When he finally saw a mop of black, curly hair emerging not fifteen paces from where he stood, Carbo blinked with shock. He watched with bated breath as a tanned face poked over the edge and glanced carefully from side to side. There was a short delay, and then the slinger scrambled up and on to the cliff top. He was soon followed by two more. Crouching low, they began padding towards Carbo’s hiding place.
Where in Hades are the rest? Waiting until their comrades give them the all clear?
Carbo was afforded no chance to give thanks as the remaining scouts climbed into view. The first three were almost upon him. ‘NOW!’ he roared, and threw himself around the mound of stones. He had a brief impression of startled faces and shouted curses before, miraculously, he was past, charging for the top of the slope and the trio of slingers there. They took one look at him, and turned to run.
Zip!
An arrow flashed past Carbo, burying itself deep in one man’s back. He went down with a loud groan. ‘Take the one on the right!’ Carbo bellowed. Praying that the archer had heard him, he aimed for the figure to his left, a short man with prominent cheekbones.
Luck was on his side. The slinger was so desperate to escape that as he spun, he tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Carbo was on him like a wild beast on its prey. He hacked down with his gladius, slicing open the man’s back from his shoulder to his waist. Blood flew up in great gouts, and a bubbling scream of agony left his victim’s lips. It was cut brutally short as Carbo plunged his blade between the slinger’s ribs, shredding one lung and piercing his heart. Instantly, the man slumped down; his arms and legs kicked manically and then relaxed.
Frantically dragging free his sword, Carbo whipped around to see what was happening. The bowman had not been exaggerating about his ability. Another corpse lay on its back beside the first, an arrow jutting from its open mouth. Carbo’s gaze flickered to the rocks where he’d hidden. Two slingers were down, but the last had killed one of his men, and was now armed with a sword. Spinning on his heel, he pounded straight towards Carbo, shrieking at the top of his lungs.
Carbo’s vision narrowed. If he didn’t stop this man, he would be to blame for everything.
Zip!
An arrow shot over the slinger’s shoulder. It nearly took Carbo’s eye out. ‘Stop shooting!’ he cried, stepping into the other’s path. He raised his sword.
But the scout had no interest in fighting him. Skidding to one side, he angled around Carbo, aiming for the top of the slope.
He’d misjudged, thought Carbo, cursing silently. ‘Take him down! Quickly!’ Ducking, and praying that the archer didn’t hit him instead, he sprinted forward. There was a rush of air over his shoulder, and an arrow struck the slinger in the back. He staggered, but then righted himself. Dropping his sword, the man tugged free one of the two strips of cloth that was draped around his neck. He wove closer to the edge, waving the black fabric over his head.
The grim realisation of what the scout was trying to do hit Carbo at once. The banner meant ‘Enemy sighted’, and if anyone in Lentulus’ army saw it, he would have failed.
Carbo covered the last few steps at breakneck speed. Ramming his gladius into the man’s back, he reached up and grabbed the cloth with his left hand. Somehow he threw his arm around his moaning victim’s neck, and dragged him backwards, all the while shoving his blade deeper. The slinger’s cries quickly dropped to a low whimpering. A heartbeat later, he’d become a dead weight, so Carbo let him fall. Pulling out his sword, he thrust down twice, adding another blood-spattered corpse to the others lying nearby.
Carbo scanned the area. All the scouts were down, dying or dead. His men gave him victorious grins, but he did not return the smile. They had not necessarily succeeded. Someone might have seen the fighting. He dropped to his belly and wormed over to the edge. With churning guts, he studied the massive Roman column, his eyes roving to and fro for any indications of alarm or disquiet. To Carbo’s immense relief, he saw nothing.
‘Were we seen?’ It was the bowman’s voice.
Carbo moved back a little. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
Thank you, Jupiter
.
The bowman let out a long sigh.
‘Good work,’ said Carbo.
‘I should have taken the last bastard down with one arrow.’
