‘Lower shields. Forward, at the double!’ shouted Spartacus.
Carbo needed no encouragement. The quicker they closed with the Romans, the fewer volleys would land among them. The risk of death from a blade seemed far more appealing than having his brain pulped to mush or his chest split asunder by a dart. Cocking back his left arm, he trotted forward. Soon there would be an exchange of javelins. Then a final charge.
A hundred and fifty paces. Still the Romans made no sound. Carbo didn’t like it one bit.
Another volley, this one of stones, came sweeping over the enemy lines. He was hypnotised by their trajectory. Part of him wanted to sprint forward, to miss the deadly rain if he could. Another part wanted to drop his shield and pilum and run away. But he couldn’t. Spartacus was by his side, relying on him. And Crassus, the cause of his parents’ deaths, was skulking behind a wall of legionaries. He focused his attention on the lines nearing him. All he could see was their eyes, peering over their shield rims, and their javelins, which were already aimed at the sky, ready for the order to release. Carbo was suddenly aware that he needed to piss. More than anything, he needed to piss. He swallowed hard, forcing the urge away.
Thump. Crash. Bang. The stones landed, splintering shields into kindling, crushing men’s ribs and stopping their hearts.
Carbo shot a glance at Spartacus, who seemed oblivious. He rallied his courage. Here was the closest thing to a god that he’d ever seen. Was the man scared of nothing?
‘Ready javelins!’ Spartacus drew back his left arm. ‘On my order!’
Carbo squinted at the enemy lines, which were about ninety paces away. Too far for an accurate throw. He could see the Roman officers watching them, waiting until they drew closer. Bastards.
Spartacus was doing the same. His lips moved as he counted down the distance. Eighty. Seventy. Sixty. The legionaries’ pila flew up into the air.
Damn it, thought Carbo, give the order!
‘Aim short! LOOSE!’
Carbo heaved his javelin into a low, curving arc. He tried to follow its progress, but it was joined by scores of others. He watched in fascination as they sped towards the Romans.
‘Shields up!’ roared Spartacus for the second time.
The javelins caused far less consternation than the artillery barrage. They crashed down, turning many shields into useless lumps of wood, but injuring and killing fewer men. Behind him, Carbo heard a couple of soldiers wagering with one another about who would get hit first. He felt an elbow in the ribs from his neighbour.
‘Crazy the things that men can laugh about, eh?’
Carbo’s dry lips cracked as he smiled.
‘Zeuxis is the name. Yours?’
‘Carbo. Do I recognise you?’
A sour grin. ‘Maybe. You were with Spartacus when he shoved me arse first into a fire.’
Carbo’s chuckle was drowned by Spartacus’ shout. ‘Anyone with a second javelin, LOOSE!’
Half as many pila as had gone up the first time took to the air. In the same instant, a far greater number of Roman javelins were launched.
‘Raise shields, draw swords! FORWARD, AT THE DOUBLE!’
Ducking his head in a futile attempt to make himself smaller, Carbo broke into a run. His world had narrowed. All he could see was the Romans directly opposite him. Crassus, even the line of standards that waved above their lines, had vanished. He was aware of Zeuxis on his left, Spartacus on his right, his shield in one hand and his gladius in the other. That was it.
Little more than thirty paces separated the two sides.
The legionaries had drawn their swords now. Finally, an almighty roar left their throats, and they ran forward.
Carbo and every man around him responded with an ear-splitting yell. He heard Spartacus shout something unintelligible in Thracian. A quick glance sideways. Awe filled him. He’d never seen his leader look so angry. The veins in Spartacus’ neck were bulging. His face was bright red, and his eyes were flat and dead. The eyes of a killer. Carbo had never been more glad to be on the same side as this man.
Gaze back to the front. Twenty-five paces. Carbo felt the scream crack in his throat, but that didn’t shut him up. He must sound like a madman, but that was a good thing. The aim before they struck was to cause as much fear in their enemies as possible.
