Spartacus: Rebellion

by Ben Kane

  ‘I haven’t got all day,’ he snapped, clicking his fingers.

  His silver-plated helmet was handed over, and Crassus took a moment to admire it. It had cost him a fortune, but it had been worth every last as. It was a piece of art, topped with hair from the finest stallion in Italy, and sporting enamelled cheek pieces. The brow was decorated with a magnificent motif of Mars receiving offerings from ranks of officers and legionaries. Crassus donned it proudly. It was fitting, he thought, for a victorious general.

  ‘Sword.’

  A slave hurried forward with his gladius and slipped the baldric over his shoulder.

  Crassus used the full-length bronze mirror that stood nearby to make sure that his scabbard sat just so on his left hip. Lastly, he wiped his face clean of sweat with a cloth. Content with his appearance, he made for the door.

  The sentries outside saluted as he emerged.

  Crassus was pleased to see Caepio already waiting at the head of a half-century of veterans, some of the cohort that had been designated to protect him. Their helmets and mail shone in the sun. Even the bosses on their shields had been polished. To one side, his groom held ready a fresh horse.

  ‘Attention!’ bawled the old centurion.

  In unison, the soldiers snapped upright.

  Crassus allowed the trace of a smile to curve his lips. Few of his troops looked this good but, under Caepio’s direction, things were improving every day. ‘Centurion.’

  ‘Ready to make the rounds, sir?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He eyed the centurion with approval. From the start, Caepio had wholeheartedly thrown in his lot with Crassus. Despite his age, his energy was boundless. He recruited tirelessly, helped to train the new men and provided practical advice to whoever needed it, whenever it was asked for. Crassus now appreciated him greatly. Soldiers such as Caepio were a rare commodity indeed. He strolled over to his horse, and used the groom’s linked hands as a step up to its back. ‘I thought we might begin at the western rampart, and move out to the defensive screen afterwards. Try and see as many of the troops as possible.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Caepio barked an order. Twenty of his men and an optio trotted to stand four wide, five deep in front of their commander. ‘Towards the western gate. Forward march!’ cried Caepio. The soldiers tramped off. Crassus nudged his horse in the ribs; Caepio walked alongside him, and the rest of the soldiers took up the rear.

  Crassus’ army was far too large to set up camp as one unit. From the outset, he had ordered his legions to pair off, meaning that five temporary encampments were built every afternoon, all of which accommodated close to ten thousand men. Each was shaped exactly the same, consisting of a massive rectangle with rounded corners, the walls of which were made up of a mixture of brushwood and packed earth that had been dug up by the legionaries around the perimeter. The resultant ditch served as part of the camp’s defences. Midway along the four sides of each camp, a gap in the rampart had been angled so that both sides of it overran one another, creating a narrow, passage-like ingress that was easily blocked overnight, and which could be well defended in the event of an attack. Two straight avenues connected the entrances, which cut the vast encampments into quarters. The camps’ headquarters, and the commanders’ tents, were situated at the roads’ intersection. Around these, every cohort, century and contubernium had an allocated position, which was marked out by the engineers each day.

  There were small groups of soldiers present in the still-empty areas around Crassus’ quarters: one legionary from every contubernium, and scores of mule drivers. Under the supervision of shouting junior officers, they were unloading their tents from hundreds of ill-tempered, tail-flicking mules. The stink of manure and the attendant clouds of flies were enough to make Crassus ride past with curled lip.

  The path ahead, jammed with more mules and messengers hurrying to and fro, cleared miraculously as the officer at the front shouted his presence. On each side, red-faced, sweating soldiers pulled themselves to attention; optiones and tesserarii saluted; slaves looked at the ground. Crassus acknowledged a few of the officers and men with curt waves of his hand.

  To protect the soldiers from missile attack, the tent lines ended some hundred paces before the western rampart, which had already been built to the height of a tall man. Sharpened wooden stakes decorated the outer face of the fortifications, forming a protective palisade. Along the top of the rampart, soldiers were busy tamping down the earth with their trenching tools. Branches were being laid down to form a walkway and, off to each side, Crassus could see the watchtower that would adorn each corner being constructed. They filed through the entrance to the outside. A faint breeze hit his flushed cheeks, and he turned his head from side to side, trying to get some relief: he was cooking in his armour. It made no real difference, and his temper frayed a little further.

