by Ben Kane
‘Gaius?’ called a voice. Another figure stepped out of the tent. This one was carrying a sword. Before Spartacus could react, Getas swept in and plunged his blade deep into the man’s chest. The soldier was dead before Getas had shoved him off the iron back into the tent. Inspiration struck Spartacus and he slashed at the guy ropes. The front of the tent collapsed, trapping those within. Standing over the heaving leather mound, they chopped down again and again. The Romans’ confused shouts soon turned to wails of pain and agony.
‘Enough!’ ordered Spartacus. He spotted Atheas and Taxacis nearby. ‘On! On!’
Like maniacs, they plunged deeper into the Roman camp, slicing into tents and hacking down any legionaries who got in their way. This can’t go on, thought Spartacus eventually. All it needs is for an experienced officer to rally twenty or thirty men together. They’ll make a stand against us, and our attack will stall at once.
It was as if the gods had heard him.
Spartacus heard the characteristic cry, ‘To me! To me!’ Bile pooled at the back of his throat. ‘Where is he?’
‘Over there!’ Getas pointed to their left.
Spartacus made out a knot of figures about twenty paces away in the gloom. Five, six men? In the middle was a gesticulating outline wearing a transverse-crested helmet. ‘It’s a fucking centurion!’ He was off like a hound after a hare.
‘It’s just you and me,’ shouted Getas.
‘So what! If we don’t silence the bastard, it’ll all be over for us!’ Spartacus wasn’t surprised that Getas’ pace did not slacken. If I have to die, I’m glad that he’s the one by my side.
‘Great Rider, protect us with your sword and shield,’ Getas intoned.
They did not know it, but Carbo was charging along behind them. I can’t let Spartacus be killed. Not after all he’s done for me.
The odds against them were long indeed, thought Spartacus. Two more soldiers had joined the centurion. There were seven, or even eight, of them now. Most had shields too. Spartacus pictured his men, the gladiators who’d had the faith to follow him out of the ludus. He imagined Ariadne in the camp high above. If he and Getas failed, his men would be butchered. Their women would suffer a degrading fate. A cold, calculating fury descended upon him. I will succeed here or fall in the attempt. ‘Come on, boys!’ he roared at his invented comrades. ‘Ready to send these Roman scumbags to Hades?’ He whooped and yelled in response to his own cry, and understanding, Getas did the same.
Spartacus imagined that he heard a third voice joining in, but he wasn’t sure. In the madness of that moment, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to hack a great hole in the centurion’s throat and leave him in a bleeding heap. Silence him forever.
They closed in on the group of legionaries. Why the hell aren’t they forming a shield wall? Spartacus wondered. If they did that, we’d be fucked. Blind hope struck him. Maybe they’re panicking? ‘For Thrace!’ he roared. ‘For Thrace!’
He reached the first soldier, who lunged at him with his gladius. Spartacus dodged inside the clumsy thrust, ripped down the man’s scutum with one hand and skewered him through the neck. A horrible, bubbling sound left the other’s lips as his airways filled with blood. Spartacus pulled free his blade and ripped the shield from the dying soldier’s grasp. He let it fall forwards and stooped over it to grab the horizontal grip. Pulling it up to protect his body, he advanced towards the next legionary, who had already missed the chance to cut him down.
‘Kill the bastard!’ shouted the centurion. ‘Just fucking kill him!’
A second soldier joined the first, but Spartacus didn’t hesitate. He could hear Getas shouting a war cry behind him. And a third voice? Spartacus still had no time to consider. He rushed at the pair of legionaries like a mad bull, and they took a step backwards. His spirits rose. Dropping his shoulder behind the scutum, he thumped into the first man, knocking him off balance. Spartacus didn’t bother to finish him off. He simply trampled over the screaming soldier and launched himself at the centurion.
‘Goddamn latrones!’ The centurion lifted his shield high and took a step forwards. ‘Sneaking in on us like the animals that you are!’
