terrible, ravening thunder.
Carbo didn’t look to see what effect their barrage was having. He didn’t need to. It could only result in utter devastation. Great swathes of legionaries were a heartbeat from being wiped out of existence. Unsurprisingly, his men were peering down with macabre interest. ‘Don’t stop!’ he shouted. ‘More! I want more rocks going over! We have to block the defile completely.’
‘Kill them all!’ roared the bowman. ‘Every last pox-ridden whoreson!’
‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ answered the slaves, renewing their attack with a savage, disquieting glee.
Carbo closed his eyes briefly. The gods have mercy on the poor bastards down there. Let them die quickly.
Then he got back to work like everyone else.
When the rocks started rolling from the cliffs, virtually all sound was blocked out on the flat ground beyond. The slaves’ mouths opened and closed in silent mime, their javelins and swords moved innocently up and down off their shields. What would follow, however, thought Spartacus grimly, would be far from innocent.
A huge dust cloud rose into the air above the defile. Romans and slaves alike stared in either horror or delight. A fierce glee gripped Spartacus. The almighty din meant that Carbo was doing exactly as he’d been asked. ‘Steady!’ he roared. ‘Let fear tear at the enemy! The dogs know now that they’re on their own.’ He glanced at the mouth of the side valley where Egbeo and Pulcher lay in wait with their troops, but could see nothing. Good. Their discipline is holding.
The rumbling of the rockfall died down. It was replaced by a terrible, new sound: that of the men who had been mashed or trapped beneath the stones, but not killed. The gorge rang with their screams and wails. Most were begging for death, an end to the agony of crushed limbs, pelvises or broken backs. Spartacus’ soldiers whooped with elation, and clattered their weapons off their shields with renewed vigour.
Lentulus acted fast. Aware that the noise would soon spread panic among his legionaries, he had the bucinae sound. His soldiers marched forward in good order, and his cavalry cantered off to the right, no doubt charged with wheeling around to fall on the slaves’ rear.
Although he’d expected this, Spartacus cursed silently. He hoped that the men at the back remembered their orders. They’d been trained to thrust their javelins out together, forming a network of iron points that most horses wouldn’t approach. Of course being shown how to do it and having to do it when being charged by the enemy were two very different things. Placing his trust in the gods, Spartacus ordered his trumpeters to signal the advance.
‘Stay in line! Move together!’ His words were repeated all along the front ranks, and the slaves began tramping forward in one great mass. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they yelled.
They were too far away to see the expression on the men’s faces, but Spartacus fancied that there was already some wavering in the enemy ranks. In contrast to the neat appearance of his own forces, he could see gaps here and there among the legionaries. We can do it! Great Rider, grant me the might of your right arm to smite the whoresons, and smash them into the mud where they belong.
They closed to within a hundred paces. The air crackled with tension, and it was flavoured with a slick tang of fear. For all the bravado that had gone on in the moments prior, this was the time when men were about to begin dying. The slaves’ faces were taut; their jaws were clenched; they muttered prayers or growled encouragements at one another. Yet their shouting did not die away. If anything, it increased in volume.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Spartacus was revelling in it. They want to fight. They want Roman blood, as I do. ‘Front three ranks, ready javelins!’ he cried.
All around him, thousands of arms went back, and a forest of barbed metal tips pointed upwards at the sun.
‘Hold! Hold!’ He counted the paces as they drew nearer to the Romans. Ten. Twenty. Forty. At last Spartacus could see the individual legionaries. Like his men’s, their faces were twisted with emotion. Rather than tension, however, it looked like pure fear. The only exceptions were the legionaries around the silver eagle, who looked grimly prepared. Dimly, he heard the enemy officers shouting encouragement, ordering a volley of javelins. Now! ‘One! Two! Three! LOOSE!’ he shouted in response.
There was a loud humming noise as his order was obeyed.
The same command rang out again from the Roman lines.