  He urged his horse off to the left, where a party of legionaries were completing the defensive ditch. Caepio shouted at the men in front, who did a hasty about-turn and marched at double time to get in front of their commander.

  Crassus’ presence was soon noted. Until he halted, however, or asked a question of an officer, no one dared to stop what he was doing. Surreptitious glances were cast at him aplenty, and everywhere he looked, the work rate shot up. Occasionally, he found it amusing to linger while the legionaries kept up the new, unsustainable speed of their labour. Still wearing their mail shirts, swords and daggers, they heaved and panted, never daring to slow down.

  Spotting a portion of the trench that had collapsed, he rode closer to investigate. A burly centurion was in charge, cursing his men as they repaired the damage. Crassus reined in to watch. Caepio and his escort stamped to a halt too. Engrossed with his duty, the officer didn’t notice that they were there.

  ‘Faster, you lazy sons of whores! If you don’t want my vine cane rammed up each of your sweaty arses, you’d better have this section finished before I can count to five hundred. One. Two. Three.’ He leered as the soldiers, drenched in sweat, covered in a layer of dust, began to dig with renewed energy. ‘That’s a bit more like it. Four. Five. Six.’ Looking up, he recognised Crassus and threw off a hasty salute ‘Sir!’ Then, at his men, ‘Stop!’

  Most of his legionaries obeyed. Still fearful, some didn’t register, and kept digging. With the ease of long practice, the centurion brought his vine cane down across the back of the nearest offenders’ legs. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. ‘STOP, you maggots! Your commanding officer, the illustrious Marcus Licinius Crassus, has deigned to visit you!’

  Startled, the offending soldiers downed their tools.

  ‘Attention!’ roared the centurion. Standing waist deep in the earth, his men did as they were told. He glanced at Crassus. ‘We are honoured by your presence, sir. Isn’t that right, lads?’

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  ‘Commendable work rate, centurion. Are your men as keen to fight Spartacus as they are to dig dirt?’

  ‘They’re even keener, sir!’

  ‘I shall keep you to your word. With men such as yours, victory will be ours!’

  A cracked roar of agreement left the soldiers’ parched throats.

  Crassus gave a tiny nod of approval. ‘I have every confidence that at the first opportunity, you and your comrades will smash the slaves apart.’

  ‘Course we will, sir!’ cried a short man with a gap-toothed grin. ‘For you and for Rome!’

  The centurion glared at the soldier’s boldness, but Crassus smiled. ‘Good, soldier. That’s what I like to hear.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The centurion saluted with gusto. ‘Every one of us feels the same way.’

  ‘CRA-SSUS!’ shouted a voice. The chant echoed up and down the ditch.

  Crassus accepted the acclamation with a nod. ‘If your work is done ahead of time, every man is to receive an extra ration of acetum this evening. As you were.’

  Broad grins broke out everywhere. There was a rush to pick up trenching tools.

  Crassus rode on. He trave
rsed the entire length of the camp’s western perimeter, stopping here and there to interrogate officers, appraise their soldiers’ work, and to deliver short, rousing speeches. He grew more encouraged as he went. The legionaries’ zeal was palpable, not just here, but during the day when they were marching, and in the evenings, when they sat outside their tents, gossiping and drinking. He heard it in the tone of the bawdy songs they sang, and saw it in their sunburned faces. His men wanted a fight. Like him, they wanted to defeat Spartacus. Despite the fact that he felt as if he’d been in the caldarium all day, Crassus’ good mood returned. Victory would be his.

  He had turned his horse’s head towards the open ground beyond the camp when something caught his attention. Crassus blinked in surprise. He looked again. An icy fury took him, and he glanced up and down the trench. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  There was no immediate answer, and Crassus’ temper exploded. ‘I SAID, WHO THE FUCK IS IN CHARGE HERE?’

