He indicated the slaves behind him.
‘How much training have they had?’ Navio’s voice was crisp.
‘It depends. Some have been here for weeks, so they’ve had quite a lot, but they’ve been coming in every day. Most have had a week or two’s instruction with gladius and shield. A few have had as little as a couple of days.’
‘How many men are there?’
‘A little over three thousand in total. About a hundred of them are gladiators or proven fighters.’
Navio firmly pushed away first Atheas’ blade, and then Taxacis’ one. The Scythians glanced at Spartacus, but he said nothing. ‘Shall I tell you what I’d do?’ asked Navio.
There was a terse nod.
‘Assign your troops into Roman cohorts. Half a dozen units of around five hundred men, divided into six centuries. They’ll need officers, at least two for each century.’
‘Go on,’ said Spartacus slowly.
Warming to his subject, Navio spoke for some time, describing how he’d instruct the slaves to fight as one, holding their shields together. To use their swords purely as thrusting weapons. To respond to basic commands relayed by instruments such as the trumpet or whistle. To advance only when told to. To retreat in good order. At length, he paused. ‘If there was more time, I’d run them up and down the mountain in full kit every day, and train them against the palus too. The basics can come later, though, if we win.’
They could be made into an army yet. Spartacus smiled. ‘We?’
Navio coloured. ‘I meant “you”.’
‘Hmmm.’ Spartacus eyed Carbo coldly. ‘I had thought you loyal.’
‘I am!’
‘Yet you saw fit to disobey my orders.’
‘I-’
‘You told someone else who you were, and what you were doing in Neapolis,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘As if that wasn’t stupid enough, you then had the temerity to bring a Roman soldier into my camp!’
‘Because I imagined he could help us,’ retorted Carbo, his temper flaring at the injustice of it. ‘Clearly, he can’t. Neither can I.’ He glared at Taxacis and Atheas. ‘Why don’t you get on with it? Just fucking kill us and have done.’
Raising their weapons, the Scythians looked expectantly at Spartacus.
Carbo’s heart thudded in his chest as he readied himself for the worst.
Navio stuck out his chin.
‘So you will vouch for this Roman… Navio?’ asked Spartacus.
‘I will,’ replied Carbo, shooting a look at Navio. Do not betray me.
‘With your life?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. In that case, Navio can start training the men with me. You can help too. For the moment, Atheas and Taxacis will act as your understudies. At the slightest sign of treachery, they have my full permission to kill you both. However they choose.’ At this, the Scythians leered evilly, and nausea washed over Carbo again. ‘Is that clear?’
They both shook their heads in agreement.
‘If you prove to be faithful, I will reward you well.’
Carbo’s tongue felt thick in his dry mouth. ‘Thank you,’ he croaked.
‘You won’t regret this, sir,’ said Navio.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Spartacus stepped up and patted his cheek. ‘There’s no need to call me “sir” either. We’re not in the damn legions!’
‘What should I call you?’
‘What everyone else calls me. Spartacus.’ With that he was off, waving at them to follow. ‘Come on. Every hour counts!’
‘I judged you correctly, didn’t I?’ muttered Carbo to Navio.
‘You did,’ said Navio solemnly. ‘I swear before all the gods that I am no spy. I hate Rome with all my heart, and I will do my utmost to help Spartacus. Is that enough?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘It’s I who should be thanking you. Not only did you save my life, but you’ve given me new purpose.’ Navio punched him on the chest. ‘Let’s get a move on. Spartacus is waiting.’
As they walked off, neither could help but notice the two Scythians dogging their footsteps.
It mattered less to Carbo than he’d have thought possible a few moments previously.
Six days later…
Alerted by the hissed warning, Spartacus shinnied up the holm oak tree, climbing from black-barked branch to branch. Halfway up, he found the sentry, a young shepherd who’d recently joined them. ‘Firmus? Is that your name?’
Firmus beamed at being remembered. ‘Yes, sir.’
Spartacus had given up telling his men not to call him ‘sir’. It made no difference. ‘What have you seen?’
‘A Roman column, sir.’
Spartacus peered through the gap in the leathery, dark green leaves. The tree they were sitting in was situated at the edge of a large, thicketed area about four miles from the base of Vesuvius. The road which led from the Via Appia to the latifundia in the surrounding area ran right through it, making the spot perfect for an ambush. If it was worth doing, thought Spartacus, spotting the column’s dust cloud about half a mile away. They might be completely outnumbered.
When word had come the previous afternoon that the enemy was approaching, he had convened with the three Gaulish leaders. In just five days, Navio’s input had made a noticeable difference to their new recruits’ resolve, but that didn’t mean most wouldn’t cut and run the minute they faced a wall of Roman scuta. Spartacus had argued that using their better-trained recruits — including the gladiators, about thirteen hundred men — in another surprise attack was their best chance of success. The rest would be more risk than they were currently worth. Of course Crixus had argued against his plan, wanting more of a full-scale attack. Thankfully, the others had agreed with Spartacus. It seemed that his idea of using vine ropes and their success in attacking Glaber’s camp still carried some weight.
Newly arrived slaves had reported that the Roman commander had divided his force into three. If this information was incorrect, and Varinius’ entire force of six thousand legionaries was approaching, they’d simply melt away into the bush. Abandon Vesuvius that night, and make for the mountains to the east. From the safety of broken terrain, Spartacus knew that they could serve as a thorn in the Romans’ side for months, if not years. Just as he’d wanted to do in Thrace. Fierce excitement — and pride — gripped him at what he’d achieved thus far. Even when Crixus’ and Castus’ foot-dragging over training were taken into account, the gladiators were in a far stronger position now than they had been when Glaber arrived. Let the slaves’ reports be true, Spartacus asked silently. We face no more than two thousand soldiers under the legate Lucius Furius.
They’d been in place since well before dawn. It had been a long wait. Now Spartacus was relieved that one way or another, something would happen soon. He watched intently as the first troops tramped into sight. They were infantry. The legionaries marched six abreast, with their scuta slung from their backs, and a yoke carrying their spare equipment balanced on one shoulder. They carried two pila each in their other hands, which served as staffs when on the march.
‘They’ve got no horse. In the name of all the gods, why?’ Spartacus saw Firmus’ confused look. ‘Glaber had none either. It’s the most basic mistake that a commander can make. Few foot soldiers will stand against cavalry, not least men like ours, who have hardly any military experience. The presence of horsemen would increase the Romans’ chances of success enormously, but the whoresons are so damn arrogant that they haven’t bothered.’
Firmus shrugged. ‘We’re only slaves, sir.’
‘Eh?’
‘We’re only slaves. Why would they need cavalry?’
‘You’re right, lad.’ Spartacus chuckled at the simplicity of it. ‘That’s exactly what they must think.’ Long may
