by Ben Kane
With Spartacus rubbing his shoulder, the stallion let the soldier extend his neck forward.
Great Rider, this is for you. In return, I ask for victory.
Spartacus brought up the knife under the horse’s chin. In one swift movement, he brought it back towards him. The wickedly sharp blade slashed a gaping hole in the stallion’s flesh, severing both its jugular veins and setting free a tidal wave of blood. It staggered, blowing red froth from the hole in its windpipe. Spartacus leaned into it with all his strength, stroking its shoulder with his free hand. ‘Steady, brave heart, steady. The Rider awaits you.’
The horse’s knees buckled, and it dropped to the ground like a stone. More blood flowed, creating a huge pool of crimson around its forequarters. One of its back legs shot out to the side. It kicked madly several times and was still. Spartacus reached down and worked the knife deeper into the stallion’s neck. This time, he cut an artery. Bright red blood sprayed over his hand. He continued to whisper calm reassurances. The broad chest went in and out, in and out, slower and slower. At last it stopped.
Spartacus let his hand rest on the stallion for a moment, honouring its life and its death. Then, dipping his hand in the blood, he smeared a liberal coating on to his cheeks and forehead. Wiping his blade clean, he sheathed it. When he turned to regard his troops, he saw that all eyes were on him. In the cohorts further away, men had moved out of position so that they could witness what was going on. ‘My soldiers! The offering to the gods has been made. My stallion died well, and without protest. The sacrifice has been accepted!’
They roared their approval at that. Clash, clash, clash went their weapons off their shields.
Sica in hand now, Spartacus took a few steps forward. ‘Today, we shall have . . . VICTORY – OR DEATH!’
A heartbeat’s delay.
‘VICTORY – OR DEATH!’ roared Carbo. Taxacis’ voice echoed his.
‘VICTORY – OR DEATH! VICTORY – OR DEATH!’
Letting his men’s chant wash over him, Spartacus resumed his place in the line, between Carbo and Taxacis. Without ado, he signalled at the trumpeters, and at the riders who would carry the order to advance to the cavalry on the wings.
The instruments’ strident notes had no difficulty carrying through the noise. Still shouting, the soldiers were urged forward by their officers. They walked at first. It was a good five hundred paces to the Roman lines. There was no point in tiring themselves out. They would need all the energy they had to win the fight that was to come.
Carbo could taste bile in the back of his throat. Grant us victory, and give me one chance to kill Crassus, he begged. I don’t care if I die after that. Prayer over, he glanced at Taxacis, who was to his far right. The Scythian gave him a fierce grin. Carbo returned the smile. He couldn’t ask to be in a better place. Spartacus to his right. Beyond him, Taxacis. Both were deadly fighters. On his left was a broad-chested man with a strong chin. Carbo vaguely recognised him, but he wasn’t sure why. He was just proud to be included in their number, and for the first time in his life, he felt truly at home.
‘Keep walking,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Hold the line!’
As they drew parallel with the dead stallion, more than one soldier copied their leader by daubing his face with its blood. Carbo didn’t – the Rider wasn’t his god – but he understood why men were doing it. In a situation such as this, anything that might help one to survive was useful. One hundred paces went by. The Romans were advancing to meet them. Carbo watched Spartacus, who was scanning the enemy lines. He did the same, eventually spotting a scarlet-cloaked man riding back and forth behind the central cohorts. ‘There’s Crassus! The cocksucker!’
‘That’s him,’ agreed Spartacus with a scowl. ‘We’re right where we want to be: directly opposite his position.’
Tramp, tramp, tramp. Carbo counted his footsteps. Another hundred paces, and he could differentiate the Roman officers from the ordinary soldiers. He had never seen so many transverse-crested helmets in the front rank. It was a measure reserved for the most desperate of situations. Crassus was also gambling everything on this throw of the dice. Sweat slicked down Carbo’s back, made gripping his pilum more difficult. He’d be lucky to be alive by nightfall.
