Spartacus: Rebellion (46 page)

Great Rider, let Caepio be lying about the legion. Let my casualties be few, Spartacus prayed. We
have
to succeed here.

With loud crashes, the stones landed. Their effect was devastating. Whatever they hit, be it man or scutum, was struck as if by the fist of a god. Shields were smashed in two, ribs splintered into fragments, and limbs and skulls crushed. The rocks’ force was so great that often the soldier behind was also killed, his final moment a screaming terror as his comrade’s head burst apart before his eyes. The bolts were no less lethal, slicing through shields, mail and flesh with ease. Gutting the first man, they drove on, wounding others grievously or just lodging in another scutum, forcing the bearer to discard it.

The only consolation during the barrage was that the slingshot bullets were far less dangerous than the other missiles. For the most part, they clattered and banged off the soldiers’ shields like massive hailstones off a roof during a summer storm. On occasion, they shot through the little gaps between scuta, making men yelp in pain as their mail shirts took the brunt of the strike. More unlucky individuals were hit in the face, suffering fractured cheekbones or, if the clay hit their foreheads, a mortal blow.

‘Close the gaps! Move on!’ yelled Spartacus. He blew his whistle again. If they faltered at all, men would lose heart.

Stepping over the wounded and dying, they walked on. It was a hundred paces to the wall, he judged. The trees had thinned out, exposing them entirely to the enemy barrage. The legionaries manning the catapults were working at blinding speed. Scores more bolts and stones came humming towards them. Soon the javelins would come scudding in too. It was now, or never, he thought.

‘Cohort to my left, cross at the first space over the ditch. Cohort to my right, take the third. My cohort takes the middle one. CHARGE!’ Trusting that the officers leading the following units would remember to advance towards the final two crossing points, Spartacus began to run. As always, he counted his steps. It helped to keep him focused, to ignore the sounds of men going down screaming, the curses of their comrades as they tripped over the unexpected obstacle, the prayers of soldiers trying to conquer their fear.

Eighty. A shower of javelins arced over them in a graceful pattern. Reaching their zenith, they sped downwards, their barbed points promising injury or death to those who were unprotected. Spartacus raised his shield so that his head was protected, and prayed that a catapult stone didn’t take him in the belly instead. Seventy. His stomach was a balled, painful knot, and there was a tang of fear in the salty sweat that ran down his face and into his open, gasping mouth. With an almighty bang, a pilum hit his scutum. The barbed head punched through, missing Spartacus’ helmet by a finger’s breadth. He dropped the useless shield with a curse. Fifty steps.
Run. Run. The Great Rider’s shield is before me, protecting me from harm.

Forty paces to the wall. There were gaps in the line to either side of him now, but Spartacus did not order them closed. Everything was moving far too fast. What mattered was reaching the base of the Roman wall, and getting out of the withering hail of missiles. They’d have a moment’s respite before more stones were dropped on their heads, but that would be enough time to encourage his men to swarm up their ladders.

They reached the filled-in ditch. Because of the prisoners who had been dumped in last, it looked as if it contained only corpses. Except, as Spartacus realised, they weren’t all dead yet. Here and there amid the careless sprawl of bloodied men, an arm or a leg moved, a voice called out for a comrade, or for someone to end the pain. Even if he had been inclined to provide the killing stroke, there was no time. In two heartbeats, he had pounded over the soft ‘ground’ and was tearing across the forest floor again.

Twenty paces. They had passed under the lower limit of the catapults’ arc of fire. The Roman slingers had redoubled their efforts. So many of Spartacus’ men had dropped their shields that their work was now easy. It was the same for the legionaries still with pila. Despite this, Spartacus’ front rank, which had been eighty men wide, was ragged but unbroken. ‘Ladders at the ready!’ he yelled, increasing his speed to a sprint. He sensed the Scythians matching his pace. Encouraged, the soldiers to either side swarmed forward, screaming insults at the defenders atop the wall. Ten paces. Five, and then Spartacus slammed into the fortification’s wooden stakes. ‘Ladder!’

Atheas was already by his right shoulder, shoving the ladder’s foot into the ground, leaning it against the wall, supporting it, gesturing at him to start climbing.

