There were small groups of soldiers present in the still-empty areas around Crassus’ quarters: one legionary from every contubernium, and scores of mule drivers. Under the supervision of shouting junior officers, they were unloading their tents from hundreds of ill-tempered, tail-flicking mules. The stink of manure and the attendant clouds of flies were enough to make Crassus ride past with curled lip.
The path ahead, jammed with more mules and messengers hurrying to and fro, cleared miraculously as the officer at the front shouted his presence. On each side, red-faced, sweating soldiers pulled themselves to attention; optiones and tesserarii saluted; slaves looked at the ground. Crassus acknowledged a few of the officers and men with curt waves of his hand.
To protect the soldiers from missile attack, the tent lines ended some hundred paces before the western rampart, which had already been built to the height of a tall man. Sharpened wooden stakes decorated the outer face of the fortifications, forming a protective palisade. Along the top of the rampart, soldiers were busy tamping down the earth with their trenching tools. Branches were being laid down to form a walkway and, off to each side, Crassus could see the watchtower that would adorn each corner being constructed. They filed through the entrance to the outside. A faint breeze hit his flushed cheeks, and he turned his head from side to side, trying to get some relief: he was cooking in his armour. It made no real difference, and his temper frayed a little further.
He urged his horse off to the left, where a party of legionaries were completing the defensive ditch. Caepio shouted at the men in front, who did a hasty about-turn and marched at double time to get in front of their commander.
Crassus’ presence was soon noted. Until he halted, however, or asked a question of an officer, no one dared to stop what he was doing. Surreptitious glances were cast at him aplenty, and everywhere he looked, the work rate shot up. Occasionally, he found it amusing to linger while the legionaries kept up the new, unsustainable speed of their labour. Still wearing their mail shirts, swords and daggers, they heaved and panted, never daring to slow down.
Spotting a portion of the trench that had collapsed, he rode closer to investigate. A burly centurion was in charge, cursing his men as they repaired the damage. Crassus reined in to watch. Caepio and his escort stamped to a halt too. Engrossed with his duty, the officer didn’t notice that they were there.
‘Faster, you lazy sons of whores! If you don’t want my vine cane rammed up each of your sweaty arses, you’d better have this section finished before I can count to five hundred. One. Two. Three.’ He leered as the soldiers, drenched in sweat, covered in a layer of dust, began to dig with renewed energy. ‘That’s a bit more like it. Four. Five. Six.’ Looking up, he recognised Crassus and threw off a hasty salute ‘Sir!’ Then, at his men, ‘Stop!’
Most of his legionaries obeyed. Still fearful, some didn’t register, and kept digging. With the ease of long practice, the centurion brought his vine cane down across the back of the nearest offenders’ legs. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. ‘STOP, you maggots! Your commanding officer, the illustrious Marcus Licinius Crassus, has deigned to visit you!’
Startled, the offending soldiers downed their tools.
‘Attention!’ roared the centurion. Standing waist deep in the earth, his men did as they were told. He glanced at Crassus. ‘We are honoured by your presence, sir. Isn’t that right, lads?’
‘YES, SIR!’
‘Commendable work rate, centurion. Are your men as keen to fight Spartacus as they are to dig dirt?’
‘They’re even keener, sir!’
‘I shall keep you to your word. With men such as yours, victory will be ours!’
A cracked roar of agreement left the soldiers’ parched throats.
Crassus gave a tiny nod of approval. ‘I have every confidence that at the first opportunity, you and your comrades will smash the slaves apart.’
‘Course we will, sir!’ cried a short man with a gap-toothed grin. ‘For you and for Rome!’
The centurion glared at the soldier’s boldness, but Crassus smiled. ‘Good, soldier. That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The centurion saluted with gusto. ‘Every one of us feels the same way.’
‘CRA-SSUS!’ shouted a voice. The chant echoed up and down the ditch.
Crassus accepted the acclamation with a nod. ‘If your work is done ahead of time, every man is to receive an extra ration of acetum this evening. As you were.’
Broad grins broke out everywhere. There was a rush to pick up trenching tools.
Crassus rode on. He traversed the entire length of the camp’s western perimeter, stopping here and there to interrogate officers, appraise their soldiers’ work, and to deliver short, rousing speeches. He grew more encouraged as he went. The legionaries’ zeal was palpable, not just here, but during the day when they were marching, and in the evenings, when they sat outside their tents, gossiping and drinking. He heard it in the tone of the bawdy songs they sang, and saw it in their sunburned faces. His men wanted a fight. Like him, they wanted to defeat Spartacus. Despite the fact that he felt as if he’d been in the caldarium all day, Crassus’ good mood returned. Victory would be his.
He had turned his horse’s head towards the open ground beyond the camp when something caught his attention. Crassus blinked in surprise. He looked again. An icy fury took him, and he glanced up and down the trench. ‘Who’s in charge here?’
There was no immediate answer, and Crassus’ temper exploded. ‘I SAID, WHO THE FUCK IS IN CHARGE HERE?’
‘T-that would be me, sir,’ replied a youngish centurion whose brown hair was spiked with sweat.
Crassus rode his horse right up to the officer, nearly knocking him over. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ He jabbed an arm to his right.
‘The meaning of what, sir?’
‘Look at that piece of shit there.’ He pointed at a legionary.
Alarmed, the man froze. Instinctively, his companions moved a step away from him.
‘I won’t call him a soldier, because he clearly isn’t,’ growled Crassus. ‘Had you not noticed that he had set down his sword?’
The centurion stared. The colour left his face as he saw the gladius lying on the earth behind the ditch. ‘No, sir.’
‘And you call yourself an officer?’ spat Crassus. He sat up straight on his horse’s back so that everyone could see him better. ‘Hear me, legionaries! Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers have worked to erect their camps while fully armed,’ he shouted. ‘They have done this so that should the need arise, they can fight at a moment’s notice. Men who disobey this simple order place their lives, and those of their comrades, at risk.’ He paused to let his words travel. ‘This dereliction of duty cannot, and will not, be tolerated in my army!’ He glared at the legionary, whose face had gone grey with fear. ‘Caepio!’
‘Sir!’ The veteran centurion was by his right foot.
‘Take that man out before his comrades, and execute him.’
For the first time, Crassus saw real respect in Caepio’s eyes. Good.
Gripping the hilt of his sword, the centurion stalked to the ditch and stood over the offending soldier. ‘Out!’ he bawled.
The man climbed out of the trench, stumbling as he did so. He pulled himself upright and threw a beseeching glance at Crassus. ‘I’m sorry, sir! I’ve never done such a thing before. I-’
Crassus’ lips thinned in disapproval.
Caepio was watching. ‘Shut your mouth, filth! Your general isn’t interested.’ He backhanded the soldier across the face. ‘Kneel!’