‘That’s it, lads,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Stay together!’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ roared the man to Carbo’s left. He hammered his pilum off the metal rim of his scutum with each syllable. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Inevitably, the shout was taken up all around them. Carbo roared at the top of his voice, but the din was so loud that he couldn’t hear himself. It felt as if he was miming in a stage play, except that instead of an audience, he had a wall of legionaries approaching him. Apart from occasional blasts from their trumpeters, Crassus’ men came on in silence. It was a typical Roman tactic, designed to send fear into their enemies’ hearts. It wasn’t working yet, thought Carbo, his heart thumping, because the crescendo from their soldiers was so overwhelming.
On they marched, trampling the young wheat back into the earth. Because they were still descending the slope, Carbo had a good view of the ground to his left and right. On the periphery, he could see their cavalry moving forward like a dark stain across the landscape. With any luck, the Roman trenches wouldn’t extend far enough out to prevent them from sweeping around the enemy flanks. Carbo couldn’t see Navio’s position, but he sent up a prayer for his friend, and for them all. Bring us victory, great Jupiter, great Mars. Let me reach Crassus. One more chance, that’s all I ask.
Two hundred paces until the enemy lines. Carbo had grown used to the routines of battle, and his eyes flickered warily to the air above the legionaries. Were there enough artillery pieces to target them as well, or were they taken up with the struggle on the flanks? He didn’t hold any ill will towards the men there, but he hoped that it was the latter.
It was wishful thinking.
Perhaps two heartbeats later, a volley of darts came scudding in. Carbo felt his bowels loosen. He’d seen the carnage that the missiles could do. Around him, more than one man cried out in fear. Their advance slowed, and then stopped.
‘Close order! All ranks except the front, shields up!’ bellowed Spartacus.
They’d been drilled to do this a thousand times before. With a loud clattering noise, the scuta of those behind Carbo came up, forming a giant cover, the famed Roman testudo. He and the men of the front rank closed their shields together, forming an almost solid wall to the front. It was good protection against lighter missiles such as javelins, but, as everyone knew, it could not stop larger ones, such as the darts that were humming down towards them with frightening speed.
‘STEADY!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘STEADY, BOYS!’
Other officers shouted similar reassurances.
Carbo didn’t look up. If he was going to be transfixed by a barbed dart, he wanted it to happen without him knowing. His heart was thumping off his ribs like a wild thing. The soldier to his left was muttering the same prayer over and over. A man nearby began to vomit. Carbo started counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. Gods above, slow down. He forced himself to exhale as slowly as he could.
Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. With a noise like thunderbolts, the missiles arrived. Carbo closed his eyes. Sent skywards by a torsion catapult that had to be cocked by two legionaries winding a handle, the darts had huge penetrative power. They punched through scuta like a hot knife through cheese, maiming and killing the unfortunate men beneath. Arm bones were shattered, skulls smashed open, chests ripped apart. Howls of agony marked the spots where soldiers had only been injured. The dead just collapsed to the ground.
Carbo blinked. He was still alive, and whole. So too were Spartacus and the man to his left. They exchanged a relieved look.
‘Lower shields. Forward, at the double!’ shouted Spartacus.
Carbo needed no encouragement. The quicker they closed with the Romans, the fewer volleys would land among them. The risk of death from a blade seemed far more appealing
than having his brain pulped to mush or his chest split asunder by a dart. Cocking back his left arm, he trotted forward. Soon there would be an exchange of javelins. Then a final charge.
A hundred and fifty paces. Still the Romans made no sound. Carbo didn’t like it one bit.
Another volley, this one of stones, came sweeping over the enemy lines. He was hypnotised by their trajectory. Part of him wanted to sprint forward, to miss the deadly rain if he could. Another part wanted to drop his shield and pilum and run away. But he couldn’t. Spartacus was by his side, relying on him. And Crassus, the cause of his parents’ deaths, was skulking behind a wall of legionaries. He focused his attention on the lines nearing him. All he could see was their eyes, peering over their shield rims, and their javelins, which were already aimed at the sky, ready for the order to release. Carbo was suddenly aware that he needed to piss. More than anything, he needed to piss. He swallowed hard, forcing the urge away.
