Spartacus: Rebellion (37 page)

Startled, the offending soldiers downed their tools.

‘Attention!’ roared the centurion. Standing waist deep in the earth, his men did as they were told. He glanced at Crassus. ‘We are honoured by your presence, sir. Isn’t that right, lads?’

‘YES, SIR!’

‘Commendable work rate, centurion. Are your men as keen to fight Spartacus as they are to dig dirt?’

‘They’re even keener, sir!’

‘I shall keep you to your word. With men such as yours, victory will be ours!’

A cracked roar of agreement left the soldiers’ parched throats.

Crassus gave a tiny nod of approval. ‘I have every confidence that at the first opportunity, you and your comrades will smash the slaves apart.’

‘Course we will, sir!’ cried a short man with a gap-toothed grin. ‘For you and for Rome!’

The centurion glared at the soldier’s boldness, but Crassus smiled. ‘Good, soldier. That’s what I like to hear.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The centurion saluted with gusto. ‘Every one of us feels the same way.’

‘CRA-SSUS!’ shouted a voice. The chant echoed up and down the ditch.

Crassus accepted the acclamation with a nod. ‘If your work is done ahead of time, every man is to receive an extra ration of
acetum
this evening. As you were.’

Broad grins broke out everywhere. There was a rush to pick up trenching tools.

Crassus rode on. He traversed the entire length of the camp’s western perimeter, stopping here and there to interrogate officers, appraise their soldiers’ work, and to deliver short, rousing speeches. He grew more encouraged as he went. The legionaries’ zeal was palpable, not just here, but during the day when they were marching, and in the evenings, when they sat outside their tents, gossiping and drinking. He heard it in the tone of the bawdy songs they sang, and saw it in their sunburned faces. His men wanted a fight. Like him, they wanted to defeat Spartacus. Despite the fact that he felt as if he’d been in the
caldarium
all day, Crassus’ good mood returned. Victory would be his.

He had turned his horse’s head towards the open ground beyond the camp when something caught his attention. Crassus blinked in surprise. He looked again. An icy fury took him, and he glanced up and down the trench. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

There was no immediate answer, and Crassus’ temper exploded. ‘I SAID, WHO THE FUCK IS IN CHARGE HERE?’

‘T-that would be me, sir,’ replied a youngish centurion whose brown hair was spiked with sweat.

Crassus rode his horse right up to the officer, nearly knocking him over. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He jabbed an arm to his right.

‘The meaning of what, sir?’

‘Look at that piece of shit there.’ He pointed at a legionary.

Alarmed, the man froze. Instinctively, his companions moved a step away from him.

‘I won’t call him a soldier, because he clearly isn’t,’ growled Crassus. ‘Had you not noticed that he had set down his sword?’

The centurion stared. The colour left his face as he saw the gladius lying on the earth behind the ditch. ‘No, sir.’

‘And you call yourself an officer?’ spat Crassus. He sat up straight on his horse’s back so that everyone could see him better. ‘Hear me, legionaries! Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers have worked to erect their camps while fully armed,’ he shouted. ‘They have done this so that should the need arise, they can fight at a moment’s notice. Men who disobey this simple order place their lives, and those of their comrades, at risk.’ He paused to let his words travel. ‘This dereliction of duty cannot, and will not, be tolerated in
my
army!’ He glared at the legionary, whose face had gone grey with fear. ‘Caepio!’

‘Sir!’ The veteran centurion was by his right foot.

‘Take that man out before his comrades, and execute him.’

For the first time, Crassus saw real respect in Caepio’s eyes.
Good.

Gripping the hilt of his sword, the centurion stalked to the ditch and stood over the offending soldier. ‘Out!’ he bawled.

The man climbed out of the trench, stumbling as he did so. He pulled himself upright and threw a beseeching glance at Crassus. ‘I’m sorry, sir! I’ve never done such a thing before. I—’

Crassus’ lips thinned in disapproval.

Caepio was watching. ‘Shut your mouth, filth! Your general isn’t interested.’ He backhanded the soldier across the face. ‘Kneel!’

Sobbing, the man did as he was told.

Caepio’s gladius was already in his hand. ‘Chin up!’

Crassus took a quick look around. Every man within sight was riveted to what was going on, which was precisely what he had intended.

