Spartacus screamed like a lunatic, and the startled young legionary let go.
Spartacus brought up his sica and thrust it into the other’s left eye socket. There was an audible pop, and aqueous fluid spattered on to the front of his shield. The legionary jerked with agony as the blade sliced through bone and into his brain. He juddered and shook, a dead weight on the weapon’s tip. Spartacus tugged it free, letting the corpse drop to the ground. It was immediately stamped underfoot in the press.
There was a heartbeat’s pause in the fighting. Quickly, Spartacus undid his chinstrap and let his ruined helmet fall. ‘Come on!’ he roared at the legionaries in the next rank. ‘Hades is waiting for you!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ boomed the men around him.
With dragging feet, the Romans shuffled closer. A few rows back, Spartacus spotted an officer using his vine cane to beat men forward. He exulted in the sight. It was an ominous sign so early in a battle. ‘The cocksuckers are scared!’ he shouted. ‘They’re fucking terrified!’
Then his eyes fixed on a standard some thirty paces off to his left. He levelled his sica at it. ‘Take the eagle!’
With loud cries, the nearest slaves shoved onward, slamming their scuta into those of the legionaries and driving them back a step. Shield bosses smacked off each other and gladius blades sank deep into flesh. Men got close enough to head butt their enemies or ram a dagger home into their necks. They spat in the Romans’ faces, screamed insults and called down the fury of the gods on their heads. Stunned by the slaves’ sheer fury, the legionaries withdrew another pace.
In that instant, the world changed.
There was a noise like a striking thunderbolt, and the Roman lines shook with a massive impact. It was Egbeo and Pulcher, thought Spartacus. ‘NOW! PUSH THEM!’ he roared. Bare-headed, spittle flying from his lips, he threw himself at the nearest Romans. Like a pack of baying hounds, his men followed.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
The legionaries could take it no more. Their faces pinched with overwhelming terror. Desperate to flee from the madmen who were bearing down on them, they shoved at each other like trapped animals. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the centre of Lentulus’ line turned about and engaged in a full-scale retreat. Shields and weapons were flung down. The wounded, and those who were simply weaker, were knocked to the ground where they were trampled to death.
The slaves advanced, slaying all before them, showing mercy to no one.
The aquilifer, the soldier carrying the legion’s eagle, and the men charged with protecting him, were the only ones to hold their position. A tight little bloc of shields and swords, they roared and cursed at their comrades, calling on them to stand and fight.
It made no difference. Like a wave ebbing from the shore, the legionaries melted away from the front line.
Then Spartacus charged forward, bellowing like a rogue bull.
Too late, the aquilifer realised that his fate was upon him. Too late, he saw that the precious eagle was about to fall into enemy hands. ‘Retreat,’ he cried. But Spartacus and a score of slaves surged in, and they had to fight. The standard-bearer and his comrades went down in a vicious blur of hacks and slashes. The standard fell from his slack fingers, but before it could hit the ground, Spartacus snatched it up. ‘Look, you shitbags,’ he bellowed in Latin.
Amidst the melee, a few terrified Roman faces turned around.
‘The eagle is ours. The gods are on our side!’ Spartacus shook the standard defiantly at them. ‘Cowards!’
No one answered him, and his men yelled with delight.
He took a quick look around. The legionaries on the left flank were also in full retreat. Those on the right, who until that point had held their position, were wavering. It wouldn’t be long until they also broke, thought Spartacus with certainty. He had no idea where the Roman cavalry were, but they couldn’t have made much of an impression because the ranks to his rear were still solid. The battle on this side of the defile was as good as won. He had a hunch that with the advantage of all their horsemen, Castus and Gannicus would be achieving the same on the other side.
Let it be so, Great Rider.
Ariadne’s worries about Spartacus had consumed her from the moment he’d left. She’d spent hours praying and making offerings to Dionysus, but typically, had seen nothing that remotely reassured her. She knew better than to get angry with the capricious god, so she funnelled her frustration into marshalling the camp’s women and preparing them for the inevitable influx of wounded after the fighting was over. Even that supposition was disquieting. If the slaves lost the battle, there’d be no need for bandages, dressings and poultices but that, like Spartacus’ death, didn’t bear thinking about. And then there was Atheas, who’d been shadowing her every move. Ariadne found it unnerving. Before Spartacus had left, she had asked him what would happen if things went against them. He had touched a finger to her lips, saying, ‘That isn’t going to happen.’ Ariadne had insisted, however, and so he’d told her of how the Scythian and Carbo would escort her to safety.
She glanced at Atheas. His attempt to reassure her, a smile full of sharp brown teeth, made her feel worse. Yet interacting with the Scythian was preferable to talking with the other women. Every sound that reached them from the direction of the battlefield was either met with tears or wails of dismay. Even when, as now, the noises died away, the lamentations went on. Ariadne peered at the sky. How long had it been since Spartacus had set off with the army? Four hours? Five?
‘What do you think has happened?’ she whispered to Atheas. ‘Is it over?’
He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Impossible… say. Maybe they… rest… before fight again.’
The agony of not knowing was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I’m going to the cliffs to see what’s going on.’
Atheas was on his feet before she’d even finished speaking. ‘That
… very bad idea.’
Ariadne gave him a frosty glare. ‘You will stop me?’
‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic look.
She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but felt the need to argue anyway. ‘I’ll do what I want.’
‘No.’ Atheas’ tone was firm. ‘Too dangerous. You… stay here.’
‘Your women fight, do they not?’
He grinned, sheepishly. ‘Yes.’
‘Why should I not even go to watch the battle then?’
‘Because Spartacus… said so.’ Atheas hesitated for an instant. ‘Because of… child.’
‘He told you.’
‘Yes,’ replied the Scythian awkwardly.
A poignant image of Spartacus giving Atheas his final instructions filled Ariadne’s mind, and her breath caught in her chest. The gods bless him and keep him safe forever. ‘Let us hope that you and Carbo are never called on to fulfil the duty that he asked of you.’
‘I also ask… my gods… that.’ There was a gruff, unusual note to his voice.
Tears pricked at Ariadne’s eyes. In the chaotic months after they’d escaped the ludus, the unswerving devotion that he and Taxacis had showed to Spartacus had gone unacknowledged, by her at least. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d come to take it for granted, and of how dear the grim, tattooed warrior had become to her. ‘Why do you follow him?’
His thick eyebrows lifted. ‘Spartacus?’
She nodded.
There was a tiny smile. ‘No one… ever ask me.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘When Taxacis and I… captured… other slaves refuse… talk with us. Think all Scythians… savages.’ Atheas spat his contempt on the ground. ‘But Spartacus… different.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Ariadne.
‘In ludus… he act like… leader.’ He shrugged. ‘No chance… return… Scythia, so we decide… follow him.’
‘He is grateful for your loyalty. I want you to know that I am too.’
Atheas dipped his head in acknowledgement.