Spartacus didn’t bother answering. He banged his scutum off the other’s, but there was to be no easy barge over as he’d done with the legionary. The centurion’s sword came probing over the side of his shield like the tongue of a snake. Spartacus lifted his scutum as hard as he could, smashing the blade up and out of the way. He followed through with a brutal thrust at the other’s face, but the centurion dodged to one side, and the sharp iron gouged a line in the cheekpiece of his helmet instead.
‘You’ll have to do better than that!’ He slashed downwards at Spartacus’ feet.
Spartacus had to move backwards to avoid losing several toes.
‘Scum!’ Snarling with delight, the centurion advanced. His blade skimmed over the top of Spartacus’ shield. Spartacus ducked down so that his face wasn’t sliced into ribbons. Coming up, he braced himself against the charge that would follow.
The centurion slammed into him, but Spartacus stood firm. With their faces two handsbreadths apart, they stared at one another with utter hatred. In unison, they raised their swords. This is it, thought Spartacus. I’ll kill him, but he’ll do the same to me. It was all happening so fast. He had to thrust first, and hope that the centurion’s blow would not land, or at least that it would only injure him.
‘For Thrace!’ Getas came barging in from the side, his weapon lunging wildly.
Spartacus could nothing but watch in horror as the centurion smoothly moved his arm, letting Getas run on to his blade. It sank to the hilt in his belly, a death blow if there ever was one. Getas gasped in pain, and dropped his sword.
Hot tears of grief and rage half blinded Spartacus, but he savagely blinked them away. Before the centurion could react, or pull his gladius from the ruin of Getas’ stomach, Spartacus had reached around to hack deep into his left knee. Keening with agony, the centurion fell to the ground like a bar of lead. Spartacus leaped on him, spittle spraying from his lips. ‘Animal? Who’s the fucking animal?’ He drew his sica across the base of the centurion’s neck, laughing as the severed jugular veins pumped out gouts of dark blood. He didn’t stop there. With a series of powerful chops, Spartacus beheaded the officer. Discarding his shield, he pulled off the transverse crested helmet and lifted the head by its hair. There was still a startled expression on the centurion’s features.
When he straightened, Spartacus saw the demeanour of the three legionaries before him change. Their fear morphed into complete terror, and then panic. ‘Catch this, you miserable bastards!’ he shouted in Latin, and tossed the still bleeding head straight at them. ‘You’re next!’
As one, they turned and ran.
Wild-eyed, Spartacus glanced to either side. The bodies of legionaries lay everywhere. He registered Carbo standing nearby, his sword at the ready. The third voice. Beyond, bright orange-red flames lit up the night sky. The silhouettes of men ran hither and thither, accompanied by screams and the clash of arms. ‘Someone’s fired a tent. Good idea. Better light to kill by,’ he muttered. There was a moan nearby, and Spartacus’ attention came crashing back.
Getas lay several steps away, both hands clutching a fearful wound at the top of his belly. Spartacus dropped to his knees. Even in the poor light, he could see the blood oozing thickly between Getas’ fingers. ‘What kind of fool are you?’ he chided.
‘He was going to kill you.’ Getas coughed weakly, and the flow of blood from his injury became a tide. ‘Better me than you.’
Spartacus’ throat tightened with grief. ‘Oh, my brother,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Yes, I should. You’re the leader. I’m only a warrior.’
‘The finest warrior ever to come out of Thrace.’
The trace of a smile flickered across Getas’ lips. ‘Don’t talk shit.’
‘I’m not,’ protested Spartacus. ‘The Great Rider h
imself will welcome you into paradise.’
‘The Great-’ Getas stopped. His eyes went wide and he took in a rattling breath.
Spartacus gripped him by the shoulder. ‘He’s waiting for you. Go well, my friend.’
Getas’ mouth went slack, allowing the last gasp to go free. His body sagged back, going as limp as a discarded toy.
Accept this brave man into your presence, Great Rider. If ever a warrior was worthy to serve you, it is Getas. Spartacus reached out and slid down Getas’ eyelids. With a heavy heart, he stood. As he registered what was going on, his grief was sublimated into a dark, brooding joy. Everywhere he could see, the legionaries were running. Running! ‘The fuckers have broken!’