Thump. Crash. Bang. The stones landed, splintering shields into kindling, crushing men’s ribs and stopping their hearts.
Carbo shot a glance at Spartacus, who seemed oblivious. He rallied his courage. Here was the closest thing to a god that he’d ever seen. Was the man scared of nothing?
‘Ready javelins!’ Spartacus drew back his left arm. ‘On my order!’
Carbo squinted at the enemy lines, which were about ninety paces away. Too far for an accurate throw. He could see the Roman officers watching them, waiting until they drew closer. Bastards.
Spartacus was doing the same. His lips moved as he counted down the distance. Eighty. Seventy. Sixty. The legionaries’ pila flew up into the air.
Damn it, thought Carbo, give the order!
‘Aim short! LOOSE!’
Carbo heaved his javelin into a low, curving arc. He tried to follow its progress, but it was joined by scores of others. He watched in fascination as they sped towards the Romans.
‘Shields up!’ roared Spartacus for the second time.
The javelins caused far less consternation than the artillery barrage. They crashed down, turning many shields into useless lumps of wood, but injuring and killing fewer men. Behind him, Carbo heard a couple of soldiers wagering with one another about who would get hit first. He felt an elbow in the ribs from his neighbour.
‘Crazy the things that men can laugh about, eh?’
Carbo’s dry lips cracked as he smiled.
‘Zeuxis is the name. Yours?’
‘Carbo. Do I recognise you?’
A sour grin. ‘Maybe. You were with Spartacus when he shoved me arse first into a fire.’
Carbo’s chuckle was drowned by Spartacus’ shout. ‘Anyone with a second javelin, LOOSE!’
Half as many pila as had gone up the first time took to the air. In the same instant, a far greater number of Roman javelins were launched.
‘Raise shields, draw swords! FORWARD, AT THE DOUBLE!’
Ducking his head in a futile attempt to make himself smaller, Carbo broke into a run. His world had narrowed. All he could see was the Romans directly opposite him. Crassus, even the line of standards that waved above their lines, had vanished. He was aware of Zeuxis on his left, Spartacus on his right, his shield in one hand and his gladius in the other. That was it.
Little more than thirty paces separated the two sides.
The legionaries had drawn their swords now. Finally, an almighty roar left their throats, and they ran forward.
Carbo and every man around him responded with an ear-splitting yell. He heard Spartacus shout something unintelligible in Thracian. A quick glance sideways. Awe filled him. He’d never seen his leader look so angry. The veins in Spartacus’ neck were bulging. His face was bright red, and his eyes were flat and dead. The eyes of a killer. Carbo had never been more glad to be on the same side as this man.
Gaze back to the front. Twenty-five paces. Carbo felt the scream crack in his throat, but that didn’t shut him up. He must sound like a madman, but that was a good thing. The aim before they struck was to cause as much fear in their enemies as possible.
The two sides closed in on one another with frightening speed. Twenty paces. Fifteen.
Carbo focused on the designs emblazoned on the shields nearing him. The majority were a red colour with a swirling yellow line decorating each quarter, but the most striking one had lightning bolts radiating from the shield boss. The eyes above its rim were calculating, the helmet battered. A veteran, thought Carbo, his fear bubbling up. And they were heading straight for each other.
The last steps were covered in a blur. Carbo did his best to make sure that as he hit, his left shoulder was shoved forward. Of course his opponent did the same. Their shields crashed off other with an almighty bang. Both men staggered back a pace; both regained their poise and lunged forward with their swords. Carbo ducked down behind his scutum first, which allowed the legionary to follow through with his thrust, while Carbo’s right arm shot uselessly into the air. Aware that he’d exposed his armpit, Carbo desperately pulled his blade back down. As he tried to peep over his shield rim, his enemy stabbed at him again. Cursing, Carbo hid again. He battered forward with his scutum, wanting to catch the other off balance. It was a faint hope. The legionary’s shield was like a brick wall.
Carbo didn’t give up on his attack. He punched his shield at the other’s, following through with a thrust of his sword. It was what Paccius had taught him. One, two. One, two. The legionary’s response was to do exactly the same thing. Carbo realised that his enemy was stronger and more skilled than he was. It seemed as if the legionary knew it too. His eyes glittered as he redoubled his assault.
