Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

A third shower of pila went soaring up in a low, curving arc. To his left and right, countless more missiles joined them. Spartacus could not see any Roman javelins being thrown in response. The legionaries were in considerable disarray. With luck, his cavalry were causing mayhem on the flanks. Burning hope filled him, and he ordered a fourth volley. ‘On your feet! Draw swords. Close order!’

Smoothly, his men in the front ranks moved to stand shoulder to shoulder. They slammed their shields off one another while the soldiers in the subsequent rows ran in right behind, using their scuta to strengthen the line.

The instant that they were ready, Spartacus roared, ‘CHARGE!’

In a screaming mass, they thundered towards the Romans. An occasional javelin scudded at them, but there was no concerted response. Spartacus had seen his pilum strike the centurion in the chest, punching him backwards on to the shield of the man behind. He had no idea where his second javelin had gone, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was hitting the Romans as hard as was humanly possible. They covered the last few steps in a blur. Time lost all meaning for Spartacus. He stuck close to the soldiers on either side of him; tried not to lose his footing; killed or disabled his opponents in the swiftest ways he could. At times the swinging bag containing Crixus’ head and hand threatened to unbalance him, but Spartacus learned to anticipate its movements. His burden fed his rage, his hatred of Rome. Crixus and his men must be avenged.

He fought on. Punch with the shield boss; watch his enemy pull his head back in reflex. Stab him in the throat. Lift the shield to avoid the hot wash of blood that jetted as he withdrew his sica. Check left and right to make sure his comrades were all right. Search for a new target. Thrust him through the belly. Watch him crumple in agony. Brace with the scutum. Rip the sword free. Step over the shrieking mess that had been a man. Scream like a maniac. Parry a legionary’s frantic hack with his shield. Slide his blade over the top of the other’s scutum, taking him straight in the mouth. Hear the choking scream of agony cut short. Feel the iron catch in the Roman’s neck bones. Watch the light in his eyes go out like a snuffed lamp. Push forward. Kill another soldier. Tread on his corpse. Look for another enemy to slay. And another.

On and on it went.

Suddenly, there were no more legionaries facing him.

Spartacus scowled. His bloodlust was not even close to sated. He became aware of someone shouting in his ear. Bemused, he turned his head and recognised Taxacis’ squashed nose. ‘Eh?’

‘Romans… run.’

The red mist coating Spartacus’ vision began to recede. ‘They’re running?’

Taxacis laughed. ‘Yes. Look!’

This time what Spartacus saw made sense. The entire centre of Gellius’ line had given way, and was fleeing the field. Hundreds of legionaries lay all around them, dead, dying or screaming from the agony of their wounds. Discarded weapons and shields littered the area. The consul had vanished. Here and there, however, small pockets of his men fought on. Often they were defending a standard, but their heroic efforts made little difference to the yelling hordes of Spartacus’ soldiers who surrounded them. To either side, the legions were holding, but that wouldn’t be the case for long, he saw. Already his horsemen were in sight to the rear of the Roman position, which meant that the enemy cavalry had been driven off. Gellius’ flanks would not withstand a charge from behind. No troops in the world could do that. ‘We’ve won,’ he said slowly. ‘Again.’

‘Thanks to you!’ Taxacis clouted him on the back. Spartacus could see the awe in his eyes. ‘You not just… good general. You also fine… warrior. Romans thought… a demon had come.’ Grinning fiercely, he raised a fist in the air. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

Every man within earshot took up the refrain.

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

Spartacus’ euphoria faded a little as he remembered those who had died to bring them to this point. Seuthes and Getas, his Thracian brothers-in-arms. Oenomaus, the charismatic German who had been first to lend his support when Spartacus had come up with the idea of escaping the ludus. Hundreds upon hundreds of men whose names he didn’t even know. I shall always honour you. He looked down at the bag suspended from his waist. Even you. ‘We must not forget Crixus, and all of his followers who died.’

‘Crixus was… bastard,’ growled Taxacis, ‘but he was… brave bastard.’

‘He was,’ agreed Spartacus. He glanced at the nearest group of legionaries, who had thrown down their arms and were trying to surrender. Few were succeeding. Normally he wouldn’t have cared, but inspiration struck. ‘Spare their lives,’ he shouted. ‘Gather the men who wish to yield, and bring them to our camp.’

Taxacis threw him a confused look.

‘You’ll see later.’ Spartacus did not elaborate. The plan was still taking shape in his mind.

From the moment that Spartacus had led his army out of the vast camp that morning, Ariadne had kept herself busy. First she had sacrificed a cock to Dionysus, promising the god the further offering of a fine bull if her husband emerged unscathed — and victorious — from the impending battle. Ariadne had made no attempt to enter the trance-like state that sometimes allowed her to commune with Dionysus. Years as a priestess had taught her never to expect insight or a vision when it really mattered. The god whom she followed was even more fickle than his fellow deities. Her best policy once she had made her requests of him was to occupy her mind with other matters.

There was no chance of watching the battle. Unsurprisingly, Spartacus had forbidden it, and the constant presence of Atheas, the second of his Scythians, meant that any attempt to disobey him would meet with swift failure. Yet she couldn’t just wait around, worrying and lamenting, as some of the other women did. I might be pregnant, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be useful. Being busy helped her to ignore the occasional faint sound of trumpet calls that carried through the air.

She was only four months gone. Ariadne had thus far managed to conceal her rounded belly and larger breasts by wearing loose dresses and bathing out of the sight of others. From the recent glances that she’d been getting, though, Ariadne knew that it wouldn’t be long before word got out that she was expecting Spartacus’ child. That was if her glossy black hair and the bloom on her creamy skin granted her by her pregnancy had not already given the game away. There were other signs too. She had noticed in her bronze mirror that her heart-shaped face had grown softer and more attractive. Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought.

A thrill of joy shot through her as she pictured herself holding a strong baby boy while her smiling husband looked on. It was instantly followed by a familiar, snaking dread. What if her interpretation of Spartacus’ dream was incorrect? What if he was destined to die in battle against the Romans? Today? Stop thinking like that. He will win. We will cross the Alps while it’s still summer. Get out of Italy altogether. She felt happier at that thought. Few tribes would dare to hinder the passage of his army — even if it was depleted — and they would make their way to Thrace. I cannot wait to see Kotys’ face, she thought vengefully. He will pay for what he did to us. So will Polles, the king’s champion.

‘Enough daydreaming,’ she said to herself. ‘Do not tempt fate.’

Atheas, who was stacking a pile of bandages, looked up. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Gods willing, my hopes will come to pass. Ariadne counted the heaped rolls of linen by his feet. They would serve to dress the hideous wounds they’d soon be seeing. ‘Five hundred. Not nearly enough.’ Her eyes moved to the score of women who were ripping up sheets, tunics and dresses into dressings of various sizes. To her relief, the heaps of garments by their feet were still sizeable. ‘Faster. We may well need all of those.’ Ariadne wasn’t surprised when the women ducked their heads and their conversation petered away to an occasional whisper. As Spartacus’ wife, she was respected, but the fact that she was also a priestess of Dionysus elevated her status close to his. Slaves held the god in especial esteem. I am part of the reason that Spartacus has so many followers, she thought with pride. Long may that continue.