The Gladiator s-1

by Ben Kane

  Eventually, his message seemed to sink home, and the men relaxed a fraction. However, the knot in Carbo’s belly did not go away. For upwards of half an hour he watched the legionaries marching steadily through the defile. Although they were the enemy, it was a magnificent sight, and a tiny part of his heart ached that he had never been able to join the legions. The pricks wouldn’t accept me, he thought savagely. Only Spartacus was able to see something in me. He glanced at the piles of boulders, some of which were larger than ox carts. Those will be their punishment.

  The sound of shouting and metallic clashing rang out, and Carbo’s head went up. He couldn’t discern any words, but it had to be Spartacus’ men who were making such an immense amount of noise. The gods be with them.

  When he looked down again, Carbo saw a break in the Roman column. Deep in the ranks of the next units he also saw the glint of an eagle standard. This was the second of Lentulus’ legions, and it was about to pass directly below his position.

  ‘All right,’ he said in a low tone. Abruptly, he grinned. There was no need for silence now. ‘At the count of three…’ he shouted. ‘Spread the word.’ He waited as his order passed down the lines of men. A

  moment later, the men at the far end lifted their hands in acknowledgement. Carbo licked his lips, and placed his palms against a rock nearly the same size as himself. Then he cried, ‘ONE! TWO! THREEEE!’

  With a great heave, he pushed it over the cliff. Awestruck by the speed it instantly gained, Carbo glanced to either side, watching as his men did the same with scores of other stones, slabs and chunks of rock. Dust sheeted the air as the missiles bounced and pounded off the sheer faces, setting off mini-landslides. The earth shook with a terrible, ravening thunder.

  Carbo didn’t look to see what effect their barrage was having. He didn’t need to. It could only result in utter devastation. Great swathes of legionaries were a heartbeat from being wiped out of existence. Unsurprisingly, his men were peering down with macabre interest. ‘Don’t stop!’ he shouted. ‘More! I want more rocks going over! We have to block the defile completely.’

  ‘Kill them all!’ roared the bowman. ‘Every last pox-ridden whoreson!’

  ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ answered the slaves, renewing their attack with a savage, disquieting glee.

  Carbo closed his eyes briefly. The gods have mercy on the poor bastards down there. Let them die quickly.

  Then he got back to work like everyone else.

  When the rocks started rolling from the cliffs, virtually all sound was blocked out on the flat ground beyond. The slaves’ mouths opened and closed in silent mime, their javelins and swords moved innocently up and down off their shields. What would follow, however, thought Spartacus grimly, would be far from innocent.

  A huge dust cloud rose into the air above the defile. Romans and slaves alike stared in either horror or delight. A fierce glee gripped Spartacus. The almighty din meant that Carbo was doing exactly as he’d been asked. ‘Steady!’ he roared. ‘Let fear tear at the enemy! The dogs know now that they’re on their own.’ He glanced at the mouth of the side valley where Egbeo and Pulcher lay in wait with their troops, but could see nothing. Good. Their discipline is holding.

  The rumbling of the rockfall died down. It was replaced by a terrible, new sound: that of the men who had been mashed or trapped beneath the stones, but not killed. The gorge rang with their screams and wails. Most were begging for death, an end to the agony of crushed limbs, pelvises or broken backs. Spartacus’ soldiers whooped with elation, and clattered their weapons off their shields with renewed vigour.

  Lentulus acted fast. Aware that the noise would soon spread panic among his legionaries, he had the bucinae sound. His soldiers marched forward in good order, and his cavalry cantered off to the right, no doubt charged with wheeling around to fall on the slaves’ rear.

  Although he’d expected this, Spartacus cursed silently. He hoped that the men at the back remembered their orders. They’d been trained to thrust their javelins out together, forming a network of iron points that most horses wouldn’t approach. Of course being shown how to do it and having to do it when being charged by the enemy were two very different things. Placing his trust in the gods, Spartacus ordered his trumpeters to signal the advance.

