Spartacus: Rebellion (50 page)

Finally, he began to see Roman casualties. It was inevitable, he supposed. Thousands of soldiers cannot stand face to face with their enemies, hammering blows at one another, without suffering some losses. Yet his men had not broken and run as so many of their comrades had done in the two years prior. Crassus knew this from the evidence before him, but also because he had watched the entire battle from a vantage point on the slopes of Mount Camalatrum, the first of the peaks that rolled off to the east. It had been an incredible sight, watching the hordes of slaves sweeping forward at his regimented cohorts. Their ranks had been swept by bolts and stones from his artillery, and then by slingshot bullets and javelins, but their charge had not checked. The
crash
when they had struck his men’s lines had reverberated through the air like a thunderclap. Yet the slaves had not broken through. Instead, they had washed off the shield wall like waves off a rock. ‘How many legionaries did we lose?’

‘Just over three hundred killed, sir,’ answered Rufus quickly.

‘Injured?’

‘Two hundred men and fifteen officers will never fight again, sir. About twice that number suffered minor injuries.’

‘And the number of enemy dead?’ Crassus had been told the figure already, but he had to hear it again.

‘At a rough count, sir, something over twelve thousand, sir,’ said Rufus with great satisfaction.

‘So the enemy lost about forty men for each of ours, or my mathematics isn’t what it was.’

‘That’d be about right, sir.’

He glanced around, smiling. ‘We can live with casualties like that, eh? Especially when five eagles and more than two dozen standards have been recaptured in the process!’

His officers muttered in agreement.

I can lose a damn sight more men than that, thought Crassus ruthlessly, just as long as I do it before the others get here. There had been no recent word of Lucullus’ progress towards Italy from Thrace, but the man would certainly arrive within the next two months. And unless the gods had done him a huge favour, Pompey’s legions would reach them within a matter of weeks.
Curse him!
Time was of the utmost. Spartacus had to be brought to bay, and fast.

‘Were many prisoners taken?’

‘Three or four score, sir,’ said Rufus. ‘Perhaps three times that number got away.’

‘Let them go.’

Rufus goggled. ‘Sir?’

‘You heard me! They are to be released.’

‘I don’t understand, sir. They’re vermin, who deserve nothing but a cross. Some of them might try to rejoin Spartacus.’

‘That’s precisely what I want them to do, fool. A few slaves less or more in the rabble we fight is nothing to me. I want Spartacus to hear of this defeat as soon as possible.’

‘A shrewd move, sir,’ said Quinctius smoothly; behind him, Rufus coloured again.

Crassus’ gaze turned to the north. He wasn’t a man for continually asking things of the gods, but at times, it felt right.
Great Jupiter, All Powerful Mars, I ask you to help me find Spartacus. Soon.

Spartacus stood outside his tent with a blanket around his shoulders. It was his favourite time of the day – just after dawn. To the east, the sky was marked a vivid pink colour by the rising sun. Tiny trickles of smoke rose from the fires that had not gone out overnight. It was late enough to be light, but early enough that most men were still asleep. In the distance, a mule brayed softly at one of its companions. Apart from that, the huge camp was quiet.

Spartacus’ thoughts had only one place to go. Crassus and his legions. He did not like retreating from the enemy, not without a battle. Retreat? That was what men who’d been beaten did. Yet again, he wished that his assassination attempt on Crassus had succeeded. The man was turning out to be a half-decent tactician. Three days before, Spartacus had been delighted when his arrival had thwarted Crassus’ intended ambush of Castus and Gannicus’ forces. Yet his opponent’s response the following day had stolen all his pleasure.

A daring feint made by Crassus’ horse – a series of stinging attacks followed by measured withdrawals – had fooled first Spartacus’ cavalry commanders and then he himself into thinking that Crassus wanted to fight both them and the Gauls simultaneously. They had pursued the Roman horsemen with haste for some miles. It had been nothing but a ruse, engineered so that Crassus’ full strength could be deployed against Castus and Gannicus. By the time Spartacus had realised, it had been far too late to think about turning his army around. Choose the ground you fight on; do not let it be chosen for you, went the old maxim, and he stuck to that with religious fervency. He hawked and spat. Forty-odd thousand legionaries against thirteen thousand slaves? Such an unequal contest would only ever have one result.

