“Is it their soft life you want, Crix?” he said.
“And why not?” Crixus demanded. “We have turned over their hive, now the honey should be ours for the taking. You remember the civil war and so do I. Whoever has Rome has their balls. If we could take the city, the rest of them would fall over. Sulla knew that!”
“He was a Roman general, not a slave.”
“That doesn't matter! Once you're in, you can change the rules to suit you. There are no rules except what you choose when you have the strength. I tell you, if you miss this chance, you will throw away everything we've done. In ten years, the scribes will say the garrison at Mutina were the rebels and we were loyal Romans!
“If we take the city, we'll be able to shove their history and their pride down their throats and make them accept the new order. Just give the word, Spartacus. I'll see it done.”
“And the palaces and great estate houses?” Spartacus probed, his eyes narrowing.
“Ours! Why not? What is there in Gaul but scrubland and villages?”
“You'll need slaves to run them, Crixus, have you thought of that? Who will take in your crops and tend your vines?”
Crixus waved his scarred fist at the man he loved above all others. “I know what you're thinking, but we won't do it like those cursed bastards. It doesn't have to be like that.”
Spartacus watched him in silence and he went on angrily. “All right, if you want an answer, then I'll have the Senate work my fields and I'll even pay the bastards a wage.”
Spartacus laughed. “Who's dreaming now, Crix? Look, we've come this far. We've reached a place where we can leave all that behind, make a new start to our lives. No, go back to our lives as they should have been. They may come for us in the end, but as I said, Gaul is big enough to hide more than one army. We'll keep going north until we find a place where Rome is just a word, or not even known at all. If we turn south again, even without the women and children, we risk losing everything we've won. And for what? So you can sit in a marble house and spit at old men?”
“You'd let them chase you out of their land?” Crixus asked bitterly.
Spartacus gripped his arm with one of his powerful hands. “You'd wait for them to kill you?” he said gently. The anger went out of Crixus at his words.
“You don't understand, you Thracian whoreson,” he said with a tight smile. “This is my land too, now. Here I am your general, the slave hammer who broke a legion on its own ground and two more at Mutina. In Gaul I'm just another tribesman in badly tanned furs. You would be as well. We'd be mad to turn away from all that wealth and power just to spend our remaining years hoping they never find us. Look, we have Antonidus now. He knows where they're weak. If I didn't think we could win, I would turn my arse to them and vanish before I ever saw another legionary, but we can win. Antonidus says they're tied up on every one of their borders, in Greece, Africa, everywhere. There aren't enough legions in the country to take us. Gods, the north is open, you've seen that. Antonidus says we can put three men in the field for every legionary. You won't find better odds than that, not in this life. Whatever they have, we can beat, and after them, Rome, the cities, the country, the wealth—it's all ours. Everything.”
He put out his hand and whispered the words that had marked each stage of their rebellion, from the first wild days to the dawning belief that they could break the order that had existed for centuries. “All or nothing, Spartacus?” he said.
The gladiator looked at the hand and the bond of sworn friendship it represented. His gaze strayed to the Mutina eagle where it leaned against the wall of his tent. After a moment of silent contemplation, he let out his breath.
“All right, all or nothing. Get the women and children clear away and then I want to see Antonidus before putting it to the men. Do you think they will follow us?”
“No, Spartacus, but they will follow you anywhere.”
Spartacus nodded. “Then we will turn south and strike at the heart of them.”
“And rip the bastard out.”
* * *
Pompey had ordered Lepidus to the head of the column with his legion, forcing them to set the pace. Behind them, Primigenia marched with Crassus and Pompey at the head. The message was clear and the first hundred miles had been covered at the speed Pompey wanted without losing a man to injury.
The evenings were quieter times in the two great camps than they had been on the Via Flaminia. The pace sapped the energy of the legionaries, and by the time the halt was called, they were ready to eat and sleep and little more. Even Brutus had ceased his sword bouts, claiming a draw with two losses and two wins against Domitius by the end. At intervals, Cabera would bring up the money they had lost with some bitterness.
Riders from the extraordinarii reported back each day, scouting far ahead of the main force. The messages they brought were worryingly brief, with no sign of the slave army within their range. Pompey sent out more and more of the scouts with orders to move north and west to find them. It wasn't said aloud, but the worry was that in such vast country the rebels could slip past them and move against the unprotected south.
Each night, the generals' meeting was fraught with argument and snapping tempers. Rather than take it as proof of Pompey's displeasure with him, Lepidus seemed to delight in leading the column, and Pompey grew less and less willing to hear his complaints. By Lepidus's account, only his authority could force the pace Pompey wanted from the legions, and each night he claimed the final price could be disastrous for them. He was a master at knowing when to stop pushing at Pompey's patience, and the meetings had become almost a battle of wills between the two men, with Crassus powerless to intervene. Julius hoped Lepidus could fight as well as he could argue.