  ‘Stay in line! Move together!’ His words were repeated all along the front ranks, and the slaves began tramping forward in one great mass. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they yelled.

  They were too far away to see the expression on the men’s faces, but Spartacus fancied that there was already some wavering in the enemy ranks. In contrast to the neat appearance of his own forces, he could see gaps here and there among the legionaries. We can do it! Great Rider, grant me the might of your right arm to smite the whoresons, and smash them into the mud where they belong.

  They closed to within a hundred paces. The air crackled with tension, and it was flavoured with a slick tang of fear. For all the bravado that had gone on in the moments prior, this was the time when men were about to begin dying. The slaves’ faces were taut; their jaws were clenched; they muttered prayers or growled encouragements at one another. Yet their shouting did not die away. If anything, it increased in volume.

  ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

  Spartacus was revelling in it. They want to fight. They want Roman blood, as I do. ‘Front three ranks, ready javelins!’ he cried.

  All around him, thousands of arms went back, and a forest of barbed metal tips pointed upwards at the sun.

  ‘Hold! Hold!’ He counted the paces as they drew nearer to the Romans. Ten. Twenty. Forty. At last Spartacus could see the individual legionaries. Like his men’s, their faces were twisted with emotion. Rather than tension, however, it looked like pure fear. The only exceptions were the legionaries around the silver eagle, who looked grimly prepared. Dimly, he heard the enemy officers shouting encouragement, ordering a volley of javelins. Now! ‘One! Two! Three! LOOSE!’ he shouted in response.

  There was a loud humming noise as his order was obeyed.

  The same command rang out again from the Roman lines.

  In graceful arcs, two separate clouds of pila shot upwards. For several heartbeats, they darkened the sky between the two armies. It was a beautiful but dreadful sight, thought Spartacus. This was when the men’s training would really become evident. ‘Shields up!’ he roared, raising his left arm. ‘Shields up!’

  Clatter, clatter, clatter. A wall of scuta presented itself to the sky.

  With heavy thumping sounds, the Roman javelins landed in a torrent of deadly iron. Inevitably, some found tiny gaps between the slaves’ shields or ran through the layered wood to pierce an arm. Roars of agony and savage curses went up from those who’d been injured, manic laughs and shouts of thanks to the gods from those who hadn’t.

  Spartacus was unhurt. A quick glance over both shoulders told him that their casualties were reasonably light. He studied the Romans, coming to the same conclusion about them. As usual, the javelins’ primary effect had been to lodge in men’s scuta, rendering them unusable. ‘If anyone in the front two ranks needs a shield, get the men behind you to pass theirs forward,’ he shouted. ‘Advance!’

  As they marched on, those without protection hurriedly demanded their comrades’ scuta.

  Another exchange of javelins took place, causing a few score more casualties, and then the two sides were only thirty steps apart. Spartacus raised his whistle to his lips, and saw a centurion opposite do the same. Instead of sounding the charge, however, Spartacus blew an odd series of notes that had his men frowning in surprise. But not the trumpeters. They blew their instruments with all their might, a sharp tan-tara-tara. Twice they repeated it, and as the sound died away, it was replaced by a long shrill from Spartacus’ whistle, which was echoed by those of his officers.

  Their call was met by the indignant shrieking of the Romans’ whistles.

  ‘Shields together,’ roared Spartacus. ‘Forward!’ He beg
an trotting towards the enemy, his gaze roving over the legionaries he’d be most likely to clash with. One was a youth of about nineteen or twenty, whose eyes were already wide with terror. The other was a man in his twenties, hard-faced, jaw clenched, probably a veteran. Instantly, Spartacus aimed for the second soldier. He was the more dangerous; killing him first was imperative.

  An inanimate roar — the sound of thousands of war cries melding as one — ripped through the noise of battle, dragging men’s attention away from the fight. It came from Spartacus’ right, and the Romans’ left. Thank you, Great Rider.

  Egbeo, Pulcher and their men were attacking.

