Spartacus: Rebellion (40 page)

‘Roman citizens are not supposed to be crucified, but that won’t stop me ordering it for every last one of you fools!’ screamed Crassus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘Kill him! NOW!’

For a heartbeat no one reacted, but then a big legionary took a step forward. And another step. He was joined by three others, and in a rush, by the five remaining men. They closed in on their comrade, who was now begging for mercy. No one replied, and no one would meet his eye.

The big legionary acted first. As he brought down his club, the condemned man raised his right arm in defence.
Thump.
The heavy blow snapped his arm bones like a twig, and the nails in the club’s head ripped scarlet lines all through his scalp. Screaming, he fell on to his back. ‘Help me, Jupiter, please! Help me!’

Like a pack of wolves falling upon their prey, the nine soldiers surrounded him. Their clubs rose and fell in a terrible rhythm. Spatters of blood flew up, covering their arms and faces. The screaming quickly died to a low moaning sound, and that too was silenced fast. Yet the legionaries kept pounding away. It was only when Caepio called them off that they stood back, chests heaving. A combination of horror and demented rage contorted their faces. It wasn’t surprising, thought Crassus. Their comrade resembled a badly butchered piece of meat. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, and his features were unrecognisable, a bloody mess of torn flesh, fractured bone and exposed teeth. Crassus fancied he could see brain matter on several of the clubs, which was curiously satisfying. ‘Leave his body where it lies,’ he ordered. ‘Next!’

The dazed soldiers were marched away and the next group of ten forced to come forward. Each picked his pebble from Caepio’s bag. When it was time to take a club and do the unthinkable, no one protested. The mould had been broken by the initial decimation, and everyone knew that if they resisted, a cross awaited them. Soon a second bloodied corpse lay beside the first. Then it was a third and a fourth. As the number of dead grew, Crassus had the bodies heaped on one another, like carrion.

And so it went on, for more than an hour.

When the last man had been beaten to death, silence fell over the assembled troops. Crassus’ gaze moved over the legionaries, assessing their mood. He saw no resentment or even anger, just resignation, disgust and fear. ‘Let this be a lesson to you and to your comrades.’ He pointed at the pile of broken flesh and bone, and the pool of blood that was spreading around it. ‘Spread the word. This is the end that awaits anyone who runs from the enemy!’

Chapter XIV

BY NOW, SPARTACUS
was sick of the view of the great island. Sicily filled the western horizon; the most prominent feature being the headland that was formed by the coming together of the isle’s northern and eastern coasts. Near it was Charybdis, the famous whirlpool that would suck ships and their crews down to a terrible, watery death. The island was near enough to make out some of the large houses on the high ground above the shore. Beyond them mountains rose steeply up, vanishing in a blue-purple haze when they met the sky. They reminded him of Thrace. A sour taste rose in his throat. It was only a mile to Sicily’s hinterland, but after more than two months of waiting, that distance felt as far as the moon. Even the merchant ships that sailed within a few hundred paces of the shore were wholly unreachable.

At first, the time had gone by easily. Thanks to the defensive screen of infantry that he’d thrown up across the peninsula, and the cavalry that kept the main road clear, Crassus’ legions had made no real effort to break through to his main force. Instead they had busied themselves building ramparts and ditches that sealed Spartacus’ troops into the isthmus that curved out towards Sicily. He hadn’t liked this one bit, but there was the consolation of knowing that Carbo had completed his mission successfully. The announcement that a number of pirate vessels would soon arrive had been an enormous boost to morale. Once his two thousand men had sailed over the strait and seized the grain ships, the evacuation of his army could begin. With the gods’ blessing, Crassus wouldn’t suspect a thing about it until it was too late.

The knowledge that a battle wasn’t imminent had eased Spartacus’ tension a fraction. Life had continued much as it had at Thurii the previous year. There had been stints of drilling his troops, or listening to reports from the officers who were monitoring the Roman forces. Hours in the company of his quartermasters, making sure that the rations were divided equally and with the smiths, ensuring that every house and farm in the area was stripped of everything useful. Some of his men were still not that well armed. Forging weapons had to continue every day. He’d had nothing to do with Castus and Gannicus, who had camped with their men some distance from the main force. In essence, the army had already split up. It didn’t matter. Crassus was unaware of the schism, and once they had reached Sicily, it would become immaterial. Spartacus tried to block the troublesome pair from his mind. He had wasted enough time on them. He had concentrated instead on his evenings, the favourite part of his days, which were spent with Ariadne and Maron, who was growing fast.

