‘Yes. Three hundred legionaries… stationed across it. And several small groups marched… good distance up… mountain. They hid… both sides of track. No tents.’
‘Sentries then,’ grated Gannicus.
Spartacus cursed savagely. Oenomaus was right.
‘Those men are just to prevent us escaping tonight! The sons of whores will attack in the morning, surely?’ demanded Crixus. He looked at each man. Something in Spartacus and Oenomaus’ expressions made his face harden. ‘Neither of you think so.’
‘It makes more sense to lay siege,’ admitted Spartacus. ‘They can wait down there in relative comfort until we simply run out of food.’
‘The chicken-shit, toga-wearing, motherless goat-fuckers!’ raged Crixus. He stamped up and down, filling the air with more colourful expletives. When he had regained some control, he fixed the others with his stare. ‘Like I said, let’s choose a hero’s death. We’ll go down there in the morning and charge their lines. Make an end that will be remembered by slaves forever.’
Scowling, Castus and Gannicus stared at the ground.
‘We can do better than that,’ said Oenomaus.
‘How?’ demanded Crixus.
Oenomaus had no immediate answer.
Spartacus racked his brains. They had no armour and no shields. They were totally outnumbered. Their supplies would be finished within three days at most. Maybe their only option was a suicidal attack? He glared at the heavens. Very well. I submit to your will, Great Rider.
‘Gannicus, are you with me?’ asked Crixus.
‘I’ve nothing better to be doing.’
‘Good. And you, Castus?’
‘Damn it, why not?’ came the snarled response.
‘Count me in too,’ said Oenomaus harshly.
‘Spartacus?’
He didn’t reply. What a useless way to die.
‘Spartacus?’ Impatience mixed with anger in Crixus’ tone.
His eyes dropped from the skies above, and caught on the vines that covered the steep slopes of the crater. Suddenly, the bones of an idea began to form in his mind.
‘Are you going to answer my damn question?’
‘Not right now.’ Spartacus walked off, leaving the others open-mouthed behind him.
‘He’s fucking lost it,’ Crixus declared. ‘I knew it would happen.’
‘What the hell is he doing?’ demanded Castus. ‘This is no time for a stroll!’
Spartacus was pleased to hear Oenomaus growl, ‘He’ll be back.’
Returning to the other leaders a short time later, Spartacus held out his hands. ‘It was in front of us all along.’
‘That’s a length of wild grapevine,’ said Gannicus in an incredulous voice.
Crixus’ scorn was clear. ‘What shall we do with it? Strangle Roman soldiers?’
Castus laughed.
‘Can you explain what’s going on?’asked Oenomaus, looking bewildered. The place is overrun with vines. So what?’
‘It’s clear as the sun in the sky.’
Crixus’ lip curled. ‘Put us out of our misery.’
‘These vines are excellent for weaving baskets, are they not?’
‘Yes,’ replied Oenomaus, visibly controlling his irritation.
‘Instead of baskets, we can make ropes. Ropes strong enough to take the weight of a man. Once it’s dark, we can lower ourselves down one of the cliff faces on to the slopes below. I don’t imagine that the Romans expect to be attacked from anywhere other than the path.’ Spartacus’ confident smile belied his churning stomach. The odds against us are still terrible, but this will be a damn sight better than committing suicide in the morning.
‘That’s a fantastic idea!’ Oenomaus clapped him on the arm.
‘It would give us a fighting chance,’ admitted Gannicus.
Spartacus glanced at Castus. His sour expression had weakened. ‘I thought you had gone mad. But you haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a good plan.’
‘It might work,’ said Crixus with a dubious shake of his head. ‘Or then again, we could all break our damn necks.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Oenomaus.
To Spartacus’ delight, Castus and Gannicus rumbled in agreement.
Crixus scowled. ‘Very well.’
Thank you, Great Rider. It’ll be easier with him on board. Spartacus made a quick calculation. ‘It’s at least a hundred paces from the lowest part of the cliffs to the ground below. We’ll need a minimum of two ropes. More if they can be woven in time.’
‘And then?’ asked Oenomaus.
Spartacus was pleased to see that this time, all four waited to hear his response. He offered up more silent thanks. ‘Wait until it’s nearly midnight. Pray for cloud cover. We’ll blacken our faces and limbs with ashes from the fires. Climb down to their camp. Kill the sentries at their pickets. Fall upon their tents in silence.’
‘The bastards won’t know what hit them!’ interrupted Gannicus.
‘They won’t. We’ll slay as many as we can before the alarm is raised,’ said Spartacus.
Oenomaus frowned. ‘What will happen after that?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll escape!’ He didn’t voice the other, more likely outcome. No one looked disheartened, however, which satisfied Spartacus. ‘An offering of thanks to Dionysus is imperative now. These are his vines.’
No one argued with that.
By the time darkness had fallen, the gladiators had three ropes, each 120 paces in length. Every man and woman present had laboured to complete the cords. Some had stripped vines from the crater walls while others had trimmed them down to a central stalk. Plaited in threes and securely knotted into four sections, the ropes were tested by having a pair of the heaviest men haul with all their might on each end. To Spartacus’ delight, none broke. He ordered the fighters to prepare themselves, but they were to wait until he gave the word before making a move.
While the other leaders drank wine with their followers, Spartacus sat by the fire with Ariadne. They did not talk much, yet there was a new, intimate air between them. This might be the last time I ever see her, he thought regretfully. Across the fire from him, Ariadne’s mind was racing. Those vines belong to Dionysus. Did he make Spartacus aware of them? It seems too much of a coincidence to be anything else.
Despite the blanket around his shoulders, Spartacus eventually began to feel chilled through. He glanced upwards. The sliver of moon in the sky had been covered by a bank of cloud. There was little wind. ‘Time to move.’
‘I have asked Dionysus to lay a cloak of sleep over their camp.’
‘Thank you.’ He rubbed a final bit of ash on to his arms and stood. ‘By dawn, it will be over. I will see you then.’ He shoved away a pang of uncertainty. Great Rider, let it be so.
‘Yes.’ Ariadne was unwilling to trust her voice further. Come back to me safely.
Without another word, he walked off into the darkness.
‘There’s the picket,’ whispered Spartacus, pointing at a huddle of shapes no more than a long javelin throw away. Fierce satisfaction filled him at what they’d achieved thus far. They’d scrambled down the cliff face with little problem. One man had broken his ankle, and had been left behind, but the others had moved like eager, silent wraiths, scrambling through the darkness to their present position. A hundred paces beyond the Roman sentries lay the southern rampart of Glaber’s camp. Spartacus was lying on his belly in the scrub grass, the Scythians to his right, and Getas and another Thracian to his left. The remainder, including the new recruits, were waiting some distance to their rear. Given their small numbers, Spartacus had decided not to bother assaulting the other sides.
