The Gladiator s-1

by Ben Kane

  Fucking Spartacus. He and his men had spent weeks following rumour here and gossip there. To Varinius’ extreme frustration, every single lead had turned out to be a wild-goose chase. Although the name Spartacus was on everyone’s lips, there was no sign of the runaway gladiator in all of Campania. So far, Lucania had been no different. It was worse than trying to find the centre of the maze without a ball of string, Varinius thought sourly. At least they would reach the town of Thurii the following day. There he’d be able to commandeer a house. To lie under warm, dry blankets and a solid tile roof. If he never had to sleep in a tent again, it would be too soon.

  He eyed the scroll on his table with a jaundiced eye. It had reached him by messenger earlier that day. No doubt Marcus Licinius Crassus, the man who’d written it, was at this very moment comfortably tucked up in bed. If the smug bastard could see me now, he’d probably laugh until he cried. Varinius didn’t have a good feeling about receiving a personal letter from one of the men who guided the Republic’s course. If he’d already met with some success, he’d have hurried to open it, but since leaving the capital, his whole damn mission had seemed doomed to failure. Varinius didn’t like to dwell on this, but he made himself, because Crassus would have heard of his woes by now. His vague, misleading reports thus far would not have pulled the wool over the eyes of an imbecile, let alone the richest and one of the shrewdest politicians in Rome. Worryingly, his misfortune couldn’t all be put down to bad luck on his and his officers’ part. In retrospect, reflected Varinius, it had been a bad idea to split his forces.

  After their startling successes against first Lucius Furius and then Lucius Cossinius, Spartacus’ men had had the effrontery to raid two of Varinius’ encampments, inflicting numerous more casualties, and stamping his soldiers’ weakened morale into the glutinous Campanian mud. Disease had thinned his troops’ ranks further. It was a miracle that more hadn’t deserted, thought Varinius morosely. When word had come that the slaves had withdrawn from Glaber’s former camp, there had been no question of leading an assault on it, or of pursuing Spartacus into the hinterland. It might have looked cowardly, but withdrawing to Cumae to regroup, and to bolster his force with new recruits, had been the only sensible option. Anything else, and he’d have had a mutiny on his hands.

  Of course that’s not how Crassus or the Senate would see it. Roman commanders did not withdraw beyond the enemy’s reach. Particularly when the enemy was nothing more than a rabble of escaped gladiators and slaves.

  With a muttered oath, Varinius snatched up the letter. Cracking the wax seal with a thumbnail, he unrolled the parchment.

  ‘To Publius Varinius, praetor of the Republic of Rome: Greetings. I trust that this letter reaches you hale and hearty, and that the gods continue to show you favour?’ Varinius scowled. The sarcasm starts already, he thought. His eyes flickered across the neatly written words: the mark of a professional scribe. ‘It has been some four months since you and your fellow officers set out from Rome on the glorious mission to which you were appointed by the Senate.’ That’s right, rub it in.

  The news that has reached me here in the capital has been troubling, to say the least. It was surprising enough to hear of the calamitous ambush on Lucius Furius, but the tragic death of Lucius Cossinius and so many of his men was truly shocking. I believe that the slaves also achieved further success with attacks on your camps. Aside from the troubles during the civil war, the likes of these outrages have not been seen in Italy for generations. They cannot be allowed to continue. While I am personally in no doubt that your withdrawal to Cumae was made for the best of reasons, others in Rome do not look upon your actions in such a benign light. Such caution will not bring about the destruction of those who have dared to defy the Republic so flagrantly. It must not happen again. It pains me to do so, but I feel that I must remind you of the fate of Caius Claudius Glaber, your predecessor. I have every faith, however, that your future is a brighter one than his.

  The idea of having to fall on his sword made Varinius break out in a cold sweat. He forced himself to continue reading.

