Spartacus: Rebellion

by Ben Kane

  A week had passed without event. Crassus issued orders; the legions broke camp, marched and erected another encampment. On the eighth day, surrounded by his bodyguard and with Caepio keeping pace alongside him, Crassus was some two miles from the front of the column. He had spent the morning deep in thought. Spartacus appeared intent on reaching the point of Italy’s ‘toe’. Could he really have delusions of escaping to Sicily? he wondered scornfully. That’s what his spy had thought, although the fool hadn’t known how it would be done. Perhaps Spartacus thinks he can hold us off at the straits while his men try to build ships! That would never happen. His forces were following the Thracian’s too closely.

  Soon, thought Crassus exultantly, the door would have closed on the slaves. Beyond Consentia, a town some thirty miles south of Thurii, they would enter a geographical bottleneck, all but doing his job for him. Once a blockade had been built across the peninsula, the legions would starve Spartacus and his men out, or force them into doomed attacks against their fortifications. Crassus already had pictures in his head of the siege of Numantia, which had been successfully prosecuted by Scipio Africanus sixty years before, in Iberia. The incredible feat of engineering was still celebrated. He would do the same. The campaign would end there, within sight of Sicily.

  With luck, I could be back in Rome in time for Saturnalia. How the public will love me!

  Crassus became aware of a cavalryman clattering along the verge towards him. ‘Message for you from my decurion, sir,’ cried the rider as he drew near. ‘We’ve been scouting along the trails and valleys to the east.’

  ‘Speak.’

  The cavalryman wheeled his horse so that he could ride parallel to Crassus. ‘We’ve just encountered some of Mummius’ men, sir.’

  Crassus frowned. ‘Messengers, like you?’

  A heartbeat’s hesitation. ‘No, sir. They weren’t messengers.’

  ‘Are you trying to confuse or annoy me, man? Because you’re doing both.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s not my intention.’ The cavalryman swallowed. ‘It appears that they clashed with some of Spartacus’ forces.’

  ‘When?’ asked Crassus, his nostrils flaring. Mummius will pay for this!

  ‘Yesterday, sir.’

  ‘And the men you met were the wounded sent back by Mummius, is that it?’

  ‘No, sir. Apparently, they were driven back by Spartacus’ troops.’

  Crassus shot a disbelieving glance at Caepio, whose face bore an unhappy scowl. His eyes returned accusingly to the cavalryman. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘They were driven from the field, sir. Routed, is what some of them said.’

  ‘Routed,’ repeated Caepio in evident disbelief.

  ‘Gods above, what part of my orders did Mummius not understand? Under no circumstances was he to engage with the enemy!’ shouted Crassus.

  The cavalryman did not dare answer. He locked his gaze on the backs of the soldiers in front.

  ‘Where is Mummius? Is the fool even alive still?’

  ‘His men didn’t know, sir,’ muttered the cavalryman. ‘We haven’t seen him either.’

  Crassus fought to control his anger. ‘How many of the cowards have you met?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say, sir. They were straggling in in small groups. Eighty, perhaps a hundred?’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘There were more following, but my decurion wanted you to know about it, sir.’

  ‘He did well. So did you. Return to your unit and tell your officer that he is to send every last one of Mummius’ men down to the road. There they are to find Centurion Caepio, who will direct them thereafter.’

  Looking immensely relieved not to be punished, the cavalryman repeated Crassus’ orders word for word before saluting and riding off.

  ‘What do you want me to do with the yellow-livered rats, sir?’ growled Caepio.

  ‘Take a cohort from the front legion and use it to round them up. Isolate the first five hundred who reach you. Make sure that all of them keep up with the rest of the column. I’ll deal with the mangy dogs when we’ve reached the site for our camp.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Caepio called for a horse. Mounting with an ease that belied his age, he rode off without a backward glance.

