Laughing Wolf (19 page)

Like most people of his era, Felix knew little about animals. He had come upon dogs and cats only rarely, and knew horses only from pictures in books. As Thrax raced off, he couldn't believe its power, its surefootedness on the rough terrain, not to mention its astounding endurance. When the beast hit a canter, he clutched Spartacus so hard that the iron on his breastplate left marks on his skin.

“Be sure you don't strangle me,” he called out.

They rode the full length of the camp, passing crowds of slaves who were getting ready for the day's campaign. Long columns of men were leaving the meadow and streaming into the neighbouring hills, many of them fitted with Roman equipment, but many dressed in gladiatorial gear, sturdy leather skirts, or reinforced tunics. All were stepping lively, and all looked fierce and full of bluster.

Thrax left them behind. Mounting one hill, then another and another, its hooves clattering against the sun-baked earth, the horse muscled forward as if toward a formal finish line. It was so used to Spartacus's clucks and gestures that Felix thought they were one beast combined, a centaur whose human half could detach itself at will. There wasn't a soul about, apart from Carolyn and Boaz some twenty yards behind.

They rode for half an hour. Advancing on a hill that was the steepest in the region, Spartacus reined Thrax in and dismounted with the grace of a dancer. Boaz and Carolyn appeared moments later, and Spartacus ordered them to stay with the horses. Bidding Felix to follow him closely, he started up the scrub-covered slope, his scabbard jiggling against his calf. The hill was steep and set with loose stones, but Spartacus was fit and climbed without pause. For his part, Felix thought his muscles would seize up: his attempt to cling to Thrax with his thighs had turned his hamstrings to the hardness of marble. Wincing at each step, he did his best to keep up.

After climbing a few minutes, they reached the summit. Once there, Spartacus lay upon his stomach, sheltering behind a wall of scrub. Felix joined him and surveyed the valley below. It paraded fields of wheat and barley with a road down their middle — it was like a zipper on an old pair of pants. Because it was summer the wheat was two feet high and swaying hypnotically at each gust of wind. There were very few trees and even fewer houses, and all livestock had long been driven off. Hugging the horizon was the river Silarus, a band of brilliant silver in the early morning light.

In the distance six squares were stealing over the plain, each a mile long and evenly spaced from its neighbours. Clouds of dust dogged each mass like a shadow, and pinpricks of light struck Felix's eyes, from the sun glinting off a thousand points of metal. While these squares weren't moving at a rapid pace, their momentum seemed unstoppable, and the innumerable spears and swords and arrows proclaimed their target would be cut to pieces. They watched the Romans' progress in silence: if Spartacus was intimidated by this show of strength, he was doing a fine job of concealing his fear.

“They're about to dig in,” he said, as the columns stopped their marching and wagons pulled into view. “I wonder how many camps they'll form. Three, I think.”

“Five,” Felix spoke.

The legions deployed themselves across the plain, attended by their engineers who plotted out the camps' dimensions. They were bent on building five fortifications.

“Isn't it interesting,” Spartacus mused. “That you guessed the number of forts correctly.”

“Pure luck,” Felix replied, cursing himself for speaking out of turn.

“It's funny, too,” Spartacus went on, “how you spoke of the captains Crixus and Castus. You referred to them by their given names, and not by Mors and Dolor, the nicknames they were known by. Very few people know this information.”

Felix's mouth was suddenly dry. Spartacus's gaze was burning a hole in his skull.

“And there's a slave from Prytan who heard you speak to your sister. He said your language is not spoken on his island.”

“I'm not a Roman,” Felix croaked, swallowing hard.

“That much is obvious.”

“And I'm not your enemy.”

“Instead of saying what you aren't, tell me what you are.”

Felix weighed his options, as he watched the Romans. He couldn't tell this man the truth, and yet he couldn't lie outright to him. With a sigh, he tried to find a point in the middle.

