the emptiness of a stone dropped into a bottomless well.
They moved out soon after, while the sun was still below the horizon. Clouds of exhaled breath filled the cold air as Carbo’s troops tramped through the darkness. It wasn’t more than a mile to the spot that Spartacus had ordered them to, which lent a palpable air of anticipation to the march. Although there was no pressing need yet to remain quiet, the men’s conversations were held in muttered tones. Working from the description he’d been given, Carbo led his force, some two hundred strong, northwards up a slope between groups of twisted junipers and sturdy holm oak trees. The vegetation gradually died away, leaving exposed great slabs of rock that were covered in rosettes of grey-green lichen.
They had climbed a short distance when the stone opened up in a gaping chasm. It stretched from left to right for some distance and was about twenty score paces across. Carbo walked up to the edge, and looked down. The drop was precipitous. Cursing, he took a step backwards. The wind that gusted to and fro here could easily sweep a man to his death. Lying down, he crawled to the lip with a great deal more caution. The view was breathtaking. At least five hundred paces below, the thin ribbon that was the road threaded its way along the valley floor. The only sign of life was a pair of ravens that were chattering noisily to each other as they banked and turned on the early-morning air currents.
Carbo’s gaze flickered from side to side, assessing the best spot for the ambush. Unsurprisingly, his eyes focused on the narrowest part of the gorge. There the two sides were little more than a good spear’s throw apart. He made his mind up at once. Anything that was dropped from that point could not fail to strike anyone on the road. A roseate glow to the east told him that dawn was approaching. Time was of the essence. Carbo began issuing orders.
The physical labour that followed filled him with relief. Finally, he was able to put what he’d been asked to do from his mind. Even the thought of killing hundreds of his fellow countrymen was better than thinking about Spartacus lying bloodied and still on the field below. If he died, Carbo did not know how he would bear it.
Chapter XXI
Spartacus eyed the sky, which was filled with dark, lowering thunderclouds. It wouldn’t be long until the heavens opened. At this altitude, it wouldn’t be surprising if the precipitation fell as hail, or even snow. He wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Men were casting nervous eyes upwards, and whispering unhappily to each other. Damn it all. The weather’s been fine for weeks. Why does it have to change now? Spartacus refused to countenance what his troops were thinking: that the gods were angry. The plan is good. It will work. Those were the words that Ariadne had whispered in his ear as he’d left her in the camp.
All the same, their fates hung by the slimmest of threads. He would have to move among the men now or panic would spread. And the damn rain had to hold off, or there might be no battle. The enemy scouts had been and gone some time before. By now, Lentulus knew where they were. Yet if the ground was going to be reduced to a mud-soaked swamp, he’d probably choose not to advance. Only a fool chose to fight in such treacherous conditions, and Spartacus doubted that a man who’d become consul fell into that category. Let’s hope that Lentulus is possessed of the same arrogance that I saw in Crassus. Spartacus was relying on that overweening Roman sense of superiority: that despite hearing of his successes, Lentulus would refuse even to entertain the notion that he, a renegade gladiator, would be capable of more than the most primitive battle plan. With his men in plain sight, what else could he be trying here but a full-blown battle?
It will work, Spartacus told himself. Carbo will succeed in blocking the gorge. His men would hold before the savagery of the Roman assault. Pulcher and Egbeo would fall on the Romans like Vulcan’s hammers. Castus’ and Gannicus’ forces would also prevail. Squaring his shoulders, Spartacus strode out in front of his troops. They bellowed their love for him, and he raised his arms in recognition of it. As the noise abated, he told them of their bravery in following him from the ludus or in running away from their masters. He praised their efforts during the arduous training, the sweat they’d shed and the hardships they had endured beneath Navio’s iron discipline. ‘For a Roman, he’s not bad,’ Spartacus shouted, and they roared with laughter.
The tension eased a little, and he paced to and fro, reminding them of each incredible victory that they’d won. How, despite being betrayed, he and seventy-odd men had broken out of the ludus. How the impossible task of defeating three thousand soldiers had been achieved by climbing down a cliff and causing panic in Glaber’s camp. How they’d repeated their success against first Furius, and then Cossinius. As if that wasn’t remarkable enough, they had given Varinius the slip, and when he had finally found them at Thurii, they had virtually annihilated his entire command. Although the fool had survived, the Senate had ordered him to fall on his sword when he’d brought the news of his disgrace to Rome.
The yells of delight grew louder and louder with every detail.
Spartacus encouraged his men with fierce waves of his arms. They’d need every scrap of self-belief possible in the fight to come.
The clamour abated gradually, and he glanced up. Miraculously, the black clouds had moved on without drenching them. The rain or hail would now fall on the peaks to the south, he judged. Thank you, Great Rider. He drew his sword and pointed it at the sky. ‘Look! The gods’ favour is still with us! The storm is passing.’
‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ cried a voice.
‘I try my best, Aventianus,’ Spartacus replied with a wink. Hoots of amusement rose from his men. What perfect timing. I must thank Aventianus afterwards. Instantly, doubt flared up in his mind. Don’t tempt fate. I’ll tell him if he survives. If I survive.
A man nearby cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that?’
A hush fell over the slaves.
For a heart-stopping moment, there was silence. Then the unmistakable blare of trumpets carried down the wind.
‘They’re here!’
A visible tremor passed through the ranks.
Spartacus’ misgivings, however, vanished like dawn mist beneath the rising sun. This was his purpose. To fight Rome. It was not in his homeland, as he’d wished, but that didn’t matter. He had been granted the chance to take on a Roman army commanded by one of its consuls. What more could he ask for? Victory, he thought. That’s what I want. Nothing else is good enough.
Spartacus filled his lungs. Throwing back his head, he cried, ‘There are only ten thousand of the whoresons. How many are we?’
‘Fifty thousand!’ Aventianus called out.
‘That’s right! FIFTY THOUSAND!’ Spartacus bawled. ‘Five of us for every stinking Roman! We will have VICTORY — OR DEATH!’
There was the slightest delay, and then his men echoed the refrain until the very cliffs resounded with it. ‘VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!’
Spartacus picked up his scutum and began to hammer his blade off its iron rim. ‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Do the same. The Romans must take our bait, and march into the gorge without thinking.’
There were fierce grins from those who heard. At once they began to emulate him. More slaves joined in. The noise spread through the army like wildfire. For the moment at least, the fear that the thunderclouds had engendered was gone. So too was the uncertainty of facing a full-strength Roman legion. Battle rage took some men, who screamed until their faces went purple. A mad euphoric feeling descended on others. Cracked laughs rang out, and the front ranks swayed forward a few steps until their officers chivvied them back into line.
Spartacus had never heard a racket like it since he’d first ridden with his tribe to war against Rome. An age ago, in Thrace, when the Maedi had lost. Pride filled him now, however. For all that these men were slaves, they had the courage of true warriors. If a battle began, they would stand and fight. Spartacus felt the certainty of that in his heart. Today perhaps the bloodstained shame of the previous defeat would be erased once and for all.
A series of angry trumpet blasts echoed through the defile.
Spartacus smiled with satisfaction. Lentulus did want a fight.
Now it was down to Carbo to spoil the consul’s party.
