Spartacus: Rebellion (5 page)

‘Be sure of it.’

‘It’s barbaric.’

Navio threw him a shrewd look. ‘Brutal or not, this is justice to Spartacus and his men.’

‘Does he have to sacrifice so many?’

‘It’s common practice for dozens of gladiators to fight at a munus commemorating the death of one person. You know that. Tonight Spartacus is remembering thousands of his comrades. It’s no surprise that he picked this number of legionaries.’

‘Don’t you care?’ hissed Carbo, jerking his head at the four hundred prisoners who were roped together nearby. Scores of Spartacus’ men ringed them on three sides, drawn swords in their hands. The fourth side lay open towards the fire. There a pile of gladii had been stacked up. ‘They’re our people.’

‘Whom you fought today. Whom you killed.’

‘That was different. It was a battle. This—’

‘I hate everything that the Republic stands for, remember?’ Navio interrupted. ‘My father and younger brother died fighting men like those over there. As far as I’m concerned, they can all go to Hades.’

Carbo fell silent before his ire. Navio and his family had followed Quintus Sertorius, a Marian supporter. After Marius’ death, the Senate had proscribed Sertorius. Betrayed, Navio had fought with Sertorius against the Republic for several years, but eventually their fortunes in Iberia had ebbed. But, Carbo thought, it was one thing taking on your own kind in a battle, when it was kill or be killed. It was quite another making prisoners fight each other to the death. The idea revolted him. He resolved to say something to Spartacus.

It wasn’t long before their leader appeared, accompanied by Ariadne, Castus and Gannicus. Behind him walked soldiers carrying four silver eagles and a large number of cohort standards. There were even several sets of fasces, the ceremonial bundles of rods carried by magistrates’ bodyguards and the symbols of Roman justice. An enormous cheer went up as the Thracian strode to stand by the heap of weapons. Despite his anger, Carbo was filled with awe at the sight of his leader with the battle trophies.

Unsurprisingly, the prisoners’ terrified eyes also focused on Spartacus. They knew who he was, even if they didn’t recognise him. The Thracian was renowned and vilified throughout the Republic as a monster, a man without morals, who defied all societal norms. Here he was, a crop-haired figure in Roman armour, his muscular arms and sword blade covered in their comrades’ blood. Unremarkable in many ways. Yet everything about him, from his emotionless expression to his bunched fists, inspired fear, and threatened death.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ the slaves chanted.

Spartacus raised his arms in recognition of his men’s acclaim.

Castus threw Gannicus a sour look, which was reciprocated. No one noticed.

Ignoring Navio’s cry of ‘Wait!’, Carbo trotted over to Spartacus. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Now?’ Spartacus’ voice was harsh. Cold.

‘Yes.’

‘Make it quick.’

‘Is it true that these men but one are to die fighting each other?’

Spartacus’ gaze pinned him to the spot. ‘Yes.’

‘Damn right it is!’ said Gannicus.

‘You got a problem with that?’ growled Castus, fingering the hilt of his sword.

Carbo stayed where he was. ‘They deserve better than this.’

‘Do they? Why?’ Suddenly, Spartacus’ face was right in his. ‘It is how gladiators up and down the length of Italy die every day of the year, for the amusement of your
citizens
. Many, if not most of those men, have committed no crime.’ Spartacus was aware of the Gauls’ rumbling agreement here. ‘What we’re about to see is just a turning of the tables.’

It was hard to deny the logic, but Carbo still felt disgusted. ‘I—’

‘Enough,’ Spartacus barked and Carbo bent his head. To say any more would threaten his friendship with the Thracian, never mind risk an attack from either one of the Gauls. He watched unhappily as Spartacus raised his hands again and a silence fell.

‘I have not called you here to congratulate you for your actions in the battle against Gellius today. You all know how much I admire your courage and loyalty.’ Spartacus let his followers cheer before continuing: ‘We are here for a different reason. A sad reason. Word has reached us of the death of Crixus, and two-thirds of his men. They were lost in a bitter fight against Gellius at Mount Garganus, about a month ago.’

A great, gusty sigh went up from the watching soldiers.

They chose their own fate, thought Carbo. They went with Crixus, the whoreson.