Carbo’s need to urinate returned with a vengeance. Is this how I’m going to die? he wondered. Covered in my own piss? He changed tactic, stabbing his gladius down at his opponent’s feet. His effort failed. The legionary blocked the blow by angling out the lower edge of his scutum; he followed through with a lunge of his sword that nearly took out Carbo’s left eye. There was a screech of metal as the iron blade skidded off the brow of his helmet. Stars flashed across Carbo’s vision. Dimly, he heard the legionary roar in triumph. This is it, he thought. Now the bastard will knock me over and finish me off.
What he heard next was an odd, choking sound.
With difficulty, Carbo focused on the legionary again. To his amazement, he saw Spartacus’ sica sliding out of the man’s throat. Blood spattered him in the face; the metallic taste of it hit his tongue. Carbo’s head turned.
‘Come on, lad! Get your wits about you,’ growled Spartacus.
Carbo nodded, still a little confused.
‘Eyes front!’ Spartacus shouted.
Carbo obeyed. The gaps in the enemy ranks had already been filled by those behind. His next opponent was four steps away and closing fast. Carbo let him come, forcing the man to step over his comrade’s body. As the legionary was in mid-stride, Carbo drove into him with all his force. The soldier rocked back on his heels, and Carbo’s sword shattered his left cheekbone, slicing through his nasal chambers to exit at the angle of the opposite jaw. A keening noise tore at Carbo’s hearing, and he shook his head in an effort to stop it. Then he realised that it was the legionary screaming. He’d never heard someone make so much noise. With a grunt, he tugged his blade free. The man dropped, still shrieking like a spitted boar.
Carbo wounded the soldier who followed, slicing one of his feet down to the bone. Bawling in pain, the man drew back, unable to fight. The press was too tight for anyone to get by, so Carbo used the respite to help Zeuxis dispatch his opponent. Two legionaries shoved through the gap left as that man fell. One moved sideways to get at Carbo; the other went for Zeuxis. This fight was as protracted as Carbo’s first struggle, but driven by adrenalin and the knowledge that Spartacus had saved his life, he gave a better account of himself. It was a measure of his opponent’s skill that it took so long for Carbo to put him down. The legionary sank to his knees, the wound in his throat open wider than his gaping mouth. Blood jetted fro
m both openings, covering the ground between them in another tide of crimson.
No one filled the empty space before Carbo. He didn’t understand until the shrill peeeeeeep of whistles hit his eardrums. The Roman line retreated a step, and then another. He tensed, preparing to advance.
‘Fall back!’ roared Spartacus. He thumped the side of Carbo’s shield with his own. ‘Ten paces, no more.’
As he dumbly obeyed, Carbo felt the sweat drenching him. The felt liner beneath his helmet was saturated. There were rivulets running down his forehead and continuing, stinging, into his eyes. He wiped a bloody hand across his face.
‘You’ve done well, lads. Time for a breather!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘Help the wounded to move back, away from the front ranks. If you’ve got any water, have a drink. Share it with your comrades. Do the obvious. Those with damaged weapons or equipment, try to find replacements from the dead and injured. Clear the ground around your feet so that you don’t trip up when the fighting starts again. Check the rest of your gear. Make sure that the straps on your sandals aren’t loose.’ He broke out of formation and began to move along the ranks to the left, muttering encouragement to the soldiers.
No more than twenty paces away, the Romans were doing the same thing. Carbo felt odd standing so close to men whom he’d been trying to kill just a moment earlier, and with whom he would shortly resume hostilities. Best to make the most of it. He stabbed his gladius into the earth before him and let his scutum rest against it. Relieving himself of that weight felt so good. Next he tugged up the bottom of his mail shirt and freed himself from his undergarment. At once his urine arched out in a yellow stream. Carbo thought it would never stop. He had never known such relief. From the jokes and sighs of satisfaction he could hear, plenty of other men felt the same way. Finishing, he became very aware of his overwhelming thirst.
