by Ben Kane
He was already fully dressed. Tunic, padded jerkin, mail shirt, studded sandals. Baldric over his shoulder, sica in its scabbard by his left side. A leather belt with a sheathed dagger on it. He reached down to the stool by his bedding and picked up his Phrygian helmet.
‘Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
Ariadne let out a dismissive snort. ‘I’ve spent the night praying. Staring at the ceiling. Or you.’ In fact, she had slept for a time, but her head had been filled with the crucified men again. She wasn’t going to mention that now, or ever. It was just her imagination running riot. Let it be no more than that, Dionysus.
‘At me?’ He sounded amused.
‘Why wouldn’t I? You’re a handsome man.’ She reached up to trace the line of his jaw with a finger. ‘I’ve thought that from the first time we met. When you saved me from Kotys’ men.’
‘That seems a lifetime ago.’ There was a touch of wistfulness in his voice. ‘But I can remember your face as if it were yesterday. You were quite the beauty. And still are,’ he added, smiling.
‘Don’t leave like this,’ she said, trying to keep the emotion from her voice.
‘I’ll come back in when I’ve finished talking with the officers.’
She nodded, grateful that the semi-darkness concealed the tears welling in her eyes.
Helmet under one arm and carrying his shield, Spartacus walked outside. His stomach knotted in a familiar reaction. It felt similar to the times he’d emerged from the tunnel into the gladiatorial arena. Instead of a single opponent, he found Pulcher, Egbeo, Navio and Carbo waiting for him. All four were dressed for a fight. Plumes of exhaled air rose above them into the cool air, and they stamped from foot to foot in an effort to stay warm. Rather than banks of seating full of baying spectators, the black outline of a huge massif loomed to their rear.
After nearly a week of marching north and west and aware that Crassus was closing in, Spartacus had been grateful to find this valley. It was bounded on both sides by mountains. To the east, the sheer-faced plateau behind him, and to the west, a line of similarly high, but more undulating peaks. At the valley’s bottom was a river, the Silarus, which meandered westwards to Campania’s coastal plain. The land here was fertile. Farmhouses were dotted throughout the olive groves and fields. On this side of the river, there was a significant amount of open space given over purely to the cultivation of wheat. It was what had attracted Spartacus’ eye as he’d spied out the terrain from the top of the massif two days earlier. There wasn’t too much flat ground – he estimated it was about two miles wide. That was enough for his troops to deploy without giving Crassus’ legions the space to envelop them. It would constrain the effectiveness of his cavalry, but that couldn’t be helped. Time was not on their side, so this battlefield would have to suffice.
They hadn’t been here for long – twelve hours? – before the Roman scouts had found them. It had only taken another night and day for the legions to appear. They had come from the opposite direction to Spartacus’ army: up the valley from the west, a snaking column that had taken five hours to arrive fully. It was clear from the outset that Crassus was keen for a fight. Instead of using the Silarus as a natural barrier, first his cavalry and then his legionaries had forded the watercourse. They had set up camp on the bank, at the edge of the open ground that led up towards Spartacus’ men’s tents. The provocative move had blocked off all avenues of retreat, except to the east, and short of attacking on the spot, had issued the most direct challenge possible.
Spartacus murmured a quiet greeting to his officers, who gave him tense nods in reply. He had already decided that Egbeo would command the left flank and Pulcher the right. Navio would be with him, in the centre. Carbo would stay with Ariadne and Maron, his job as before. ‘Have the sentries seen anything overnight?’ He had ordered pickets to be set up far beyond their own lines in case Crassus tried any tricks.
‘There hasn’t been a thing until just now, sir,’ said Pulcher.
Spartacus’ gaze fixed on the smith’s face. ‘What have they seen?’
‘It’s been too dark to see, sir. But they heard the sound of digging.’
‘Where?’
‘On the ground before both ends of Crassus’ camp, sir.’
‘The bastards must be digging trenches, to prevent our cavalry from charging.’
‘That was what I thought, sir,’ replied Pulcher with a scowl.
‘In that case, there’s only one thing to do.’
They stared at him without speaking.
