Spartacus: Rebellion, Page 4

  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 brea
thing 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.

  ‘Hold!’ Spartacus barked. He stared at Caepio. ‘My soldiers would slay you.’

  ‘That’s no surprise! Scum do not honour their promises.’ Caepio threw down his sword and raised his hands in the air. ‘Let them do what they will. It matters not. I’m damned for what I have done here tonight.’

  ‘Maybe you are, and maybe you’re not. Before you die, however, I have a task for you. A message to take to your masters in the Senate.’

  ‘You want me to carry word of this so-called munus.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘I thought you would,’ sneered Castus.

  ‘Not because of your threats. I do not fear death,’ said Caepio, the pride returning to his voice. ‘I accept because it is my duty to tell Rome of the depths to which you savages have sunk. Of the barbarity which you forced me and my comrades to inflict on each other.’

  A furious roar met his words.

  ‘We’re no savages!’ cried Gannicus. ‘What happened here is no different to the way you treat slaves.’

  ‘Slaves,’ Caepio repeated. ‘Not free men.’

  ‘Rome lives by double standards,’ said Spartacus harshly. ‘During the war against Hannibal, when its need was great, it liberated enough slaves to raise two new legions. They were freed in return for fighting for the Republic. Those men proved that they were the equal of any citizen.’

  ‘I cannot deny what you say, but I also know how my people’s leaders will respond when they hear about this munus. This is not really about the rights and wrongs of who is made a slave and who is not, about who fights and who does not. It is about humiliating Rome, and that you have done, by defeating both consuls, by taking four silver eagles and, last of all, by putting on this display. Am I not right?’ Caepio met Spartacus’ stare and held it.

  ‘You are,’ Spartacus admitted, as his men howled with glee.

  ‘It will not be forgotten, I can promise you.’

  Spartacus raised a hand, halting Castus, who looked as if he was about to attack Caepio. ‘Good. Because that was my intent! Tell them that Spartacus the Thracian and his men can fight as well as any of your legionaries, and by defeating the consular armies we have proved it twice.’ This time, Spartacus caught the sour look that Castus gave Gannicus. ‘Tell the Senate that I am not the only general here. These men, Gannicus and Castus’ – he indicated them – ‘played pivotal roles in the defeats of Lentulus and Gellius. Rome had best look to its security! The next army it sends our way will suffer an even greater defeat. More eagles will be lost.’ Spartacus was pleased to see broad grins spread across the Gauls’ faces. He had lied – neither of them were tacticians as he was – but thousands of men looked to them as leaders. He had to keep them on board.

  ‘I shall tell the Senate everything you said. Am I free to go?’

  ‘You are. Give him enough food to last him to Rome! He is to have no weapons,’ Spartacus ordered.

  ‘And the bodies of my comrades?’

  ‘You expect me to say that they will be left in the open air for the carrion birds to pick on, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They died the deaths of brave men, so they will be buried with honour. You have my word on that. I cannot say the same of the soldiers who were slain on the field, however. Many of them were cowards.’

  Caepio’s face hardened, but he did not argue. ‘I pray to the gods that this is not the last time we meet.’

  ‘I shall not be merciful the next time.’

  ‘Nor shall I.’

  ‘Then we understand each other.’ Spartacus watched Caepio walk away. Another brave man, he thought. He spoke the truth too. Rome would not let this humiliation go unanswered. It made sense, therefore, to cross the Alps and go beyond the legions’ reach. A sneaking doubt crept into his mind. What if the Senate sends armies after us? It is not as if they don’t know where Thrace is. He shoved the disquieting idea away. That will never happen. Deep in his guts, though, Spartacus knew that the possibility, even the likelihood, was there. Rome would not forgive, or as Caepio had said, forget, this many defeats.

  Little did he know that Ariadne was thinking similar thoughts. When Hannibal Barca was forced to leave Carthage, he was pursued for the rest of his life by Roman agents. She clenched her fists. Stop it. Dionysus, let us escape Italy, I beg you. Watch over us always and keep us safe.

  Carbo too was watching the centurion; then, almost before he’d realised what he’d done, he had set off after Caepio. Hearing his tread, the centurion spun around.

  ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to stab you in the back.’

  Caepio looked even more suspicious. ‘What do you want?’

  Carbo suddenly felt embarrassed. This close, Caepio did not resemble his father in any way. ‘I—I just wanted to say that you’re a brave man.’

  ‘You’re Ro
man?’ Complete disbelief filled Caepio’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What in the name of sacred Jupiter are you doing with this rabble? Have you no pride?’

  ‘Of course I have.’ Carbo was furious to feel his cheeks going red.

  ‘You make me sick.’ Caepio began to walk away.

  ‘Hey! I would not have made you fight each other that way.’

  Caepio turned again. The contempt on his face was writ large. ‘Really? Yet you’ve chosen to ally yourself with a host of murdering, raping slaves. Scum who have ravaged towns and cities the length and breadth of Italy, who have massacred thousands of innocent citizens and brave legionaries. In my mind, that makes you a latro of the worst type.’ He hawked and spat at Carbo’s feet. ‘That’s for being a traitor to your own kind.’

  Anger flared in Carbo’s belly. ‘Piss off, before I gut you!’

  Caepio didn’t bother replying. He stalked off, muttering insults.

  So that’s how it is. There can be no going back now. Ever. Why did I even think it was possible? It had been naïve to approach Caepio, but he had wanted to express his kinship with him. He had been unprepared for the level of the centurion’s scorn. Yet an odd feeling – was it satisfaction? – filled him. I am a latro after all. The slaves have become my family. And Spartacus is my leader. Despite the fact that he would never see his parents again, the emotion was oddly comforting.

  Gannicus took a long pull from the small amphora. He smacked his thick lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s a good vintage, or I’m no judge.’

  Castus lifted an arse cheek and let loose a thundering fart. ‘You’re no judge! It’s only entered your thick skull that it’s quality wine because we took it from Gellius’ tent.’ He ducked, chuckling, as the clay vessel flew at his head. It landed a few steps beyond his position by the fire. He leaned over and picked it up before its entire contents leaked out. ‘You know I’m right. Ten denarii says that you grew up on vinegar-flavoured, watered-down piss. Like me, like every farm slave that ever was. The best we could hope for every year was the dregs of the master’s mulsum at the Vinalia Rustica. How would we know what tastes good and what doesn’t?’