‘There were a few sentries, sir, but we rode them down.’ The German ran a finger across his throat. ‘As far as I can tell, the rest are oblivious to our presence.’
Varinius could taste his success already. It was sweeter than he could ever have imagined. There would be no more slogging through the mud, enduring the bitter weather. Just a short, sharp battle, with a foregone conclusion. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You know what to do.’
‘We circle around to the north, and wait near the tree line for the slaves to begin retreating. Then we fall on them like the hammers of hell,’ replied the German.
‘Give no quarter. None! I want your men to kill until their right arms can no longer hold a sword,’ instructed Varinius.
‘Yes, sir.’ The German grinned eagerly. Repeating Varinius’ words in his own tongue, he wheeled his horse back towards Thurii. His men followed.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Toranius.
‘I want a triplex acies formation the moment that the town walls come into sight.’ Varinius could see no reason not to use the method of attack that had been tried and tested by generations of Roman generals. ‘We’ll advance on the dogs at walking pace, and charge them from a hundred paces.’
‘Will they fight, sir?’
‘I doubt it very much! On flat ground, no one can master the Roman legionary. Especially not a band of fucking slaves.’ Varinius smiled happily. ‘Mark my words, Toranius. They will run the instant that they clap eyes on us. We probably won’t even get close enough for a volley of pila.’
Half an hour later, Varinius’ blood was well and truly up. He’d finally withdrawn behind his men — after all, there was no need to be stupid — but from the back of his horse, he had an excellent and central view of the battlefield. Toranius and the four tribunes stayed close by, ready to relay his orders during the fighting. Running off to Varinius’ left and right were the neat ranks of his twelve, full-strength cohorts. Five were arrayed in the front line, four in the second and three in the rear. Short gaps separated the three manoeuvring lines. Trumpets blared as the men assumed their final position. Pride filled Varinius. Gods, but they look good. The centurions were blowing their whistles and bellowing orders from the front rank of each cohort; near every officer, the unit’s gilded standard was being held aloft for everyone to see. The optiones stood behind the last rows of soldiers, their vine staffs at the ready. Their job was to beat any man who tried to back away, or retreat. That won’t happen today.
Content that his forces were ready, Varinius looked towards Thurii, which lay perhaps half a mile away. The messenger had been correct in his estimation. The black stain around the walls told him that the slaves had surrounded the entire town. Just to do that meant that they outnumbered his legionaries by a considerable margin. What of it? he thought scornfully. There was no visible order to the seething mass of men before him. Far from it. Instead of battle cries, the sound of frightened shouts wafted through the air from Thurii. Excellent. ‘They’ve seen us. Sound the advance!’ Varinius shouted.
The musician beside him raised his instrument to his lips and blew a short series of notes. This was taken up at once by the other trumpeters. Then, with measured tread, the lines of legionaries began to march forwards. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
With his excitement growing, Varinius walked his horse some twenty steps to the rear.
‘Hold the line, men,’ bellowed a centurion. ‘Have your first pilum ready!’
‘Steady,’ ordered Galba. ‘We want to hit the bastards all at the same time.’
‘Revenge for Lucius Furius and his lads!’ roared a voice.
‘And for Lucius Cossinius,’ added another.
‘REVENGE!’
The cry began echoing up and down the line, drowning out the slaves’ noises of distress.
‘SI–LENCE!’ screamed Galba, clattering the flat of his blade on the helmets of the men around him. ‘We close in on the fuckers in silence!’
It took some time, but the centurions and junior officers regained control eventually. An odd quiet fell over the legionaries. Varinius had not fought many battles, but he recognised the atmosphere well. The air was laced with the smell of leather and men’s sweat. The dominant sound once more was the heavy tread of his soldiers’ studded caligae on the muddy ground. Interspersed with this was the clash of pila shafts off the sides of shields and the metallic jingle of mail. Everywhere, men were hawking and spitting. They muttered prayers to their favourite gods and surreptitiously rubbed at the amulets hanging from their necks. Varinius felt his own stomach tighten with anxiety. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Think of the effect this will have. It’s absolutely terrifying to have an enemy advance in complete silence. That’s why we do it.
The distance between them and the slaves closed to perhaps 250 paces. Varinius’ anticipation grew. They were still well beyond javelin range, but close enough to mean that battle was likely. Sensing the slaves’ fear, his men were growing keener by the moment. But the seasoned centurions stayed calm, ensuring that no one broke ranks.
At two hundred paces, the legionaries were ordered to begin smacking their pila rhythmically off the metal rims on the tops of their scuta.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
It was an unnerving sound. A sound designed to send fear darting into men’s hearts. To promise the kiss of death from javelin tip or gladius blade. To ensure a trip to the River Styx, there to meet the ferryman.
Few enemies could take the terror of its approach.
A wall of incoherent shouts rose up from Spartacus’ men, and then, before Varinius’ very eyes, the main body of slaves broke in two. Half began running to the south, and the rest broke and fled for the trees to the north.
Varinius stifled a cheer. ‘Two cohorts wheel to the left, three to the right!’ He waited while the trumpeter sounded his commands, before directing the four cohorts in the second line to split equally and follow their comrades, and the final line of three to halt and hold the centre. ‘Toranius, I want you to lead the chase to the south. It’s open farmland, so the sheep-fuckers will have nowhere to go but face down in the mud. Chase them hard. Kill them all if you can!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Toranius’ teeth flashed white in his swarthy face.
‘You stay here,’ said Varinius, glancing at two of his tribunes. ‘The rest of you, follow the cohorts to the left. I want you to run them right on to the Germans. They’ll charge when it’s time and smash the whoresons against your shield wall.’ To his trumpeter: ‘Sound the charge. Javelins at will.’
He watched with great satisfaction as his orders were rapidly obeyed. The charging legionaries began to roar battle cries, and this time the centurions did nothing to stop them.
‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’
The air to Varinius’ left darkened as hundreds of pila were thrown after the retreating slaves. They soared up in graceful, lethal arcs and he counted his heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The missiles’ tips turned to point earthwards. Six. Seven. Eight. The screaming began, and Varinius stopped his count with a smile. There’s nothing like javelins to create panic in a fleeing mob.
Varinius glanced to his right, seeing the same scenario unfold. Toranius would do a good job. He was young, but steady.
His gaze casually returned to the front. The town’s main gate was opening. The defenders are making a sally, he thought with some amusement. The sluggards best hurry if they want a piece of the action. Or maybe they’ve come to thank me for saving their miserable hides.
Hundreds of armed men swarmed out of Thurii. Dressed in Roman mail shirts and wearing typical plumed bronze helmets, they ran with their shields close together. In total silence. Straight at Varinius’ three cohorts.
Varinius blinked. ‘What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?’
He glanced around, but Toranius and the tribunes were all long gone.
When he looked back, the men were twenty paces nearer. Varinius was startled to see that some of them had long hair and moustaches. His eyes flickered across their lines and his heart nearly stopped. There was a Nubian in the front rank too. And a man with facial tattoos who could only be a Scythian, or similar. ‘T-they’re not Romans! It’s a trap!’ he screamed.
With an anxious look, his trumpeter half raised his instrument. ‘What are your orders, sir?’
‘Close order,’ bawled Varinius. ‘A volley of javelins at fifty paces.’
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
The legionaries’ shields slammed together almost as one. ‘Right arms back,’ yelled the centurions. ‘Pila