  Left alone with his fury, Crassus began to plan his course of action. He prayed that Mummius had survived, not because he gave a whit for the man, but because he wanted to punish him. It was rare indeed for such a senior officer to be stripped of his rank, but that wouldn’t stop Crassus. The thought of going further and having Mummius executed was appealing, but with regret, he decided against it. The man might be an idiot, but he came from a good lineage. Seventy years earlier, his grandfather had sacked the Greek city of Corinth while serving as a consul. The family was still well connected. Crassus had been given supreme command of the campaign to subdue Spartacus, but his position wasn’t unassailable. Alienating elements within the Senate before he had succeeded was not a good idea.

  It would be enough to humiliate Mummius by demoting him in front of his own men and sending him in disgrace to Rome. His men, however, would have to pay for their cowardice. Their punishment would show every legionary in the army that such behaviour would never be tolerated.

  Crassus’ lips thinned with satisfaction.

  By the time the day’s camps had been built, Mummius’ soldiers had been in the sun for several hours. They had been denied both food and water. The five hundred men who had been first to arrive back – a virtually untouched cohort – had been made to stand facing the main entrance to Crassus’ encampment. Their muscles were shaking from the effort of standing to attention for so long, but not a single soldier had dared to complain. Any weapons they hadn’t discarded had been confiscated, and their mail shirts lay in a great silver pile alongside. A cohort of veterans with drawn swords had been deployed around them, and a score of centurions, including Caepio, patrolled up and down inside this perimeter, raining blows on anyone who relaxed even a fraction. The remainder of the disgraced legionaries, almost six thousand men, were arrayed in cohort-sized blocs to their right. Mummius stood in front, bareheaded and without a weapon.

  Crassus had ordered that a hundred individuals from each legion should witness the punishment that was to be meted out. The selected soldiers marched in when the day’s camps had been finished. They placed themselves opposite the main body of Mummius’ troops, forming the third side of a large square.

  Informed that the scene had been set, Crassus let the assembled legionaries bake in the heat for close to an hour. He wanted everyone present – not just the legionaries who had run – to be tired, sunburned and uncomfortable when he arrived. Finally, riding his best horse, a spirited grey stallion, and accompanied by his senior officers, he made his way to the platform that had been built by the engineers on the square’s last side, parallel to the camp’s wall. In front of it lay a large pile of wooden clubs, the ends of which had been studded with nails. As Crassus led the way up the steps, trumpeters blew a short, sharp fanfare.

  Crassus began to speak the moment that the musicians had finished. He pitched his voice to carry. ‘You all know why you are here! Some men, that is Mummius and the “tremblers”, are to be punished severely. Their comrades can also expect to be disciplined. The rest of you are present to learn that the cowardice shown by these so-called “soldiers” cannot and will not be tolerated. EVER. You are to act as witnesses, so that every man in the army hears about what happened here today.’ He let his words sink in, saw with satisfaction the condemned ponder their fates.

  ‘Lucius Mummius Achaicus, present yourself!’

  Mummius marched smartly forward and came to a stop in front of the platform. He saluted, but avoided Crassus’ eye. ‘Sir!’

  ‘I sent you to shadow the enemy army. You were to avoid confrontation with Spartacus’ troops, but when the chance presented itself, you did so anyway, in the process disobeying my commands. Is that not correct?’

  ‘
It is, sir,’ answered Mummius in a low voice. ‘Some of his troops had fallen behind the main body of—’

  ‘Silence! Not only did you flout my orders, but you fell into Spartacus’ trap. When the battle began, your men proved to be cowards of the first degree. They ran from the enemy in their thousands, leaving their weapons and standards behind. The first soldiers to appear consisted of an entirely unharmed cohort. Did they fight at all, I wonder, or did they just run when the slaves advanced as they did before when they fought with Gellius and Lentulus?’ Crassus’ tone was withering.

  Mummius didn’t say a word.

