Spartacus: Rebellion (4 page)

Spartacus scowled. His bloodlust was not even close to sated. He became aware of someone shouting in his ear. Bemused, he turned his head and recognised Taxacis’ squashed nose. ‘Eh?’

‘Romans . . . run.’

The red mist coating Spartacus’ vision began to recede. ‘They’re running?’

Taxacis laughed. ‘Yes. Look!’

This time what Spartacus saw made sense. The entire centre of Gellius’ line had given way, and was fleeing the field. Hundreds of legionaries lay all around them, dead, dying or screaming from the agony of their wounds. Discarded weapons and shields littered the area. The consul had vanished. Here and there, however, small pockets of his men fought on. Often they were defending a standard, but their heroic efforts made little difference to the yelling hordes of Spartacus’ soldiers who surrounded them. To either side, the legions were holding, but that wouldn’t be the case for long, he saw. Already his horsemen were in sight to the rear of the Roman position, which meant that the enemy cavalry had been driven off. Gellius’ flanks would not withstand a charge from behind. No troops in the world could do that. ‘We’ve won,’ he said slowly. ‘Again.’

‘Thanks to you!’ Taxacis clouted him on the back. Spartacus could see the awe in his eyes. ‘You not just . . . good general. You also fine . . . warrior. Romans thought . . . a demon had come.’ Grinning fiercely, he raised a fist in the air. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Every man within earshot took up the refrain.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Spartacus’ euphoria faded a little as he remembered those who had died to bring them to this point. Seuthes and Getas, his Thracian brothers-in-arms. Oenomaus, the charismatic German who had been first to lend his support when Spartacus had come up with the idea of escaping the ludus. Hundreds upon hundreds of men whose names he didn’t even know.
I shall always honour you.
He looked down at the bag suspended from his waist.
Even you.
‘We must not forget Crixus, and all of his followers who died.’

‘Crixus was . . . bastard,’ growled Taxacis, ‘but he was . . . brave bastard.’

‘He was,’ agreed Spartacus. He glanced at the nearest group of legionaries, who had thrown down their arms and were trying to surrender. Few were succeeding. Normally he wouldn’t have cared, but inspiration struck. ‘Spare their lives,’ he shouted. ‘Gather the men who wish to yield, and bring them to our camp.’

Taxacis threw him a confused look.

‘You’ll see later.’ Spartacus did not elaborate. The plan was still taking shape in his mind.

From the moment that Spartacus had led his army out of the vast camp that morning, Ariadne had kept herself busy. First she had sacrificed a cock to Dionysus, promising the god the further offering of a fine bull if her husband emerged unscathed – and victorious – from the impending battle. Ariadne had made no attempt to enter the trance-like state that sometimes allowed her to commune with Dionysus. Years as a priestess had taught her never to expect insight or a vision when it really mattered. The god whom she followed was even more fickle than his fellow deities. Her best policy once she had made her requests of him was to occupy her mind with other matters.

There was no chance of watching the battle. Unsurprisingly, Spartacus had forbidden it, and the constant presence of Atheas, the second of his Scythians, meant that any attempt to disobey him would meet with swift failure. Yet she couldn’t just wait around, worrying and lamenting, as some of the other women did.
I might be pregnant, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be useful.
Being busy helped her to ignore the occasional faint sound of trumpet calls that carried through the air.

She was only four months gone. Ariadne had thus far managed to conceal her rounded belly and larger breasts by wearing loose dresses and bathing out of the sight of others. From the recent glances that she’d been getting, though, Ariadne knew that it wouldn’t be long before word got out that she was expecting Spartacus’ child. That was if her glossy black hair and the bloom on her creamy skin granted her by her pregnancy had not already given the game away. There were other signs too. She had noticed in her bronze mirror that her heart-shaped face had grown softer and more attractive. Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought.

A thrill of joy shot through her as she pictured herself holding a strong baby boy while her smiling husband looked on. It was instantly followed by a familiar, snaking dread. What if her interpretation of Spartacus’ dream was incorrect? What if he was destined to die in battle against the Romans? Today?
Stop thinking like that. He will win. We will cross the Alps while it’s still summer. Get out of Italy altogether.
She felt happier at that thought. Few tribes would dare to hinder the passage of his army – even if it was depleted – and they would make their way to Thrace. I cannot wait to see Kotys’ face, she thought vengefully. He will pay for what he did to us. So will Polles, the king’s champion.