  May your resolve remain strong. I ask that Diana the huntress guide your path as you hunt down Spartacus. Let Mars keep his shield over you and your men! Success will soon be yours, and peace will return once more to Campania. I look forward to greeting you upon your victorious return to Rome. With brotherly concern, I remain your fellow praetor, Marcus Licinius Crassus

  So there it was, as if he hadn’t known it already. Varinius’ shoulders bowed under the pressure. Succeed, die in the attempt, or be ordered to commit suicide by the Senate. That’s what Crassus’ honeyed words told him. What have I done to deserve this fate? How has a straightforward task become so treacherous? Crumpling the parchment, he tossed it into the brazier, watching with some satisfaction as it blackened and then began to burn.

  Its message was engraved in his mind, though.

  A discreet cough distracted him from his misery. ‘Sir?’

  Varinius turned. ‘Ah, Galba!’ He made a show of being pleased to see his most senior centurion, a balding veteran with bandy legs and a mean aspect. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Some good news, sir.’

  He had Varinius’ attention now. ‘Really? Well, come in, come in. It’s blowing a gale out there.’

  Galba entered, letting the tent flap fall behind him. ‘I sent a rider ahead to Thurii this morning as you asked, sir. He’s just returned.’

  Disappointed, Varinius frowned. He’d known that there would be a warm welcome for him and his men in the town. What use was there in reminding him now, when he was cold and miserable? ‘Is that all you’ve come to tell me?’

  ‘You don’t understand, sir. He didn’t manage to enter the town. It’s under siege, from Spartacus’ men.’

  Varinius could hardly believe his ears. ‘Vulcan’s balls, really?’

  ‘So he says, sir. He’s a good lad too, served more than five years in the army.’

  ‘Is Thurii still ours?’

  ‘Apparently, sir. There are plenty of defenders on the walls.’

  ‘Ha! A band of sewer rats could never take a town. What are the fools thinking?’ cried Varinius, his confidence soaring. ‘How many of them were there?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir. He couldn’t exactly hang about. Upwards of a legion, he said. Six, seven thousand, maybe more.’

  ‘Spartacus has been busy then,’ mused Varinius, his eyes narrowing. ‘But they’re only slaves, eh?’

  ‘They’ll be no match for our lads, sir,’ said Galba stolidly.

  ‘Any catapults or siege engines?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Varinius dismissively. ‘What’s the lie of the land around Thurii?’

  ‘It’s mostly flat, sir. As you know, the sea is some miles to the east of the town. A large area of woods lies to the north, which is probably where Spartacus attacked from. The main road approaches from the west, through heavily cultivated farmland, more of which lies to the south.’

  ‘So they can only retreat the way they came?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Varinius punched his right hand into his left. ‘If we leave at dawn, we should arrive there when?’

  ‘The messenger says it’s about fifteen miles, sir.’

  ‘Early afternoon then. Plenty of time for a battle. I will lead the troops in a frontal assault to relieve the town, and our cavalry can cut off their escape route. We’ll slaughter the whoresons.’

  ‘They won’t know what’s hit them, sir,’ agreed Galba, leering.

  ‘The trumpets are to sound an hour before dawn. I want every man ready to leave by the time the sun hits the horizon. Weapons and one day’s food only,’ said Varinius crisply.

  ‘The catapults and ballistae, sir?’

  ‘We won’t need them.’

  ‘And the baggage train, sir?’

  ‘Leave it one cohort as protection. It’s to follow on behind us. One other thing, Galba.
Spread the word about how easy it’s going to be tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Grinning, Galba saluted and turned on his heel.

  Varinius’ spirits hadn’t been so high for many weeks. He reached for the jug and poured himself a large cupful. The wine tasted far better than it had done just a short time before. That prick Crassus will have his doubts quashed in royal style. He’ll fall over himself to be my friend. Varinius began imagining exactly how he would phrase the letter informing the Senate of his victory. ‘“Spartacus is dead”?’ he mused. ‘That would be a good start.’

  Varinius slept like a baby. His day also began well. Even as the horizon tinged rosy-pink, his soothsayer, a buck-toothed ancient from Latium, had slit a chicken’s throat and read its entrails. To Varinius’ delight, the omens had been pronounced extremely auspicious. The day would end with a resounding victory for Rome. The slaves would be driven from the field, with huge losses. Spartacus himself would be captured or killed, and the citizens of Thurii would shower Varinius and his men with rewards. Most importantly, his continuing journey along the cursus honorum would be secured.

