by Ben Kane
‘The chicken-shit, toga-wearing, motherless goat-fuckers!’ raged Crixus. He stamped up and down, filling the air with more colourful expletives. When he had regained some control, he fixed the others with his stare. ‘Like I said, let’s choose a hero’s death. We’ll go down there in the morning and charge their lines. Make an end that will be remembered by slaves forever.’
Scowling, Castus and Gannicus stared at the ground.
‘We can do better than that,’ said Oenomaus.
‘How?’ demanded Crixus.
Oenomaus had no immediate answer.
Spartacus racked his brains. They had no armour and no shields. They were totally outnumbered. Their supplies would be finished within three days at most. Maybe their only option was a suicidal attack? He glared at the heavens. Very well. I submit to your will, Great Rider.
‘Gannicus, are you with me?’ asked Crixus.
‘I’ve nothing better to be doing.’
‘Good. And you, Castus?’
‘Damn it, why not?’ came the snarled response.
‘Count me in too,’ said Oenomaus harshly.
‘Spartacus?’
He didn’t reply. What a useless way to die.
‘Spartacus?’ Impatience mixed with anger in Crixus’ tone.
His eyes dropped from the skies above, and caught on the vines that covered the steep slopes of the crater. Suddenly, the bones of an idea began to form in his mind.
‘Are you going to answer my damn question?’
‘Not right now.’ Spartacus walked off, leaving the others open-mouthed behind him.
‘He’s fucking lost it,’ Crixus declared. ‘I knew it would happen.’
‘What the hell is he doing?’ demanded Castus. ‘This is no time for a stroll!’
Spartacus was pleased to hear Oenomaus growl, ‘He’ll be back.’
Returning to the other leaders a short time later, Spartacus held out his hands. ‘It was in front of us all along.’
‘That’s a length of wild grapevine,’ said Gannicus in an incredulous voice.
Crixus’ scorn was clear. ‘What shall we do with it? Strangle Roman soldiers?’
Castus laughed.
‘Can you explain what’s going on?’asked Oenomaus, looking bewildered. The place is overrun with vines. So what?’
‘It’s clear as the sun in the sky.’
Crixus’ lip curled. ‘Put us out of our misery.’
‘These vines are excellent for weaving baskets, are they not?’
‘Yes,’ replied Oenomaus, visibly controlling his irritation.
‘Instead of baskets, we can make ropes. Ropes strong enough to take the weight of a man. Once it’s dark, we can lower ourselves down one of the cliff faces on to the slopes below. I don’t imagine that the Romans expect to be attacked from anywhere other than the path.’ Spartacus’ confident smile belied his churning stomach. The odds against us are still terrible, but this will be a damn sight better than committing suicide in the morning.
‘That’s a fantastic idea!’ Oenomaus clapped him on the arm.
‘It would give us a fighting chance,’ admitted Gannicus.
Spartacus glanced at Castus. His sour expression had weakened. ‘I thought you had gone mad. But you haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a good plan.’
‘It might work,’ said Crixus with a dubious shake of his head. ‘Or then again, we could all break our damn necks.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Oenomaus.
To Spartacus’ delight, Castus and Gannicus rumbled in agreement.
Crixus scowled. ‘Very well.’
Thank you, Great Rider. It’ll be easier with him on board. Spartacus made a quick calculation. ‘It’s at least a hundred paces from the lowest part of the cliffs to the ground below. We’ll need a minimum of two ropes. More if they can be woven in time.’
‘And then?’ asked Oenomaus.
Spartacus was pleased to see that this time, all four waited to hear his response. He offered up more silent thanks. ‘Wait until it’s nearly midnight. Pray for cloud cover. We’ll blacken our faces and limbs with ashes from the fires. Climb down to their camp. Kill the sentries at their pickets. Fall upon their tents in silence.’
‘The bastards won’t know what hit them!’ interrupted Gannicus.
‘They won’t. We’ll slay as many as we can before the alarm is raised,’ said Spartacus.
