they hold that opinion! He looked out at the marching soldiers again. Still no sign of any cavalry. He could see the end of the dust cloud too. A gut feeling told him that there were fewer men than the five thousand in a legion marching towards them. Far fewer, in fact. Thank you, Great Rider. ‘Leave it as late as you can before you come down. Whatever you do, make sure you’re not seen. Return to our position.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Spartacus scrambled down to the road, which was little more than a wide dirt track through the dense mixture of trees and shrubs. With a backward glance in the direction of the Romans, he trotted towards Vesuvius, which was just visible over the treetops. A thousand paces or so further on, Spartacus saw the first eager faces appearing between the gaps in the buckthorn and juniper bushes. ‘Get down, you fools!’ he barked. ‘This isn’t a fucking game!’
The heads popped out of sight.
Spartacus came to a halt by a twisted evergreen myrtle tree. White starlike flowers covered its surface. His lips twisted at the irony. The blooms had medicinal uses; so too did the dark green leaves. Perhaps later there would be time to use them on the wounded. If we survive. He had hidden his and Gannicus’ men — half the force — to his left, and the rest to the right. They had been allocated into centuries. Once Navio had started his training, it had seemed logical to do so. The Gaulish leaders had grumbled, but having their followers all appointed as officers had appeased them. Every gladiator who could fight was here. They were mixed among the new recruits, roughly half a dozen to a century. Gaps had been cut in the thick vegetation, wide enough for four men to charge out at a time. The spaces had been filled with cut branches, which could be hauled out of the way in the blink of an eye.
‘Gannicus! Castus! Crixus!’
The Gauls were with him in a heartbeat. All three were clad in mail shirts and bronze-bowl helmets with white or red horsehair crests, and were carrying Roman scuta and gladii. Spartacus grinned fiercely. But for their long hair and moustaches, they looked like legionaries.
‘Are they coming?’ demanded Crixus.
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’ Gannicus’ expression was wary.
‘It’s not the full six thousand men, or even five; I know that. Half that number, or even less. There is no cavalry visible either.’
Gannicus clenched his fists. ‘Do we attack?’
‘Eh?’ Crixus shot him a hostile look. ‘Of course we do!’
Castus said nothing.
‘I asked Spartacus, not you, Crixus,’ Gannicus snapped.
‘You lapdog-’ accused Crixus.
‘What did you say?’ Gannicus’ face went puce with rage, and he laid a hand to his sword.
Crixus’ eyebrows rose. ‘You want to pick a fight with me? Come on then!’
‘Let’s not quarrel now,’ said Spartacus firmly. ‘We have more important business to hand.’
Like children who have been rebuked by a parent, the Gauls subsided, glowering at each other with obvious dislike.
‘We’ll fight if I say so. I won’t make that decision until the last moment. If I think that our attack will fail, I won’t use this.’ Spartacus lifted up the centurion’s bone whistle that hung from a thong around his neck. At Navio’s request, he’d had Glaber’s abandoned camp ransacked for examples like it. The Gauls now had one each too. ‘You all know what it sounds like. Unless you hear me blow one long blast, tell your men to stay down. We’ll just lie hidden until they’re gone. It’s imperative that they understand that! If any of those Roman bastards catch as much as a glimpse of us, we’re fucked. Clear?’
They all nodded, although Castus’ face bore a dubious expression.
‘If you hear the whistle, however, blow your own, and then immediately launch your pila.’
‘When will you sound it?’ asked Gannicus.
Spartacus pointed at the bend in the road, some three hundred paces towards Vesuvius. ‘Once the vanguard has disappeared around that.’ He glanced at Crixus. ‘Your position is closest to the curve. Are you happy not to let any escape?’
Crixus’ lips peeled back into a feral snarl of agreement.
Good. He thinks that he’s got the most important job. Fool.
Spartacus’ assumption couldn’t have been more wrong.
‘Make sure you whistle at the first opportunity. I might not be able to hold my men in otherwise,’ said Crixus offhandedly.
Spartacus ground his teeth with rage. ‘If they break cover too soon, it could entirely screw up the ambush.’
‘That would be down to you not sounding your whistle quickly enough,’ said Crixus, his eyes glittering with malice.
Utter fury took hold of Spartacus. A cunning time to pick an argument, he thought. He could think of nothing else but calling Crixus’ bluff. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, pulling the leather thong from around his neck and shoving it at the Gaul. ‘Is this what you want? If it is, we’d better move the men around quickly.’
Immediately, the others looked dismayed. ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Gannicus. ‘The damn Romans will be on us any moment. Leave it, Crixus,’ he advised. ‘It doesn’t matter that much who blows the bloody whistle. And Spartacus will pick the right moment. Eh, Castus?’
Spartacus held his breath.
‘He will,’ growled Castus.
Crixus’ jaw bunched with anger. ‘You do it then,’ he snarled at Spartacus. ‘What do I care?’
Spartacus nodded curtly. ‘Launch one volley of javelins only. Aim short and low.’ Most of the men had never thrown pila before, but he’d insisted that everyone armed themselves with some of the hundreds of missiles that had been left in Glaber’s camp. Even thrown by novices, they would cause confusion at such close range, as well as plenty of casualties. So too would the Nubians with their slings. ‘At my second whistle, charge.’
Castus still wasn’t completely happy. ‘What if they make formation and hold it? Our men will never break through a Roman shield wall.’
‘True enough,’ said Spartacus with an accepting shrug. ‘We’ll pull back, disappear into the scrubland. But only do that if you hear three short blasts on my whistle, repeated. Otherwise, press home the assault.’
‘It still seems like complete madness,’ protested Castus.
‘What?’ exclaimed Crixus.
‘We’re outnumbered. Most of our men are slaves, with little training, yet we’re about to attack thousands of legionaries. In broad daylight.’
Great Rider, don’t let him back out now. ‘It feels fucking great, doesn’t it?’ Spartacus grinned savagely. Confidently. ‘Far better than fighting in some shitty arena for the amusement of a Roman mob.’
Castus held his gaze for a moment before he too smiled. ‘That’s true.’
‘We’ll teach the whoresons a lesson they’ll never forget,’ promised Crixus, his bullishness returned.
Spartacus caught the uncertainty in Gannicus’ eyes. Even if Crixus is too pigheaded to see it and Castus has been won over, he knows that our fate hangs on a thread. Gods, how I wish that Getas and Seuthes were here with two hundred warriors of our tribe. But they weren’t. ‘Remember: Ariadne said this morning that the omens were good.’
Gannicus looked happier. ‘And she should know.’
‘That’s right!’ Spartacus gave silent thanks to Dionysus as well. Since he had revealed what Ariadne had said about his dream, her status had grown even further. He gripped Gannicus’ shoulder. ‘Ready to repeat what we did to Glaber?’
‘Yes!’
‘Into position, then. Remember, wait for my whistle.’
He waited until the others had disappeared from view before checking the road for a final time. Nothing. Unsheathing his sica, Spartacus made his way to the rear of the myrtle tree. There he found an edgy-looking Carbo. Navio was beside him, jiggling with excitement. Atheas and Taxacis hovered in the background. They won’t be necessary, thought Spartacus. If Navio is a traitor, I’m no judge of men. Carbo too. ‘All set?’