After two weeks on the western road, Lepidus reported triumphantly that men had fallen and been left at the guard posts or in villages with orders to rejoin when they had healed. Every night was an agony of blisters and sprains for hundreds of the legionaries all the way down the column. The legions were approaching exhaustion and the other legates had begun to side with Lepidus in their call to rest the men. Pompey acceded reluctantly rather than see his authority undermined, standing them down for four days. Only the extraordinarii were denied rest as Pompey sent them all out in a last bid to find the slave army.
At last the riders came galloping back into camp with sightings. The rebels were moving south and east back from the mountains to the plains. Pompey gathered his generals that evening to give them the grim news.
“They are striking back toward Rome and the scouts say they have more than eighty thousand men on the march. Every slave in the north has gone over to them.”
There was little point in holding back the worrying figures from the generals, with the rebels only a few hundred miles away. Now that the scouts had found them, they would not be allowed to escape. Regardless of numbers, it only remained to choose the best place of attack.
“If they're coming south, we can either march to meet them or wait for them to reach us,” Pompey continued. “No matter what happens, they cannot pass or we'll lose Rome. Make no mistake, gentlemen, if they break through our line, Rome will fall and all we love will die, like Carthage before us. We will make a stand here to the last man if need be. Make that clear to your men. There is nowhere to retreat to, no safe haven where we can regroup and strike again. The Republic stands with us alone.”
Lepidus looked as shocked as the others. “Eighty thousand! I have as much confidence as anyone in our soldiers, but . . . the legions in Greece and Spain must be recalled. The Senate didn't know the size of the threat when they sent us out.”
For once, Pompey bore his outburst without a rebuke. “I have sent messages back to Rome, but we are here now. Even if the borders could be stripped without losing everything we've gained in a hundred years, those legions couldn't reach us in time to make a difference to this battle.”
“But we could mount a fighting retreat until support arrives. Eighty thousand could
overwhelm us. We'd be flanked and broken in the first hour of fighting. It's impossible!”
“Speak like that in front of the men and that's exactly what will happen,” Pompey barked at the general. “These are not trained soldiers we're facing, Lepidus. They could have escaped across the mountains in all likelihood, but instead they are after riches and plunder, while our men fight for our home city and the lives of everyone in it. They will break for us. We will stand.”
“The commander at Mutina probably said the same thing,” Lepidus muttered, not quite loudly enough for Pompey to be forced to answer, though he glared at the legate.
“My orders are to engage and destroy, gentlemen. We will do exactly that. If we wait for them, they could go right round us, so we will carry this war to them. Make the men ready to march north. Lepidus, you will take the left flank and keep a wide line to prevent encirclement. They have little in the way of cavalry except a few stolen mounts, so use ours to hold the wings steady. Julius, I want you on the left to support Lepidus if that becomes necessary. Crassus and I will take the right flank as always and I will concentrate the bulk of the cavalry there to prevent them spilling round us and making south and east toward Ariminum. They must not be allowed to reach that city.”
One of the two legates from Ariminum cleared his throat.
“I would like to take the right flank with you, sir. Many of my men have families in Ariminum. I do myself. They will fight all the harder knowing what could happen if the right breaks.”
Pompey nodded. “All right. The Ariminum legions will be the core of the right flank. The rest of you make the center. I want the hastati maniples on the front line instead of the velites. We need weight more than speed to break them on the first charge. Bring the triarii up quickly if the advance is slowed or turned. I've yet to meet a force that can withstand our veterans.”
It was dawn before the meeting ended, and the day was spent breaking the camp ready for the march. Julius stayed with Primigenia, passing on the orders and positions to Brutus and the centurions. By that evening, every man knew the seriousness of the battle to come, and many of the injuries they had taken on the march were forgotten or ignored in the thoughts of the conflict they welcomed. Even with the rumors of huge numbers of the enemy, every soldier was determined they would not leave Rome and their families open to the invader. Better than anyone, they knew that their discipline and skill were unmatched, no matter who came against them, or how many.
* * *
The army of Spartacus was sighted at sunset. The order signals went out to create a hostile camp, with the borders twice the normal height and every soldier sleeping on short watches ready to repel a night attack. The soldiers spent the time awake checking their armor and swords, oiling leather and polishing metal. Spears were sharpened or replaced with fresh-cast heads from the smithy. Heavy ballistae and onagers were assembled and stone shot made ready for the dawn, their bulk leaving ruts in the soil. The slave army had nothing like the great war machines, and though they had but one range, the “mule's kick” onager could cut swaths through an enemy charge.
Brutus woke Julius from a light sleep by shaking his shoulder.
“Is it my watch?” Julius said sleepily, sitting up in the dark tent.
“Shhh. Come outside. I want to show you something.”
Vaguely irritated, Julius followed Brutus through the camp, stopping twice to give the watchword of the day to alert sentries. Within striking range of the enemy, the camp was far from quiet. Many of the men who couldn't sleep sat outside their tents or around small fires taking quietly. Tension and fear tightened their bladders through the night, and Julius and Brutus saw the urine trench was sodden and stinking already as they passed it.
Julius realized Brutus was making straight for the praetorian gate in the north wall of the camp.
“What are you doing?” he hissed to his friend.