‘He was strong and desperate,’ replied Carbo. ‘Anyway, he’s dead now.’ His eyes strayed to the slinger’s body and took in the second strip of cloth around his neck. It was red, the same colour as the
vexilla
flags used by the legions. A new wave of panic swamped him. The banner could have only one purpose. It was to signal that there was no danger on the cliff tops. If it wasn’t seen, more Roman troops would be sent to investigate. Carbo glanced down and cursed. His tunic was saturated in blood. Unbuckling his belt, he pulled the sodden fabric over his head and threw it down. ‘Quick! I need the tunic with the least blood on it.’
The bowman gaped at him.
‘So I can wave the red cloth at the Romans and not arouse suspicion.’
At last the bowman understood. Together they checked the dead. It didn’t take long to see that the cleanest tunic was the one belonging to the slinger who’d been struck in the mouth. They stripped the corpse and Carbo shrugged on the sweaty garment. Then, grabbing the red strip of cloth from the last man’s neck, he strode to the top of the slope. With his heart thumping like a drum, he raised it over his head and waved it from side to side. ‘Nothing here!’ he shouted in accented Latin. ‘Not a soul to be seen!’
There was no response from below.
Carbo was glad. It made it more likely that the slingers’ fight for survival hadn’t been spotted. He redoubled his efforts, cupping a hand to his lips so that his voice carried further. A last his efforts paid off. Followed by a signifer, an officer in a cohort near the front shoved his way out of the ranks. A moment later, the standard was raised and lowered a number of times. Without even waiting to see how he responded, the officer returned to his position. Sheer exultation seized Carbo. ‘We did it!’ he hissed to the bowman.
‘Well done, sir.’
Unused to being addressed in such a manner, Carbo blinked. Then he squared his shoulders proudly. ‘We’d best keep a good watch in case any more of the bastards come poking around. You stay here with the others. If you see as much as a rock fall, I want to know about it.’
There was a fierce grin of acknowledgement.
Carbo inclined his head and began calling his men together. They’d need strict orders not to move until he told them to.
Spartacus’ two biggest concerns as Lentulus’ forces spilled out of the defile were that Egbeo and Pulcher would attack too soon, and of how much damage the Roman cavalry could do. The enemy riders pulled off to one side, allowing their foot soldiers to manoeuvre into position, a process which took considerable time. Sitting calmly on their horses some three hundred paces away, they looked quite harmless. From bitter experience, Spartacus knew otherwise. It had been a calculated decision to afford himself no horsemen. He’d decided to leave his riders with Castus and Gannicus. They had been training solidly since their formerly wild mounts had been captured in the mountains around Thurii, but unlike the slaves who fought as infantry, Spartacus’ riders had never been tested in battle. As one great bloc, they’d be more confident, and more likely to succeed.
Besides, he wanted the cream of his men – those around him – to learn the taste of a victory that they’d won alone against the most invincible of enemies: the legionary. He was pleased by the barrage of insults that they were already hurling at the Romans. Naturally enough, one or two overeager fools had thrown their javelins, but the rest were holding their lines in good order. It was proof that the training he’d started, and which Navio had continued, had paid off. Proof that they’d shed their slave mentality.
He had a calm confidence that Carbo would play his part well. The young Roman was as loyal as any of his men – even Atheas and Taxacis.
Great Rider, I ask that Carbo never has to do what I asked of him
. With that request, Spartacus closed his heart. It was time to ready himself for battle. He deliberately filled his mind with the graphic images of Thracian villages that had been overrun by the Romans. The mounds of mutilated bodies. The sheets of gore and hacked-off limbs that had coated the ground. The grinning, empty-eyed heads on pila that had been stabbed into the mud. Old men who had been crucified on the gable ends of their own houses. Countless women who’d lain motionless, like dolls discarded by children. The pools of blood spreading from between their thighs that had given the lie to any such innocent notion. The tiny crumpled forms that turned his stomach still: babies who’d had their brains dashed out against walls. And his brother Maron, wasted to little more than a skeleton, dying in screaming agony.
