Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

“The breach is closed, sir. Caesar commands the left. General Lepidus is dead,” he said through heavy breaths.

“Good,” Pompey replied shortly. “That saves me the task of killing the fool after the battle. Get over to Martius and tell him to bring a thousand to support Caesar there. Leave him in command. I'd say he's earned it.”

The horseman saluted and galloped through the guards, his weariness showing in the loose way he sat his mount. Pompey signaled another of the extraordinarii to approach and stand ready for the next order. He scanned the battle, trying to judge the progress.

He knew the Romans should have routed the slaves. Thousands had fallen, but they seemed possessed and the legions were becoming exhausted. No matter how they rotated their front lines with the maniple orders, there was no lack of fresh enemies to sap their strength and will. He had left standing instructions with his archers to send shafts at anyone they could see in gladiatorial armor, but hitting individual targets was almost impossible.

Crassus looked over the right flank, where the cavalry of two legions was struggling to hold the ground they had gained in the first charge. Horses were screaming in pain and already men were spilling around them.

“Pompey, the right!” he snapped at his colleague.

Pompey took in the risk and sent the messenger away to bring in reinforcements. It was dangerous to take too many men from the center. If a breach came there, the army would be cut in half and that would be the finish. Pompey found a sense of desperation growing in him. There was no end to these slaves. For all the Roman skill and discipline, he could not see how to bring them victory. His men killed until they became exhausted and then were cut down in their turn, over and over.

Pompey signaled to the cornicens for another maniple order. He had lost count of the number of times he had sent the call and could imagine what his men were feeling as they were rotated back to the front before they had fully recovered from the last time. He had to keep the intervals short to spare them, but that meant less time to regain their strength.

Pompey and Crassus turned as a warning shout came from the right. The slaves had cut through the last of the cavalry and were surging forward, creating panic in the Roman lines as they threatened to envelop the flank or even hit them from behind. Pompey swore and summoned another rider.

“Right to retreat in battle order. Left to come forward. We have to turn the whole field before they get round us. The cornicens to sound ‘Right Wheel.' Go.”

The man galloped away and the two generals abandoned dignity to kneel on their saddles for a better view of the developing action. Pompey's hands were cramped and white on the reins as he knew the whole battle rested on the decision. If the retreat turned into a panic, the slave army would spill around and encircle the Romans. His mouth was dried by the cold air as he breathed in hissing gasps.

The orders took a long time to reach up and down the line. Shouts echoed nearby and the right began to give way in order, shifting the line to a red diagonal across the plain. Pompey clenched his fists as he saw the left push forward to compact the slaves.

The whole battle began to turn and Pompey was frantic with worry. It was the only way to save the overwhelmed right flank, but as the thousands wheeled, the slaves were free to peel off and head for Ariminum if their commanders saw the chance.

Spartacus stood on the saddle of his horse and swore softly as he saw the legions were holding. For a moment, he thought Antonidus was right and the wing would be overwhelmed, but somehow they had swung round, eight legions moving as one, to turn the battle toward the east. He whistled softly in admiration, even as he saw their dreams come to dust on the field. The legions were everything he'd known they could be, and for a moment, he remembered his own days as a soldier with them. It had been a grand brotherhood before it had soured for him. A drunken brawl and an officer dead and nothing had been right since. He'd run because he knew they'd put him up before the man's friends and sentence him to death. There was no justice for a man like him, little more than a child when he'd been recruited in Thrace. Not a true Roman, to them, and little better than an animal. Those were different and bitter memories: capture and slavery, then the gladiatorial school, where they were treated like violent dogs to be chained and beaten into ferocity.

“ Morituri te salutamus . We who are about to die salute you,” he whispered to himself as he watched his people die. He looked at the sun and saw it had risen past noon, cold and pale on the end of winter. The days had barely begun to lengthen and it would only be a few more hours until dark.

He watched the battle for a long time, hoping to see the legions break, but they stood strong against the multitude and he despaired. Finally, he nodded to himself. When the Romans pulled back to their camps for the night, he would make for Ariminum. His men hadn't eaten in four days and the Roman city was filled with food to make them strong again.

“We're going to have to run, Crix,” he murmured.

His friend stood with Antonidus, holding the reins in his hand.

“They could still break before dark,” Crixus replied bitterly.

Antonidus growled and spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground in anger. He had promised them a victory and he felt his influence slipping away with the toll of their dead.

Spartacus shook his head. “No. If we haven't beaten them by now, they'll not run from us. They'll move back into those forts of theirs and eat heartily before coming out to finish the work tomorrow. We won't be here when they do.”

“ Why won't they break, though?” Crixus demanded angrily to the air.

“Because if they break, Rome falls to us,” Antonidus snapped. “They know the stakes, but we can still win. Pull back the front lines and put in fresh men. Move to surround the left wing. Whether they run or not, we can wear them down to nothing.”

Spartacus looked with distaste at the Roman general his men had found. The man had nothing but bile in him and didn't seem to grasp that the lives he urged them to throw away were friends and brothers. The gladiator closed his eyes for a moment. They had all cheered Antonidus when Crixus had first shown him to them, dressed in armor taken from a Roman corpse. He had been paraded like a favorite pet for the men, but his promises had been worthless and his clever tactics nothing more than confusion for slaves who had never held a sword before they took it up in the rebellion.

“Our men are weak with hunger,” Spartacus said. “I saw some who were green-mouthed from the boiled grasses they'd eaten. We can't survive another day of fighting after this one.”

“We can try for the passes to Gaul,” Crixus began.

“How many do you think would reach the high passes alive?” Spartacus demanded. “The legions would hunt us down before we'd left the plains. No, that chance has gone. It has to be Ariminum. We'll take what food we need and build our strength. Somehow, we'll stay ahead of them.”

“If we could find ships, they might let us go,” Crixus said, looking up at his friend.

“It would take a fleet,” Spartacus said, considering. He longed to get away from the power of Rome, bitter with the knowledge that he should have led his men across the mountains. Let them have their little country. He would settle for being free.

Antonidus held his temper with difficulty. They had taken him from slavery to be killed by his own people. Neither man realized that Rome would never forgive a general who let them escape. It would be a shame that would last for centuries and every slave in the country would think of rising against their masters. He listened to their plans with growing anger. The only freedom they would see came from beating the legions on the plain, no matter how many lives it took.