His presumption had been proved correct the previous evening, when a few dozen survivors had straggled into his camp. They had been brought straight to him, bloodied and battered; he’d heard the sorry story from their cracked lips. The Gauls and their men had died well enough, he thought bitterly. They had fought right to the end. ‘What fucking use is that, though?’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’re all dead. If the fools had stayed with me, they would still be alive.’
And my army wouldn’t have been reduced in size by a quarter.

By now, his entire army would have heard of the crushing Roman victory. The shocking news would have passed from tent to tent faster than the plague, and would have a profound effect on his men’s morale. The same would be true of Crassus’ legionaries, but in reverse. They would now be raring to confront his soldiers, and with good reason. While the odds weren’t as badly stacked against him and his men as they had been for the Gauls, Spartacus was still chary of an open battle against Crassus. If it had to happen, the ground had to be right. Otherwise he might as well lay down his arms.

There were other problems to consider too. Crassus’ close proximity and Spartacus’ need to keep his army on the move meant that few slaves were coming to join them. Then there was Pompey. How soon would he bring his legions into the equation? Say a month at the earliest, he thought darkly, three months at the outside. Not long. Scarcely enough time to recruit and train ten thousand men, let alone five times that number. With an army sixteen legions strong, the Romans would hunt them down with ease. It won’t matter where we go. They will find us.

‘Can’t sleep?’

He looked up in surprise. ‘Carbo. I’m just enjoying the quiet. What are you doing here?’

‘I had a poor night’s rest, decided to go hunting. I wondered if you’d come?’

A weary smile. ‘Another time, maybe.’

Carbo glanced at Spartacus, and then looked away. ‘I can’t stop thinking about what will happen when Pompey arrives.’

This is the real reason he’s here.
‘Things will get a lot worse, that’s what will happen.’

‘Maybe we should fight Crassus now, before Pompey arrives?’ Carbo ventured.

‘We might have to,’ came the grim reply. ‘But we need a battlefield that would suit us, and I haven’t seen too many of those in the last couple of days. Somewhere narrow is vital, where Crassus wouldn’t be able to use his superior numbers to flank us. Or a good spot for an ambush. That would do.’

Carbo did not know how to say what he’d been brooding about all night, so he just came out with it. Spartacus might think he was mad, but he had to try. ‘Have you considered Brundisium?’

‘The town in the south-east?’

‘That’s the one. From what I know, it’s not that well defended. There’s no need for it to be. We could easily take it.’

Spartacus frowned. ‘Why would we do that? Crassus would hem us in there, as he did in the toe.’

‘It’s the biggest port in Italy. I don’t know how many ships would be tied up on the quay at any one time, but it’ll be a lot. Certainly enough vessels to carry a few thousand men, but there could be more. From Brundisium, it’s not far to Illyria, or even Greece.’

Spartacus’ mind began to race. The Alps were too far, and his men had balked there before, but this, this was news he hadn’t expected. He chewed on it for a moment. ‘How far is it to Brundisium?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Two hundred miles, maybe a bit less? It’s straight down the Via Appia, which is only half a day’s march from here. We could make it in ten days.’

Ariadne’s voice broke in. ‘Make where in ten days?’

Spartacus lifted a finger to his lips and beckoned her closer. Quickly, he explained.

Her face lit up. ‘You think we could do it?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘What about Crassus?’ she asked warily. ‘His cavalry are shadowing us as if their lives depended on it.’

‘He knows our every move,’ Spartacus admitted. ‘The prick will be after us like a hound on a hare if he suspects what we’re up to.’ His eyes glittered. ‘We’d have to act fast. Take the town in the first attack.’

‘I could ride ahead with Navio, see if I can bribe a guard on one of the gates,’ offered Carbo. ‘If that didn’t work, we might be able to lower ropes over the wall at night for an assault party.’

‘You’re a good man, Carbo.’

Ariadne murmured her agreement, and Carbo flushed with pride. He eyed his leader, his heart thumping. What would Spartacus decide?

‘Very well. We’ll head south-east.’ Ariadne let out a little cry of happiness and Spartacus held up a warning finger. ‘But if the right site offers itself on the way, I’m going to make a stand. This idea might come to nothing, and Pompey’s legions will get here soon. Defeating Crassus before they join up would nicely reduce the numbers facing us. It would also give us more breathing space to reach Brundisium and possibly get the entire army out – not just part of it.’ He clapped Carbo on the shoulder. ‘My thanks.’