  ‘Most of the cohorts that returned afterwards had suffered heavy losses. That doesn’t excuse them fleeing the battlefield, but it shows at least that they are not complete cowards,’ Crassus declared. ‘I will come to them later. First I must deal with you. Lucius Mummius Achaicus, legate. Or should I say, former legate.’

  Mummius’ head lifted. His face was stricken, but not unsurprised.

  ‘I strip you of your rank and your command with immediate effect,’ Crassus cried. ‘Only the memory of your glorious forefathers, who were far greater men than you, prevented me from punishing you further. You are ordered to return to Rome with all haste, where you are to present yourself to the Senate and explain your actions. The senators can do with you as they see fit.’ He glared at Mummius. ‘Are my orders clear this time?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I hope so. Get out of my sight!’

  Head down, Mummius trudged back to his position.

  ‘Every man apart from the tremblers is to be fined six months’ pay. They are to be issued with new weapons to replace the ones that were thrown away or lost.’ Crassus noted the relieved looks of those in the front ranks. ‘But first, I would have you pledge that you will never again discard your sword or javelins. You will swear this upon pain of death. Anyone who refuses will be executed.’ He eyed the legionaries again. ‘Are there any men who do not wish to take the oath?’

  Not a man stirred.

  Crassus smiled. ‘Repeat after me then: I, a soldier of Rome . . .’

  When the assembled men had finished swearing, Crassus turned to the soldiers directly before him. ‘In case you didn’t know, you whoresons, the term “trembler” is a Spartan phrase. It was coined to describe the worst of men, the soldiers who didn’t come back with their shields or on them, but without them entirely. Not only did you do that, but you were the first to run. The first to leave your comrades to the mercy of the enemy. You are all cowards. DAMN COWARDS!’ He glared at them, daring anyone to meet his eye. No one would. ‘There is just one punishment suitable for such men. Decimation!’

  The word hung in the hot air.

  ‘That’s right, you maggots!’ roared Crassus. ‘Decimation is what you deserve.’

  Shock filled the faces of those who were watching; utter terror twisted the faces of the condemned soldiers.

  ‘You are to march before me in groups of fifty. You will draw lots, and then one man in every ten is to be beaten to death by his companions. Fifty of you in total will die, and the rest of you will be forced to pitch your tents outside the walls of the camp until I say otherwise. For the same period, you will be issued barley to eat, as the horses and mules are. Every one of you will be docked a year’s pay. You can also expect to fight in the front ranks in any subsequent battles.’ Crassus’ eyes flickered left and right. ‘Caepio, where are you?’

  ‘Right here, sir.’ The old centurion strode forward from the tremblers’ ranks.

  ‘You are to supervise. Any man not taking part in this punishment with sufficient enthusiasm is to suffer the same fate as those who are being decimated. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Begin at once.’

  Caepio swivelled about. ‘You heard the general! Fifty men, step forward in groups of ten!’

  With dragging heels, the first couple of ranks began walking towards him. Other centurions shoved them into files of ten. Caepio produced a bag, which he shook vigorously. ‘This contains nine white pebbles and one black. Each of you is to take one. Obviously, the one who gets the black stone is to die.’ He held open the bag. ‘First!’

  Encouraged by a centurion wielding a vine cane, a soldier stepped up to Caepio. Plunging his hand into the bag, he pulled out a stone. It was white. His face sagged with relief.

  ‘Next!’ yelled Caepio.

  The second pebble was white.

  So were the third, fourth and fifth ones.

  But the sixth was black. The man who drew it let out a cry of anguish.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ roared Caepio. The shaking soldier obeyed, and Caepio gestured at the pile of clubs. ‘The rest are to pick up a weapon and get back here.’ When the nine had returned, he bellowed, ‘Form a circle.’

  As soon as the legionaries had done as they were told, Caepio shoved the chosen man into the rough ring’s centre. ‘Get on with it!’

  No one moved except the condemned, who fell to his knees and began praying in a loud voice.

  ‘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-p
urple 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.