There had also been opportunities to walk the coastline, searching for the best place to embark when the pirate ships arrived. Spartacus had done this alone the first time, managing to give the Scythians the slip. He grinned. The roasting that Ariadne had given them on his return had ensured that had never happened again. While Castus and Gannicus appeared to be honouring their truce, he wouldn’t put it past them to make another attempt on his life. And actually he liked the tattooed Scythians’ company. They felt like old friends, even though he’d known them for less than two years. The pair were discreet, shadowing him from a distance, thereby allowing him the pretence of being on his own. As he walked, his mind had turned over every possibility a score of times. If things went on Sicily as he wished, he would be able to defend the island from Roman attack rather than just wait until they sent an expeditionary force against him.

Yet as the days had turned into weeks, it had become harder and harder not to let his thoughts become troubled. Autumn had come and gone. Winter had arrived, and with it, colder weather. The berries and nuts from the bushes that covered the mountain slopes had vanished. The area’s farms had long since been stripped of all their grain. Spartacus wondered if the pirate captain had played Carbo false, taken the money and sailed away, never to return. It seemed unlikely. Only a fool or a madman would turn down fifty times that amount of coin for what was a simple task. That belief was what seemed to be keeping his troops’ spirits up. His eyes turned to the south, searching the waves for a sail. For the thousandth time, he saw nothing. A scatter of gulls scudded overhead in the chill air, their sharp calls seeming to mock him. His mood darkened. If Heracleo was coming, where in the Great Rider’s name was he? How long did it take to find a few cursed vessels and sail around Italy’s tip?

He wondered again about climbing the high ground to the sacred cave opposite Charybdis, there to make another offering to Scylla, the monster with twelve feet and six heads that guarded the straits. No. Twice was enough. If the gods thought he was desperate, they could become even more capricious than they already were.

His stomach rumbled, reminding Spartacus that he hadn’t eaten since dawn. He had ordered rations to be reduced, but sixty thousand men still ate a vast amount of bread every day. Unless Heracleo appeared within the next couple of weeks, their grain would run out. Then they would have to break through Crassus’ fortifications. That wasn’t a prospect that he wanted to be forced into.

He turned to study the land to his rear. Like much of the region’s coast, there was only a narrow area of flat ground bordering the sea. In some places it was as much as half a mile or a mile wide, but in others, it was little more than a strip of sand. The majority of the toe was formed by steep, rolling hills, the beech-covered tops of which were often shrouded in lowering grey clouds. With the Scythians in tow, he had traversed the highest peaks, his mission to inspect the legions at work. The Romans’ blockade had been constructed at one of the narrowest parts of the toe, some ten miles to the north. Thanks to the vertiginous terrain, there had been little need for Crassus’ soldiers to erect any defences at all, other than on the coastline. Dangerously steep wooded slopes, jagged peaks and fast-flowing rivers meant that the interior was only suitable for the deer, wild sheep and wolves whose territory it was. On a mountaintop ridge Spartacus had located one spot suitable to move north – but so had Crassus, who had spared no effort in the construction of the defences there. They were truly impressive. Slaves had laboured to build an inverted ‘V’-shaped earthen barrier that was topped by stone and twice the height of a man. Sharpened stakes bristled from the wall’s outer surface, and a deep ditch running in front of it had been lined with spiked pits. Catapults lined the ramparts, and large numbers of legionaries were on duty night and day. Only one approach had been left, a narrow path that would force any attackers into the point of the ‘V’, where they could be pummelled from both sides.

Watching from a distance, Spartacus had been quietly impressed. If they had to take it, the loss of life among his soldiers would be huge. It would be at less cost than a frontal assault on the flat ground, however. Seven legions were massed on the western side of the toe, near his army, and two guarded the eastern coast. There was no point marching to that point, hoping to overwhelm the enemy defences. Crassus’ scouts, of whom there were many in the area, would pass on the news. Wherever he led his men, thought Spartacus grimly, the Romans would be waiting. Except on the ridge. A single legion held that narrow section.

