Spartacus: The Gladiator (44 page)

‘We’ll fight if I say so. I won’t make that decision until the last moment. If I think that our attack will fail, I won’t use this.’ Spartacus lifted up the centurion’s bone whistle that hung from a thong around his neck. At Navio’s request, he’d had Glaber’s abandoned camp ransacked for examples like it. The Gauls now had one each too. ‘You all know what it sounds like. Unless you hear me blow one long blast, tell your men to stay down. We’ll just lie hidden until they’re gone. It’s imperative that they understand that! If any of those Roman bastards catch as much as a glimpse of us, we’re fucked. Clear?’

They all nodded, although Castus’ face bore a dubious expression.

‘If you hear the whistle, however, blow your own, and then immediately launch your pila.’

‘When will you sound it?’ asked Gannicus.

Spartacus pointed at the bend in the road, some three hundred paces towards Vesuvius. ‘Once the vanguard has disappeared around that.’ He glanced at Crixus. ‘Your position is closest to the curve. Are you happy not to let any escape?’

Crixus’ lips peeled back into a feral snarl of agreement.

Good. He thinks that he’s got the most important job. Fool
.

Spartacus’ assumption couldn’t have been more wrong.

‘Make sure you whistle at the first opportunity. I might not be able to hold my men in otherwise,’ said Crixus offhandedly.

Spartacus ground his teeth with rage. ‘If they break cover too soon, it could entirely screw up the ambush.’

‘That would be down to you not sounding your whistle quickly enough,’ said Crixus, his eyes glittering with malice.

Utter fury took hold of Spartacus. A cunning time to pick an argument, he thought. He could think of nothing else but calling Crixus’ bluff. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, pulling the leather thong from around his neck and shoving it at the Gaul. ‘Is this what you want? If it is, we’d better move the men around quickly.’

Immediately, the others looked dismayed. ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Gannicus. ‘The damn Romans will be on us any moment. Leave it, Crixus,’ he advised. ‘It doesn’t matter that much who blows the bloody whistle. And Spartacus will pick the right moment. Eh, Castus?’

Spartacus held his breath.

‘He will,’ growled Castus.

Crixus’ jaw bunched with anger. ‘You do it then,’ he snarled at Spartacus. ‘What do I care?’

Spartacus nodded curtly. ‘Launch one volley of javelins only. Aim short and low.’ Most of the men had never thrown pila before, but he’d insisted that everyone armed themselves with some of the hundreds of missiles that had been left in Glaber’s camp. Even thrown by novices, they would cause confusion at such close range, as well as plenty of casualties. So too would the Nubians with their slings. ‘At my second whistle, charge.’

Castus still wasn’t completely happy. ‘What if they make formation and hold it? Our men will never break through a Roman shield wall.’

‘True enough,’ said Spartacus with an accepting shrug. ‘We’ll pull back, disappear into the scrubland. But only do that if you hear three short blasts on my whistle, repeated. Otherwise, press home the assault.’

‘It still seems like complete madness,’ protested Castus.

‘What?’ exclaimed Crixus.

‘We’re outnumbered. Most of our men are slaves, with little training, yet we’re about to attack thousands of legionaries. In broad daylight.’

Great Rider, don’t let him back out now
. ‘It feels fucking great, doesn’t it?’ Spartacus grinned savagely. Confidently. ‘Far better than fighting in some shitty arena for the amusement of a Roman mob.’

Castus held his gaze for a moment before he too smiled. ‘That’s true.’

‘We’ll teach the whoresons a lesson they’ll never forget,’ promised Crixus, his bullishness returned.

Spartacus caught the uncertainty in Gannicus’ eyes.
Even if Crixus is too pigheaded to see it and Castus has been won over, he knows that our fate hangs on a thread. Gods, how I wish that Getas and Seuthes were here with two hundred warriors of our tribe
. But they weren’t. ‘Remember: Ariadne said this morning that the omens were good.’

Gannicus looked happier. ‘And she should know.’

‘That’s right!’ Spartacus gave silent thanks to Dionysus as well. Since he had revealed what Ariadne had said about his dream, her status had grown even further. He gripped Gannicus’ shoulder. ‘Ready to repeat what we did to Glaber?’

‘Yes!’

‘Into position, then. Remember, wait for my whistle.’

He waited until the others had disappeared from view before checking the road for a final time. Nothing. Unsheathing his sica, Spartacus made his way to the rear of the myrtle tree. There he found an edgy-looking Carbo. Navio was beside him, jiggling with excitement. Atheas and Taxacis hovered in the background. They won’t be necessary, thought Spartacus. If Navio is a traitor, I’m no judge of men. Carbo too. ‘All set?’

‘Yes,’ replied Carbo. ‘Are they coming?’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

Carbo squared his shoulders. ‘I’m ready.’

‘May Mars watch over us with his spear and shield,’ said Navio with fierce enthusiasm.

‘And the Great Rider,’ added Spartacus.
Stay with me, as you have done until now
.

Spartacus trotted up and down his lines, pausing regularly to mutter encouragement in men’s ears, and slap them on the back. He told them what brave soldiers they were, and of how their deeds that day would be sung about for a hundred years. Lying through his teeth, he said that the legionaries who were approaching were cowards to a man, who would run at the sight of slaves with swords. That raised a laugh from most, but it was a nervous laugh, and Spartacus knew that his words would be forgotten the instant that the battle began. Then, as always, it would come down to each man’s resolve, and the resolve of his comrades. To the impact of the volley of javelins. To the level of surprise and fear their attack generated in the Romans. To the number of legionaries that they could kill in the first few moments. If all those factors went in their favour, perhaps they had a chance.