The two sides closed in on one another with frightening speed. Twenty paces. Fifteen.
Carbo focused on the designs emblazoned on the shields nearing him. The majority were a red colour with a swirling yellow line decorating each quarter, but the most striking one had lightning bolts radiating from the shield boss. The eyes above its rim were calculating, the helmet battered. A veteran, thought Carbo, his fear bubbling up. And they were heading straight for each other.
The last steps were covered in a blur. Carbo did his best to make sure that as he hit, his left shoulder was shoved forward. Of course his opponent did the same. Their shields crashed off other with an almighty bang. Both men staggered back a pace; both regained their poise and lunged forward with their swords. Carbo ducked down behind his scutum first, which allowed the legionary to follow through with his thrust, while Carbo’s right arm shot uselessly into the air. Aware that he’d exposed his armpit, Carbo desperately pulled his blade back down. As he tried to peep over his shield rim, his enemy stabbed at him again. Cursing, Carbo hid again. He battered forward with his scutum, wanting to catch the other off balance. It was a faint hope. The legionary’s shield was like a brick wall.
Carbo didn’t give up on his attack. He punched his shield at the other’s, following through with a thrust of his sword. It was what Paccius had taught him. One, two. One, two. The legionary’s response was to do exactly the same thing. Carbo realised that his enemy was stronger and more skilled than he was. It seemed as if the legionary knew it too. His eyes glittered as he redoubled his assault.
Carbo’s need to urinate returned with a vengeance. Is this how I’m going to die? he wondered. Covered in my own piss? He changed tactic, stabbing his gladius down at his opponent’s feet. His effort failed. The legionary blocked the blow by angling out the lower edge of his scutum; he followed through with a lunge of his sword that nearly took out Carbo’s left eye. There was a screech of metal as the iron blade skidded off the brow of his helmet. Stars flashed across Carbo’s vision. Dimly, he heard the legionary roar in triumph. This is it, he thought. Now the bastard will knock me over and finish me off.
What he heard next was an odd, choking sound.
With difficulty, Carbo focused on the legionary again. To his amazement, he saw Spartacus’ sica sliding out of the man’s throat. Blood spattered him in the face; the metallic taste of it hit his tongue. Carbo’s head turned.
‘Come on, lad! Get your wits about you,’ growled Spartacus.
Carbo nodded, still a little confused.
‘Eyes front!’ Spartacus shouted.
Carbo obeyed. The gaps in the enemy ranks had already been filled by those behind. His next opponent was four steps away and closing fast. Carbo let him come, forcing the man to step over his comrade’s body. As the legionary was in mid-stride, Carbo drove into him with all his force. The soldier rocked back on his heels, and Carbo’s sword shattered his left cheekbone, slicing through his nasal chambers to exit at the angle of the opposite jaw. A keening noise tore at Carbo’s hearing, and he shook his head in an effort to stop it. Then he realised that it was the legionary screaming. He’d never heard someone make so much noise. With a grunt, he tugged his blade free. The man dropped, still shrieking like a spitted boar.
Carbo wounded the soldier who followed, slicing one of his feet down to the bone. Bawling in pain, the man drew back, unable to fight. The press was too tight for anyone to get by, so Carbo used the respite to help Zeuxis dispatch his opponent. Two legionaries shoved through the gap left as that man fell. One moved sideways to get at Carbo; the other went for Zeuxis. This fight was as protracted as Carbo’s first struggle, but driven by adrenalin and the knowledge that Spartacus had saved his life, he gave a better account of himself. It was a measure of his opponent’s skill that it took so long for Carbo to put him down. The legionary sank to his knees, the wound in his throat open wider than his gaping mouth. Blood jetted from both openings, covering the ground between them in another tide of crimson.
No one filled the empty space before Carbo. He didn’t understand until the shrill peeeeeeep of whistles hit his eardrums. The Roman line retreated a step, and then another. He tensed, preparing to advance.