‘As well as our own dead, we must honour Crixus and his fallen men. Ask the gods not to forget them, and to allow every last one entrance to Elysium. What better way of doing that than by celebrating our own munus?’ As an animal growl rose from his followers, Spartacus indicated the pile of gladii. ‘Each prisoner is to pick up a sword. Pair yourself off with another, and walk around the fire until you are told to stop. At my command, you will fight in pairs to the death. The survivors will face each other and so on, until only one man remains.’

The deafening cheers that met Spartacus’ orders drowned out the Romans’ shocked cries. A dozen men moved among them, cutting the ropes that bound them together. None of the prisoners moved a step. Spartacus jerked his head and the guards began jabbing the legionaries with their swords. More than one drew blood, which drew jeers and catcalls down on the captives’ heads. This was better than the former slaves could have dreamed of.

Still no Roman moved to pick up a
gladius
.

Carbo felt a perverse pride in what he saw.
Not all of their courage is gone.

‘Arm yourselves!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘I shall count to three.’

An officer wearing the transverse-crested helmet of a centurion shoved his way to the front of the mob of prisoners. His silver hair, grizzled appearance and the multiple ornate decorations strapped to his chest revealed the length of his career – and his bravery. ‘And if we refuse?’

‘You will be crucified one by one.’ Spartacus raised his voice for all to hear. ‘Right here, for the others to see.’

‘Citizens cannot be—’ The centurion’s face purpled, and his voice tailed away as he realised that Spartacus’ alternative had been carefully picked. Their choice was an ignoble yet redeeming death by the sword, or the most degrading fate possible for a Roman. The centurion thought for a moment, and then stepped forward to pick up a gladius. Straightening, he glared at Spartacus. Perhaps ten paces and half a dozen armed men separated them.

The Thracian grinned and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sica. ‘Should you choose it, there is a third option. While I would end your life quickly, I can’t guarantee the same of my men.’

‘Give me half a chance and I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him,’ snarled Castus. ‘And that’s just to get me started.’

Other men shouted what they’d like to do to the centurion, and all of his comrades. Carbo tried to harden his heart to the prisoners’ suggested fates, but failed. These soldiers were his enemies, but they did not deserve to be forced to slay one another, let alone to be tortured to death. He could not say a word, however. Spartacus’ patience had been worn too thin.

Spartacus was still eyeballing the centurion. ‘Well?’

The officer’s head bowed, and he shuffled to one side.

‘Next,’ called Spartacus.

Intimidated even further by the cowing of the centurion, the legionaries began miserably filing forward to pick up a sword.

Spartacus offered up a plea to Dionysus and to the Great Rider.
Let the blood of these Romans be a suitable offering to you both, O Great Ones. May it ensure that Crixus and his men have a swift passage to the warrior’s paradise.
It was nothing less than the Gaul deserved. Despite his faults, Crixus had been a mighty warrior.

Ariadne did not relish the idea of what was about to happen, but it was impossible to deny the magnitude of this offer to the gods. Few deities would remain unmoved by such a gift. And if that helped her and Spartacus to leave Italy for ever, she was prepared to live with it.

Soon two hundred pairs of legionaries stood facing each other around the fire. Some, like the centurion, stood proudly with their shoulders thrown back, but the majority were pleading to their gods. Some were even weeping.

Awestruck by the role reversal, Spartacus’ soldiers had again fallen silent.

Spartacus gave a short eulogy about Crixus. They would remember him for his leadership, his plain speaking, and his bravery. His men would also be remembered for their valiant efforts. Huge cheers met his words. Next, he addressed the Romans.

‘You have been taught today on the field of battle that every man here is your equal, or better! Now you are to learn it in another way. All of you will have witnessed gladiators fighting and dying to commemorate the dead. You have probably never considered that those men were forced to act as they did. Tonight you have that chance, because we
slaves
will watch you do the same.’ Spartacus scanned the terrified faces near him, his gaze lingering on the centurion. ‘It is a honourable death to choose and far worthier than crucifixion. For that I salute you. May you die well!’ He raised his sica high and held it there for a heartbeat, before letting it drop. ‘Begin!’

