Two heartbeats later, the gap had been cleared. Carbo stared wide-eyed at the mayhem their javelins had caused. The column’s neat formation had fallen apart. Instead of precise ranks of legionaries, all he could see was a heaving mass of yelling, confused men. Fallen soldiers lay everywhere. Many were dead but the majority were wounded, roaring in agony and clutching at the javelins that had pierced them through. Carbo couldn’t see an officer anywhere.
Spartacus clattered his sica off his scutum, once, twice, thrice. ‘CHARGE!’ With that, he was gone, bounding up like an Olympic sprinter of old.
Roaring like madmen, Atheas and Taxacis were next.
I can’t let Navio get out there before me, thought Carbo. He felt his feet begin to move of their own volition. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, watch over me. He’d already drawn his gladius, holding it close to his right side. With only his eyes visible over the metal rim of his shield, he charged forward. Other men were scrambling out with him. The legionaries were ten to fifteen paces away. What surprised Carbo was the shocked expression on their faces. They don’t know what’s hit them!
Awestruck, he watched Spartacus.
‘For Thrace!’ shouted Spartacus, smashing his shield boss into that of a soldier who looked even younger than Carbo. The impact drove his opponent back several steps and off his feet. Spartacus was on him in a flash. His sica flickered in the sunlight; a stream of blood spouted into the air. The young legionary’s legs kicked spasmodically and relaxed.
‘Watch out!’ Navio cried.
Too late, Carbo’s head spun away from Spartacus, to his front. He had barely enough time to take in the snarling face of an unshaven legionary not three steps away, his gladius lunging at Carbo’s eyes. He ducked down behind the curve of his shield and heard the blade whistle overhead. There was a thump as the legionary’s scutum connected with his, and Carbo staggered. Frantically, he shifted one foot back and managed to brace himself as the legionary drove into him again. The man’s sword came sliding around Carbo’s scutum and grated off his mail shirt. Carbo lifted his head, aware that if he didn’t get a blow in quickly, the show was over. He was just in time to see Navio’s sword thrusting through the legionary’s armour and deep into his side. The man crumpled untidily to the ground. With a snarl, Navio ripped his blade out. Rage replaced Carbo’s panic and he stepped in and rammed his gladius into the legionary’s open, screaming mouth. His arm came to a juddering halt when the hilt of his weapon chinked off the man’s few remaining teeth.
With a grunt, Carbo tugged it free. He had the briefest impression of a red, ruined maw and two dead, staring eyes before Navio thumped his helmet. ‘Keep moving! Stay close to Spartacus!’
Everything then became a blur, a succession of disjointed tableaux that Carbo struggled to remember afterwards. Shoving his way with Navio to stand by Spartacus. Seeing Atheas and Taxacis on their leader’s other side. The clash of arms and men’s shouts being so loud that he could barely hear himself think. Having to tread on bodies, some of which were moving. Or screaming. Forming a shield wall with several others. Driving forward. Seeing the fear blossom on the legionaries’ faces. The crash as they hit home. Spartacus’ deep voice, urging them on. Atheas and Taxacis’ ululating cries, which to Carbo sounded like those of demons in Hades. Repeatedly thrusting with his gladius. Seeing legionaries go down, one after another, with blades buried in their faces, chests, bellies and groins. Laughing manically. Advancing. Killing again. Noticing that the blood of the men he’d slain coated not just his entire blade, but his right arm too. He had totally forgotten that the men he was fighting were his own countrymen.
‘There! There!’ shouted Spartacus.
Carbo peered, seeing the scarlet crest on a centurion’s helmet bobbing up and down behind the nearest legionaries. Beside the officer was a man with a lion-skin headdress carrying a gilded standard. He heard the centurion’s frantic cries to rally around the standard-bearer. Spartacus pointed at the silver hand surrounded by a wreath. ‘Take that and they’ll break!’ He threw himself at the Roman ranks, not looking to see if anyone followed.