‘Yes,’ said Carbo in an awed voice. ‘It happened after you killed that centurion. All the men who saw it turned and fled. They were screaming that there were maniacs and demons on the loose. That there was no hope.’
‘Maniacs and demons, eh?’ Spartacus laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Let’s gather the men and terrify them some more. Hound the bastards completely out of the camp!’
Is he scared of nothing? wondered Carbo as he followed Spartacus.
It seemed not.
It was soon apparent that the gladiators’ success was complete. Routed like an unruly mob charged by disciplined cavalry, the legionaries had fled into the night. They left behind everything: their clothes, weapons, food and supplies. The mules that had carried their heavy equipment from Rome were still tethered in lines by one entrance. To cap it all, the various units’ gilded standards and the very fasces of the lictores were found in a tent beside Glaber’s quarters. The magnificent armour found within proved that Glaber had also left in a hurry. Seeing the Romans’ most precious items abandoned hammered home to Spartacus the enormity of what they’d done. While the victorious gladiators engaged in looting, he stood in Glaber’s luxurious pavilion alone, marvelling. If it doesn’t signal my death, what in the Rider’s name does my dream mean?
‘Spartacus! Where is Spartacus?’
Outside, he found Carbo confronting a black-bearded German. It was the same man who’d refused him an audience with Oenomaus. ‘I’m here. What is it?’
The German pushed past Carbo. ‘You must come.’
The first needles of suspicion pricked Spartacus. ‘Why?’
‘It’s Oenomaus.’ The German’s blood-spattered face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘He’s hurt.’
‘How badly?’
‘He’s dying. He asked for you.’
‘Take me to him.’ Spartacus glanced at Carbo. ‘You come too.’
Without another word, they ran along one of the straight avenues that bisected the camp. The German led them to a group of silent figures standing in a rough circle by the irregular outline of a collapsed tent. The corpses of at least a dozen legionaries littered the area. Cursing, the bearded man pushed through the throng. Spartacus and Carbo followed.
Oenomaus lay on his back within the ring. He was pale-faced, and his eyes were closed. Someone had laid a cloak over him, but the massive red stain in the fabric over his chest told its own grim story. No one can lose that much blood and live, thought Carbo.
Spartacus looked at the black-bearded German, who gestured that he should approach. He knelt and took Oenomaus’ hand. It was cold to the touch. Is he dead already? ‘It is I, Spartacus.’
Oenomaus did not respond.
‘Spartacus is here,’ said the black-bearded man loudly.
Oenomaus’ eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then opened. Dimly, he focused on Spartacus, who leaned in close. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Your plan… worked.’
Spartacus squeezed Oenomaus’ hand. ‘It did, thanks to you and your brave men.’
Oenomaus’ lips gave the tiniest twitch upwards.
Spartacus knew that the German’s life was ebbing out fast. ‘What did you want to say?’
Oenomaus’ mouth opened, but instead of words, a torrent of blood gushed out. It covered Spartacus’ hand, and dripped to the ground as Oenomaus relaxed for the last time. Spartacus looked at his reddened fist before clenching it and lifting it in the air. ‘Oenomaus shed his blood for us! He was a good man and a strong leader. Let us honour his passing!’
A great roar went up from the German gladiators. Carbo joined in, oddly feeling more at ease with these hairy barbarians than he’d ever done with his peers in Capua.
Spartacus felt weary to the marrow of his bones. Getas is gone. Oenomaus, my only ally among the other leaders, is dead. That is a heavy price to pay for victory. A meaty paw was thrust in his face, and Spartacus stared at it, surprised. Then he accepted the grip, letting the black-bearded man haul him upright.
‘My name is Alaric.’
‘You have lost a great man here tonight.’
Alaric nodded. ‘The thread of his weave came to a fine end. I saw him kill at least six Romans before he took the mortal wound.’
Spartacus cut to the chase. ‘Who will lead you now?’
With a frown, Alaric turned to the assembled men and barked out a few sentences in his guttural tongue.
Spartacus clenched his jaw. It’s probably Alaric. Soon none of the other leaders will listen to me.
There was a rumble of agreement from the Germans. Alaric smiled.
Spartacus steeled himself for the inevitable.