  ‘T-that would be me, sir,’ replied a youngish centurion whose brown hair was spiked with sweat.

  Crassus rode his horse right up to the officer, nearly knocking him over. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He jabbed an arm to his right.

  ‘The meaning of what, sir?’

  ‘Look at that piece of shit there.’ He pointed at a legionary.

  Alarmed, the man froze. Instinctively, his companions moved a step away from him.

  ‘I won’t call him a soldier, because he clearly isn’t,’ growled Crassus. ‘Had you not noticed that he had set down his sword?’

  The centurion stared. The colour left his face as he saw the gladius lying on the earth behind the ditch. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you call yourself an officer?’ spat Crassus. He sat up straight on his horse’s back so that everyone could see him better. ‘Hear me, legionaries! Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers have worked to erect their camps while fully armed,’ he shouted. ‘They have done this so that should the need arise, they can fight at a moment’s notice. Men who disobey this simple order place their lives, and those of their comrades, at risk.’ He paused to let his words travel. ‘This dereliction of duty cannot, and will not, be tolerated in my army!’ He glared at the legionary, whose face had gone grey with fear. ‘Caepio!’

  ‘Sir!’ The veteran centurion was by his right foot.

  ‘Take that man out before his comrades, and execute him.’

  For the first time, Crassus saw real respect in Caepio’s eyes. Good.

  Gripping the hilt of his sword, the centurion stalked to the ditch and stood over the offending soldier. ‘Out!’ he bawled.

  The man climbed out of the trench, stumbling as he did so. He pulled himself upright and threw a beseeching glance at Crassus. ‘I’m sorry, sir! I’ve never done such a thing before. I—’

  Crassus’ lips thinned in disapproval.

  Caepio was watching. ‘Shut your mouth, filth! Your general isn’t interested.’ He backhanded the soldier across the face. ‘Kneel!’

  Sobbing, the man did as he was told.

  Caepio’s gladius was already in his hand. ‘Chin up!’

  Crassus took a quick look around. Every man within sight was riveted to what was going on, which was precisely what he had intended.

  Swallowing, the soldier lifted his gaze to the sky, exposing his throat in the process.

  ‘Make your last request of the gods, dung rat,’ ordered Caepio, drawing back his right arm.

  The man’s eyes closed, and his lips moved in silent prayer.

  With incredible speed, Caepio’s blade flashed down. It entered via the hollow at the base of the soldier’s neck, slicing through the soft flesh with savage ease. Death was instantaneous. The gladius cut every major blood vessel over the heart into shreds, coming to rest in the victim’s backbone.

  A horrible choking noise left the man’s lips, and he went as limp as a child’s doll.

  Caepio tugged free his blade, and a scarlet tide of blood jetted up from the lipped wound. The centurion lifted his right foot and booted the corpse backwards so that it fell into the ditch, spraying the nearest soldiers in liquid gore.

  ‘Remember, you sheep-humping bastards, that any man caught in future without a weapon will receive the same punishment,’ Caepio roared, wiping his blade on the bottom of his tunic.

  ‘Or worse,’ added Crassus with a hint of spite.

  A silence fell that no one dared to break – except a raven high overhead. Its derisive call seemed to mock the assembled soldiers.

  ‘You,’ said Crassus, pinning the young centurion with his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Lucius Varinius, sir.’

  ‘Not a relation of the disgraced praetor, surely?’ asked Crassus with glee.

  ‘He was a distant cousin, sir,’ came the stiff reply.

  ‘I see. There are two fools in the same family. That’s not surprising, I suppose. Give your vine cane to Caepio.’

  Miserably, Varinius did as he was told.

  ‘Break it!’ ordered Crassus.

  Caepio snapped the wooden cane over his knee and dropped the broken pieces to the ground.

  ‘You are demoted to the ranks with immediate effect,’ barked Crassus. ‘Consider yourself lucky to be alive. Expect to stand in the front line of every battle. There, perhaps, you might redeem some of your honour.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Varinius mumbled.

