Spartacus: The Gladiator (66 page)

Amidst the mêlée, a few terrified Roman faces turned around.

‘The eagle is ours. The gods are on our side!’ Spartacus shook the standard defiantly at them. ‘Cowards!’

No one answered him, and his men yelled with delight.

He took a quick look around. The legionaries on the left flank were also in full retreat. Those on the right, who until that point had held their position, were wavering. It wouldn’t be long until they also broke, thought Spartacus with certainty. He had no idea where the Roman cavalry were, but they couldn’t have made much of an impression because the ranks to his rear were still solid. The battle on this side of the defile was as good as won. He had a hunch that with the advantage of all their horsemen, Castus and Gannicus would be achieving the same on the other side.

Let it be so, Great Rider
.

Ariadne’s worries about Spartacus had consumed her from the moment he’d left. She’d spent hours praying and making offerings to Dionysus, but typically, had seen nothing that remotely reassured her. She knew better than to get angry with the capricious god, so she funnelled her frustration into marshalling the camp’s women and preparing them for the inevitable influx of wounded after the fighting was over. Even that supposition was disquieting. If the slaves lost the battle, there’d be no need for bandages, dressings and poultices but that, like Spartacus’ death, didn’t bear thinking about. And then there was Atheas, who’d been shadowing her every move. Ariadne found it unnerving. Before Spartacus had left, she had asked him what would happen if things went against them. He had touched a finger to her lips, saying, ‘That isn’t going to happen.’ Ariadne had insisted, however, and so he’d told her of how the Scythian and Carbo would escort her to safety.

She glanced at Atheas. His attempt to reassure her, a smile full of sharp brown teeth, made her feel worse. Yet interacting with the Scythian was preferable to talking with the other women. Every sound that reached them from the direction of the battlefield was either met with tears or wails of dismay. Even when, as now, the noises died away, the lamentations went on. Ariadne peered at the sky. How long had it been since Spartacus had set off with the army? Four hours? Five?

‘What do you think has happened?’ she whispered to Atheas. ‘Is it over?’

He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Impossible … say. Maybe they … rest … before fight again.’

The agony of not knowing was suddenly too much to bear. ‘I’m going to the cliffs to see what’s going on.’

Atheas was on his feet before she’d even finished speaking. ‘That … very bad idea.’

Ariadne gave him a frosty glare. ‘You will stop me?’

‘Yes,’ he said with an apologetic look.

She wasn’t surprised by his answer, but felt the need to argue anyway. ‘I’ll do what I want.’

‘No.’ Atheas’ tone was firm. ‘Too dangerous. You … stay here.’

‘Your women fight, do they not?’

He grinned, sheepishly. ‘Yes.’

‘Why should I not even go to watch the battle then?’

‘Because Spartacus … said so.’ Atheas hesitated for an instant. ‘Because of … child.’

‘He told you.’

‘Yes,’ replied the Scythian awkwardly.

A poignant image of Spartacus giving Atheas his final instructions filled Ariadne’s mind, and her breath caught in her chest.
The gods bless him and keep him safe forever
. ‘Let us hope that you and Carbo are never called on to fulfil the duty that he asked of you.’

‘I also ask … my gods … that.’ There was a gruff, unusual note to his voice.

Tears pricked at Ariadne’s eyes. In the chaotic months after they’d escaped the ludus, the unswerving devotion that he and Taxacis had showed to Spartacus had gone unacknowledged, by her at least. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realised how much she’d come to take it for granted, and of how dear the grim, tattooed warrior had become to her. ‘Why do you follow him?’

His thick eyebrows lifted. ‘Spartacus?’

She nodded.

There was a tiny smile. ‘No one … ever ask me.’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘When Taxacis and I … captured … other slaves refuse … talk with us. Think all Scythians … savages.’ Atheas spat his contempt on the ground. ‘But Spartacus … different.’

