‘Spit it out then!’ said Gannicus.
At least one of them sounds genial, thought Spartacus. ‘What we achieved last night was astounding.’
‘Damn right!’ cried Crixus belligerently, as if it had been his idea all along.
He mentioned Ariadne’s interpretation of his dream, and the trio of Gauls roared with approval. ‘But we can’t just rely on that. The luck we had against Glaber won’t come our way so easily again.’
All three men’s eyes focused on him as hovering hawks do on a mouse.
‘Why not?’ demanded Castus.
‘Because plenty of legionaries escaped. They’ll tell of our surprise attack. The next commander that we face will have so many sentries on duty each night that they’ll be falling over themselves.’
‘And you’re sure that they will send another force?’ Gannicus registered his companions’ incredulous reactions and sighed. ‘All right. That’s wishful thinking.’
‘That’s right. It is,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘And there will be more than three thousand of the bastards too. Count on it.’
‘This wine is sour,’ Castus snapped, pouring the contents of his cup on the ground. He poured himself a generous measure from the jug and tasted it again. His face screwed up.
Spartacus raised an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t taste so sweet now, eh?’
Castus grunted irritably.
Gannicus leaned forward. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘If we are to have any chance of surviving’ — Spartacus let the words hang for a moment — ‘then we have to learn to fight as the Romans do. As disciplined infantry.’
‘Oh, it’s back to this, is it?’ mocked Crixus. ‘You want the men to train.’
The fool. Can’t he see it? Spartacus’ temper began to rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. ‘Yes, I do. Every day, with shield and sword, until they can stand in a line like legionaries and respond to orders instead of charging in like maniacs.’ Like Gauls, he wanted to add.
Crixus’ eyes glittered in the firelight. ‘I can tell you now that mine won’t do it.’
‘My lads won’t be too keen either,’ added Castus, sounding regretful to be agreeing with Crixus.
Spartacus turned his head.
‘I don’t know…’ said Gannicus.
‘By the Rider, can you not see what will happen otherwise? On an open field of battle, the legions are invincible! Without proper training, we will be crushed like beetles underfoot.’ He glared at each of them.
‘What’s the point? We’ll be annihilated sometime no matter what,’ muttered Crixus. ‘We may as well live like lords until that day.’
‘Who’s to say that we’ll be wiped out?’ challenged Spartacus. ‘We’re far more mobile than the Romans. Ambush and move on, that’s what I have in mind. Stay in the mountains when at all possible. If we do that, it will take far more than a force of mere infantry to even find us.’ He wasn’t happy with the skulking image that conjured up, but their position was a damn sight better than it had been just a short time before. It would do for the moment. Spartacus stared around at them, waiting.
Crixus curled his lip.
You’d cut off your nose to spite your face. Shame I didn’t do it for you. ‘Castus?’
Castus’ eyes flickered uneasily, but he did not answer.
Gannicus cleared his throat, and then spoke. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the idea of training, I suppose. Some routine might stop the lads from doing nothing. Keep them fit.’
‘Good.’ Encouraged, Spartacus turned back to Castus.
‘Don’t listen to him, Castus!’ Crixus advised. ‘The fucker is power mad. Can’t you see it?’
‘That’s not what it’s about,’ snapped Spartacus.
‘Isn’t it?’ Crixus threw back.
‘Would you like to lead us all?’ asked Castus.
‘Spartacus.’
Recognising Aventianus’ voice, he turned his head. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s something you should see.’ Aventianus pointed to the point where the path from below met the lip of the crater.
Spartacus stood up. Spotlit by the rays of the setting sun, he made out the figures of men emerging into view. Dozens of others were already milling about the edge of the camp. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘Slaves,’ said Aventianus simply. ‘Herdsmen, shepherds and agricultural labourers for the most part. They heard what you did to Glaber and his men, and they’ve come to join you.’
What I did. Fierce pride coursed through Spartacus’ veins. ‘How many are there?’
‘The sentries have lost count.’
‘Excellent!’ Spartacus turned to the Gauls. ‘We’ve got the food and the weapons to equip an army. All those men need is training, and we can give them that. Can’t we?’
‘That sounds good,’ declared Gannicus.
Castus hesitated for a heartbeat and then he nodded. ‘So be it.’
‘Will you join us, Crixus?’ asked Spartacus in a friendly way.
‘I suppose.’ It was said grudgingly. ‘Someone will need to take charge of those fools or they’ll run the first time they even see a legionary.’
‘You’d be excellent at knocking them into shape.’
For the first time, Crixus grinned. ‘Fine.’
‘We can start tomorrow. I’ll begin the gladiators’ instruction.’ Now their glances were more enquiring than rebellious. Thank you, Great Rider. ‘I spent years fighting with the Romans, so I have a good idea of how they’re trained to fight.’
No one argued, and again Spartacus gave silent thanks. For the moment at least, the others would follow his lead.
‘Thank you for the wine.’ Draining his cup, he set it down beside Castus. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Castus. ‘There’s a whole night of drinking to come.’
‘For you, maybe. I’m going to talk to the new arrivals.’ And Ariadne is waiting for me. Ignoring their protests, Spartacus walked away. He was glad that none of the Gauls followed him. If they were more interested in getting drunk than making a good first impression on the slaves who’d fled their masters to come here, that was their loss.
The four sentries were relieved to see him. Although they’d been trying to keep the slaves from spreading out, theirs was an impossible task. It was like trying to stem the tide, thought Spartacus, looking at the ill-dressed, nervous-looking rabble before him. Even a rough headcount took him to a hundred, and more men were spilling over the crater’s lip with every heartbeat. Here and there, he spotted a woman too.
‘Welcome!’ he shouted in Latin.
At once he became the focus of attention. ‘Who are you?’ The question came from a strapping man with old, healed burns all over his arms.
A blacksmith. Just the type we need. ‘I am Spartacus.’
‘You’re Spartacus?’ The man’s face was incredulous.
‘That’s right.’
‘But-’
‘What?’
‘I thought…’
‘That I’d be seven feet tall and breathe fire? Is that it?’
There was a burst of laughter and the blacksmith coloured beneath his tan.
Moving closer, Spartacus fixed the man with his piercing gaze. ‘I am Spartacus the Thracian, who fought as a gladiator in the ludus at Capua. Last night, I led eighty men into a camp where more than three thousand legionaries were sleeping. We killed hundreds of the whoresons, and sent the rest screaming for their mothers. If you think I’m lying, perhaps you’d like to take me on. Bare hands or with weapons. It’s your choice.’
The blacksmith looked into Spartacus’ eyes and saw his death there. His confidence vanished like morning mist. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘None taken,’ Spartacus replied amiably. ‘Why are you here?’