‘Attack now. Disrupt the soldiers who are digging. With the Rider’s help, they’ll have to abandon the trenches without finishing them. Egbeo, you can take charge of the left flank, eh?’
The Thracian’s craggy face split into a smile. ‘Be my pleasure!’
‘Pulcher, you take the right.’
‘Of course.’
‘How many men will we take?’ asked Egbeo.
‘Six cohorts each should be enough. Any more, and they might not hear your orders. Take a few trumpeters each to be on the safe side. Push the Romans back, out of their trenches. When you’ve done that, withdraw. The rest of the army will be ready by then. Before you go, remember to instruct your officers to ready their men. Lastly, send the cavalry commanders to me. Well, what are you waiting for?’
With broad grins, the pair hurried away.
‘Where do you want us, sir?’ asked Navio.
‘You’re to stand with me, in the very centre.’
Navio grinned. ‘I’d be honoured.’
Spartacus’ eyes moved to Carbo. ‘My most loyal of men.’
Carbo’s stomach lurched. He suspected what Spartacus was going to say.
‘I want you to stay behind, to protect Ariadne and Maron. Today will be harder fought and more desperate than any of the battles we have fought. If things go wrong—’
‘Leave someone else!’ interrupted Carbo. ‘I won’t do it! Not this time!’ Beside him, Navio stiffened in surprise.
Spartacus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I could order you to do so.’
‘But you won’t,’ replied Carbo furiously.
‘Why in Hades won’t I?’
‘Because Crassus is the man who ruined my family. He’s the reason that my parents ended up in Varus’ house. He’s to blame for their deaths! This is the first chance since Rome that I will have had to kill him. It might be the only opportunity I’ll ever get, and you’re not going to take it away from me.’ Carbo glared at Spartacus, afraid yet unwilling to back down.
Navio’s worried eyes shot from one to the other.
‘Well, well,’ said Spartacus. ‘The young cock stands his ground at last!’
Carbo set his jaw and prepared for Spartacus’ rebuke, punishment, or even dismissal.
‘Very well, you can fight. Who am I to stand in the way of a man’s need for vengeance? I would ask that instead of positioning yourself with Egbeo and your cohort, you stand with me and Navio in the centre. Will you do that?’
Carbo’s throat closed with sudden emotion. ‘I–I’d be honoured.’
A brief smile. ‘Good. Best get to rousing the men, eh? I want the whole army ready to fight in within two hours.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Stunned at the ease with which Spartacus had given way, Carbo beat a hasty retreat. As well as obeying his orders, telling Arnax what to do if things went against them was paramount. Navio followed, threading his way between the dense lines of tents.
Spartacus watched them go. He glanced at the eastern sky, which was lightening fast. Daybreak had arrived. He caught first Atheas’ and then Taxacis’ eye. ‘With Carbo out of the picture, I had a mind to ask you, Taxacis, to protect Ariadne with Atheas if things went badly. I would feel better knowing that you were both by her side, but I think you would attract too much attention.’
Taxacis’ lips peeled upwards, and he pointed at the tattoos on his cheeks and arms. �
��These . . . get noticed.’
‘Which would not be the best thing for Ariadne or the baby. The less attention, the better. I will ask someone else.’ Aventianus, the slave with the scar on his cheek, Spartacus thought. He seemed a decent sort, and trustworthy.
‘I not . . . want miss fight anyway,’ muttered Taxacis.
‘Good! First, though, find a man called Aventianus – he’s in Navio’s cohort, I think – and bring him here.’ Putting down his helmet and sword, Spartacus ducked back into the tent.
‘What have you planned?’ Ariadne asked in a whisper. She was up, and fully dressed.
‘You look beautiful.’ Even in the poor light, he could see her blush. ‘It’s true!’
Ariadne’s emotions were surging between utter terror that she might never see him again, and pride in what he was about to do. ‘Hush. Tell me your plan.’
Spartacus told her about the Roman trenches. ‘My hope is that we can push the bastards back. If Egbeo and Pulcher can achieve that, the cavalry will still be of use. While the main part of the army is getting ready, they can be darting in and out like clouds of mosquitoes, annoying the legionaries, preventing them from forming up properly. Panicking them a little.’