  ‘Let this be a lesson to all of you.’ Crassus cast one more contemptuous look at the watching legionaries before he turned his horse and rode away, Caepio marching by his side.

  ‘That won’t happen ever again, sir,’ said the centurion approvingly.

  ‘You think so?’ asked Crassus, fishing.

  ‘That put the fear of Hades into every man who saw it, sir. Each of them will tell his mates, and they’ll tell theirs. The news will travel through the army quicker than shit through a man with cholera. Which, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, is a damn good thing.’

  ‘I don’t mind you saying that at all, centurion,’ replied Crassus.

  Chapter XIII

  Near the town of Croton, on the Ionian Sea

  CARBO EYED THE headland that jutted out into the sea about a mile away. Above the town’s tumbledown stone walls, he could just make out the impressive pillars of the sanctuary to Hera Licinia, the Greek goddess. Croton might be a ghost town compared to its heyday half a millennium before, but its remaining inhabitants were still civilised, he thought. The men in the cove he was spying on couldn’t have been more different.

  After seven fruitless weeks of trawling up and down the coast, he had found some pirates.

  Carbo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or alarmed: they looked even more cutthroat than the gladiators in the ludus. Black-, brown- and fair-skinned, they were for the most part clad in ragged tunics or simple loincloths. The number of weapons each man carried more than made up for their lack of clothing. There was hardly an individual that didn’t have a knife, or two, as well as a sword, on his belt. Spears were stacked up near their tents. There were catapults on the decks of the two shallow-draughted, single-masted vessels that were drawn up on the beach. Carbo felt grateful for the presence – a couple of hundred paces back – of the century of soldiers that Spartacus had insisted he take with him.

  The small bay to his front was protected from the worst of the weather by a large sandbar that ran outwards from a rocky promontory to his right. That had to be why the pirates had chosen it as their mooring point. There were perhaps eighty of them – forty to a boat, thought Carbo – sprawled about, sleeping, cooking food over fires, or wrestling with one another. They looked to have been busy. About thirty young people of both sexes sat wretchedly on the sand, ropes tied around their necks. A number of the women were being raped by some of the pirates, while others watched and made comments.

  Carbo considered his options. There was no benefit to going in alone, or with just a few men. They’d end up dead, or captured as slaves. All
he could think of was to march in peacefully, and to ask for the renegades’ leader. He slid backwards, down the landward side of the large dune that had served as concealment from the beach. It was fortunate that the pirates on sentry duty were too busy watching the violation of their captives to have spotted him.

  A short while later, Carbo and his men – some of his own cohort – came tramping over the dune and down towards the beach. They made no effort to be quiet. Panic reigned as they were seen. Men ran for their weapons, and the captives were kicked to their feet and hurried to the boats. That didn’t worry Carbo as much as the sight of the catapults being manned. The light artillery pieces would have an accurate range of two hundred paces.

  He raised his hands in the air, and began shouting in Latin and Greek, ‘We come in peace. PEACE!’

  As they advanced on to the flat ground, the mayhem did not lessen. About half the pirates arrayed themselves in a rough phalanx before their boats, while the rest were frantically helping to push the vessels into the water. The catapults were aimed straight at Carbo and his men.

  He cursed. This was what he had thought might happen. In the pirates’ minds, safety lay at sea. If they succeeded, he would lose all chance of making a deal with them.

  There was a loud twang, and his stomach lurched. ‘Shields up!’

  A heartbeat’s delay, and then the first stones from the catapults – chunks half the size of a man’s head – landed with soft thumps in the sand, about thirty paces in front of their formation.

  ‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Very soon, he was going to start losing men. And for nothing. ‘Halt!’

  His soldiers gladly obeyed.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Carbo. He dropped his shield and unslung his baldric, letting his sword drop to the sand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked his optio, a block-headed gladiator.

  ‘Showing them that I mean no harm.’ Carbo took a step towards the pirates. He did well not to flinch as the next stones landed. They were wide this time, but a lot nearer. ‘If I’m killed, return to the army and tell Spartacus what happened.’