pains me to do so, but I feel that I must remind you of the fate of Caius Claudius Glaber, your predecessor. I have every faith, however, that your future is a brighter one than his.
The idea of having to fall on his sword made Varinius break out in a cold sweat. He forced himself to continue reading.
May your resolve remain strong. I ask that Diana the huntress guide your path as you hunt down Spartacus. Let Mars keep his shield over you and your men! Success will soon be yours, and peace will return once more to Campania. I look forward to greeting you upon your victorious return to Rome. With brotherly concern, I remain your fellow praetor, Marcus Licinius Crassus
So there it was, as if he hadn’t known it already. Varinius’ shoulders bowed under the pressure. Succeed, die in the attempt, or be ordered to commit suicide by the Senate. That’s what Crassus’ honeyed words told him. What have I done to deserve this fate? How has a straightforward task become so treacherous? Crumpling the parchment, he tossed it into the brazier, watching with some satisfaction as it blackened and then began to burn.
Its message was engraved in his mind, though.
A discreet cough distracted him from his misery. ‘Sir?’
Varinius turned. ‘Ah, Galba!’ He made a show of being pleased to see his most senior centurion, a balding veteran with bandy legs and a mean aspect. ‘What is it?’
‘Some good news, sir.’
He had Varinius’ attention now. ‘Really? Well, come in, come in. It’s blowing a gale out there.’
Galba entered, letting the tent flap fall behind him. ‘I sent a rider ahead to Thurii this morning as you asked, sir. He’s just returned.’
Disappointed, Varinius frowned. He’d known that there would be a warm welcome for him and his men in the town. What use was there in reminding him now, when he was cold and miserable? ‘Is that all you’ve come to tell me?’
‘You don’t understand, sir. He didn’t manage to enter the town. It’s under siege, from Spartacus’ men.’
Varinius could hardly believe his ears. ‘Vulcan’s balls, really?’
‘So he says, sir. He’s a good lad too, served more than five years in the army.’
‘Is Thurii still ours?’
‘Apparently, sir. There are plenty of defenders on the walls.’
‘Ha! A band of sewer rats could never take a town. What are the fools thinking?’ cried Varinius, his confidence soaring. ‘How many of them were there?’
‘Hard to say, sir. He couldn’t exactly hang about. Upwards of a legion, he said. Six, seven thousand, maybe more.’
‘Spartacus has been busy then,’ mused Varinius, his eyes narrowing. ‘But they’re only slaves, eh?’
‘They’ll be no match for our lads, sir,’ said Galba stolidly.
‘Any catapults or siege engines?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Of course not,’ said Varinius dismissively. ‘What’s the lie of the land around Thurii?’
‘It’s mostly flat, sir. As you know, the sea is some miles to the east of the town. A large area of woods lies to the north, which is probably where Spartacus attacked from. The main road approaches from the west, through heavily cultivated farmland, more of which lies to the south.’
‘So they can only retreat the way they came?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Excellent!’ Varinius punched his right hand into his left. ‘If we leave at dawn, we should arrive there when?’
‘The messenger says it’s about fifteen miles, sir.’
‘Early afternoon then. Plenty of time for a battle. I will lead the troops in a frontal assault to relieve the town, and our cavalry can cut off their escape route. We’ll slaughter the whoresons.’
‘They won’t know what’s hit them, sir,’ agreed Galba, leering.
‘The trumpets are to sound an hour before dawn. I want every man ready to leave by the time the sun hits the horizon. Weapons and one day’s food only,’ said Varinius crisply.
‘The catapults and ballistae, sir?’
‘We won’t need them.’
‘And the baggage train, sir?’
‘Leave it one cohort as protection. It’s to follow on behind us. One other thing, Galba. Spread the word about how easy it’s going to be tomorrow.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Grinning, Galba saluted and turned on his heel.
Varinius’ spirits hadn’t been so high for many weeks. He reached for the jug and poured himself a large cupful. The wine tasted far better than it had done just a short time before. That prick Crassus will have his doubts quashed in royal style. He’ll fall over himself to be my friend. Varinius began imagining exactly how he would phrase the letter informing the Senate of his victory. ‘“Spartacus is dead”?’ he mused. ‘That would be a good start.’
Varinius slept like a baby. His day also began well. Even as the horizon tinged rosy-pink, his soothsayer, a buck-toothed ancient from Latium, had slit a chicken’s throat and read its entrails. To Varinius’ delight, the omens had been pronounced extremely auspicious. The day would end with a resounding victory for Rome. The slaves would be driven from the field, with huge losses. Spartacus himself would be captured or killed, and the citizens of Thurii would shower Varinius and his men with rewards. Most importantly, his continuing journey along the cursus honorum would be secured.
To the eager Varinius, the fifteen miles to Thurii seemed no more than five. Pleasingly, the mood among his men was also good. Over the previous months of misery, he had grown used to their sullen expressions and mouthed curses whenever they saw him. Desertions had soared; so too had the numbers of malingerers. Now, for the first time in an age, Varinius heard his legionaries singing instead of complaining. It couldn’t just be because their heavy yokes had been left behind, he thought. They were marching with real enthusiasm. They looked like men who actually wanted to fight. Varinius made a mental note to thank Galba. This was but the latest example. The veteran officer had proved himself indispensable since the campaign had started.
Varinius was so eager to reach Thurii that he had dispensed with usual protocol and was riding before the front ranks of his troops rather than in the commanders’ normal position, some distance to the rear. Only his cavalry, four hundred experienced German auxiliaries, were in front of him and his senior officers. The Germans had been patrolling ahead since the column had set out, reconnoitring the terrain and reporting back to Varinius at regular intervals. Pleasingly, there had been no sign of any enemy scouts whatsoever. The ignorant fools. They won’t even know that we’re coming.
The fertile farmland bordering Thurii to the west resembled any other in the south of Italy. Large fields bounded by trees and hedges had been set aside to cultivate either wheat or vines. The crops of both had long since been harvested, and now the wheat fields stood ploughed and empty. Gaggles of rooks cawed angrily as they were disturbed from the trees’ bare branches by the marching soldiers. On either side of the road stood countless lines of leafless vines, sadly shrunken from their autumn glory. Varinius, a keen oenophile, had sampled enough of the local vintages to consider buying a farm in the area. The eye-watering prices had put him off until now. That won’t be an issue after today, he thought triumphantly.
A dozen Germans appeared on the road, and Varinius’ stomach twisted. He pretended to ignore the approaching riders, chatting idly to Toranius, one of his quaestors. Soon, however, the thunder of galloping hooves could no longer be denied.
‘Ah. Some news, perhaps,’ said Varinius casually.
Spotting his scarlet cloak and horsehair-crested helmet, the Germans clattered to a halt in front of him. The lead rider made a perfunctory salute. ‘Praetor,’ he grated in heavily accented Latin. ‘We have sighted the slave army.’
‘They’re not a bloody army!’ cried Varinius. ‘A rabble, more like.’
The German inclined his head in recognition. ‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Arrayed around the town walls. I could see no troops facing to their rear at all, sir.’
‘Were you seen?’