‘Then you’ll advance?’
He nodded. ‘Our first charge will be the one that counts. It nearly always is. With the Rider’s help, we’ll break through. The cavalry will be working their flanks, and I hope to roll the bastards up until their backs are against the river. That’s when they’ll break, and the slaughter will start.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll be back before dark.’
Ariadne forced herself to return the smile, but she wanted to break down and cry. She had never thought to find a man she could love, but then she had met Spartacus. Now, after all they had been through, this might be the end. Her pain was exquisite, but she made herself speak. ‘What happens if you don’t come back?’
His eyes met hers without wavering. ‘Know that I will have died fighting. All my wounds will be on my front.’
A sob escaped her lips at last. She moved forward, into the welcome circle of his arms. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘I have to, Ariadne, you know that. This is the most important battle of my life. My men need me.’
Your men, it’s always your fucking men! Ariadne wanted to rage. What about me and Maron? She didn’t say a word, however. There was no point.
There was silence between them for a long time. They stood, savouring the warmth of the other’s flesh, the rhythm of each other’s breathing.
Great Rider, Spartacus prayed. I ask that you watch over Ariadne and my son, especially if I should fall today. Dionysus, look after this woman, your loyal priestess, and her baby, who will learn to follow your ways.
Ariadne was offering up similar, fervent prayers. All too soon, she felt Spartacus’ grip fall away. Stricken, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. ‘Come back to me.’
He smiled, more gently than she could ever remember. ‘If I can, I will. I swear it. Atheas and a man called Aventianus will watch over you here. If the battle goes badly, they are to take you and Maron to safety. There are bags of coin under my spare clothes, enough to last you for many years if you’re careful.’
She nodded, unable to speak.
He walked to the cot and scooped up Maron, who stirred and then woke. He scrunched up his eyes and stretched. Enfolding him in his arms, Spartacus rocked his son to and fro for several moments. Maron soon settled. ‘Grow up to be strong and healthy. Honour your mother, and my memory. Remember that Rome is your enemy,’ Spartacus whispered. ‘Know that I will always be watching over you.’
He handed Maron to Ariadne. Tears trickled from her closed eyelids as he embraced them both. Ariadne did not open her eyes as Spartacus let go, because she could not bear to see him leave. Instead, she buried her face in the crook of Maron’s neck, letting his baby smell wash over her.
‘Goodbye, wife.’ He spoke from some distance away.
Panic ripped through Ariadne. In the dreadful eventuality that he did not return, she did not want his last memory to be of her avoiding his gaze. Nor that hers would be of letting him walk away without a last look at his face. She lifted her head, dabbed away the tears. ‘Goodbye. I will see you after it’s over.’
He smiled. ‘You will.’
And then he was gone.
Ariadne’s tears began to flow in earnest. Gone was the composed priestess that most people knew. In its place was a woman who had just sent her husband into battle, perhaps for the last time. Although Maron was in her arms, she had never felt more alone.
The sun had emerged from behind the massif to their rear and was bathing the valley by the time Spartacus’ troops were ready. He had assembled them in two strong lines, more than thirty cohorts wide rather than the typical Roman triplex acies pattern that Crassus’ legionaries were adopting five hundred odd paces opposite. His attack, a gamble, required the maximum force his men could muster. He had therefore placed his best soldiers, the ones who possessed mail shirts and Roman shields and weapons, in the centre with him. It was where the fighting would be hardest, bloodiest, deadliest.
Beyond these eight cohorts slightly more than half of the men were as well armed. Of the rest, few had helmets. Some had shields; others had mail. Their weapons were swords, spears and even axes. He hoped that what they lacked in equipment, they would make up in bravery. Egbeo and Pulcher would exhort the best from them, he was sure of that. On the flanks, his cavalry waited, hundreds of riders on shaggy mountain ponies. They didn’t look that fearsome, but Spartacus had seen what they’d done to the Romans on numerous occasions.