  Understanding the noise’s significance, the slaves cheered at the tops of their voices. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

  ‘Stay close!’ cried Spartacus. ‘Watch out for each other!’ They were the last commands he gave. From now on, no one would be able to hear. The world closed in around him as Spartacus rushed the last few steps to the Roman front rank. All he was aware of was the close proximity of a man on either side, and the wild eyes of the enemy soldiers over the tops of their scuta. His heart pounded in his chest; sweat stung his eyes and he blinked it away.

  Roaring a war cry, he smashed his shield boss into that of the hard-faced legionary. The force of the strike rocked the man back on his heels, and before he could retaliate, Spartacus’ sica went skidding over the top of his scutum to take him through the neck. The iron grated through muscle and cartilage to lodge in the Roman’s spine. Spartacus ripped it free, and the other’s mouth opened in a terrible scream. The sound was cut short by the tide of arterial blood that sprayed from the back of his throat.

  There was a flicker of movement at the corner of Spartacus’ vision. Instinctively, he ducked his head. Instead of taking out his eye, the young legionary’s gladius rammed into the crest on the top of his bronze helmet. It punched Spartacus backwards, momentarily stunning him. The iron blade stuck in the torn metal, and Spartacus’ head was dragged from side to side as the Roman frantically tried to free it. There was no chance of untying the leather chinstrap that held his helmet in place. With a screech of metal, the legionary ripped his gladius half out. His lips peeled back in a snarl of satisfaction. Utter desperation filled Spartacus. His opponent pulled his arm back again, so he shoved forward instead of trying to fight it. The Roman staggered, and his grip on his sword weakened. Spartacus screamed like a lunatic, and the startled young legionary let go.

  Spartacus brought up his sica and thrust it into the other’s left eye socket. There was an audible pop, and aqueous fluid spattered on to the front of his shield. The legionary jerked with agony as the blade sliced through bone and into his brain. He juddered and shook, a dead weight on the weapon’s tip. Spartacus tugged it free, letting the corpse drop to the ground. It was immediately stamped underfoot in the press.

  There was a heartbeat’s pause in the fighting. Quickly, Spartacus undid his chinstrap and let his ruined helmet fall. ‘Come on!’ he roared at the legionaries in the next rank. ‘Hades is waiting for you!’

  ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ boomed the men around him.

  With dragging feet, the Romans shuffled closer. A few rows back, Spartacus spotted an officer using his vine cane to beat men forward. He exulted in the sight. It was an ominous sign so early in a battle. ‘The cocksuckers are scared!’ he shouted. ‘They’re fucking terrified!’

  Then his eyes fixed on a standard some thirty paces off to his left. He levelled his sica at it. ‘Take the eagle!’

  With loud cries, the nearest slaves shoved onward, slamming their scuta into those of the legionaries and driving them back a step. Shield bosses smacked off each other and gladius blades sank deep into flesh. Men got close enough to head butt their enemies or ram a dagger home into their necks. They spat in the Romans’ faces, screamed insults and called down the fury of the gods on their heads. Stunned by the slaves’ sheer fury, the legionaries withdrew another pace.

  In that instant, the world changed.

  There was a noise like a striking thunderbolt, and the Roman lines shook with a massive impact. It was Egbeo and Pulcher, thought Spartacus. ‘NOW! PUSH THEM!’ he roared. Bare-headed, spittle flying from his lips, he threw himself at the nearest Romans. Like a pack of baying hounds, his men followed.

  ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’

  The legionaries could take it no more. Their faces pinched with overwhelming terror. Desperate to flee from the madmen who were bearing down on them, they shoved at each other like trapped animals. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the centre of Lentulus’ line turned about and engaged in a full-scale retreat. Shields and weapons were flung down. The wounded, and those who were simply weaker, were knocked to the ground where they were trampled to death.

  The slaves advanced, slaying all before them, showing mercy to no one.

  The aquilifer, the soldier carrying the legion’s eagle, and the men charged with protecting him, were the only ones to hold their position. A tight little bloc of shields and swords, they roared and cursed at their comrades, calling on them to stand and fight.

