Ben Kane - Spartacus - Rebellion

Carbo had heard the rumours too. He didn’t quite believe them. Filled with unease, he stood with Navio, a stocky man with high cheekbones and two different coloured eyes. It’s odd, thought Carbo, watching the thousands of former slaves. They’re my comrades, yet I’m standing with another Roman. Made up half a dozen races, the men were every size and shape under the sun. Hard-faced gladiators, wiry shepherds and sunburned herdsmen. Long-haired Gauls, burly Germans and tattooed Thracians. They were still carrying their weapons, bloodied from the battle against Gellius’ army. Clad in Roman mail shirts and breastplates, in simple tunics, or even bare-chested, they made a fearsome, threatening spectacle. ‘Is he really going to do it?’

‘Be sure of it.’

‘It’s barbaric.’

Navio threw him a shrewd look. ‘Brutal or not, this is justice to Spartacus and his men.’

‘Does he have to sacrifice so many?’

‘It’s common practice for dozens of gladiators to fight at a munus commemorating the death of one person. You know that. Tonight Spartacus is remembering thousands of his comrades. It’s no surprise that he picked this number of legionaries.’

‘Don’t you care?’ hissed Carbo, jerking his head at the four hundred prisoners who were roped together nearby. Scores of Spartacus’ men ringed them on three sides, drawn swords in their hands. The fourth side lay open towards the fire. There a pile of gladii had been stacked up. ‘They’re our people.’

‘Whom you fought today. Whom you killed.’

‘That was different. It was a battle. This-’

‘I hate everything that the Republic stands for, remember?’ Navio interrupted. ‘My father and younger brother died fighting men like those over there. As far as I’m concerned, they can all go to Hades.’

Carbo fell silent before his ire. Navio and his family had followed Quintus Sertorius, a Marian supporter. After Marius’ death, the Senate had proscribed Sertorius. Betrayed, Navio had fought with Sertorius against the Republic for several years, but eventually their fortunes in Iberia had ebbed. But, Carbo thought, it was one thing taking on your own kind in a battle, when it was kill or be killed. It was quite another making prisoners fight each other to the death. The idea revolted him. He resolved to say something to Spartacus.

It wasn’t long before their leader appeared, accompanied by Ariadne, Castus and Gannicus. Behind him walked soldiers carrying four silver eagles and a large number of cohort standards. There were even several sets of fasces, the ceremonial bundles of rods carried by magistrates’ bodyguards and the symbols of Roman justice. An enormous cheer went up as the Thracian strode to stand by the heap of weapons. Despite his anger, Carbo was filled with awe at the sight of his leader with the battle trophies.

Unsurprisingly, the prisoners’ terrified eyes also focused on Spartacus. They knew who he was, even if they didn’t recognise him. The Thracian was renowned and vilified throughout the Republic as a monster, a man without morals, who defied all societal norms. Here he was, a crop-haired figure in Roman armour, his muscular arms and sword blade covered in their comrades’ blood. Unremarkable in many ways. Yet everything about him, from his emotionless expression to his bunched fists, inspired fear, and threatened death.

‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’ the slaves chanted.

Spartacus raised his arms in recognition of his men’s acclaim.

Castus threw Gannicus a sour look, which was reciprocated. No one noticed.

Ignoring Navio’s cry of ‘Wait!’, Carbo trotted over to Spartacus. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Now?’ Spartacus’ voice was harsh. Cold.

‘Yes.’

‘Make it quick.’

‘Is it true that these men but one are to die fighting each other?’

Spartacus’ gaze pinned him to the spot. ‘Yes.’

‘Damn right it is!’ said Gannicus.

‘You got a problem with that?’ growled Castus, fingering the hilt of his sword.

Carbo stayed where he was. ‘They deserve better than this.’

‘Do they? Why?’ Suddenly, Spartacus’ face was right in his. ‘It is how gladiators up and down the length of Italy die every day of the year, for the amusement of your citizens. Many, if not most of those men, have committed no crime.’ Spartacus was aware of the Gauls’ rumbling agreement here. ‘What we’re about to see is just a turning of the tables.’

It was hard to deny the logic, but Carbo still felt disgusted. ‘I-’

‘Enough,’ Spartacus barked and Carbo bent his head. To say any more would threaten his friendship with the Thracian, never mind risk an attack from either one of the Gauls. He watched unhappily as Spartacus raised his hands again and a silence fell.

‘I have not called you here to congratulate you for your actions in the battle against Gellius today. You all know how much I admire your courage and loyalty.’ Spartacus let his followers cheer before continuing: ‘We are here for a different reason. A sad reason. Word has reached us of the death of Crixus, and two-thirds of his men. They were lost in a bitter fight against Gellius at Mount Garganus, about a month ago.’

A great, gusty sigh went up from the watching soldiers.

They chose their own fate, thought Carbo. They went with Crixus, the whoreson.

‘As well as our own dead, we must honour Crixus and his fallen men. Ask the gods not to forget them, and to allow every last one entrance to Elysium. What better way of doing that than by celebrating our own munus?’ As an animal growl rose from his followers, Spartacus indicated the pile of gladii. ‘Each prisoner is to pick up a sword. Pair yourself off with another, and walk around the fire until you are told to stop. At my command, you will fight in pairs to the death. The survivors will face each other and so on, until only one man remains.’

The deafening cheers that met Spartacus’ orders drowned out the Romans’ shocked cries. A dozen men moved among them, cutting the ropes that bound them together. None of the prisoners moved a step. Spartacus jerked his head and the guards began jabbing the legionaries with their swords. More than one drew blood, which drew jeers and catcalls down on the captives’ heads. This was better than the former slaves could have dreamed of.

Still no Roman moved to pick up a gladius.

Carbo felt a perverse pride in what he saw. Not all of their courage is gone.

‘Arm yourselves!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘I shall count to three.’

An officer wearing the transverse-crested helmet of a centurion shoved his way to the front of the mob of prisoners. His silver hair, grizzled appearance and the multiple ornate decorations strapped to his chest revealed the length of his career — and his bravery. ‘And if we refuse?’

‘You will be crucified one by one.’ Spartacus raised his voice for all to hear. ‘Right here, for the others to see.’

‘Citizens cannot be-’ The centurion’s face purpled, and his voice tailed away as he realised that Spartacus’ alternative had been carefully picked. Their choice was an ignoble yet redeeming death by the sword, or the most degrading fate possible for a Roman. The centurion thought for a moment, and then stepped forward to pick up a gladius. Straightening, he glared at Spartacus. Perhaps ten paces and half a dozen armed men separated them.

The Thracian grinned and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sica. ‘Should you choose it, there is a third option. While I would end your life quickly, I can’t guarantee the same of my men.’

‘Give me half a chance and I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him,’ snarled Castus. ‘And that’s just to get me started.’

Other men shouted what they’d like to do to the centurion, and all of his comrades. Carbo tried to harden his heart to the prisoners’ suggested fates, but failed. These soldiers were his enemies, but they did not deserve to be forced to slay one another, let alone to be tortured to death. He could not say a word, however. Spartacus’ patience had been worn too thin.