“I need you to get us out of the camp. They'll let a tribune through if you order it.” He whispered his idea and Julius squinted at his friend in the darkness, wondering at the wild energy that seemed such a part of him. He considered refusing and going back to his tent, but the night air had cleared his head and he doubted he would be able to sleep again. He didn't feel tired. Instead, his muscles trembled with nervous energy, and waiting idle would be worse than anything.
The gate was guarded by a century of extraordinarii, still dusty from their scouting rides. The commander trotted his horse over to them as they approached.
“Yes?” he said bluntly.
“I want to leave the camp for a couple of hours,” Julius replied.
“Orders are no one leaves camp.”
“I am the legate of Primigenia, a tribune of Rome, and the nephew of Marius. Let us pass.”
The centurion wavered in the face of the order. “I should report it, sir. If you leave, you are disobeying Pompey's direct order.”
Julius glanced at Brutus, silently cursing him for putting him into this position.
“I will clear it with the general when I return. Report as you see fit.”
“He will want to know what you are doing, sir,” the centurion continued, wincing slightly. Julius could admire his loyalty, though he dreaded what Pompey would say if the man carried out his threat to report.
“There is a spike of rock that overlooks the battleground,” he said quietly. “Brutus believes it would give us a view of the enemy force.”
“I know it, sir, but the scouts say it's too steep to be climbed. It's practically sheer,” the man replied, rubbing his chin in thought.
“It's worth a try at least,” Brutus said quickly.
The centurion looked at him for the first time, his expression brooding. “I can delay reporting it until the watch changes in three hours. If you're not back by then, I'll have to name you as deserters. I'll give that much for a nephew of Marius, but that's it.”
“Good man. It won't come to that. What's your name?” Julius asked him.
“Taranus, sir.”
Julius patted the horse on his quivering neck.
“Julius Caesar, and this is Marcus Brutus. There are your names. We'll be back before the new watch, Taranus. On my word, we will.”
The guards moved aside to let them pass on Taranus's order, and Julius found himself on the rocky plain, with the enemy somewhere ahead of them. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he rounded on Brutus.
“I can't believe I let you persuade me into this. If Pompey hears about it, he'll take the skin of our backs at least.”
Brutus shrugged, unconcerned. “He won't if we can climb that rock. His scouts are horsemen, remember. They think anywhere they can't take a horse can't be climbed. I had a look at it before the light faded and the top will give us a good view. There's enough moonlight to see the enemy camp, and that will be useful, no matter what Pompey says about us leaving camp.”
“You'd better be right,” Julius said grimly. “Come on, three hours isn't long.”
The two young men broke into a run toward the black mass they saw silhouetted against the stars. It was a forbidding crag, a tooth in the plain.
* * *
“It's bigger close up,” Brutus whispered, removing his sandals and sword for the climb. Though it would hurt their feet, the iron-shod sandals would slip and clatter on the stones and could alert the enemy. There was no way of telling how close they were to the patrols, but they had to be near.
Julius glanced at the moon and tried to estimate how long they had before it sank.
Unhappy with the calculation, he removed his sword and sandals and took a deep, slow breath. Without speaking, he reached for the first handhold, jamming his hand into a crack and heaving, his bare feet searching for grip.
Even with the moonlight to help them, it was a difficult and frightening climb. All the way up, Julius was tormented by the possibility that some slave archer would see them and spit them with shafts that would send them down to break on the rocky plain below. The s
pire of rock seemed to get taller as they climbed, and Julius was sure it was more than a hundred feet high, even two. After a time, his feet became numb blocks, barely able to hold him. His fingers were cramped and painful and he began to worry that they would never make it back to camp before being reported.
By his best guess, it took almost an hour to reach the barren crest of the rock, and for the first few moments, he and Brutus could do nothing more than lie panting, stretched flat as they waited for their tortured muscles to recover.
The top was an uneven space, lit almost white in the moonlight. Julius raised his head and then pulled himself into a sudden crouch, horror flooding through him.
There was someone else there, only feet away from them. Two figures sat watching as Julius's hands scrabbled for where his sword usually hung, almost cursing aloud as he remembered leaving it below.
“Looks like you two had the same idea we had,” a deep voice chuckled.
Brutus swore and rose fully, caught in sudden fear as Julius had been. The voice spoke in Latin, but any thoughts that it might have belonged to one of their own were quickly dispelled.
“You won't have managed that climb with swords, lads, but I brought a dagger along and when you're this high and barefoot, it's a good idea to keep peaceful. Move slowly over here and don't make me nervous.”
Brutus and Julius looked at each other. There was no way to retreat. The two figures rose and faced them, seeming to fill the tiny space. They too were barefoot and wore only tunics and leggings. One of them waved his dagger at them.
“I guess this makes me king for the night, lads. I see by your clothes that you're Romans. Come to see the view, eh?”
“Let's kill them,” his companion said.
Brutus looked him over with a sinking feeling. The man was as powerfully built as a wrestler and the moonlight revealed an expression without mercy. The best he could hope for was to carry the man over the edge with him, which wasn't a thought that gave him any comfort. He edged away from the drop at his back.
The other man placed a hand on his friend's chest, holding him still.
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