, and he could differentiate the Roman officers from the ordinary soldiers. He had never seen so many transverse-crested helmets in the front rank. It was a measure reserved for the most desperate of situations. Crassus was also gambling everything on this throw of the dice. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back, made gripping his pilum more difficult. He’d be lucky to be alive by nightfall.
‘That’s it, lads,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Stay together!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ roared the man to Carbo’s left. He hammered his pilum off the metal rim of his scutum with each syllable. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Inevitably, the shout was taken up all around them. Carbo roared at the top of his voice, but the din was so loud that he couldn’t hear himself. It felt as if he was miming in a stage play, except that instead of an audience, he had a wall of legionaries approaching him. Apart from occasional blasts from their trumpeters, Crassus’ men came on in silence. It was a typical Roman tactic, designed to send fear into their enemies’ hearts. It wasn’t working yet, thought Carbo, his heart thumping, because the crescendo from their soldiers was so overwhelming.
On they marched, trampling the young wheat back into the earth. Because they were still descending the slope, Carbo had a good view of the ground to his left and right. On the periphery, he could see their cavalry moving forward like a dark stain across the landscape. With any luck, the Roman trenches wouldn’t extend far enough out to prevent them from sweeping around the enemy flanks. Carbo couldn’t see Navio’s position, but he sent up a prayer for his friend, and for them all. Bring us victory, great Jupiter, great Mars. Let me reach Crassus. One more chance, that’s all I ask.
Two hundred paces until the enemy lines. Carbo had grown used to the routines of battle, and his eyes flickered warily to the air above the legionaries. Were there enough artillery pieces to target them as well, or were they taken up with the struggle on the flanks? He didn’t hold any ill will towards the men there, but he hoped that it was the latter.
It was wishful thinking.
Perhaps two heartbeats later, a volley of darts came scudding in. Carbo felt his bowels loosen. He’d seen the carnage that the missiles could do. Around him, more than one man cried out in fear. Their advance slowed, and then stopped.
‘Close order! All ranks except the front, shields up!’ bellowed Spartacus.
They’d been drilled to do this a thousand times before. With a loud clattering noise, the scuta of those behind Carbo came up, forming a giant cover, the famed Roman testudo. He and the men of the front rank closed their shields together, forming an almost solid wall to the front. It was good protection against lighter missiles such as javelins, but, as everyone knew, it could not stop larger ones, such as the darts that were humming down towards them with frightening speed.
‘STEADY!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘STEADY, BOYS!’
Other officers shouted similar reassurances.
Carbo didn’t look up. If he was going to be transfixed by a barbed dart, he wanted it to happen without him knowing. His heart was thumping off his ribs like a wild thing. The soldier to his left was muttering the same prayer over and over. A man nearby began to vomit. Carbo started counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. Gods above, slow down. He forced himself to exhale as slowly as he could.
Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. With a noise like thunderbolts, the missiles arrived. Carbo closed his eyes. Sent skywards by a torsion catapult that had to be cocked by two legionaries winding a handle, the darts had huge penetrative power. They punched through scuta like a hot knife through cheese, maiming and killing the unfortunate men beneath. Arm bones were shattered, skulls smashed open, chests ripped apart. Howls of agony marked the spots where soldiers had only been injured. The dead just collapsed to the ground.
Carbo blinked. He was still alive, and whole. So too were Spartacus and the man to his left. They exchanged a relieved look.