‘We all agree. You must lead us.’
Spartacus blinked. ‘Me?’
‘That’s right. We are fighters, not tacticians or generals. None of us would have thought of using the vines, not even Oenomaus. That was pure genius.’
Spartacus looked from face to grim face. He saw the same certainty in each. ‘Very well. I would be honoured to lead you.’ Thank you, Great Rider! Now I have the largest faction. Crixus and the others are more likely to continue following where I lead.
In that moment, the loss of Getas and Oenomaus seemed a fraction less heavy.
The gladiators’ losses were light, all things considered — eight men had died, and a dozen had been injured. Of those, four would never fight again. The dead were buried where they’d fallen. It was as good a place as any, thought Spartacus sombrely, as he stood over Getas’ grave. Lying in Thracian soil would have been better, but that was impossible. Sleep well, my brother.
With his respects paid, he turned his attention to more practical matters. Every last weapon and scrap of food had to be taken from the camp. Crixus and his men had found the stores of wine, and were already making deep inroads into it. Spartacus didn’t even try talking to him. It took all of his powers of persuasion to get Castus and Gannicus to stop their followers joining in. Moving the provisions in the darkness was hard enough without everyone being paralytic. Waiting until sunrise meant risking the return of the legionaries, but Spartacus considered that unlikely. He placed men on watch in any case. After their stunning victory, it would be stupid to have the tables turned upon them.
Those gladiators who weren’t drunk were organised. Using a stock of torches that had been found to illuminate the scene, systematic checks were made of every Roman body. Unsurprisingly, many legionaries were still alive — injured, unconscious or simply playing dead in the hope of escape later. On Spartacus’ orders, every single man was to be executed. Universal whooping broke out at this announcement. ‘It’s better treatment than the bastards would give us,’ he snapped, catching the burst of anguish in Carbo’s eyes. ‘All we would get is a cross. The women too. Have you ever seen someone die on one of those?’
‘Yes. My father took me when I was a boy to witness a local criminal being crucified.’ If he concentrated, Carbo could still hear the man’s piercing screams as his ankles were nailed to the wooden upright. Within a short time, his noises had died away to a bubbling, animal whimper. It only increased in volume when he attempted to take the pressure off his roped arms by standing up on his ruined, pinioned feet. The criminal had lasted until the next afternoon, but his body wasn’t
taken down for weeks. Walking past the stinking, blackened thing, seeing all the stages of decay before it ended up as a grinning skeleton, had almost been worse than seeing the crucifixion, Carbo thought. Almost. ‘It was horrific.’
‘Exactly. It’s far better to have a sword slide between your ribs and end it in the blink of an eye.’
‘I suppose,’ admitted Carbo. He’d slain at least two legionaries that night. He had no desire to kill more of them in cold blood. He surprised himself with his next thought: I would if I had to.
It must be hard for him, reflected Spartacus. But he fought well during the attack. That is sufficient evidence of his loyalty.
Ariadne tried tossing her knucklebones over and over, but she saw nothing of any relevance in the patterns in which they fell. She was relieved, therefore, when her meditation carried her far beyond the levels she’d achieved in recent weeks. Although she was used to long periods when Dionysus would give absolutely no indication of his intentions, it had never been more frustrating. Spartacus’ dream about the snake was of great importance. Was it a good omen or a bad one, however? Like Spartacus, Ariadne burned to know. Her concerns over it ate her up, yet she knew they paled in comparison to the unease Spartacus must feel. He hid it well, but she saw it all the same. As far as she was concerned, matters had reached the stage where it would be better to know — even if the indications were bad. An enemy named was an enemy that could be fought. Unnamed, it was like a disease, eating the flesh from within.
All the same, it was horrifying when an image of Spartacus, with the snake around his neck, flashed into her mind. No wonder he was frightened. Ariadne could feel her own heart beating faster. She waited. The serpent uncoiled and reared up in Spartacus’ face and, terrified, Ariadne prepared for the worst. The characteristic pattern on its skin was the same as that on her own lethally poisonous snake. If Spartacus was bitten, he would die as fast as Phortis had.