Oenomaus frowned. ‘What will happen after that?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll escape!’ He didn’t voice the other, more likely outcome. No one looked disheartened, however, which satisfied Spartacus. ‘An offering of thanks to Dionysus is imperative now. These are his vines.’
No one argued with that.
By the time darkness had fallen, the gladiators had three ropes, each 120 paces in length. Every man and woman present had laboured to complete the cords. Some had stripped vines from the crater walls while others had trimmed them down to a central stalk. Plaited in threes and securely knotted into four sections, the ropes were tested by having a pair of the heaviest men haul with all their might on each end. To Spartacus’ delight, none broke. He ordered the fighters to prepare themselves, but they were to wait until he gave the word before making a move.
While the other leaders drank wine with their followers, Spartacus sat by the fire with Ariadne. They did not talk much, yet there was a new, intimate air between them. This might be the last time I ever see her, he thought regretfully. Across the fire from him, Ariadne’s mind was racing. Those vines belong to Dionysus. Did he make Spartacus aware of them? It seems too much of a coincidence to be anything else.
Despite the blanket around his shoulders, Spartacus eventually began to feel chilled through. He glanced upwards. The sliver of moon in the sky had been covered by a bank of cloud. There was little wind. ‘Time to move.’
‘I have asked Dionysus to lay a cloak of sleep over their camp.’
‘Thank you.’ He rubbed a final bit of ash on to his arms and stood. ‘By dawn, it will be over. I will see you then.’ He shoved away a pang of uncertainty. Great Rider, let it be so.
‘Yes.’ Ariadne was unwilling to trust her voice further. Come back to me safely.
Without another word, he walked off into the darkness.
‘There’s the picket,’ whispered Spartacus, pointing at a huddle of shapes no more than a long javelin throw away. Fierce satisfaction filled him at what they’d achieved thus far. They’d scrambled down the cliff face with little problem. One man had broken his ankle, and had been left behind, but the others had moved like eager, silent wraiths, scrambling through the darkness to their present position. A hundred paces beyond the Roman sentries lay the southern rampart of Glaber’s camp. Spartacus was lying on his belly in the scrub grass, the Scythians to his right, and Getas and another Thracian to his left. The remainder, including the new recruits, were waiting some distance to their rear. Given their small numbers, Spartacus had decided not to bother assaulting the other sides. Their best hope lay in a savage, frontal attack using all of their force. The other leaders had seemed happy with that idea too.
‘We go,’ muttered Atheas, lifting his dagger.
Taxacis grunted in agreement.
‘Make it quick. Keep quiet,’ warned Spartacus. ‘The slightest sound could screw it up.’
‘Have you forgotten?’ hissed Getas. ‘I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to wield a knife. The Scythians are no different.’
‘I know.’ Spartacus tried to relax. He couldn’t stop his throat from constricting, however, as the four crept forward and disappeared into the pitch black. He waited, counting his heartbeats and trying to calculate how long it would take to reach the Roman sentries. He had nearly reached five hundred when a rush of movement reached his ears. Spartacus froze. The sound of fierce struggling rapidly ended with a couple of short, choking cries. They’ve done it. Did anyone hear? A cold sweat bathed Spartacus’ forehead, but the silence that followed remained unbroken.
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His men returned not long after, grinning fiercely. They were soon joined by the three Gaulish leaders and Oenomaus. ‘It’s time to move,’ said Spartacus.
‘Let us thank Dionysus again,’ whispered Oenomaus. ‘May he continue to watch over us. What lies ahead may cost us all our lives.’
Eighty of us are about to attack a camp containing three thousand legionaries. It’s complete madness. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else,’ hissed Spartacus. ‘Not for all of Crassus’ gold. Whatever the outcome, this will show the bastards that we are no ordinary latrones.’
Rather than argue, Crixus made a low, growling sound in his throat. Castus’ teeth flashed in the darkness, signalling his agreement. ‘It’ll show them we’re not just fodder for their games,’ added Gannicus.
With that, they shuffled back to fetch the gladiators.