‘Go on,’ encouraged Ariadne.

‘In ludus … he act like … leader.’ He shrugged. ‘No chance … return … Scythia, so we decide … follow him.’

‘He is grateful for your loyalty. I want you to know that I am too.’

Atheas dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘You chose wisely,’ said Ariadne. ‘When we cross the Alps, you will be free to travel to Scythia once more.’

He grinned fiercely. ‘I look forward … that day.’

‘And so do I.’ May Dionysus grant that it happens, thought Ariadne, doing her best to ignore the pangs of concern that were tearing at her heart.

By trotting from one end of the cliff tops to the other, Carbo was able to monitor the fight on both fronts. He had a bird’s-eye view of the battle, and so it was patently clear when the tide turned not just for Spartacus, but for the Gaulish leaders as well. Smashed apart by the slaves’ cavalry, Lentulus’ second legion was then slaughtered by Castus’ and Gannicus’ men. At least a third of its legionaries fell on the field, and the rest were harangued as they fled, losing countless more men in the process. The story was little different on Spartacus’ side of the defile.

As the scale of the victory became clearer, Carbo’s men grew more and more ecstatic. They danced and sang, praising every god in the pantheon for the interventions on their behalf. He, while also delighted by the victory, was struck by the shame of the Roman defeat. He was furious with himself for even feeling that emotion, but it couldn’t be denied. The sooner they crossed the mountains and left Italy, Carbo thought, the better. There at least he would have no regard for their enemies. He would be able to follow Spartacus without feeling in some way disloyal to his heritage. Perhaps, too, he could forget Crixus, and what he had done to Chloris.

Yet if it ever came to it, Carbo also knew that he would follow the Thracian into battle against the legions again. Too much water had gone under the bridge since he’d left home. Too much blood had been shed for there to be any going back.

He was Spartacus’ man, whatever the future held.

And that, despite all the uncertainty, was a good feeling.

More than two hours passed. Finally, the noise of loud cheering carried into the camp. Ariadne’s heart jolted in her chest. She raced with everyone else to the track which led north, and waited. Shivers racked her body, but they weren’t caused by the cooling mountain air. Just because the slaves had won didn’t mean that Spartacus had survived. She saw the same fear mirrored in every woman’s expression. They all had loved ones in the army’s ranks, but it was likely that many of them would never return. Guilt suffused Ariadne at the very thought of it, but she hoped that others had died rather than Spartacus, that she would not be the one to be left alone forever. She stole a glance at the pinched faces around her. Even Atheas looked concerned.
They’re all thinking the same thing
. That realisation made her feel fractionally better.

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

The loud cry filled Ariadne with an unquenchable joy. She was running before she knew it, her feet pounding along the track. A disorganised mass of slaves rounded the bend, and she scanned them frantically. It was impossible not to notice the dozen standards that were being brandished aloft. Despite her worries, Ariadne’s eyes widened at the sight of two silver eagles amongst them. Then, recognising Spartacus, bloodied from head to foot, without a helmet but walking without help, she let out a yelp of happiness. A moment later, she had reached him, and thrown herself into his arms.

His men’s cheering redoubled. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’

‘You’re alive, you’re alive,’ she murmured.

‘Of course I am,’ he replied, squeezing her tight. ‘Were you worried about me?’

Shocked, Ariadne pulled back to stare at him, and saw that he was joking. She didn’t know whether to laugh, to cry, or to kiss him. In the event, she did all three, in that order. She didn’t care that he stank of sweat and other men’s blood, that everyone was watching, that a priestess of Dionysus was not supposed to act in such a manner. All Ariadne cared about was that the man she loved had not died that day on the battlefield. That the child growing in her belly still had a father. Those two things were enough.

There were shouts of delight as the other women arrived and were seen by their men. The slaves streamed forward to be reunited with their loved ones, leaving Spartacus and Ariadne like an island in a river, oblivious, locked in each other’s arms.