Normally, he’d have been cursing the fact that less than half of his original force of horsemen remained. Today it didn’t matter, because there wasn’t room on either side for more riders to manoeuvre. His cavalry’s role would be vital; he had given the officers in charge detailed instructions on what to do. He wanted them to act like Hannibal’s famed Numidian horsemen, whose tactic of attacking and withdrawing had so often led enemies to break ranks, thereby exposing themselves to danger. If his cavalry could replicate that even to a small extent, Egbeo and Pulcher would capitalise on the advantage to its fullest, which in turn would increase the likelihood of the Roman flanks folding. And if that happened, Crassus’ legions would break.
As he’d supervised the men, Spartacus had kept half an eye on the struggle around the enemy trenches and half an eye on what Crassus’ soldiers were doing. Thus far, the legions were making no move to advance. Like him, Crassus was merely marshalling his forces in case the battle proper began. Spartacus began to give the clashes on the flanks his full attention. The two bouts were some distance away, making it difficult to see what was happening. It was clear, however, that neither Egbeo nor Pulcher had succeeded in driving the Romans back far, if at all. The figures of fighting men ebbed to and fro, accompanied by the usual clatter of weapons, shouts and screams. ‘What the hell’s going on down there?’
‘The Romans have brought up their catapults, sir,’ said Navio. ‘Listen.’
Spartacus pricked his ears. After a moment, he heard the familiar twangs that signalled the release of bolts and stones. The noise was coming from both Egbeo’s and Pulcher’s positions. He hoped that Crassus didn’t have too many of the deadly machines. Suddenly, his attention was drawn by a large formation of troops marching towards the enemy’s left flank. His eyes swivelled, seeing a similar force moving in the direction of the right flank. Crassus was reinforcing the men in the trenches, not ordering them to withdraw. His decision had just been made for him. ‘We advance. Now.’
‘The whole army?’ asked Carbo nervously.
‘Yes.’ He pointed down the slope. ‘Look at those cohorts. We’ve got to move now, or Egbeo and Pulcher’s troops will get massacred.’ He glanced at them both. ‘Ready for this?’
They both gave him a grim nod.
‘Egbeo and Pulcher will be up to their eyeballs with what’s goin
g on. Someone else needs to lead their men down there. Navio, I want you to take charge of the left flank.’
Navio saluted. He exchanged a quick glance with Carbo and then trotted off at the double.
Spartacus called for a messenger. ‘The most senior centurion on the right flank is to take command there. The order to advance will come very soon.’ The man saluted and sprinted away. ‘Bring me my stallion!’ cried Spartacus.
A soldier who’d been waiting off to one side hurried forward, leading the horse.
Beckoning, Spartacus walked out some thirty paces from his troops.
Gods, but he looks magnificent, thought Carbo. Spartacus’ Phrygian helmet glittered in the sun, drawing everyone’s attention. His mail shirt had been burnished until it shone like silver, and on his left hip sat his sica, the blade that had led them to victory so many times before.
Spartacus cupped a hand to his lips. ‘You see this magnificent beast?’
There were puzzled nods of agreement. ‘We see him,’ shouted a voice. ‘And we all wish that we had one too!’
This raised a few laughs.
‘In Thrace, a white horse is regarded as a mount fit for a king. They are to be honoured, and treated with respect. It is why I picked this stallion to ride. He has served me well, but today I will use him for another purpose. He is to be a sacrifice to the gods! To ask them for victory at any cost.’
The shock among his troops was palpable. This was a powerful rite indeed. Men whispered to one another, and the word began to spread.
Spartacus smiled. This had been his intent. ‘Instead of riding into battle, I would fight beside you, my brothers, in the shield wall. I would take every blow that you do. I will bleed with you, and kill Romans beside you. I will stay to the bitter end with you, though my shield be shattered and my blade broken!’
The oath made Carbo shiver, and stirred his passion as never before. The men around him were comrades, whom he would die for, as they would for him. He glanced to either side, seeing the same emotion on others’ faces.
Drawing his dagger, Spartacus stepped up to the horse. Recognising him, it whinnied and nibbled at his arm. ‘Gently, brave one. I thank you for your faithful service. I ask one more thing of you. This will be your finest moment, and give you a rapid journey to the Great Rider’s side. There you will be received with great honour.’ To the soldier, he whispered, ‘Pull out his head.’