Spartacus had no idea how the battle was going elsewhere, but in his section, his men were more than holding their own. It would take but one great effort to turn the tide of battle in their favour. He’d seen before the effect when a Roman standard was taken. Courage leached from the legionaries’ veins as quickly as if their throats had been cut. Their legs turned to jelly, and they ran like cowards. It wasn’t that simple, of course. To retain a standard, they would commit suicidal acts of bravery. But in the immediacy of battle, Spartacus knew that this was his next task. He could only hope that the Gauls were doing well too.
Right on cue, a legionary carrying the jagged stump of a gladius threw himself at Spartacus. The Thracian parried the broken weapon easily with his shield and hooked his sica around to take the soldier in the groin, below his mail shirt. It slid in like a hot knife through cheese. Spartacus didn’t bother with a second stroke. He’d severed a major artery in the Roman’s groin.
Atheas’ scutum clinked off the left side of his. Stained teeth shone from his laughing, open mouth. ‘We take… standard?’
‘Yes!’
Working together, they dispatched a pair of legionaries, and another lone one. And then there was nothing between them and the standard-bearer but the centurion, a squat man with a beaked nose. A leather harness over his mail was covered with phalerae, and a gold ring encircled his upper right arm.
‘I’ll fight you one-to-one!’ the centurion shouted.
Spartacus sensed Atheas’ eyes on him, felt the Scythian begin to draw back. A deep, coursing anger took hold of him. ‘What do you think this is — the damn ludus?’ he shouted at the centurion. ‘You’re just another fucking Roman. With me, Atheas.’
They split left and right, sliding their feet carefully across the gore-spattered ground.
The centurion was a brave man. He didn’t back away. He couldn’t advance without endangering the standard-bearer, so he raised his scutum and grimly prepared to meet their attack. ‘Come on, you bastards,’ he growled. ‘I’ve killed better men than you before!’
Spartacus was in no mood for skilful sword play. ‘Ready?’
The Scythian bellowed his assent.
‘Now!’ shouted Spartacus. He’ll try to kill me first. He knows I’m the leader.
Sure enough, the centurion went for him. He used the classic one-two of punching with his scutum and following through with a huge thrust of his gladius. Except Spartacus was ready for the move, twisting to meet the Roman’s shield side on, missing the other’s deadly iron blade, and letting the centurion’s momentum carry him to the left. Where Atheas was waiting. Unbalanced, the officer had no time to react, to defend himself properly. The Scythian’s weapon hacked in, shearing off the cheekpiece of his helmet and rupturing one of his eyeballs before coming to rest deep in his skull. Gobbets of grey brain matter came showering out as Atheas heaved his gladius free, and the centurion dropped like a stone down a well.
Spartacus swarmed forward at the standard-bearer, who had only a small round shield to defend himself. The man knew that death was facing him in the eyes, but he did not run. He backed away carefully, roaring for his comrades. From the corner of his eye, Spartacus saw several legionaries’ heads turn in their direction. Adrenalin surged through him. If he didn’t win the standard now, he never would. He’d be dead too. With a savage grimace, Spartacus feinted with his shield. Then he swung his sword arm around and brought it back in the opposite direction a man would expect — from left to right. The soldier saw it coming, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but raise his standard. If he hadn’t, he would have lost his head. As it was, Spartacus’ sica carved clean through the standard’s wooden staff and cut a deep flesh wound in his neck.
A thin, keening cry left the standard-bearer’s throat, but Spartacus wasn’t interested in that. He exulted as the gilded hand, severed from the rest of the staff, angled to one side and crashed to the ground. There were instant wails of dismay from all around him. Snatching up the stump with the hand attached, Spartacus shoved it at Atheas. ‘Guard that as you would me!’
Taxacis, Carbo and Navio reached him an instant later.
‘Form a ring around the standard!’ shouted Spartacus.
Quickly, the four surrounded Atheas and readied themselves to defend him at all costs.
At least ten legionaries were already closing in on them, and Carbo prepared to sell his life dearly.
It was then that a bloodcurdling roar shredded the air.
Carbo gasped; Castus had arrived on the scene. He had four Gauls with him, all screaming war cries at the