In graceful arcs, two separate clouds of pila shot upwards. For several heartbeats, they darkened the sky between the two armies. It was a beautiful but dreadful sight, thought Spartacus. This was when the men’s training would really become evident. ‘Shields up!’ he roared, raising his left arm. ‘Shields up!’
Clatter, clatter, clatter. A wall of scuta presented itself to the sky.
With heavy thumping sounds, the Roman javelins landed in a torrent of deadly iron. Inevitably, some found tiny gaps between the slaves’ shields or ran through the layered wood to pierce an arm. Roars of agony and savage curses went up from those who’d been injured, manic laughs and shouts of thanks to the gods from those who hadn’t.
Spartacus was unhurt. A quick glance over both shoulders told him that their casualties were reasonably light. He studied the Romans, coming to the same conclusion about them. As usual, the javelins’ primary effect had been to lodge in men’s scuta, rendering them unusable. ‘If anyone in the front two ranks needs a shield, get the men behind you to pass theirs forward,’ he shouted. ‘Advance!’
As they marched on, those without protection hurriedly demanded their comrades’ scuta.
Another exchange of javelins took place, causing a few score more casualties, and then the two sides were only thirty steps apart. Spartacus raised his whistle to his lips, and saw a centurion opposite do the same. Instead of sounding the charge, however, Spartacus blew an odd series of notes that had his men frowning in surprise. But not the trumpeters. They blew their instruments with all their might, a sharp tan-tara-tara. Twice they repeated it, and as the sound died away, it was replaced by a long shrill from Spartacus’ whistle, which was echoed by those of his officers.
Their call was met by the indignant shrieking of the Romans’ whistles.
‘Shields together,’ roared Spartacus. ‘Forward!’ He began trotting towards the enemy, his gaze roving over the legionaries he’d be most likely to clash with. One was a youth of about nineteen or twenty, whose eyes were already wide with terror. The other was a man in his twenties, hard-faced, jaw clenched, probably a veteran. Instantly, Spartacus aimed for the second soldier. He was the more dangerous; killing him first was imperative.
An inanimate roar — the sound of thousands of war cries melding as one — ripped through the noise of battle, dragging men’s attention away from the fight. It came from Spartacus’ right, and the Romans’ left. Thank you, Great Rider.
Egbeo, Pulcher and their men were attacking.
Understanding the noise’s significance, the slaves cheered at the tops of their voices. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR- TA-CUS!’
‘Stay close!’ cried Spartacus. ‘Watch out for each other!’ They were the last commands he gave. From now on, no one would be able to hear. The world closed in around him as Spartacus rushed the last few steps to the Roman front rank. All he was aware of was the close proximity of a man on either side, and the wild eyes of the enemy soldiers over the tops of their scuta. His heart pounded in his chest; sweat stung his eyes and he blinked it away.
Roaring a war cry, he smashed his shield boss into that of the hard-faced legionary. The force of the strike rocked the man back on his heels, and before he could retaliate, Spartacus’ sica went skidding over the top of his scutum to take him through the neck. The iron grated through muscle and cartilage to lodge in the Roman’s spine. Spartacus ripped it free, and the other’s mouth opened in a terrible scream. The sound was cut short by the tide of arterial blood that sprayed from the back of his throat.
There was a flicker of movement at the corner of Spartacus’ vision. Instinctively, he ducked his head. Instead of taking out his eye, the young legionary’s gladius rammed into the crest on the top of his bronze helmet. It punched Spartacus backwards, momentarily stunning him. The iron blade stuck in the torn metal, and Spartacus’ head was dragged from side to side as the Roman frantically tried to free it. There was no chance of untying the leather chinstrap that held his helmet in place. With a screech of metal, the legionary ripped his gladius half out. His lips peeled back in a snarl of satisfaction. Utter desperation filled Spartacus. His opponent pulled his arm back again, so he shoved forward instead of trying to fight it. The Roman staggered, and his grip on his sword weakened.