“I've been burdened with a dreadful task, one more difficult than the battle that awaits you.” Felix looked the general in the eye. “Billions are depending on the success of my mission. If I fail, if I don't reach Panarium, the entire human race will die, in Italy, in Prytan and everywhere else. Although my story sounds preposterous, the health of my world hangs upon a simple flower.”

For a moment they exchanged stares with each other. Spartacus's features were impossible to read, and Felix was thinking the man had every right to stab him, or to burst out laughing at the tale he'd been told. At the very least he would have him arrested, either as a spy or, worse, a lunatic. Unexpectedly Spartacus looked away and considered the legions in the distance.

“You know how this will end,” he observed, as if stating a fact. “I can see it in your eyes. You can divine the future.”

“I can divine the past,” Felix replied.

“Will we win? Will we prevail today?”

Felix spoke with caution. “There will come a time when no man will be able to enslave his brother. Years from now, remembering leaders like you, people will appreciate the worth of our souls and will guarantee each man his personal freedom. This will come to pass, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

“I understand,” he said slowly. “You are saying we will lose but that, in some way, we will win.”

He climbed to his feet, with a near drunken look. Reaching into a pouch that dangled from his belt, he rummaged inside it until he produced a golden ring. Kissing this, he handed it to Felix, who saw that it was embossed with the figure of a horseman.

“This is for you,” he announced. “In heartfelt thanks for the news you've delivered. It is not every day we learn our fate, and the messenger of such bearings must receive his due — even if he speaks of death.”

“I spoke of life, too,” Felix protested.

“So you did,” he said, with a mournful smile. “But let us leave this place. It would appear I am fated to lead my army to defeat.”

Chapter Seventeen

I
t had been an hour since Felix and Spartacus's exchange and in that interval the slave had been a whirlwind of activity. His priority had been to ride to his troops and order them to move into a forward position: two divisions were to muster on the Romans' sides and attack as soon as the signal was given, three flaming arrows in quick succession. He himself was leading the third division and had marched them to the hill that he and Felix had climbed. At its base, he'd arranged them into twenty cohorts, each containing six hundred troops, and deployed these in an unbroken line: it was a mile long and ten ranks deep. Magonus held the right flank, Gannicus the left, while Spartacus assumed command of the centre. Because it was noon already, his captains advised that they wait until the next day to attack. Spartacus disagreed. He argued that any lengthy delay would allow the Romans to complete their camps and that they should go on the immediate attack.

“Although we can still change our minds,” he suggested, “we can march to the north, dissolve our army and allow every man to make his way home.”

“If we disband,” Magonus answered, “the Romans will find new people to enslave.”

“This is a war to the death,” Gannicus agreed. “Either we die or the Romans do.”

“In that case, we'll fight,” Spartacus said with a shrug. “I just hope the gods are well-disposed to us this day.”

He motioned to a contingent of boys who were dressed all in white. Because the slaves had no cavalry, these boys had been directed to precede the army and fire on any horsemen that approached. Having organized the troops, he motioned Felix over.

“Climb this hill and observe the battle from its crest,” he advised. “Wait until the sun is halfway to the horizon, then proceed due east as fast as you can. After you've covered five miles, turn north and continue to Panarium. Avoid travelling on the diagonal as it will be thick with Romans. And take this.”

He handed him his toga, which had been laundered and repaired. Its folds were damp but would dry out in the sun.

“If you meet any Romans, they'll assume you're one of them.”

“You have our thanks,” Felix croaked, his voice heavy with emotion.

Spartacus nodded. He was about to move away when, just as suddenly, he pulled Felix to him.

“Remember me,” he whispered, practically crushing his ribs. “I will survive somehow if you keep me in your memory.”

“I'll remember you,” he gasped. “I give you my word.

Your presence will be with me till my dying breath.”

“Then farewell, Felix. May the gods smile brightly on your task, and may you only know the glow of freedom all your days.”

Without another word, he turned away. As he stepped toward his beloved Thrax, a young boy handed him a metal helmet, a bowl-like contrivance with a blood-red crest. Fitting this on, he led his horse forward.

