Authors: Howard Fast
Tags: #Ancient, #Historical fiction, #Spartacus - Fiction, #Revolutionaries, #Gladiators - Fiction, #Biographical fiction, #Fiction, #Romance, #Revolutionaries - Fiction, #Rome, #Historical, #Slave insurrections, #Rome - History - Servile Wars; 135-71 B.C - Fiction, #General, #Gladiators, #History
Spartacus (36 page)
(“What a fight!” he cries. “What a fight this is, David! Will we ever live to see the sun rise in a fight like this? Who knows?”
(He loves it, David thinks. What a strange man this is! Look how he loves battle! Look how he fights! He fights like a berserk! He fights like one of them out of that song he sings!
(He doesn’t know that he too is fighting the same way. He must be killed before a spear can touch Spartacus. He is like a cat that never tires, a great cat, a jungle cat, and his sword is a claw. He is never separated from Spartacus. One would think that he is joined to Spartacus, the way he manages to remain always by his side. He sees very little of the battle. He sees only what is directly ahead of Spartacus and himself, but that is enough. The Romans know that Spartacus is here, and they forget the formal dance of the maniples that their soldiers train for years to perfect. They crowd in, driven by their officers, fighting and clawing to reach Spartacus, to drag him down, to kill him, to cut off the head of the monster. They are so close that David can hear all the vile filth pouring out of their mouths. It makes a sound above the clashing roar of the battle. But the slaves too know that Spartacus is here, and from the other side they pour into this center of struggle. They raise the name of Spartacus like a banner. It waves out over the whole battlefield like a banner. Spartacus! You can hear it miles away. At a walled city, five miles away, they hear the sound of the battle.
(But David hears without listening; he knows nothing but what he fights and what is in front of him. As his strength goes, as his lips become parched, the battle becomes more and more terrible. He doesn’t know that it is spread over two miles of ground. He doesn’t know that Crixus has smashed two legions and pursues them. He knows only his arm and his sword and Spartacus beside him. He is not even aware that they have fought their way down the hillside into the valley bottom until he begins to sink ankle-deep into the soft, grassy ground. Then they are in the river, and the fight goes on while they stand knee-deep in water that is running red as blood. The sun sets and the whole sky is red, a bitter salute to the thousands of men who fill the valley with their hatred and struggle. In the darkness, the battle lessens but it never pauses, and under the cold light of the moon, the slaves dip their heads into the bloody river water, drinking and drinking, for unless they drink they will die.
(With the dawning, the Roman attack breaks. Who has ever fought men like these slaves! No matter how many you kill, others come screaming and yelling to take their places. They fight like animals, not like men, for even after you have buried your sword in their guts and they go down on the ground, they will fasten their teeth in your foot, and you have to cut through the neck to make them let go. Other men crawl out of the battle when they are wounded, but these slaves go on fighting until they die. Other men break off a battle when the sun sets, but these slaves fight like cats in the dark and they never rest.
(With this kind of thing, fear creeps into the Romans. It grows in them out of an old seed long since planted. Fear of the slaves. You live with slaves, but you never trust them. They are inside, but they are also outside. They smile at you each day, but behind the smile is hatred. They think only of killing you. They grow strong on hatred. They wait and wait and wait. They have a patience and a memory that never ends. This is the seed which was planted in the Romans since first they were able to think, and now the seed bears fruit.
(They are tired. They hardly have the strength to carry their shields and lift their swords. But the slaves are not tired. Reason goes. Ten break here, a hundred there. The hundred becomes a thousand, the thousand ten thousand, and suddenly the whole army is swept with panic and the Romans begin to throw down their arms and run. Their officers try to stop them, but they kill their officers, and screaming in panic, they run from the slaves. And the slaves come behind them, evening old scores, so that the ground for miles around is carpeted with Romans who lie on their faces with the wounds in their backs.
(When Crixus and the others find Spartacus, he is still next to the Jew. Spartacus is stretched on the ground, sleeping among the dead, and the Jew stands over him, sword in hand. “Let him sleep,” the Jew says. “This is a great victory. Let him sleep.”
(But ten thousand slaves have died in that great victory. And there will be other Roman armies—larger armies.)