Carbo grinned. It was risky, but there was a way out of their predicament after all.

Two days later, Spartacus had begun to believe that his future was finally brightening. They had reached the Via Appia without incident, camping the first night in a valley that was split into two by a fast-flowing river. The following afternoon, he’d been brought news that the Roman horse dogging their trail were drawing closer and closer to his rearguard. Spartacus had seized the chance to take on the enemy again. Sending his cavalry into the wooded hills that ran along their right side, he had made his way to the army’s tail. An hour or so later, he’d heard a single trumpet sound from the treeline some distance behind the Roman horsemen. It had been the signal for the rearmost cohorts to turn about face and present arms.

As the enemy cavalry had reined in, pondering their best course of action, his riders had charged from cover. The ambush had been a resounding success. Mad for revenge because of what had happened to Castus and Gannicus and their men, Spartacus’ soldiers had fought like demons. The Romans had been driven from the field with heavy casualties. Among the injured had been one of their commanders, who’d been lucky to escape with his life. Crassus would have discovered that the scorpion was still well able to sting, thought Spartacus with great satisfaction. He hadn’t seen an enemy scout or horseman since. The legions were still following, but at a safer distance.

He grinned. There was no way that Crassus could yet know of his intention to make for Brundisium. Carbo and Navio had set out on horseback at dusk two days previously, leading a pair of spare mounts each. Because their extra horses would attract unwanted attention – normally, only official messengers or cavalry travelled in this way – they would travel while it was dark, and conceal themselves during the day. With a little luck, Spartacus would have some news within two weeks.

In the meantime, he could march his army south – not at breakneck speed, for that would raise Crassus’ suspicions, but at a more leisurely pace of twelve to fifteen miles daily. This in turn meant that in the eventuality of a battle, his soldiers would be more rested than if they were marching hard. Spartacus’ men had no idea of his intent. He had told Egbeo, Pulcher and a few of his other senior officers, but the rest thought that they were in search of more supplies. He didn’t want a reaction similar to the one when he had suggested that they cross the Alps. For his plan to have any chance of working, the army had to do exactly as he wished.

If a confrontation with Crassus had been avoided by the time Carbo returned, he would tell his men then. There would be no mention of their previous glories, just a heavy emphasis on the sixteen legions that they would soon have to face. If that didn’t persuade the dogs to leave Italy, thought Spartacus, nothing would.

If, however, an opportunity presented itself to fight Crassus, there would be no mention of Brundisium until afterwards. As at the Alps, however, a recent victory might make it harder to win over his soldiers. Spartacus estimated that the majority would see sense. Being penned into the toe by the legions for two months had given a clear indication of what could happen to them. It wasn’t as if he was planning to end his fight against Rome either – far from it. The war could continue in Illyria, and then Thrace. His homeland.

Since seeing his troops’ reaction to their first defeat on the ridge, he had begun to long for Thrace and his own kind. That major setback – their first – had been enough to knock the confidence out of most. Yes, they had flocked to him in their tens of thousands previously – not of late, he thought bitterly – yes, they had just won another clash against the Romans, but they had not been born to war as he and his kind had. He still felt great loyalty towards them, but Thracian tribes were more used to fighting Rome. Although many had been subjugated, the flames of their hatred towards the foreign invaders still burned. Spartacus wanted to fan those flames into a conflagration once more. His people’s fierce independence would be an obstacle to uniting them, but would it be any worse than having to manage men such as Castus and Gannicus?

The prospect now seemed better than facing ever larger armies here. If he left, Rome would still want vengeance, but Spartacus doubted that they would send sixteen legions after him. A few maybe, but those he could deal with.

Another two days passed in similar fashion. Spartacus’ army marched south-east without hindrance; the Romans did not attempt to move any closer to his forces, which Spartacus assumed meant that Crassus hadn’t realised that he might break for Brundisium. Yet the changing terrain would soon force Spartacus’ hand one way or another. The Via Appia was angling out from the shadow of the Apennines, threading a route through the countryside that would soon take it close to the east coast. Away from the mountains’ protection, his intention would be obvious to anyone but an imbecile. Frustratingly, it would be at least a week until Carbo and Navio got back. Spartacus didn’t like it, but he was going to have to make the decision to continue travelling south-east or to double back on his trail before the pair returned.