Spartacus had the men trail him in a long line as they padded towards the Roman camp. None of the others protested at this. Grim satisfaction filled him that they were prepared to let him take the lead. He paused by the dead sentries, allowing some of the more poorly armed fighters to strip the corpses of their weapons. Then he carefully walked on, pleased that those following him were making almost no sound. They reached the ditch without being challenged, and Spartacus’ heart began thumping in his chest so hard that he wondered if it was audible. Breathe.
He eyed the ramparts. Without doubt, there would be sentries patrolling. How many, Spartacus did not know, but it would be no less than two per side. The nearest ones would have to be neutralised as the pickets had been. Scrambling out of the other side of the trench, he lay down. ‘Stay where you are,’ he hissed at the men behind him. As his order spread, the gladiators’ advance stopped.
It wasn’t far to the earthen fortifications, which were little more than a long, raised mound running from left to right in front of them. Spartacus scanned the top of the wall, finally picking out the shapes of two helmets off to his left. Straining his ears, he could just make out the murmur of voices. ‘See them?’
‘Yes,’ hissed Atheas.
‘I want them silenced in the same way as the pickets. Think you can do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Make a noise like an owl when you’ve finished.’ As the warriors crept away, Spartacus inhaled deeply and slowly let the air out again. The tension was as great as the final moments before any of the battles he had fought. Calm, stay calm. Focusing on his breathing, he closed his eyes.
When the eerie sound reached him, Spartacus felt a surge of relief. The Romans might think of an owl’s call as bad luck, but he certainly didn’t. Another obstacle had been removed.
They stole up to the entrance — little more than a gap between two overlapping portions of the rampart — without difficulty. Spartacus immediately conferred with the other leaders. ‘The men should file out on to the open space that lies behind the rampart when they get inside. They must maintain complete silence. Wait until my signal. The more tents that are attacked simultaneously, the better, eh?’
‘Fine,’ replied Oenomaus. ‘I’ll take the left flank.’
‘You three to the right,’ said Spartacus. ‘And I’ll take the centre.’
The Gauls nodded.
‘Try not to let your men spread out. If we attack in groups, it will make us seem like a bigger force.’ He waited, but no one argued. Excellent. ‘Wait for my signal: a raised sword, and an owl call.’
Spartacus watched as the four vanished to advise their men. Sudden doubt reared up in his mind. What are we doing? This is fucking crazy. Then his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sica. Far better to die like this than to be overrun by thousands of legionaries in the morning. He began to walk towards the tents.
The regular lines which came into view felt weirdly familiar to him. During his service with the legions, Spartacus had slept in many such camps. He had sat around campfires, singing and drinking wine with men such as those they were about to attack. That is all in the past. I am here to kill. We are here to kill. Spartacus muttered instructions to the Thracians following. Silently, they spread out on either side of him. Behind, he spotted the dim figures of men — Gauls and Germans — trotting to the left and right.
And then they were ready.
Spartacus raised his sica and glanced to either side. Seeing swords lifted in acknowledgement, he cupped a hand to his mouth and let out the owl call he’d practised as a boy. The distant figures began to move, and Spartacus gestured to the men behind him, whom he’d ordered to work in pairs, staying along the same line of tents. He noticed Aventianus nearby, a club gripped tightly in his fist. Carbo was beside him, his face tense. Seeing Spartacus’ look, the lad gave a resolute nod. He’ll do all right.
Closer and closer they went. Still there was no alarm, no noise unless a legionary coughed in his sleep, or grunted in the midst of a dream. Ten steps from the nearest tent, Spartacus could take the waiting no more. He quickened his pace to a trot. Getas was right on his heels. As soon as he was close enough, Spartacus slashed down with his weapon, cutting through the leather panelling with ease. The blade’s trajectory came to an abrupt end when it sank deep in human flesh. A heartbeat later, the silence was shattered by a terrible scream. Getas chopped down several paces away with similar success. ‘Quickly!’ hissed Spartacus, pulling back his arm and swinging down in a different direction. There was a meaty thump as the sica sliced into another man. Another bawl of pain. Take that, you Roman bastard!