When it became known that the gladiator was dying, interest in him slackened. By the tenth hour, mid-afternoon, only a handful of the most confirmed advocates of crucifixion remained to watch—they and a few such ragamuffin beggars and scabby loafers as would be unwelcome among the numerous fruitful pleasures which even a city like Capua provided in the afternoon. It was true that there were no races in Capua at that time, but there was sure to be something doing at one of the two fine arenas. Because it was so popular a city for tourists, it was a point of pride among the wealthier citizens of Capua to provide fighting pairs for a minimum of three hundred days of the year. There was an excellent theatre in Capua and a number of large public houses of prostitution, operating in a more open manner than would have been countenanced in Rome. In these places there were women of every race and nation, specially trained to enhance the reputation of the city. There were also the fine shops, the perfume bazaar, the baths, and the many water sports on the beautiful bay.
Therefore, it is not surprising that one dying, crucified gladiator should be only a passing attraction. If he had not been the hero of the
munera,
not a second glance would have been given him, and even this way, he was no longer an object of great interest. In a letter addressed “to the full citizens of Rome who dwell at Capua,” the three wealthy merchants who headed the small Jewish community disowned all knowledge of or responsibility for him. They pointed out that in their homeland, all elements of rebellion and discontent had been rooted out, and they also pointed out that circumcision was not proof of Jewish origin. Among the Egyptians, the Phoenicians, and even among the Persians, circumcision was quite common. It was also not in the nature of Jews to strike against that power which had brought a state of peace and plentitude and benign order over most of the world. Thus abandoned on every side, the gladiator was reaching his death in lonely indignity and pain. He provided no amusement for the soldiers and precious little for the onlookers. There was one wretched old woman who sat with her hands folded around her knees, staring at the man on the cross. The soldiers, out of sheer boredom, began to tease her.
munera,
not a second glance would have been given him, and even this way, he was no longer an object of great interest. In a letter addressed “to the full citizens of Rome who dwell at Capua,” the three wealthy merchants who headed the small Jewish community disowned all knowledge of or responsibility for him. They pointed out that in their homeland, all elements of rebellion and discontent had been rooted out, and they also pointed out that circumcision was not proof of Jewish origin. Among the Egyptians, the Phoenicians, and even among the Persians, circumcision was quite common. It was also not in the nature of Jews to strike against that power which had brought a state of peace and plentitude and benign order over most of the world. Thus abandoned on every side, the gladiator was reaching his death in lonely indignity and pain. He provided no amusement for the soldiers and precious little for the onlookers. There was one wretched old woman who sat with her hands folded around her knees, staring at the man on the cross. The soldiers, out of sheer boredom, began to tease her.
“Now, beautiful,” one of them said, “what are you dreaming about with that man up there?”
“Shall we cut him down and give him to you?” another asked. “How long is it since you had a fine young fellow like that in bed with you?”
“A long time,” she muttered.
“Well, he’d be a bull in bed with you, all right. He’d be one to ride you. My God, he’d ride you the way a stallion rides a mare. How about it, old lady?”
“What a way to talk,” she said. “What people you are! What a way to talk to me!”
“Oh, my ladyship, I apologize.” One after another, the soldiers made sweeping bows to her. The few onlookers caught up with the game and crowded around.
“I don’t give two damns for your apologies,” the old woman said “Filth! I’m dirty. You’re filth. I could wash off my dirt in the baths. You couldn’t.”
They didn’t like the game two ways, and their authority reasserted itself. They became hard, and their eyes glittered. “Take it easy, old lady,” one of them said. “Keep a bolt on your tongue.”
“I say what I please.”
“Then go take a bath and come back. You’re a sight, sitting here right at the city gates the way you look.”
“Sure I’m a sight,” she grinned at them. “I’m a dreadful sight, huh? What people you Romans are! The cleanest people in the world. Isn’t a Roman who doesn’t bathe every day, even if he’s a loafer, as most of you are, and spends his mornings gambling and his afternoons in the arena. He’s so damned clean—”
“That’s enough, old lady. Just shut your mouth.”
“It’s not enough at all. I can’t bathe. I’m a slave. Slaves don’t go to the baths. I’m old and used up, and there isn’t anything you can do to me. Not one blessed thing. I sit in the sun and bother no one, but you don’t like that, do you? Twice a day I go to my master’s house, and he gives me a handful of bread. The good bread. The bread of Rome that the slaves plant and the slaves reap and the slaves grind and the slaves bake. I walk through the streets, and what do I look at that hasn’t been made by the hands of slaves? Do you think you frighten me? I spit at you!”
