Conn Iggulden: The Death Of Kings

After the delay for Cato's execution, Pompey pushed the Greek legions south without rest. They were the veterans of the borders of Greece, with huge numbers of hastati and triarii to bolster the younger men. With the Via Appia under their feet, they passed thirty-five-mile markers in the first day. Pompey knew the pace would slow when they were forced to turn off the road, but even if the slaves had run to the furthest tip of the country, he knew he could bring the Greek legions to them in less than two weeks.

Julius rode with Cabera at his side, changing horses as Pompey did, every twelve miles at the way stations. Pompey was puzzled by the young tribune. He had spoken only a few words to him since they stood to watch Cato die in the great forum, but he was like a different person. The inner fire that had unnerved Pompey when Julius had taken control of the new Tenth legion seemed to have been drawn out of him. It was not the same man who now rode without caring, his horse wide-eyed with nerves at the lack of signals from its rider. Pompey watched him carefully as they rode each day. He had known men to break before after a tragedy, and if Julius was no longer fit to command, he would not hesitate to remove him from his post. Marcus Brutus was equal to the task, and in his private thoughts Pompey was able to admit that Brutus could never be a threat to him, as the other could. The way Caesar had taken control of Primigenia and yet kept the friendship of Brutus spoke volumes for his ability. Perhaps it would be better to have him removed before he had fully recovered from the murder of his wife, while he was weak.

Pompey looked ahead along the wide road. Crassus hadn't the nerve to engage the slave army, he'd known it from the moment he'd heard his name chosen in the Senate. The victory would be his alone, and it would take nothing less to unite the factions in the Senate and bring him to power over Rome. Somewhere ahead of him, the fleet of galleys was blocking the sea, and though the slaves could not yet know it, their rebellion was ended.

Spartacus looked out over the cliffs and watched the smoke as another vessel was captured and burned by the galleys. The sea was alive with ships fleeing the Roman fleet, their oars smacking into the choppy sea in desperation as they tried to maneuver round each other without collision. There was no mercy for those who were caught. The navy galleys had suffered too many years of impotent pursuits not to revel in the destruction. Some were boarded, but more were burned as two or three galleys rained fire onto their decks until the pirates died in flames or jumped screaming into the sea. The rest made speed away from the coast, taking the last chance for freedom with them.

The cliffs were lined with his men, just watching as the fresh sea air blew against them. The cliffs were green with spring grasses and a light drizzle of rain darkened their grubby faces unnoticed.

Spartacus looked at them, his ragged army. They were all hungry and tired, heavy with the knowledge that their great run through the country was finally over. Still, he was proud of them all.

Crixus turned to him, his weariness showing. “There's no way out of this, is there?”

“No, I don't think so. Without the ships, we're done,” Spartacus replied.

Crixus looked at the men around them, sitting and standing without hope in the thin rain. “I'm sorry. We should have crossed the mountains,” he said softly.

Spartacus shrugged, chuckling. “We gave them a run, though,” he said. “By all the gods, we scared them.”

They were silent again for a long time, and out at sea, the last of the pirate ships were chased or captured, the galleys sweeping back and forth on their long oars. The smoke from burning decks rose against the rain, fierce and hot as vengeance.

“Antonidus has gone,” Crixus said suddenly.

“I know. He came last night, wanting some of the gold.”

“You gave it to him?” Crixus asked.

Spartacus shrugged. “Why not? If he can get away, good luck to him. There's nothing left for us here. You should go as well. Perhaps a few of us will make it on our own.”

“He won't get past the legions. That damned wall they've built cuts us all off.”

Spartacus stood. “Then we will break it and scatter. I'll not wait to be slaughtered like lambs, here. Gather the men close, Crix. We'll share the gold out so they all have a piece or two, and then we'll run one more time.”

“They'll hunt us down,” Crixus said.

“They won't catch us all. The country's too big for that.”

Spartacus held out his hand and Crixus took it.

“Until we meet again, Crix.”

“Until then.”

There was no moon to reveal them to the soldiers on the great scar that stretched from coast to coast. When Spartacus had seen it, he had shaken his head in silent disbelief that a Roman general would attempt such a folly to pen the slaves against the sea. In a way, it was a mark of respect to his followers that the legions did not dare pursue them, but were content to sit and peer over their trenches in the darkness.

Spartacus lay on his stomach in the scrub grass, his face blackened with mud. Crixus lay at his side, and behind them a vast snake of men were hidden, waiting for the shout to attack. There had been no opposition to this last gamble when he put it to them. They had all seen the ships burn and their despair had turned into a grim fatalism. The great dream had ended. They would blow away like seeds on the wind, and the Romans would never catch the half of them.

“It'll be a thin line guarding a trench that long,” Spartacus had told them as the sun set. “We will be the arrow through their skin, and before they can gather, most of us will be through and clear.”

There had been no cheering, but they had passed the word without excitement, sitting back then to sharpen their blades and wait. When the sun had gone, Spartacus rose and they came with him, trotting hunched over in the blackness.

The lip of the trench was a dark line against the faint shine of stars in the clear sky. Crixus looked at it and strained to make out the features of his friend.

“Ten feet high, at least, and it looks solid.” He sensed rather than saw Spartacus nod and cracked his neck with the tension. The two men stood slowly and Spartacus gave a low whistle to summon the group who would be first to the wall. They gathered around him as shadows, the strongest of them, armed with heavy hammers and axes.

“Go now. What they have built can be torn down,” Spartacus whispered, and they set off in a loping run, their weapons held ready for the first strike. The men behind came to their feet and ran toward the Roman wall.

Julius muttered his thanks as he was handed a bowl of warm stew. Covering the fields around him for as far as he could see, the soldiers of the Greek legions ate, the thin white snares of their cooking fires looping into the air. The ground was thick with mud and heavy clods stuck to their sandals and slowed them. Those who owned cloaks used them to sit on, turning the inside of the cloth down so the mud wouldn't show when they started again. Many more sat on whatever they could find, flat stones, coarse grass, or even a pile of loose hay that they'd spread around.

It would be a short break, Julius knew. The extraordinarii had come in early that morning from their scouting, and rumors flew around the men, even before the official word had come through the chain of command.

There was nothing good in the reports. Julius had been with Pompey when the general heard the slave army was coming north to meet them and not one of Crassus's eagle standards had been sighted. Pompey had raged at the rider who brought the news, demanding details he could not give. Wherever Crassus was, he had failed to hold the slaves against the sea. Julius wondered if he was still alive, but he could not bring himself to care particularly. He had seen so much of death. One more senator in this disastrous campaign would not make a difference.