  It made no difference. Like a wave ebbing from the shore, the legionaries melted away from the front line.

  Then Spartacus charged forward, bellowing like a rogue bull.

  Too late, the aquilifer realised that his fate was upon him. Too late, he saw that the precious eagle was about to fall into enemy hands. ‘Retreat,’ he cried. But Spartacus and a score of slaves surged in, and they had to fight. The standard-bearer and his comrades went down in a vicious blur of hacks and slashes. The standard fell from his slack fingers, but before it could hit the ground, Spartacus snatched it up. ‘Look, you shitbags,’ he bellowed in Latin.

  Amidst the melee, a few terrified Roman faces turned around.

  ‘The eagle is ours. The gods are on our side!’ Spartacus shook the standard defiantly at them. ‘Cowards!’

  No one answered him, and his men yelled with delight.

  He took a quick look around. The legionaries on the left flank were also in full retreat. Those on the right, who until that point had held their position, were wavering. It wouldn’t be long until they also broke, thought Spartacus with certainty. He had no idea where the Roman cavalry were, but they couldn’t have made much of an impression because the ranks to his rear were still solid. The battle on this side of the defile was as good as won. He had a hunch that with the advantage of all their horsemen, Castus and Gannicus would be achieving the same on the other side.

  Let it be so, Great Rider.

  Ariadne’s worries about Spartacus had consumed her from the moment he’d left. She’d spent hours praying and making offerings to Dionysus, but typically, had seen nothing that remotely reassured her. She knew better than to get angry with the capricious god, so she funnelled her frustration into marshalling the camp’s women and preparing them for the inevitable influx of wounded after the fighting was over. Even that supposition was disquieting. If the slaves lost the battle, there’d be no need for bandages, dressings and poultices but that, like Spartacus’ death, didn’t bear thinking about. And then there was Atheas, who’d been shadowing her every move. Ariadne found it unnerving. Before Spartacus had left, she had asked him what would happen if things went against them. He had touched a finger to her lips, saying, ‘That isn’t going to happen.’ Ariadne had insisted, however, and so he’d told her of how the Scythian and Carbo would escort her to safety.

  She glanced at Atheas. His attempt to reassure her, a smile full of sharp brown teeth, made her feel worse. Yet interacting with the Scythian was preferable to talking with the other women. Every sound that reached them from the direction of the battlefield was either met with tears or wails of dismay. Even when, as now, the noises died away, the lamentations went on. Ariadne peered at the sky. How long had it been since Spartacus had set off with the army? Four hours? Five?

  ‘What do you think has happened?’ she whispered to Atheas. ‘Is it over?’

  He
cocked his head quizzically. ‘Impossible… say. Maybe they… rest… before fight again.’

  The agony of not knowing was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I’m going to the cliffs to see what’s going on.’

  Atheas was on his feet before she’d even finished speaking. ‘That

  … very bad idea.’

  Ariadne gave him a frosty glare. ‘You will stop me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic look.

  She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but felt the need to argue anyway. ‘I’ll do what I want.’

  ‘No.’ Atheas’ tone was firm. ‘Too dangerous. You… stay here.’

  ‘Your women fight, do they not?’

  He grinned, sheepishly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should I not even go to watch the battle then?’

  ‘Because Spartacus… said so.’ Atheas hesitated for an instant. ‘Because of… child.’

  ‘He told you.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the Scythian awkwardly.

  A poignant image of Spartacus giving Atheas his final instructions filled Ariadne’s mind, and her breath caught in her chest. The gods bless him and keep him safe forever. ‘Let us hope that you and Carbo are never called on to fulfil the duty that he asked of you.’

  ‘I also ask… my gods… that.’ There was a gruff, unusual note to his voice.

  Tears pricked at Ariadne’s eyes. In the chaotic months after they’d escaped the ludus, the unswerving devotion that he and Taxacis had showed to Spartacus had gone unacknowledged, by her at least. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d come to take it for granted, and of how dear the grim, tattooed warrior had become to her. ‘Why do you follow him?’