While this was going on, Crassus returned to the Appian Gate. He had slept poorly, as people often do when they try to make up in daylight the rest they should have had the night before. If someone had asked him why he was returning to the scene of the crucifixion, he might have shrugged his shoulders. But actually he knew well enough. A whole great era of the life of Crassus was finishing with the death of this last of the gladiators. Crassus would be remembered, not only as a very rich man, but as the man who had put down the revolt of the slaves.
This is an easy thing to say, but it was not an easy thing to do. As long as he lived, Crassus would never separate himself from his memories of the Servile War. He would live with those memories, rise with them, and go to bed with them. He would never say farewell to Spartacus until he, Crassus, died.
Then the struggle between Spartacus and Crassus would be over, but only then. So now Crassus returned to the gate to a look again at all that was left and living of his adversary.
A new captain was in command of this shift, but he knew the general—as most people in Capua did—and he outdid himself in being personable and helpful. He even apologized for the fact that so few people had remained to see the death of the gladiator.
“He is dying very quickly,” he said. “That’s surprising. He seemed to be the tough, lasting type. He might have lived on there three days. But he’ll be dead before morning.”
“How do you know?” asked Crassus.
“You can tell. I’ve seen a great many crucifixions, and they all follow the same pattern. Unless the nails cut through a major artery, and then they bleed to death pretty quickly. This one isn’t bleeding very much though. He just doesn’t want to live any more, and when that happens, they die quickly. You wouldn’t think it would be that way, would you?”
“Nothing surprises me,” said Crassus.
“I guess not. I guess after all you’ve seen—”
At that moment, the soldiers laid hands on the old woman, and her shrill cries as she fought them attracted the attention of the general and the gate captain. Crassus strode over, took in the scene at a glance, and told the soldiers scathingly,
“What a fine lot of heroes you are! Leave the old lady alone!”
The quality of his voice caused them to obey. They let go of the woman. One of them recognized Crassus and whispered to the others, and then the captain came up and wanted to know what this was all about and whether they didn’t have anything better to do with their time?
“She was insolent and filthy in her language.”
A man standing by guffawed.
“Get out of here, the lot of you,” the captain told the idlers. They retreated a few steps, but not too far, and the old crone peered shrewdly at Crassus.
“So the great general is my protector,” she said.
“Who are you, old witch?” Crassus demanded.
“Great man, should I kneel in front of you or should I spit in your face?”
“Do you see? Did I tell you?” the soldier cried.
“Yes—all right. Now what do you want, old woman?” Crassus asked.
“I only want to be left alone. I came out here to see a good man die. He should not die all alone. I sit and watch him while he dies. I give him an offering of love. I tell him that he will never die. Spartacus never died. Spartacus lives.”
“What on earth are you talking about, old woman?”
“Don’t you know what I’m talking about, Marcus Licinius Crassus? I’m talking about Spartacus. Yes, I know why you came out here. No one else does. They don’t know. But you and I know, don’t we?”
The captain told the soldiers to take hold of her and drag her away, because she was just a filthy old bag, but Crassus motioned them off angrily.
“Leave her alone, I told you. Stop showing me how brave you are! If you’re so damned brave, maybe you’d all like to be in a legion instead of a summer resort. I can just take care of myself. I can just defend myself from one old lady.”
“You’re afraid,” the old woman smiled.
“What am I afraid of?”
“Afraid of us, aren’t you? Such a fear you all have! That’s why you came out here. To see him die. To make sure that the last one is dead. My God, what some slaves did to you! And you’re still afraid. And even when he dies, will it be the end? Will it ever be the end, Marcus Licinius Crassus?”
“Who are you, old woman?”
“I am a slave,” she answered, and now she seemed to become simple and childish and senile. “I came out here to be with one of my people and to give him a little comfort. I came to weep for him. All the others are afraid to come. Capua is full of my people but they are afraid. Spartacus said to us, rise up and be free! But we were afraid. We are so strong, and yet we cower and whimper and run away.” Now the tears poured out of her rheumy old eyes. “What are you going to do to me?” she pleaded.
“Nothing, old woman. Sit there and weep if you want to.” He threw a coin at her and walked thoughtfully away. He walked over to the cross, looking up at the dying gladiator and turning over the old woman’s words in his mind.
In the life of the gladiator, there were four times. Childhood was a happy time of not knowing, and the time of his youth was full of knowledge and sorrow and hatred. The time of hope was the time when he fought with Spartacus, and the time of despair was the time when it became known to him that their cause was lost. This was the end of the time of despair. Now he was dying.
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