‘Yes,’ replied Carbo. ‘Are they coming?’
‘They’ll be here soon.’
Carbo squared his shoulders. ‘I’m ready.’
‘May Mars watch over us with his spear and shield,’ said Navio with fierce enthusiasm.
‘And the Great Rider,’ added Spartacus. Stay with me, as you have done until now.
Spartacus trotted up and down his lines, pausing regularly to mutter encouragement in men’s ears, and slap them on the back. He told them what brave soldiers they were, and of how their deeds that day would be sung about for a hundred years. Lying through his teeth, he said that the legionaries who were approaching were cowards to a man, who would run at the sight of slaves with swords. That raised a laugh from most, but it was a nervous laugh, and Spartacus knew that his words would be forgotten the instant that the battle began. Then, as always, it would come down to each man’s resolve, and the resolve of his comrades. To the impact of the volley of javelins. To the level of surprise and fear their attack generated in the Romans. To the number of legionaries that they could kill in the first few moments. If all those factors went in their favour, perhaps they had a chance.
Spartacus’ grip on his sica tightened. If things go against us…
He’d been on the victorious side in combat enough times to know what happened to the enemy. It would be a rout. Soldiers who broke were the easiest prey of all to kill. As fear overcame them completely, they entirely lost reason and discipline. Their shields were the first things they discarded. Then it was their swords. Comrades who stumbled or fell were ignored or even trampled into the dust. Few, if any, tried to defend themselves. They simply ran. And legionaries were masters at hunting down such men. It was common for ten enemy combatants to be killed for every Roman casualty. If the slaves fled, the figure would probably be even higher.
Stop it. This is what I’ve prayed for over the years. The chance to lead an army against Rome once more. An opportunity to gain vengeance for my tribe’s defeat, and Maron’s death.
Hearing the sound of running feet, Spartacus straightened.
Firmus came hammering into the gap a moment later. ‘They’re coming!’
‘How far away are they?’
‘I kept pace with them through the bush. No more than a quarter of a mile, sir.’
Spartacus pricked his ears. He could just make out the tramp of thousands of hobnailed sandals striking the ground in unison. ‘Seen any horsemen?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How many do you think there are?’ Spartacus barked.
Firmus quailed before him. ‘I’m not sure, sir. More than I can count.’
Spartacus bit back his angry and instinctive rebuke. He’s only a shepherd, same as the other scouts. They’re not used to estimating enemy numbers. ‘Well done. Cross the road and tell Castus and Crixus that their men are to prepare for a volley of javelins. But they must not launch until my whistle!’
Firmus nodded and was gone. At once the gap was filled with branches.
‘Javelins at the ready!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Spread the word.’
Muttering broke out as his order passed through the waiting ranks.
‘Are we going to fight?’ asked Carbo. He was grateful that his churning guts weren’t audible.
‘I don’t know yet,’ admitted Spartacus with a wink. ‘It depends on how many of the mangy dogs there are.’
‘I see.’ Carbo smiled as confidently as he could.
‘It’s all right to feel nervous,’ said Spartacus in a quiet voice. ‘This will be your first pitched battle. Most men are shaking like leaves, or praying like lunatics to every god under the sun. It’s common for soldiers to vomit or even piss themselves. You’re doing none of that. Instead, you’re standing firm, ready to fight.’
Grateful, Carbo felt his resolve strengthen.
‘Good lad. I know you’ll do well.’ Spartacus turned away to peer through the branches at the track.
‘He knows just what to say,’ whispered Navio in Carbo’s ear.
Carbo spun round, and was relieved to see no judgement in Navio’s eyes.
‘It’s one of the signs of a great leader.’
‘I’d follow him anywhere,’ said Carbo passionately.
‘Silence!’ hissed Spartacus.
They crouched down and waited.
Soon all that could be heard was the heavy tread of the approaching legionaries.
Despite Spartacus’ reassurance, Carbo’s stomach was twisting itself in knots. We could easily be slaughtered. He felt saliva pooling around his tongue, and it took a supreme effort not to be sick. A piercing alarm call distracted him and he looked up, catching sight of a blackbird in the myrtle tree. It cocked its head, its beady eye regarding the lines of hidden men with clear suspicion. It trilled again. And again.
We must be on its territory. The damn thing will give away our position.
Spartacus reached up and waved his arm. To Carbo’s relief, the blackbird flew off, still chattering angrily. If any of the legionaries noticed, they would think it was their presence that had disturbed the bird. He dried his palms one by one on the bottom edge of his tunic, and cocked his right arm again. The weight of the javelin was still unfamiliar, but Carbo had been practising with it every day. He could now hit a target most times he threw. He tried not to think about the fact that it would be sinking into Roman flesh.
This is the road I’ve chosen. The legions wouldn’t have me.
I’m with Spartacus now.
Chapter XV
Time dragged on. Carbo’s heart was thudding like that of a trapped beast. Where are they? A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked to his right. Through the gaps in the branches, he saw the red tunics and silver mail of rank upon rank of legionaries marching past. His nausea returned with a vengeance. Carbo bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood. To his relief, the pain pushed the nausea into the background. He refocused his attention on the enemy. The enemy, because that’s what they are. Ten rows went by, then fifteen and twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Still they kept coming, none so much as glancing to either side. They were so near that their banter was discernible. Some were singing ribald tunes; others complained about the distance they’d marched; still more cursed Spartacus and his cowardly slaves, whom they’d butcher to a man. Cheers rose up at that prospect.
The tension was growing unbearable. Carbo glanced at Spartacus, whose whistle was clenched between his lips. Then at Navio, whose face was strained too. Even Atheas and Taxacis were leaning forward like hounds eager to slip the huntsman’s leash. Beyond them the slaves were looking ever more nervous. Carbo wanted to scream at Spartacus. Are you going to give us the damn signal?
Spartacus was oblivious to his men’s anxiety. He still had not decided what to do. The wrong decision would see his men massacred. What he most wanted to know — how many Romans there were — would not be clear until they’d all passed by. By then, it would be too late. Another line of legionaries came into view. Not one of them was more than twenty-one or-two years of age. However many there are, they don’t look like seasoned veterans. With that realisation, Spartacus’ uncertainty vanished. He took a in a deep breath and blew with all his might.
Peeeeeeep!
The shrill sound rose to the very heavens. No one in any proximity could fail to hear it.
Spartacus’ right arm went back, and he threw his javelin, low and short.
Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! Peeeeeeep! went the Gauls’ whistles.
Carbo’s instincts took over and he threw his pilum. Beside him, he sensed Navio and the two Scythians also hurling theirs. Hundreds of other javelins joined them from either side, and, for the briefest moment, the tops of the bushes were topped by a bizarre layer of wood and metal. Then the missiles were gone, dropping down among the unsuspecting legionaries in a deadly, barbed rain.
Peeeeeeep!
Spartacus began hauling branches out of the way. Carbo and Navio rushed to join him.
The screams and shouts of confusion hit their ears in a cacophony of sound.
‘Move! Move!’ bellowed Spartacus. ‘Speed is everything!’