Swallowing, the soldier lifted his gaze to the sky, exposing his throat in the process.

‘Make your last request of the gods, dung rat,’ ordered Caepio, drawing back his right arm.

The man’s eyes closed, and his lips moved in silent prayer.

With incredible speed, Caepio’s blade flashed down. It entered via the hollow at the base of the soldier’s neck, slicing through the soft flesh with savage ease. Death was instantaneous. The gladius cut every major blood vessel over the heart into shreds, coming to rest in the victim’s backbone.

A horrible choking noise left the man’s lips, and he went as limp as a child’s doll.

Caepio tugged free his blade, and a scarlet tide of blood jetted up from the lipped wound. The centurion lifted his right foot and booted the corpse backwards so that it fell into the ditch, spraying the nearest soldiers in liquid gore.

‘Remember, you sheep-humping bastards, that any man caught in future without a weapon will receive the same punishment,’ Caepio roared, wiping his blade on the bottom of his tunic.

‘Or worse,’ added Crassus with a hint of spite.

A silence fell that no one dared to break – except a raven high overhead. Its derisive call seemed to mock the assembled soldiers.

‘You,’ said Crassus, pinning the young centurion with his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Lucius Varinius, sir.’

‘Not a relation of the disgraced praetor, surely?’ asked Crassus with glee.

‘He was a distant cousin, sir,’ came the stiff reply.

‘I see. There are two fools in the same family. That’s not surprising, I suppose. Give your vine cane to Caepio.’

Miserably, Varinius did as he was told.

‘Break it!’ ordered Crassus.

Caepio snapped the wooden cane over his knee and dropped the broken pieces to the ground.

‘You are demoted to the ranks with immediate effect,’ barked Crassus. ‘Consider yourself lucky to be alive. Expect to stand in the front line of every battle. There, perhaps, you might redeem some of your honour.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Varinius mumbled.

‘Let this be a lesson to all of you.’ Crassus cast one more contemptuous look at the watching legionaries before he turned his horse and rode away, Caepio marching by his side.

‘That won’t happen ever again, sir,’ said the centurion approvingly.

‘You think so?’ asked Crassus, fishing.

‘That put the fear of Hades into every man who saw it, sir. Each of them will tell his mates, and they’ll tell theirs. The news will travel through the army quicker than shit through a man with cholera. Which, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, is a damn good thing.’

‘I don’t mind you saying that at all, centurion,’ replied Crassus.

Chapter XIII

Near the town of Croton, on the Ionian Sea

CARBO EYED THE
headland that jutted out into the sea about a mile away. Above the town’s tumbledown stone walls, he could just make out the impressive pillars of the sanctuary to Hera Licinia, the Greek goddess. Croton might be a ghost town compared to its heyday half a millennium before, but its remaining inhabitants were still civilised, he thought. The men in the cove he was spying on couldn’t have been more different.

After seven fruitless weeks of trawling up and down the coast, he had found some pirates.

Carbo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or alarmed: they looked even more cutthroat than the gladiators in the ludus. Black-, brown- and fair-skinned, they were for the most part clad in ragged tunics or simple loincloths. The number of weapons each man carried more than made up for their lack of clothing. There was hardly an individual that didn’t have a knife, or two, as well as a sword, on his belt. Spears were stacked up near their tents. There were catapults on the decks of the two shallow-draughted, single-masted vessels that were drawn up on the beach. Carbo felt grateful for the presence – a couple of hundred paces back – of the century of soldiers that Spartacus had insisted he take with him.

The small bay to his front was protected from the worst of the weather by a large sandbar that ran outwards from a rocky promontory to his right. That had to be why the pirates had chosen it as their mooring point. There were perhaps eighty of them – forty to a boat, thought Carbo – sprawled about, sleeping, cooking food over fires, or wrestling with one another. They looked to have been busy. About thirty young people of both sexes sat wretchedly on the sand, ropes tied around their necks. A number of the women were being raped by some of the pirates, while others watched and made comments.

Carbo considered his options. There was no benefit to going in alone, or with just a few men. They’d end up dead, or captured as slaves. All he could think of was to march in peacefully, and to ask for the renegades’ leader. He slid backwards, down the landward side of the large dune that had served as concealment from the beach. It was fortunate that the pirates on sentry duty were too busy watching the violation of their captives to have spotted him.