His troops were muttering and looked downcast. Now that they were on the verge of battle, they were skittish and uncertain of themselves. One thickset man blocked Spartacus's path and confronted him, his arms akimbo.

“The rumour is you'd rather run than fight,” he cried, in a tone loud enough for dozens to hear. “Is that why your horse is trailing behind you? So that you can flee if the Romans defeat us?”

Spartacus paused and considered the man. A thousand pairs of eyes were witnessing this scene and he could smell the numbing fear taking root in his troops: clearly a gesture of some kind was necessary. He sighed and drew his sword, causing his challenger to retreat a step. Instead of attacking the man, he turned and kissed his horse. As Thrax nuzzled him back, he drove his sword into his breast, killing him instantly as the bronze met his heart.

“I am now without a mount,” he cried, as Thrax shuddered involuntarily and fell to the soil. “I hope you will accept this as a pledge I won't desert you.”

Felix and Carolyn jumped in shock, horrified by the sight of blood and the beast's last spasms. The troops were startled but murmured with approval, while the thickset man fell to his knees and begged the general's pardon for having doubted his courage. Squeezing the man in reassurance, Spartacus raised him to his feet and climbed a nearby boulder.

“I have often heard it said,” he declared, in a voice that travelled the length of his army, “that the Romans have been graced with wisdom, hence their mastery of the world's populations. And yet for a people so wise, they must be fools, because this day they fight a battle that they are fated to lose. Yes, my dearest friends, these legions that thirst to tear our hearts from us cannot possibly achieve victory this day. Consider their purpose: they wish to steal our liberty and make us slaves again. It seems a simple task, yet is as hopeless as returning spilled wine to its bottle. If today we rout our foe from these meadows, even they will admit that they have failed in their quest and we are not dumb beasts to be deprived of our freedom. And if fortune proves fickle and their swords should prevail, not only will death release us from their shackles, but they shall know by our willingness to die in battle that we value freedom above life itself. Both in victory and defeat they shall find themselves worsted.

“My friends and fellow freedmen, our time beneath the sun is short. From cradle to grave, we seek our purpose. What is man? What reason do our struggles serve? The tears we have shed, the toils we have shared, what monument do they raise, what gods do they ennoble? I don't know. I cannot say. There is one sole truth I grasp, and one alone: I have your trust, I have my freedom, and I will fight for both until the sword is pried from my hand. War awaits us. Let us march. Death is not unwelcome if I die by your side.”

The effects of his words were marvellous to behold. From downcast and stooped, the troops were standing straight and cheering themselves hoarse. Without further ado, Spartacus hastened to their front and led them forward at a rapid trot. Felix and Carolyn climbed the adjoining hill and found a perch on its crest where they could watch the proceedings — not that Felix had any doubts how this struggle would end.

“This is crazy,” Carolyn said. “They can't find a better way to settle their disputes?”

“They will not be slaves.”

“I'm talking about the Romans.”

“They have problems of their own.”

“It's so brutal, all of this. Are you going to watch? I don't want to witness the death of these people, never mind which side they fight on.”

“It would be … dishonourable not to,” Felix said, although the idea of watching Spartacus fall pained him deeply. “My father always said that history is an act of friendship. I never understood what he meant … until now.”

They fell silent. By now the slaves were well into the meadow and were formed into their three divisions, each marching alongside the other and with a twenty-metre gap between each group. Each was further divided in three: the front line's purpose was to absorb the foe's onrush; the second was expected to go on the attack; while the third, consisting of the truly hardened troops, was to hold the soldiers in tight formation. These were tactics that mirrored the Romans' own.

The Romans. As soon as scouts had seen the slaves advancing, there'd been a blast of trumpets and the troops had left off work on their camps, grabbed their weapons, and arranged a battle line. Their discipline was breathtaking: three minutes after they had spied the slaves, they were charging forward in an orderly fashion: six rectangles, each with six thousand souls, were converging on the slaves from different angles.