Spartacus eyed the remaining scuta held by his men. Things would be far worse on the rampart without them, but there was no way they could safely ascend carrying such a weight. ‘Leave your shields!’ he shouted. ‘Grab one from the first Roman you kill. Up! Up! Up!’ More and more ladders came smacking in against the barrier. Spartacus gritted his teeth and began to climb. This was the most dangerous part. He peered grimly up at the pointed stakes that formed the lip of the rampart. It was difficult to climb with one hand – the other held his sica – and easy to miss his footing on the rungs. Even more perilous were the defenders who awaited him. He was two-thirds up the ladder when a legionary appeared above, gripping a forked length of stick. With fierce concentration, he placed it against the top of Spartacus’ ladder and began to push.

Shit!
Adrenalin surged through Spartacus’ veins and he shot up several more rungs. His ascending body weight made it much harder for the Roman to push the ladder outwards. Cursing, the legionary braced his feet and put all of his strength into it. Spartacus felt himself begin to move backwards. He climbed another rung and stabbed forward with his sica. His blade skidded off the Roman’s mail, causing no injury. For an instant, however, it distracted the soldier from what he was doing.

Spartacus came up another rung. A quick glance to the right revealed no defenders close enough to skewer him in the armpit. Up went the sica. Down it came, striking the legionary in the neck. The curved blade nearly clove him in two. His torso split apart, exposing neatly bisected muscles, the white of ribs and the purple-blue of pumping organs. Spartacus was showered in blood as he came leaping on to the walkway. The Roman’s body fell backwards off the wall, spraying sheets of crimson over the soldiers below.

Spartacus’ heart leaped. There weren’t more than five thousand of them. Caepio had been lying; the spy had not been able to get the word through to Crassus. After the previous day’s fighting, his enemy had assumed that the slaves had had enough.
How wrong he was.
Spotting a scutum leaning against the palisade, he scooped it up. He had just enough time to spin and raise it as a legionary thundered in from his right. With a heavy
thump
, the two shield bosses met.

Spartacus shoved his blade at the Roman’s eyes, but his opponent saw it coming. Sparks flew as the sica hit the iron rim of his shield. The legionary lunged forward with his gladius, and Spartacus twisted desperately out of the way, smacking his back off the rampart. There was almost no room to manoeuvre. All the advantage was with the Roman, whose blows hammered in, away from the void. With every strike of his own, Spartacus risked hurling himself into space.

He clenched his jaw. If they didn’t gain a foothold on the wall, their attack would fail. Placing his left shoulder behind the scutum, he advanced a step.
Clash
,
clash
. Their swords battered off their shield fronts. Spartacus punched forward with his scutum and then his sica. One, two. One, two. He pushed the legionary back a step. And two more. They traded blows again before the Roman’s heel caught on a pilum that had been left lying on the walkway. He stumbled, and Spartacus was on him like a hawk on its prey, barging him backwards so that he fell on his arse, squawking with surprise. The last thing he ever saw was the Thracian’s blade scything in towards his open mouth. The legionary choked to death on a gobful of iron and blood.

Air moved past Spartacus’ head. Instinct made him pull back, which just saved him from being struck in the neck by a pilum. Instead it scudded harmlessly by, over the palisade. He glanced down. The soldiers below were launching volleys at the rampart, regardless of the fact that they could hit their own men. Exultation gripped him. That meant the enemy officers thought the fight on the walkway was being lost. He leaned out over the front of the wall. He could see at least five ladders. ‘Come on!’ he roared at his men. ‘It is I, Spartacus! We have the whoresons on the run!’

Eager shouts met his words.

He spun back to the walkway to find a grinning Taxacis at his side. Behind him, Atheas’ head was emerging into view. ‘Which . . . way?’ asked Taxacis. ‘Left . . . or right?’

To his left was a large bunch of enemy soldiers, and in their midst, the scarlet transverse crest of a centurion. It was Caepio.
We won’t get through there quickly enough.
Spartacus pointed to his right and the nearest set of steps. ‘There!’ Six legionaries blocked the walkway, but before them, there was a gap perhaps ten paces wide where more and more of their men were spilling over the palisade. He darted forward. The Scythians were right behind him. ‘Get to the stairs!’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘Kill those bastard Romans! MOVE!’

They hurried to obey.