A short while later, Carbo and his men – some of his own cohort – came tramping over the dune and down towards the beach. They made no effort to be quiet. Panic reigned as they were seen. Men ran for their weapons, and the captives were kicked to their feet and hurried to the boats. That didn’t worry Carbo as much as the sight of the catapults being manned. The light artillery pieces would have an accurate range of two hundred paces.

He raised his hands in the air, and began shouting in Latin and Greek, ‘We come in peace. PEACE!’

As they advanced on to the flat ground, the mayhem did not lessen. About half the pirates arrayed themselves in a rough phalanx before their boats, while the rest were frantically helping to push the vessels into the water. The catapults were aimed straight at Carbo and his men.

He cursed. This was what he had thought might happen. In the pirates’ minds, safety lay at sea. If they succeeded, he would lose all chance of making a deal with them.

There was a loud twang, and his stomach lurched. ‘Shields up!’

A heartbeat’s delay, and then the first stones from the catapults – chunks half the size of a man’s head – landed with soft
thumps
in the sand, about thirty paces in front of their formation.

‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Very soon, he was going to start losing men. And for nothing. ‘Halt!’

His soldiers gladly obeyed.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Carbo. He dropped his shield and unslung his baldric, letting his sword drop to the sand.

‘What are you doing?’ asked his optio, a block-headed gladiator.

‘Showing them that I mean no harm.’ Carbo took a step towards the pirates. He did well not to flinch as the next stones landed. They were wide this time, but a lot nearer. ‘If I’m killed, return to the army and tell Spartacus what happened.’

‘You’re crazy!’

‘Maybe I am,’ replied Carbo, his heart thumping.
But I’m not going back empty-handed. Not after Spartacus has placed such trust in me.
He lifted both hands, palms out, and walked forward. ‘I COME IN PEACE!’ He repeated himself in Greek and Latin, over and over.

Another volley of stones came flying over, and he heard them rattle off his men’s upturned shields. There was a shout of pain as someone was hit. Carbo began to grow angry. ‘You stupid bastards. Can’t you see that we’re not attacking you?’ he muttered, continuing to advance. ‘PEACE! PEACE!’

A moment later, to his great relief, he saw a short man in the phalanx bellowing orders at the crew working the catapults. No more stones were loosed, and Carbo walked a little closer. He heard curses being shouted at him in a number of languages. Weapons were still being brandished, but no one threw a spear or charged him. Yet. Wary of going too near, he stopped about fifty paces from the pirates, careful to keep his hands in the air.

He waited.

The short man emerged from the midst of his comrades. He was dark-skinned, but not black enough to be a Nubian. His beady eyes were set in a calculating and cruel face. Gold earrings flashed in his ears, and his tunic was of a richer cut than his fellows. He took a dozen steps towards Carbo. ‘Who in damnation are you?’ he demanded in bad Latin.

‘I am one of Spartacus’ soldiers,’ replied Carbo as loudly as he could. He was pleased when a murmur of recognition rippled through the pirates.

There was a suspicious scowl from the short man. ‘Spartacus? The gladiator who is fighting Rome?’

‘The same. Do you always greet visitors in the same manner?’

‘Usually we just butcher them.’ He grinned, and his men snickered. ‘But I’m in a good mood today, so I’ll let you and your men piss off instead.’

‘No, chief! Let’s kill him,’ said a large man, brandishing a rusty sword.

There was a rumble of agreement from the rest.

The captain winked at Carbo. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that.’

Carbo resisted the urge to order his men to the attack. ‘I have a proposition for you, from Spartacus himself.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is. My name is Carbo. What do they call you?’

‘Heracleo.’

Given half a chance, Heracleo would turn on him like a stray dog, but Carbo still felt encouraged. ‘Can you locate ships bigger than these?’ He indicated the two shallow-bottomed boats, which were now afloat.

There was a laugh. ‘Of course I can. I’ve got a
lembus
at another anchorage.’ He saw Carbo’s confusion and laughed again. ‘You’d know that as a liburnian. Like everything they admire, the Romans copied it.’