Trying to shift his thoughts from the bloody images that sprang to mind, he returned his gaze to the sea. Some distance out, a dolphin leaped out of the water. It was followed by another, and another. Soon Spartacus had counted eight. He grinned at their mischievous play, their clear pleasure at swimming together.
They are truly free.

At first, the sail that came into sight beyond the dolphins didn’t register.

When it did, Spartacus’ heart leaped. Could the gods have answered his prayers?

Taxacis’ guttural voice broke the silence. ‘A ship!’

‘I see it,’ said Spartacus, keeping his voice calm.

‘Is it . . . merchant?’ asked Atheas.

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ replied Spartacus. He settled down on his haunches. Perhaps it was because of the dolphins, but he had a good feeling in his belly.

They waited for a long time. No one spoke, but the silence between them was companionable. There was plenty to watch. Drawn by the same shoal of fish as the dolphins, hundreds of gulls swooped and dived over the waves. Successful birds rose in triumph with a fish in their beaks, and screeched indignantly at any of their fellows that tried to steal their catch. Eventually, the vessel drew near enough for its shape to be determined. Spartacus eyed the long, predatory shape with undisguised glee. ‘If that’s a merchantman, my name’s Marcus Licinius Crassus!’

Atheas squinted at him. ‘No. You . . . still ugly . . . as ever.’

Taxacis chortled.

‘It’s not big enough to be a trireme,’ mused Spartacus. ‘It must be a bireme.’

The ship sailed closer to the shore. With increasing excitement, they waited until it was parallel with their position. As Spartacus had thought, there were two sets of oars, one above the other. It had a sharp prow and a typical rounded stern. A large rectangular sail billowed from a central mast. At a rough estimate, there were thirty to forty oarsmen a side. Other figures lined the sides. What drew Spartacus’ attention more than the crew, however, were the weapons on view.

‘Those are catapults on the deck!’ he cried, jumping up and down. ‘Here! Here!’ he roared.

The Scythians copied him, and a moment later, it was clear that they had been seen. A shouted command and the ship hove to. The oars were shipped, and an anchor thrown out. Several men scrambled into the little boat that was tied astern.

Spartacus glanced at Atheas, who was already fingering his sword. ‘Let’s play it friendly. We don’t want to scare them off. You too, Taxacis.’

Taxacis nodded, but Atheas adopted a false hurt expression, which made him look even fiercer. ‘I . . . always friendly!’

For the first time in weeks, Spartacus laughed.

The rowing boat didn’t take long to reach the beach. As soon as it was in the shallows, three of the four heavily armed men within jumped out. Led by a short, dark-skinned figure, they waded ashore. They stopped a short distance away.

‘Well met,’ said Spartacus, his manner amiable.

‘Well met,’ replied the dark-skinned man suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’

‘I could ask the same of you, my friend.’

‘You don’t have three catapults trained on you,’ retorted the pirate.

He didn’t bother checking. ‘Since you spoke first, I will answer. I am Spartacus the Thracian. You may have heard of me.’

The pirate’s composure slipped a little. ‘How can you prove this?’ he demanded. ‘Half the brigands in Italy probably claim the same thing.’

‘I have no need to demonstrate who I am. In the next bay sits an army sixty thousand strong. Ask any soldier in it who their leader is.’

The pirate’s manner changed at once. ‘It is an honour to meet you. I am Heracleo. Your messenger – Carbo, was it? – may have spoken of me. We met near Croton some time since.’

‘He did. You were to bring as many ships as you could. You brought but one,’ said Spartacus, showing none of his concern.

‘It was more difficult than I expected to recruit ships. The market at Delos is busier than ever, and all that most captains are concerned with is finding slaves to sell there. The reality of that is easier to believe in than my tale. But do not fear, everything is in order.’ Heracleo flashed a greasy smile. ‘Two captains of my acquaintance operate in this area. I sent word to them, arranging a meeting to the north of here. A couple of days, and I’ll return with at least one trireme and another bireme. Maybe more, if the word has gone out as I’ve hoped.’