A swelling rage began pulsing through Spartacus. His very eyeballs throbbed; his chest felt as if iron bands were strapped tightly around it. He felt angrier than he’d done in years. This was the moment he’d dreamed of. Longed for.
Vengeance will be mine
. All he wanted to do was kill. Slash, hack, chop into little pieces every motherfucking Roman who came within reach of his sword.
He called for his trumpeters. ‘Remember the arranged signal. Act the instant I give you the command. Mess it up, and I’ll cut your balls off. Understand?’
The trio nodded dumbly. Fearfully.
Spartacus waved them away, to the safety of the ground behind his men. He surveyed his troops for the final time. He’d ordered three lines, and arrayed them in cohorts, as the Romans did. Nearly all the soldiers were armed with pila. Most were armed with a gladius and a scutum, and wearing a bronze crested helmet, as the legionaries did. They were a magnificent sight.
‘I see you!’ Spartacus shouted. ‘I see you, my soldiers, and my heart is filled with pride! Do you hear me? PRIDE!’
They cheered him for that until their throats were hoarse.
‘Today, you are going to fight a full-strength Roman legion for the first time. It is an occasion to be grateful for. To rejoice in! To thank the gods! Why? I hear you ask. Because we are going to take on the legionaries and tear them into bloody shreds!’ Spartacus barked a triumphant laugh. ‘The moment that Carbo blocks the defile, the battle will begin. When the bastards hit our lines, our trumpets will summon ten thousand of our comrades from their hiding places. They will fall on the Romans’ left flank, and sweep all before them. We shall do the same from our position. By the end of the day, I swear to you that this field will be littered with the enemy’s dead! Every man of you will have slain until his sword arm is shaking with weakness. Every one of you will be properly equipped. There will be more grain and wine in the Roman camp than we can eat, enough silver to fill all your purses, but best of all,’ and Spartacus pointed his sica at the silver eagle that stood proudly above the centre of the Roman line, ‘we will have two of those in our possession. What more proof of the gods’ favour can there be?’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they roared. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Keeping rhythm, Spartacus began to hammer his blade off his scutum.
Clash! Clash! Clash!
Roman soldiers advanced in complete silence, a tactic that intimidated most opponents. Fuck that, thought Spartacus, and redoubled his efforts. Let Lentulus hear my name, and the thunder of my men’s anger, and tremble in his britches. Let his troops soil themselves with fear.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Spartacus smiled grimly and resumed his place in the midst of his men.
The deafening noise went on and on and on.
Spartacus squinted at the enemy lines.
Good. There must be nearly five thousand Romans in view. Carbo will act any moment now
.
The waiting that Carbo had had to endure before previous ambushes paled into insignificance beside that morning. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to heave the first rock over the edge. To add to his own concerns, his men were on tenterhooks. The immensity of their task and the dreadful effect it would have were all too clear now. They were desperate to start the fight, and Carbo had his job cut out to maintain discipline. ‘Spartacus told me when to attack, understand?’ he growled over and over. ‘We
must
split the legions in two. Too soon, and we’ll leave Castus and Gannicus with all the work to do. It’s all down to us, and we have to get it right.’
Eventually, his message seemed to sink home, and the men relaxed a fraction. However, the knot in Carbo’s belly did not go away. For upwards of half an hour he watched the legionaries marching steadily through the defile. Although they were the enemy, it was a magnificent sight, and a tiny part of his heart ached that he had never been able to join the legions. The pricks wouldn’t accept me, he thought savagely. Only Spartacus was able to see something in me. He glanced at the piles of boulders, some of which were larger than ox carts. Those will be their punishment.
The sound of shouting and metallic clashing rang out, and Carbo’s head went up. He couldn’t discern any words, but it had to be Spartacus’ men who were making such an immense amount of noise.
The gods be with them
.