Conn Iggulden - The Death Of Kings

The slaves saw his mood had lightened and exchanged glances, wondering what viciousness he'd seen to cheer him as they shouldered their burdens and made their way home.

Julius was exhausted, cursing under his breath as he stumbled on a loose stone. He knew that if he fell, there was a chance he wouldn't get up and he'd be left on the road.

They could not stop, with the slave army running before them toward Ariminum. Fleeing the field in the dark had given them half a day's start, and Pompey had sent out the order to run them down. The gap hadn't closed in seven days, as the legions pursued an army far fresher than themselves. Julius knew they could lose many more men, but if the slaves turned south, Rome stood naked for the first time in her history.

He fixed his eyes on the legionary in front of him. He had been staring at that back all day and knew every tiny detail of it, from the patchy gray hair that showed under the helmet to the spatters of blood up the man's ankles where he had stamped for a mile to break his blisters. Someone had urinated up ahead, darkening the dust of the road. Julius trudged through the patch indifferently, wondering when he would next have to do the same himself.

At his side, Brutus cleared his throat and spat. There was nothing of his usual energy showing in him. He was hunched under the weight of his pack, and Julius knew his friend's shoulders were raw. Brutus rubbed cooking fat on them at night and waited stoically for the calluses to form.

They had not spoken since dawn, the battle with endurance and the road going on without a public show. It was the same for most of them. They marched with slack and open mouths, all awareness narrowed to a point just ahead on the road. Often when the horns sounded a halt, men would stumble into those ahead and wake almost from sleep as they were cursed or struck.

Julius and Brutus chewed on stale bread and meat as it was handed out to them without a halt. As they tried to find saliva to swallow, they passed another fallen soldier and wondered if they too would be left on the road.

If Spartacus wanted to exhaust the legions in a chase, he could not have done better, and always there was the knowledge that there would have to be another battle when the slaves and gladiators finally found a place to stand. Only death would stop the legions.

Cabera coughed dust out of his throat and Julius glanced at the old man, marveling again that he had not fallen with the others. The poor rations and the miles had reduced his thin frame further, so that he looked almost skeletal. His cheeks were sunken and dark and the march had stolen away his humor and his talk. Like Brutus and Renius behind him, he had not spoken since the moment they were forced to their feet by weary optios, using their staffs on officers and men alike without interest, their faces as thin and tired as the rest of them.

They were allowed only four hours to sleep in the darkness. Pompey knew they could find Ariminum in flames, but the slaves would barely be able to pause before the legions were on the horizon, forcing them on. They couldn't allow Spartacus to regroup. If necessary, they would chase him into the sea.

Julius held his head high with difficulty, knowing he was seen by Primigenia around him. The legion of Lepidus marched in rank with them, though there was a subtle difference between the groups. Primigenia had not run and every soldier knew that the punishment for that failure still had to be meted out. Fear showed in the eyes of Lepidus's men and sapped at their will as they filled the hours with silent worry. There was nothing Julius and Brutus could do for them. The death of Lepidus went only some way in repairing their moment of panic in the battle.

The cornicens sounded as they reached the site of an old camp. It was two hours early, but Pompey had obviously decided to use the boundary they had erected once before, with only a little work needing to be done to shore up the spilled earth. Once inside, the men fell down where they stood. Some lay on their sides, too tired to remove their packs. Friends untied each other and the dwindling rations were brought out from packs and passed along lines to the cooks, who started fires in the ashes of the old ones. The men wanted to sleep and they had to eat first, so the cornmeal and dried meat was heated through and sent out on iron plates as fast as possible. The legionaries stuffed the food into their mouths without interest, then unrolled the thin trail blankets from their packs and lay down.

Julius had just finished his and was licking his fingers to remove every last crumb of the mush his body needed so desperately when he heard a cornicen blow a warning note nearby. Pompey and Crassus were approaching his position.

He scrambled to his feet and kicked Brutus, who had curled up, already drifting toward sleep. Renius opened an eye at the sound and groaned, heaving himself into a sitting position with his arm.

“Up! Get the men on their feet. Centurions, form Primigenia into squares for inspection. Quickly!”

He hated having to do it as he watched the men drag themselves upright, looking dazed. Some had been asleep and they stood loosely, their arms hanging and only dull awareness in their eyes. The centurions bullied and heaved until some semblance of ranks was produced. There were no groans or complaints; they hadn't the energy or the will to resist anything that was done to them. They stood where they were pushed and waited to be told to sleep once more.

Pompey and Crassus rode through the camp, bringing their horses close to Julius before dismounting. As well they might, both men looked fresher than the legionaries around them, but there was an air of tight-lipped seriousness about the generals that woke some of Lepidus's men to the danger, making them glance nervously at each other. Pompey approached Julius, who saluted.

“Primigenia stands ready, sir,” Julius said.

“It is your other command that brings me here, Caesar. Tell Primigenia to rest and have Lepidus's men form ranks in their place.”

Julius gave the orders and the three of them waited as the soldiers moved quickly into position. Even after the losses they had suffered in the panic of the battle, there were still more than three thousand survivors. Some were wounded, though the worst of these had already been left on the road, days before. Pompey mounted his horse to address them, but before he began, he leaned down to Julius and spoke quietly.

“Do not interfere, Julius. The decision has been made.”

Julius returned the questioning stare impassively, then nodded. Pompey joined Crassus and together they trotted their horses right up to the front rank of the assembled men.

“Centurions stand forward!” Pompey barked out. Then he raised his head to have his voice carry as far as possible. “This legion carries a shame that must be cut out. There can be no excuse for cowardice. Hear now the punishment you will receive.

“Every tenth man in line will be marked by the centurions. He will die at the hands of the others. You will not use blades, but crush and beat them to death with fists and staffs. You will shed your own friends' blood in this way and always remember. A tenth of you will die this day. Centurions, begin the count.”

Julius watched in horror as the centurions called off the numbers. As they marched along the ranks, the men around the unlucky one would cringe in fear as the officers came abreast of them, then gasp as the hand fell on a different shoulder. Some cried out, for themselves or for friends, but there was no mercy to be had. Crassus and Pompey watched the whole process with stiff disdain.

It took less than an hour, but by the end, three hundred men stood out from the ranks. Some wept, but others gazed blankly at the ground, unable to understand what was happening to them, why they had been singled out to die.