‘You won,’ she said at last.

‘We did,’ he declared. ‘Everything went according to plan, thank the gods. Lentulus took the bait, and advanced into the gorge. Carbo split the legions apart, and shook their confidence. The moment the battle began, Egbeo and Pulcher emerged with their men to take them in the left flank. The bastards never knew what had happened. They broke and ran like a flock of sheep with a wolf amongst them.’

‘And Castus and Gannicus?’

‘They fared just as well.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Pursuing the Romans. Butchering every man they find, and making sure that they can’t regroup. Not that there’s much chance of that. The rest of the men are stripping the Roman dead of their weapons and equipment, or ransacking their camp for supplies.’

‘Was Lentulus captured or slain?’

‘Unfortunately not. When he saw that the battle was lost, he fled on horseback. Not that it matters!’ His scowl was replaced by a smile. ‘He can carry the news of this defeat to the Senate himself. You’ve seen the eagles we took. The shame of that disgrace will be a far greater sting to Rome’s pride than the men who were killed today. Lentulus will be lucky to survive with his head.’

She kissed him happily on the lips. ‘You are a great general. Truly, Dionysus favours you.’

‘The Great Rider was here today too. He lent me his strength,’ he said reverently. Joy filled him.
Maron has finally been avenged
.

Silence fell between them as they both offered up thanks to the gods.

‘What next?’ asked Ariadne. Her pulse quickened with new fear. ‘You’re not tempted to go in search of the second consular army?’

‘Tempted? Of course I am! Crixus might even welcome the help!’ He saw her concern, and his fierce expression gentled. ‘No, the Romans are like locusts. There’s no end to their armies. If Gellius appears, we will fight him, but my plan is still to head north, to the Alps.’

‘They are not far now.’ Ariadne let her mind wander. ‘Our son could be born in Gaul.’

‘Maybe,’ said Spartacus, wary of tempting the gods, wary because life had previously handed him so many harsh lessons. ‘Let us reach the mountains first, and cross them before making any assumptions.’ He grinned at her, keen to dispel his worries. ‘Today, though, let us rejoice in our victory and the knowledge that Rome has learned a lesson.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked, smiling.

‘That slaves can also be soldiers. That they can take on the might of a consular army, and win. I knew it could be done, and today I proved it.’

A man could die happy knowing he’d accomplished that
.

Author’s Note

I KNOW THAT I am not alone in finding Spartacus’ life compelling. Along with Hannibal Barca, he is one of the most iconic figures I can think of. What’s not to love? His is the story of a man who was wronged and sold into slavery, who is forced to fight for his life for the amusement of the mob. Escaping captivity with a few supporters, he won incredible victories against totally overwhelming odds, gained the support of tens of thousands of escaped slaves, won more amazing battles, and planned to escape from Italy completely. As most of you know, things for Spartacus started to unwind after that, but the tragedy of his tale only adds to the drama.

Capturing people’s imagination in the 1950s, Howard Fast’s book
Spartacus
sold five million copies. It spawned a blockbusting film starring Kirk Douglas, which just about everyone in possession of a television has seen. Consequently, Spartacus has become a name recognised by all. The man’s renown may have dimmed of recent years, but in the last eighteen months he has been portrayed anew. I was delighted when the series
Spartacus: Blood and Sand
screened on TV here in the UK. From the two episodes I have allowed myself to watch, it seems to play fast and loose with historical detail, but few can deny that it makes for dramatic and exciting viewing. In September 2011, few people were left untouched by the tragic death from cancer of Andy Whitfield, who brought Spartacus so vividly to life in the series. Recently, word has come of a new Hollywood version of the tale. I only hope it can live up to expectations. Naturally, I wish the same of this book. I have done my very best to do justice to the incredible story of the man who took on the might of the Roman Republic and nearly brought it crashing down. I sincerely hope that you think it brings Spartacus the Thracian to life.