As the prisoners prepared to set upon each other, a baying cry rose from the watching crowd. It was the same bloodthirsty sound Spartacus had heard when fighting in the arena. He wished that every man in the Senate was about to battle one another before him instead of four hundred legionaries.

Carbo did not want to watch the slaughter, but his position beside Spartacus meant that he had to. If he closed his eyes, he risked being accused of at best squeamishness, or at worst, cowardice. Despite his misgivings, he soon found himself engrossed. The clash of metal upon metal, the grunts of effort and inevitable cries of pain were mesmerising. Many of the legionaries chose to die quickly, letting their opponents thrust them through or hew their heads from their necks. Carbo wasn’t surprised. Why bother trying to win a fight when victory meant a second combat, and yet more after that? What took him by surprise was the level of ferocity with which some of the prisoners went at one another. Their desire to live was great enough for them to slay a comrade without hesitation. Covered in blood, they stood with heaving chests, waiting for the other fights to end.

Carbo noted that the centurion who had addressed Spartacus was one of the two hundred ‘winners’. Perhaps because of his kindly face, the senior officer reminded him of his father, Jovian. That thought tore at his heart. Carbo hadn’t seen his family for more than a year, since he’d run away from home. A home that had been repossessed by Crassus, the man to whom his father had owed a fortune. Soon after he’d left, Jovian and his mother had travelled to Rome, there to throw themselves on the mercy of a rich relative. Carbo’s pride had not let him accompany his parents. For all he knew, they could both be dead.
As the centurion will be soon.

When the initial fights were over, Spartacus ordered his men to drag away the bodies of the losers. ‘Any men still breathing are to have their throats cut. Pile them in a heap over there. Meanwhile, the rest of you dogs can get on with it!’ A huge cheer met this announcement. Carbo felt sick. He was glad that Spartacus was ignoring him.

A short while later, five score more corpses lay sprawled amidst pools of blood. A hundred Romans remained, the centurion among them. Soon their number had been reduced to fifty, and after that twenty-five.

‘You fight well,’ Spartacus shouted at the centurion. ‘Stand aside while the remaining two dozen fight each other.’

Stony-faced, the officer did as he was told.

The twelve men who came through the fifth combat looked exhausted.

Six legionaries survived the next brutal set of clashes. They were so tired that they could barely hold up their gladii, but there was no time allowed to rest. ‘Keep fighting!’ shouted Spartacus. Anyone who faltered was threatened and shoved by the guards.

Spartacus ordered the centurion to take part again when there were a trio of legionaries remaining. Given that he’d had to fight three men fewer than his opponent, it wasn’t surprising that the experienced officer dispatched him with ease – nor that he won the final bout either. He stood with bowed head over the body of his last victim, his lips moving in silent prayer.

The raucous cheering that had accompanied the bloody combats died away. A strange quiet fell over the thousands of gathered men. Carbo felt his skin crawl. He glanced into the gathering darkness, almost expecting to see Charon, the ferryman, or even Hades himself, the god of the underworld, appearing to claim the great pile of dead legionaries.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Spartacus.

The centurion lifted eyes that were bleak with horror. ‘Gnaeus Servilius Caepio.’

‘You’re a veteran.’

‘Thirty years I’ve served. My first campaigns were with Marius, against the Teutones and the Cimbri. I don’t expect you know of them.’

‘Indeed I do. You look surprised, but I fought for Rome for many a year. I must have heard about every campaign since the Caudine Forks.’

Caepio’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s commonly said that you served in the legions. I dismissed it as rumour.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Rome is your enemy. Why did you do it?’

‘To learn your ways, so that I could defeat you. It seems so far that I was an apt pupil.’

His men roared with approval. Pride filled Ariadne.

Caepio glowered and muttered something.

‘What was that?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘I said that you haven’t yet faced the veteran legions from Asia Minor or Iberia. They’d soon sort you out.’

‘Is that so?’ Spartacus’ tone was silky. Deadly. The icy rage gripped him again, in part because the centurion’s words had an element of truth to them. Many of the soldiers whom they had faced had been newly recruited.

‘Damn right it is.’ Caepio spat on the ground. Spartacus’ troops jeered and he made an obscene gesture in their direction. Their response, a simmering cry of rage, shattered the silence. Dozens of men drew their weapons and moved towards him.