‘Enough daydreaming,’ she said to herself. ‘Do not tempt fate.’

Atheas, who was stacking a pile of bandages, looked up. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’
Gods willing, my hopes will come to pass.
Ariadne counted the heaped rolls of linen by his feet. They would serve to dress the hideous wounds they’d soon be seeing. ‘Five hundred. Not nearly enough.’ Her eyes moved to the score of women who were ripping up sheets, tunics and dresses into dressings of various sizes. To her relief, the heaps of garments by their feet were still sizeable. ‘Faster. We may well need all of those.’ Ariadne wasn’t surprised when the women ducked their heads and their conversation petered away to an occasional whisper. As Spartacus’ wife, she was respected, but the fact that she was also a priestess of Dionysus elevated her status close to his. Slaves held the god in especial esteem. I am part of the reason that Spartacus has so many followers, she thought with pride. Long may that continue.

Putting everything other than preparations to receive the injured from her mind, Ariadne embarked on a patrol of the hospital area, which had been positioned on the edge of the camp nearest the battlefield. She checked that the surgeons and stretcher-bearers were ready, that supplies of wine for the wounded were plentiful and ordered that another fifty makeshift beds be made up. The whole process didn’t take nearly as long as she would have wished. When it was done, her worries returned with a vengeance. She glanced at the sun, which had reached its zenith. ‘They’ve been gone for four hours.’

‘That not . . . long time,’ pronounced Atheas, making an attempt to sound reassuring, which failed utterly.

Ariadne groaned. ‘It feels like an eternity.’

‘Battle could . . . last . . . whole day.’

She racked her brains for something to do, a task that would prevent her from agonising over the worst possible outcomes for Spartacus and his men.

Tan
-
tara
-
tara
. Ariadne jumped. The trumpet sound was near. No more than a quarter of a mile away. Fear coursed through her veins. ‘Is that the—’

Atheas finished her question. ‘Romans?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not . . . sure.’ Atheas cocked his head and listened.

Tan
-
tara
-
tara
.
Tan
-
tara
-
tara
. The trumpets were a little closer now, allowing Ariadne to discern the irregular blasts and off-tone notes. Her heart leaped with exhilaration, and she barely heard Atheas say ‘Roman trumpeters . . . play better.’
Then they have won! Let him be alive, Dionysus. Please.
Ariadne didn’t run to meet the returning soldiers as she had after the battle against Lentulus. Instead she walked as calmly as she could to the start of the track that Spartacus and his men had used that morning. Atheas trailed her, shadowlike. The pair were followed by almost everyone – a crowd made up of women. Loud prayers for the safe return of their menfolk filled the air.

Ariadne’s only concession to her inner turmoil was to clench her fists, unseen, by her sides. Atheas’ tattooed face, as ever, was impassive.

When the cheering mob of soldiers rounded the bend and she saw Spartacus, uninjured, among them, Ariadne’s knees buckled with relief. She was grateful for Atheas’ hand, which gripped her arm until she regained her strength. ‘They’ve done it again.’

‘He is . . . great leader.’

Ariadne let the women stream past towards their men, waiting until Spartacus reached her. Taxacis, who was with him, called out happily to Atheas in his guttural tongue. Carbo nodded at Ariadne, who was so pleased that she almost forgot to respond.

Without being told, Spartacus’ men moved away from her, allowing them some privacy. They chanted his name as they went, and Ariadne could see their fierce love for him in their eyes. Spartacus was carrying his helmet under one arm and, like his soldiers, he was spattered from head to toe in gore. It gave him an aura of invincibility, she thought: that somehow, amid the madness and destruction of battle, he had not only killed his enemies but led his men to victory, and survived. Amid the crimson coating his face, his grey eyes were still striking. There was a glowing rage in them, however, that held Ariadne back from doing what she wanted, which was to throw herself into his arms. ‘You won.’

‘We did, thank the Rider. Our volleys of javelins caught them unawares, and they never recovered from our initial charge. Their centre broke. Our cavalry swept their horse away, and then took their flanks in the rear. It was a complete rout.’

‘You don’t seem that happy. Did Gellius get away?’

‘Of course. He ran like a rat escaping a sinking ship. But I don’t really care about him.’ Spartacus tapped the bag hanging from his waist. ‘It’s this, and what it means.’