Ariadne sat alone by the fire, staring into the glowing embers and brooding. Did Spartacus’ dream signal his death at the hands of Roman soldiers? Would it happen tonight? She was unsurprised but dissatisfied to find nothing to inspire her in the red-orange flames. The occasional shower of sparks that rose lazily into the night sky were no different. Dionysus had never revealed anything to her through the medium of fire before. He wasn’t about to start now, she thought. Ariadne tried, and failed, not to feel bitter. Only once could she recall needing guidance this much — in Thrace, when Kotys had been threatening her.
Do not lose faith. The god had come through in the end, bringing Spartacus into her life. She pictured him in her mind’s eye. It was easy to do so — did she not gaze at him secretly whenever she got the chance? Especially when he was undressing. Ariadne was glad that there was no one present to witness the sudden flush that coloured her cheeks. Yet she had long ago stopped denying to herself that Spartacus was damnably attractive. Gods, she was only human! He was handsome, with a powerful physique. He was slow to anger, quick to laugh, and deadly with a sword or his bare hands. He was a natural leader of men. Most importantly of all, he had consistently looked out for her when there was no gain in it for him. He had not argued on the occasion when she had rebuffed him. Moreover, he had not tried it on with her again.
Now I want him to. Shocked by her own daring, Ariadne started forward from her seat. She sat down again, her heart pounding in her breast. Why in hell’s name not? With Dionysus’ blessing, it will expunge the only other memories I have of sex. My father. Phortis. Dread overtook her excitement at once. For anything ever to happen between us, Spartacus has to survive tonight. And if his dream -
‘Stop it!’ Ariadne said out loud. She saw the other women’s heads turn from their fires, and quickly regained control. He will survive, she thought fiercely. But without a sign from the gods to the contrary, it was entirely possible that the snake Spartacus had seen foretold a terrible doom for him.
Ariadne resolved to make her best effort yet to seek guidance from Dionysus. The deity had already shown his goodwill in prompting Spartacus to use the wild vines. Perhaps he could be persuaded to extend some more aid? With new determination, Ariadne went to fetch her two statues of Dionysus. Spartacus, her husband, was fighting for his life on the plain below. The least that she could do was to spend the rest of the night on her knees in search of divine inspiration.
Spartacus delivered no more than four huge blows with his sword before he realised th
e effect of what he and Getas had done. The surviving men within — some of whom were wounded — were yelling and thrashing about, trying to free themselves from the collapsed tent. Even if the whoresons get out, they won’t want to fight. They’re absolutely terrified! ‘We can’t kill them all. There’s no need,’ he whispered to Getas. ‘Tell the others: “Attack and move on. Attack and move on.”’
Moving between the gladiators was already hellishly difficult. The only things visible in the darkness were the outlines of tents, and the shadows in between that were his men. The screaming and shouting that now filled the air added to the confusion. Spartacus gave up all pretence of being quiet. ‘It is I, Spartacus,’ he bellowed. ‘Hack at every tent a dozen times and move on. Speed is of the essence!’
Spartacus turned. ‘Getas?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Remember the Maedi war cry?’
‘Of course!’
‘Make it now! Let’s do it for Seuthes!’ Throwing back his head, Spartacus let a primeval roar rip free of his throat. Getas echoed his cry. Theirs was the same ululating sound that all Thracian warriors used when going to war. Named the ‘titanismos’ by the Greeks, it curdled the blood in the veins of a coward. Three thousand of the whoresons are waking up to it, thought Spartacus grimly. I can think of no better way to die than like this. He cut down at a fresh tent with a blur of blows. One, two, three, four. Each strike hit a target, caused a fresh victim to scream at the top of his lungs. Spartacus sensed rather than saw Getas alongside him, his sword flashing up and down in imitation of his own.
They moved on to the next silhouetted structure. And the next.
It wasn’t until Spartacus had reached his fifth tent that he saw his first legionary. The man stumbled into the night air. Clad only in his undergarment, he was unarmed. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted in Latin.
‘Hades is come, that’s what!’ Spartacus swung his sword across in a scything blow that took the Roman’s head clean off his shoulders. A dark jet of blood spurted into the air from the stump of his neck. The man’s right leg actually took another step forward, and then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the headless corpse toppled to the ground.