Spartacus shoved in behind them. The outcome of the attack still hung in the balance, but at last he had a good feeling in his belly.

Chapter XVI

DESPITE CRASSUS’ WEALTH
, he was a man of moderate taste. It was a small weakness to like a comfortable bed. The mattress in his quarters was purportedly of good quality – gods, it was thick enough – but he hated it with a vengeance. At first, when they had left Rome, it had seemed fine. Now, though, it felt lumpier than a straw tick used by the poorest of the poor. It was the reason that he was already up, a good hour before dawn. A scowl twisted his handsome face. The damn thing would have to do for the moment. There was no chance of locating a better one around here. As far as he’d seen, no one lived in Bruttium but primitives and latrones. And Spartacus.

Crassus put the mattress from his mind, but felt no less irritated. He was sick of everything about this shithole. It felt laughable now, but he had been glad to enter Bruttium. He had enjoyed the sea breezes and the escape from the filthy heat that they had endured in Campania and Lucania. No one could deny that the wild, mountainous countryside was magnificent or that the views of Sicily were incredible. Yet as autumn had passed into winter, these pleasures had soon soured. Weeks of lowering grey cloud, damp cold air and frequent rain had worn him down.

Crassus longed to finish the campaign not just because he wanted to crush Spartacus, but so that he could go home. In the capital, he could bask in the winter sun and the adulation of the Roman public, who would rightfully revere him. He could finish the account of his campaign and the superb generalship that had given him victory over the slaves. He would be the talk of the bath houses and the markets, cheered wherever he went. Crassus glanced at the letter he had begun composing, and the momentary improvement in his mood vanished. Would he have time to end the affair before that golden-tongued, arrogant little shit Pompey arrived? When he’d first heard the news that the Roman assembly had recalled his biggest rival from Iberia, Crassus hadn’t believed it. The effrontery of it!
Fucking plebeians.

Yet the senators, unhappy as they must have been at the thought of such a prominent general returning to Italy with his legions at his back, had approved the order. That wouldn’t have happened if I had been there, Crassus thought furiously. Like all sycophants, however, his supporters in the Senate wouldn’t have been organised or vocal enough to prevent the decree from being carried. They’re a shower of pompous, self-serving whoresons! Couldn’t they and the rest just leave a man to do a job properly? He had only been in command of the Republic’s armies for a few months.

In the biggest clash since, his troops had proved their mettle by standing up to the slaves. Yes, there had been the inglorious rout of Mummius’ legions, but he had dealt with that in the most vigorous fashion possible. The practice of decimation had not been used for more than a hundred years, and its effect had been dramatically successful. Subsequent to that, he had cornered Spartacus in the toe and denied him the chance of escape to Sicily! Best of all, his soldiers had yesterday thrown back the slaves’ attempt to break through his fortifications on the ridge. Caepio had reported enemy losses of more than ten thousand men, which was a sizeable chunk of Spartacus’ forces. The end was surely nigh.

Not that the Thracian would admit it! Remembering the filthy legionary who had been brought to him the night before, Crassus felt his face purple. He hadn’t wanted to believe the soldier’s story, but he had definitely been a prisoner of the enemy.

‘How dare he? How dare he ask for such a thing? Fides, for a savage such as he?’ Crassus ranted at the bronze mirror which stood to one side of his desk. ‘The fucking cheek of it!’

Calm yourself, he thought. This is just what the whoreson wanted. The request had been designed to goad him – and it had worked admirably. Crassus took a deep breath, remembering how through a supreme effort, he had not ordered the immediate execution of the unfortunate legionary who had carried the message. Let it go, as you did the soldier. After a moment, he felt more composed.

A tiny, devilish part of him couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to lead a combined force of over one hundred thousand men against Pompey, to seize control of Italy once and for all. The Republic was weak, and so too were most senators. As in the days of Sulla, a strong leader was needed. Crassus knew that he was the right man for the job. He had been born for it. Regrettably, this was not the time. The Roman people would never stand by and let an army of slaves help to take control of their destiny. Crassus’ lips twisted. He could never trust a man like Spartacus – a Thracian, a former gladiator? – anyway. It was beneath his dignity even to think of replying. The stony silence would tell Spartacus all that he wanted to say.