for his life on the plain below. The least that she could do was to spend the rest of the night on her knees in search of divine inspiration.
Spartacus delivered no more than four huge blows with his sword before he realised the effect of what he and Getas had done. The surviving men within — some of whom were wounded — were yelling and thrashing about, trying to free themselves from the collapsed tent. Even if the whoresons get out, they won’t want to fight. They’re absolutely terrified! ‘We can’t kill them all. There’s no need,’ he whispered to Getas. ‘Tell the others: “Attack and move on. Attack and move on.”’
Moving between the gladiators was already hellishly difficult. The only things visible in the darkness were the outlines of tents, and the shadows in between that were his men. The screaming and shouting that now filled the air added to the confusion. Spartacus gave up all pretence of being quiet. ‘It is I, Spartacus,’ he bellowed. ‘Hack at every tent a dozen times and move on. Speed is of the essence!’
Spartacus turned. ‘Getas?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Remember the Maedi war cry?’
‘Of course!’
‘Make it now! Let’s do it for Seuthes!’ Throwing back his head, Spartacus let a primeval roar rip free of his throat. Getas echoed his cry. Theirs was the same ululating sound that all Thracian warriors used when going to war. Named the ‘titanismos’ by the Greeks, it curdled the blood in the veins of a coward. Three thousand of the whoresons are waking up to it, thought Spartacus grimly. I can think of no better way to die than like this. He cut down at a fresh tent with a blur of blows. One, two, three, four. Each strike hit a target, caused a fresh victim to scream at the top of his lungs. Spartacus sensed rather than saw Getas alongside him, his sword flashing up and down in imitation of his own.
They moved on to the next silhouetted structure. And the next.
It wasn’t until Spartacus had reached his fifth tent that he saw his first legionary. The man stumbled into the night air. Clad only in his undergarment, he was unarmed. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted in Latin.
‘Hades is come, that’s what!’ Spartacus swung his sword across in a scything blow that took the Roman’s head clean off his shoulders. A dark jet of blood spurted into the air from the stump of his neck. The man’s right leg actually took another step forward, and then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the headless corpse toppled to the ground.
‘Gaius?’ called a voice. Another figure stepped out of the tent. This one was carrying a sword. Before Spartacus could react, Getas swept in and plunged his blade deep into the man’s chest. The soldier was dead before Getas had shoved him off the iron back into the tent. Inspiration struck Spartacus and he slashed at the guy ropes. The front of the tent collapsed, trapping those within. Standing over the heaving leather mound, they chopped down again and again. The Romans’ confused shouts soon turned to wails of pain and agony.
‘Enough!’ ordered Spartacus. He spotted Atheas and Taxacis nearby. ‘On! On!’
Like maniacs, they plunged deeper into the Roman camp, slicing into tents and hacking down any legionaries who got in their way. This can’t go on, thought Spartacus eventually. All it needs is for an experienced officer to rally twenty or thirty men together. They’ll make a stand against us, and our attack will stall at once.
It was as if the gods had heard him.
Spartacus heard the characteristic cry, ‘To me! To me!’ Bile pooled at the back of his throat. ‘Where is he?’
‘Over there!’ Getas pointed to their left.
Spartacus made out a knot of figures about twenty paces away in the gloom. Five, six men? In the middle was a gesticulating outline wearing a transverse-crested helmet. ‘It’s a fucking centurion!’ He was off like a hound after a hare.
‘It’s just you and me,’ shouted Getas.
‘So what! If we don’t silence the bastard, it’ll all be over for us!’ Spartacus wasn’t surprised that Getas’ pace did not slacken. If I have to die, I’m glad that he’s the one by my side.
‘Great Rider, protect us with your sword and shield,’ Getas intoned.
They did not know it, but Carbo was charging along behind them. I can’t let Spartacus be killed. Not after all he’s done for me.