  To the eager Varinius, the fifteen miles to Thurii seemed no more than five. Pleasingly, the mood among his men was also good. Over the previous months of misery, he had grown used to their sullen expressions and mouthed curses whenever they saw him. Desertions had soared; so too had the numbers of malingerers. Now, for the first time in an age, Varinius heard his legionaries singing instead of complaining. It couldn’t just be because their heavy yokes had been left behind, he thought. They were marching with real enthusiasm. They looked like men who actually wanted to fight. Varinius made a mental note to thank Galba. This was but the latest example. The veteran officer had proved himself indispensable since the campaign had started.

  Varinius was so eager to reach Thurii that he had dispensed with usual protocol and was riding before the front ranks of his troops rather than in the commanders’ normal position, some distance to the rear. Only his cavalry, four hundred experienced German auxiliaries, were in front of him and his senior officers. The Germans had been patrolling ahead since the column had set out, reconnoitring the terrain and reporting back to Varinius at regular intervals. Pleasingly, there had been no sign of any enemy scouts whatsoever. The ignorant fools. They won’t even know that we’re coming.

  The fertile farmland bordering Thurii to the west resembled any other in the south of Italy. Large fields bounded by trees and hedges had been set aside to cultivate either wheat or vines. The crops of both had long since been harvested, and now the wheat fields stood ploughed and empty. Gaggles of rooks cawed angrily as they were disturbed from the trees’ bare branches by the marching soldiers. On either side of the road stood countless lines of leafless vines, sadly shrunken from their autumn glory. Varinius, a keen oenophile, had sampled enough of the local vintages to consider buying a farm in the area. The eye-watering prices had put him off until now. That won’t be an issue after today, he thought triumphantly.

  A dozen Germans appeared on the road, and Varinius’ stomach twisted. He pretended to ignore the approaching riders, chatting idly to Toranius, one of his quaestors. Soon, however, the thunder of galloping hooves could no longer be denied.

  ‘Ah. Some news, perhaps,’ said Varinius casually.

  Spotting his scarlet cloak and horsehair-crested helmet, the Germans clattered to a halt in front of him. The lead rider made a perfunctory salute. ‘Praetor,’ he grated in heavily accented Latin. ‘We have sighted the slave army.’

  ‘They’re not a bloody army!’ cried Varinius. ‘A rabble, more like.’

  The German inclined his head in recognition. ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Arrayed around the town walls. I could see no troops facing to their rear at all, sir.’

  ‘Were you seen?’

  ‘There were a few sentries, sir, but we rode them down.’ The German ran a finger across his throat. ‘As far as I can tell, the rest are oblivious to our presence.’

  Varinius could taste his success already. It was sweeter than he could ever have imagined. There would be no more slogging through the mud, enduring the bitter weather. Just a short, sharp battle, with a foregone conclusion. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘You know what to do.’

  ‘We circle around to the north, and wait near the tree line for the slaves to begin retreating. Then we fall on them like the hammers of hell,’ replied the German.

  ‘Give no quarter. None! I want your men to kill until their right arms can no longer hold a sword,’ instructed Varinius.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The German grinned eagerly. Repeating Varinius’ words in his own tongue, he wheeled his horse back towards Thurii. His men followed.

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Toranius.

  ‘I want a triplex acies formation the moment that the town walls come into sight.’ Varinius could see no reason not to use the method of attack that had been tried and tested by generations of Roman generals. ‘We’ll advance on the dogs at walking pace, and charge them from a hundred paces.’

  ‘Will they fight, sir?’

  ‘I doubt it very much! On flat ground, no one can master the Roman legionary. Especially not a band of fucking slaves.’ Varinius smiled happily. ‘Mark my words, Toranius. They will run the instant that they clap eyes on us. We probably won’t even get close enough for a volley of pila.’