Ariadne caught the whiff of decaying flesh, and her stomach turned. ‘What is it?’

‘All that’s left of Crixus,’ Spartacus grated. ‘His head and his right hand.’

Horror engulfed Ariadne. ‘How—’

‘Before the battle began, a conceited bastard of a tribune rode up and tossed them down in front of me. Gellius wanted it to panic our men, and it did. I rallied them, though. Fired their anger. Offered them revenge for those who had fallen.’

‘Was it many?’

‘More than half of Crixus’ army.’ Spartacus’ eyes lost focus. ‘So many lives lost unnecessarily.’

Ariadne just felt grateful that Spartacus was alive. ‘They left of their own free will.’

It was as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘I intend to hold a funeral in their remembrance tonight. There will be an enormous fire, and before it, we shall watch our own
munus
.’ He saw her enquiring look. ‘But the men who’ll take part won’t be slaves or gladiators. Instead, they’ll be free men. Roman citizens. I think Crixus would like that. My soldiers certainly will. An offering of this magnitude will please the rider god and Dionysus. It should ensure that our path to the north remains open.’

‘They’ll fight to the death?’

He barked an angry laugh. ‘Yes! I thought four hundred would be a good number. They can fight each other in pairs. The two hundred who survive the first bouts will face one another; then the one hundred, and so on, until a single man is left standing. He can carry the news to Rome.’

Ariadne was a little shocked. She had never seen Spartacus so ruthless. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘I have never been surer. It will show those whoresons in Rome that we
slaves
can do as we wish. That we are in every way equal to them.’

‘They won’t think that. They’ll just think that we are savages.’

‘Let them think what they will,’ he responded sharply. Spartacus’ battle rage had been replaced by a cold, merciless fury. It was a feeling that descended upon him occasionally. When Maron, his brother, had died in screaming agony, his body racked with the poison from a gut wound. When Getas, one of his oldest friends, had run on to a blade meant for him. And most recently, just before the battle against the consul Lentulus. He took a deep breath, savouring his icy anger. At that very moment, Spartacus would have slain every Roman who existed. That is the only way they would learn to respect me, he thought. To fear me. The munus will be a start.

‘The humiliation will enrage the Romans. They will gather their legions and come after you again.’

‘We’ll be long gone,’ he asserted.

Thank all the gods.
Ariadne had been worried that this latest success would change his decision to leave Italy.
With luck, my son will be born in Gaul, or even Illyria.
She clung to that hope for dear life.

Chapter II

BY THE TIME
darkness fell, Spartacus’ orders had been carried out. Using fallen wood, captured Roman wagons and unwanted equipment, a huge bonfire had been lit at the edge of the army’s encampment. Its flames climbed high into the night sky, radiating a massive heat that kept the chilly mountain air at bay. Scores of sheep and cattle seized from Gellius’ abandoned camp had been slaughtered and butchered. Javelins were being used as makeshift roasting forks to cook bloody hunks of meat over the fire. The necks had been smashed off amphorae, allowing easy access to the wine within. Everywhere men were drinking, laughing, toasting each other. Some danced drunkenly to tunes from drums, whistles and lyres. The sounds of the different instruments clashed in a jangling cacophony but no one cared. It was time to celebrate. They had lived through another battle, and defeated the second Roman consul, setting his army to flight. Spartacus’ soldiers felt like the conquering heroes of legend, and their leader was the greatest of them all. Spontaneous chants of ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ kept bursting out. Whenever he was seen, men offered him drinks, clapped him on the back, and swore to him their undying loyalty.

Carbo had heard the rumours too. He didn’t quite believe them. Filled with unease, he stood with Navio, a stocky man with high cheekbones and two different coloured eyes. It’s odd, thought Carbo, watching the thousands of former slaves. They’re my comrades, yet I’m standing with another Roman. Made up half a dozen races, the men were every size and shape under the sun. Hard-faced gladiators, wiry shepherds and sunburned herdsmen. Long-haired Gauls, burly Germans and tattooed Thracians. They were still carrying their weapons, bloodied from the battle against Gellius’ army. Clad in Roman mail shirts and breastplates, in simple tunics, or even bare-chested, they made a fearsome, threatening spectacle. ‘Is he really going to do it?’