The odds against them were long indeed, thought Spartacus. Two more soldiers had joined the centurion. There were seven, or even eight, of them now. Most had shields too. Spartacus pictured his men, the gladiators who’d had the faith to follow him out of the ludus. He imagined Ariadne in the camp high above. If he and Getas failed, his men would be butchered. Their women would suffer a degrading fate. A cold, calculating fury descended upon him. I will succeed here or fall in the attempt. ‘Come on, boys!’ he roared at his invented comrades. ‘Ready to send these Roman scumbags to Hades?’ He whooped and yelled in response to his own cry, and understanding, Getas did the same.
Spartacus imagined that he heard a third voice joining in, but he wasn’t sure. In the madness of that moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to hack a great hole in the centurion’s throat and leave him in a bleeding heap. Silence him forever.
They closed in on the group of legionaries. Why the hell aren’t they forming a shield wall? Spartacus wondered. If they did that, we’d be fucked. Blind hope struck him. Maybe they’re panicking? ‘For Thrace!’ he roared. ‘For Thrace!’
He reached the first soldier, who lunged at him with his gladius. Spartacus dodged inside the clumsy thrust, ripped down the man’s scutum with one hand and skewered him through the neck. A horrible, bubbling sound left the other’s lips as his airways filled with blood. Spartacus pulled free his blade and ripped the shield from the dying soldier’s grasp. He let it fall forwards and stooped over it to grab the horizontal grip. Pulling it up to protect his body, he advanced towards the next legionary, who had already missed the chance to cut him down.
‘Kill the bastard!’ shouted the centurion. ‘Just fucking kill him!’
A second soldier joined the first, but Spartacus didn’t hesitate. He could hear Getas shouting a war cry behind him. And a third voice? Spartacus still had no time to consider. He rushed at the pair of legionaries like a mad bull, and they took a step backwards. His spirits rose. Dropping his shoulder behind the scutum, he thumped into the first man, knocking him off balance. Spartacus didn’t bother to finish him off. He simply trampled over the screaming soldier and launched himself at the centurion.
‘Goddamn latrones!’ The centurion lifted his shield high and took a step forwards. ‘Sneaking in on us like the animals that you are!’
Spartacus didn’t bother answering. He banged his scutum off the other’s, but there was to be no easy barge over as he’d done with the legionary. The centurion’s sword came probing over the side of his shield like the tongue of a snake. Spartacus lifted his scutum as hard as he could, smashing the blade up and out of the way. He followed through with a brutal thrust at the other’s face, but the centurion dodged to one side, and the sharp iron gouged a line in the cheekpiece of his helmet instead.
‘You’ll have to do better than that!’ He slashed downwards at Spartacus’ feet.
Spartacus had to move backwards to avoid losing several toes.
‘Scum!’ Snarling with delight, the centurion advanced. His blade skimmed over the top of Spartacus’ shield. Spartacus ducked down so that his face wasn’t sliced into ribbons. Coming up, he braced himself against the charge that would follow.
The centurion slammed into him, but Spartacus stood firm. With their faces two handsbreadths apart, they stared at one another with utter hatred. In unison, they raised their swords. This is it, thought Spartacus. I’ll kill him, but he’ll do the same to me. It was all happening so fast. He had to thrust first, and hope that the centurion’s blow would not land, or at least that it would only injure him.
‘For Thrace!’ Getas came barging in from the side, his weapon lunging wildly.
Spartacus could nothing but watch in horror as the centurion smoothly moved his arm, letting Getas run on to his blade. It sank to the hilt in his belly, a death blow if there ever was one. Getas gasped in pain, and dropped his sword.
Hot tears of grief and rage half blinded Spartacus, but he savagely blinked them away. Before the centurion could react, or pull his gladius from the ruin of Getas’ stomach, Spartacus had reached around to hack deep into his left knee. Keening with agony, the centurion fell to the ground like a bar of lead. Spartacus leaped on him, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Animal? Who’s the fucking animal?’ He drew his sica across the base of the centurion’s neck,