Spartacus’ grip on his sica tightened.
If things go against us
…

He’d been on the victorious side in combat enough times to know what happened to the enemy. It would be a rout. Soldiers who broke were the easiest prey of all to kill. As fear overcame them completely, they entirely lost reason and discipline. Their shields were the first things they discarded. Then it was their swords. Comrades who stumbled or fell were ignored or even trampled into the dust. Few, if any, tried to defend themselves. They simply ran. And legionaries were masters at hunting down such men. It was common for ten enemy combatants to be killed for every Roman casualty. If the slaves fled, the figure would probably be even higher.

Stop it. This is what I’ve prayed for over the years. The chance to lead an army against Rome once more. An opportunity to gain vengeance for my tribe’s defeat, and Maron’s death
.

Hearing the sound of running feet, Spartacus straightened.

Firmus came hammering into the gap a moment later. ‘They’re coming!’

‘How far away are they?’

‘I kept pace with them through the bush. No more than a quarter of a mile, sir.’

Spartacus pricked his ears. He could just make out the
tramp
of thousands of hobnailed sandals striking the ground in unison. ‘Seen any horsemen?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How many do you think there are?’ Spartacus barked.

Firmus quailed before him. ‘I’m not sure, sir. More than I can count.’

Spartacus bit back his angry and instinctive rebuke.
He’s only a shepherd, same as the other scouts. They’re not used to estimating enemy numbers
. ‘Well done. Cross the road and tell Castus and Crixus that their men are to prepare for a volley of javelins. But they must not launch until my whistle!’

Firmus nodded and was gone. At once the gap was filled with branches.

‘Javelins at the ready!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Spread the word.’

Muttering broke out as his order passed through the waiting ranks.

‘Are we going to fight?’ asked Carbo. He was grateful that his churning guts weren’t audible.

‘I don’t know yet,’ admitted Spartacus with a wink. ‘It depends on how many of the mangy dogs there are.’

‘I see.’ Carbo smiled as confidently as he could.

‘It’s all right to feel nervous,’ said Spartacus in a quiet voice. ‘This will be your first pitched battle. Most men are shaking like leaves, or praying like lunatics to every god under the sun. It’s common for soldiers to vomit or even piss themselves. You’re doing none of that. Instead, you’re standing firm, ready to fight.’

Grateful, Carbo felt his resolve strengthen.

‘Good lad. I know you’ll do well.’ Spartacus turned away to peer through the branches at the track.

‘He knows just what to say,’ whispered Navio in Carbo’s ear.

Carbo spun round, and was relieved to see no judgement in Navio’s eyes.

‘It’s one of the signs of a great leader.’

‘I’d follow him anywhere,’ said Carbo passionately.

‘Silence!’ hissed Spartacus.

They crouched down and waited.

Soon all that could be heard was the heavy tread of the approaching legionaries.

Despite Spartacus’ reassurance, Carbo’s stomach was twisting itself in knots.
We could easily be slaughtered
. He felt saliva pooling around his tongue, and it took a supreme effort not to be sick. A piercing alarm call distracted him and he looked up, catching sight of a blackbird in the myrtle tree. It cocked its head, its beady eye regarding the lines of hidden men with clear suspicion. It trilled again. And again.

We must be on its territory. The damn thing will give away our position
.

Spartacus reached up and waved his arm. To Carbo’s relief, the blackbird flew off, still chattering angrily. If any of the legionaries noticed, they would think it was their presence that had disturbed the bird. He dried his palms one by one on the bottom edge of his tunic, and cocked his right arm again. The weight of the javelin was still unfamiliar, but Carbo had been practising with it every day. He could now hit a target most times he threw. He tried not to think about the fact that it would be sinking into Roman flesh.

This is the road I’ve chosen. The legions wouldn’t have me
.

I’m with Spartacus now
.

Chapter XV

TIME DRAGGED ON. Carbo’s heart was thudding like that of a trapped beast.
Where are they?
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he looked to his right. Through the gaps in the branches, he saw the red tunics and silver mail of rank upon rank of legionaries marching past. His nausea returned with a vengeance. Carbo bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood. To his relief, the pain pushed the nausea into the background. He refocused his attention on the enemy.
The enemy, because that’s what they are
. Ten rows went by, then fifteen and twenty. Thirty. Fifty. Still they kept coming, none so much as glancing to either side. They were so near that their banter was discernible. Some were singing ribald tunes; others complained about the distance they’d marched; still more cursed Spartacus and his cowardly slaves, whom they’d butcher to a man. Cheers rose up at that prospect.

The tension was growing unbearable. Carbo glanced at Spartacus, whose whistle was clenched between his lips. Then at Navio, whose face was strained too. Even Atheas and Taxacis were leaning forward like hounds eager to slip the huntsman’s leash. Beyond them the slaves were looking ever more nervous. Carbo wanted to scream at Spartacus.
Are you going to give us the damn signal?

Spartacus was oblivious to his men’s anxiety. He still had not decided what to do. The wrong decision would see his men massacred. What he most wanted to know – how many Romans there were – would not be clear until they’d all passed by. By then, it would be too late. Another line of legionaries came into view. Not one of them was more than twenty-one or-two years of age.
However many there are, they don’t look like seasoned veterans
. With that realisation, Spartacus’ uncertainty vanished. He took a in a deep breath and blew with all his might.