Ben Kane: Spartacus: Rebellion

Spartacus was still eyeballing the centurion. ‘Well?’

The officer’s head bowed, and he shuffled to one side.

‘Next,’ called Spartacus.

Intimidated even further by the cowing of the centurion, the legionaries began miserably filing forward to pick up a sword.

Spartacus offered up a plea to Dionysus and to the Great Rider. Let the blood of these Romans be a suitable offering to you both, O Great Ones. May it ensure that Crixus and his men have a swift passage to the warrior’s paradise. It was nothing less than the Gaul deserved. Despite his faults, Crixus had been a mighty warrior.

Ariadne did not relish the idea of what was about to happen, but it was impossible to deny the magnitude of this offer to the gods. Few deities would remain unmoved by such a gift. And if that helped her and Spartacus to leave Italy for ever, she was prepared to live with it.

Soon two hundred pairs of legionaries stood facing each other around the fire. Some, like the centurion, stood proudly with their shoulders thrown back, but the majority were pleading to their gods. Some were even weeping.

Awestruck by the role reversal, Spartacus’ soldiers had again fallen silent.

Spartacus gave a short eulogy about Crixus. They would remember him for his leadership, his plain speaking, and his bravery. His men would also be remembered for their valiant efforts. Huge cheers met his words. Next, he addressed the Romans.

‘You have been taught today on the field of battle that every man here is your equal, or better! Now you are to learn it in another way. All of you will have witnessed gladiators fighting and dying to commemorate the dead. You have probably never considered that those men were forced to act as they did. Tonight you have that chance, because we slaves will watch you do the same.’ Spartacus scanned the terrified faces near him, his gaze lingering on the centurion. ‘It is a honourable death to choose and far worthier than crucifixion. For that I salute you. May you die well!’ He raised his sica high and held it there for a heartbeat, before letting it drop. ‘Begin!’

As the prisoners prepared to set upon each other, a baying cry rose from the watching crowd. It was the same bloodthirsty sound Spartacus had heard when fighting in the arena. He wished that every man in the Senate was about to battle one another before him instead of four hundred legionaries.

Carbo did not want to watch the slaughter, but his position beside Spartacus meant that he had to. If he closed his eyes, he risked being accused of at best squeamishness, or at worst, cowardice. Despite his misgivings, he soon found himself engrossed. The clash of metal upon metal, the grunts of effort and inevitable cries of pain were mesmerising. Many of the legionaries chose to die quickly, letting their opponents thrust them through or hew their heads from their necks. Carbo wasn’t surprised. Why bother trying to win a fight when victory meant a second combat, and yet more after that? What took him by surprise was the level of ferocity with which some of the prisoners went at one another. Their desire to live was great enough for them to slay a comrade without hesitation. Covered in blood, they stood with heaving chests, waiting for the other fights to end.

Carbo noted that the centurion who had addressed Spartacus was one of the two hundred ‘winners’. Perhaps because of his kindly face, the senior officer reminded him of his father, Jovian. That thought tore at his heart. Carbo hadn’t seen his family for more than a year, since he’d run away from home. A home that had been repossessed by Crassus, the man to whom his father had owed a fortune. Soon after he’d left, Jovian and his mother had travelled to Rome, there to throw themselves on the mercy of a rich relative. Carbo’s pride had not let him accompany his parents. For all he knew, they could both be dead. As the centurion will be soon.

When the initial fights were over, Spartacus ordered his men to drag away the bodies of the losers. ‘Any men still breathing are to have their throats cut. Pile them in a heap over there. Meanwhile, the rest of you dogs can get on with it!’ A huge cheer met this announcement. Carbo felt sick. He was glad that Spartacus was ignoring him.

A short while later, five score more corpses lay sprawled amidst pools of blood. A hundred Romans remained, the centurion among them. Soon their number had been reduced to fifty, and after that twenty-five.

‘You fight well,’ Spartacus shouted at the centurion. ‘Stand aside while the remaining two dozen fight each other.’

Stony-faced, the officer did as he was told.

The twelve men who came through the fifth combat looked exhausted.

Six legionaries survived the next brutal set of clashes. They were so tired that they could barely hold up their gladii, but there was no time allowed to rest. ‘Keep fighting!’ shouted Spartacus. Anyone who faltered was threatened and shoved by the guards.

Spartacus ordered the centurion to take part again when there were a trio of legionaries remaining. Given that he’d had to fight three men fewer than his opponent, it wasn’t surprising that the experienced officer dispatched him with ease — nor that he won the final bout either. He stood with bowed head over the body of his last victim, his lips moving in silent prayer.

The raucous cheering that had accompanied the bloody combats died away. A strange quiet fell over the thousands of gathered men. Carbo felt his skin crawl. He glanced into the gathering darkness, almost expecting to see Charon, the ferryman, or even Hades himself, the god of the underworld, appearing to claim the great pile of dead legionaries.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Spartacus.

The centurion lifted eyes that were bleak with horror. ‘Gnaeus Servilius Caepio.’

‘You’re a veteran.’

‘Thirty years I’ve served. My first campaigns were with Marius, against the Teutones and the Cimbri. I don’t expect you know of them.’

‘Indeed I do. You look surprised, but I fought for Rome for many a year. I must have heard about every campaign since the Caudine Forks.’

Caepio’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s commonly said that you served in the legions. I dismissed it as rumour.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Rome is your enemy. Why did you do it?’

‘To learn your ways, so that I could defeat you. It seems so far that I was an apt pupil.’

His men roared with approval. Pride filled Ariadne.

Caepio glowered and muttered something.

‘What was that?’ demanded Spartacus.

‘I said that you haven’t yet faced the veteran legions from Asia Minor or Iberia. They’d soon sort you out.’

‘Is that so?’ Spartacus’ tone was silky. Deadly. The icy rage gripped him again, in part because the centurion’s words had an element of truth to them. Many of the soldiers whom they had faced had been newly recruited.

‘Damn right it is.’ Caepio spat on the ground. Spartacus’ troops jeered and he made an obscene gesture in their direction. Their response, a simmering cry of rage, shattered the silence. Dozens of men drew their weapons and moved towards him.

‘Hold!’ Spartacus barked. He stared at Caepio. ‘My soldiers would slay you.’

‘That’s no surprise! Scum do not honour their promises.’ Caepio threw down his sword and raised his hands in the air. ‘Let them do what they will. It matters not. I’m damned for what I have done here tonight.’

‘Maybe you are, and maybe you’re not. Before you die, however, I have a task for you. A message to take to your masters in the Senate.’

‘You want me to carry word of this so-called munus.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘I thought you would,’ sneered Castus.

‘Not because of your threats. I do not fear death,’ said Caepio, the pride returning to his voice. ‘I accept because it is my duty to tell Rome of the depths to which you savages have sunk. Of the barbarity which you forced me and my comrades to inflict on each other.’