  Half an hour later, Varinius’ blood was well and truly up. He’d finally withdrawn behind his men — after all, there was no need to be stupid — but from the back of his horse, he had an excellent and central view of the battlefield. Toranius and the four tribunes stayed close by, ready to relay his orders during the fighting. Running off to Varinius’ left and right were the neat ranks of his twelve, full-strength cohorts. Five were arrayed in the front line, four in the second and three in the rear. Short gaps separated the three manoeuvring lines. Trumpets blared as the men assumed their final position. Pride filled Varinius. Gods, but they look good. The centurions were blowing their whistles and bellowing orders from the front rank of each cohort; near every officer, the unit’s gilded standard was being held aloft for everyone to see. The optiones stood behind the last rows of soldiers, their vine staffs at the ready. Their job was to beat any man who tried to back away, or retreat. That won’t happen today.

  Content that his forces were ready, Varinius looked towards Thurii, which lay perhaps half a mile away. The messenger had been correct in his estimation. The black stain around the walls told him that the slaves had surrounded the entire town. Just to do that meant that they outnumbered his legionaries by a considerable margin. What of it? he thought scornfully. There was no visible order to the seething mass of men before him. Far from it. Instead of battle cries, the sound of frightened shouts wafted through the air from Thurii. Excellent. ‘They’ve seen us. Sound the advance!’ Varinius shouted.

  The musician beside him raised his instrument to his lips and blew a short series of notes. This was taken up at once by the other trumpeters. Then, with measured tread, the lines of legionaries began to march forwards. Tramp, tramp, tramp.

  With his excitement growing, Varinius walked his horse some twenty steps to the rear.

  ‘Hold the line, men,’ bellowed a centurion. ‘Have your first pilum ready!’

  ‘Steady,’ ordered Galba. ‘We want to hit the bastards all at the same time.’

  ‘Revenge for Lucius Furius and his lads!’ roared a voice.

  ‘And for Lucius Cossinius,’ added another.

  ‘REVENGE!’

  The cry began echoing up and down the line, drowning out the slaves’ noises of distress.

  ‘SI–LENCE!’ screamed Galba, clattering the flat of his blade on the helmets of the men around him. ‘We close in on the fuckers in silence!’

  It took some time, but the centurions and junior officers regained control eventually. An odd quiet fell over the legionaries. Varinius had not fought many battles, but he rec
ognised the atmosphere well. The air was laced with the smell of leather and men’s sweat. The dominant sound once more was the heavy tread of his soldiers’ studded caligae on the muddy ground. Interspersed with this was the clash of pila shafts off the sides of shields and the metallic jingle of mail. Everywhere, men were hawking and spitting. They muttered prayers to their favourite gods and surreptitiously rubbed at the amulets hanging from their necks. Varinius felt his own stomach tighten with anxiety. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Think of the effect this will have. It’s absolutely terrifying to have an enemy advance in complete silence. That’s why we do it.

  The distance between them and the slaves closed to perhaps 250 paces. Varinius’ anticipation grew. They were still well beyond javelin range, but close enough to mean that battle was likely. Sensing the slaves’ fear, his men were growing keener by the moment. But the seasoned centurions stayed calm, ensuring that no one broke ranks.

  At two hundred paces, the legionaries were ordered to begin smacking their pila rhythmically off the metal rims on the tops of their scuta.

  Clack. Clack. Clack.

  It was an unnerving sound. A sound designed to send fear darting into men’s hearts. To promise the kiss of death from javelin tip or gladius blade. To ensure a trip to the River Styx, there to meet the ferryman.

  Few enemies could take the terror of its approach.

  A wall of incoherent shouts rose up from Spartacus’ men, and then, before Varinius’ very eyes, the main body of slaves broke in two. Half began running to the south, and the rest broke and fled for the trees to the north.

  Varinius stifled a cheer. ‘Two cohorts wheel to the left, three to the right!’ He waited while the trumpeter sounded his commands, before directing the four cohorts in the second line to split equally and follow their comrades, and the final line of three to halt and hold the centre. ‘Toranius, I want you to lead the chase to the south. It’s open farmland, so the sheep-fuckers will have nowhere to go but face down in the mud. Chase them hard. Kill them all if you can!’