Sobbing, the man did as he was told.
Caepio’s gladius was already in his hand. ‘Chin up!’
Crassus took a quick look around. Every man within sight was riveted to what was going on, which was precisely what he had intended.
Swallowing, the soldier lifted his gaze to the sky, exposing his throat in the process.
‘Make your last request of the gods, dung rat,’ ordered Caepio, drawing back his right arm.
The man’s eyes closed, and his lips moved in silent prayer.
With incredible speed, Caepio’s blade flashed down. It entered via the hollow at the base of the soldier’s neck, slicing through the soft flesh with savage ease. Death was instantaneous. The gladius cut every major blood vessel over the heart into shreds, coming to rest in the victim’s backbone.
A horrible choking noise left the man’s lips, and he went as limp as a child’s doll.
Caepio tugged free his blade, and a scarlet tide of blood jetted up from the lipped wound. The centurion lifted his right foot and booted the corpse backwards so that it fell into the ditch, spraying the nearest soldiers in liquid gore.
‘Remember, you sheep-humping bastards, that any man caught in future without a weapon will receive the same punishment,’ Caepio roared, wiping his blade on the bottom of his tunic.
‘Or worse,’ added Crassus with a hint of spite.
A silence fell that no one dared to break — except a raven high overhead. Its derisive call seemed to mock the assembled soldiers.
‘You,’ said Crassus, pinning the young centurion with his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucius Varinius, sir.’
‘Not a relation of the disgraced praetor, surely?’ asked Crassus with glee.
‘He was a distant cousin, sir,’ came the stiff reply.
‘I see. There are two fools in the same family. That’s not surprising, I suppose. Give your vine cane to Caepio.’
Miserably, Varinius did as he was told.
‘Break it!’ ordered Crassus.
Caepio snapped the wooden cane over his knee and dropped the broken pieces to the ground.
‘You are demoted to the ranks with immediate effect,’ barked Crassus. ‘Consider yourself lucky to be alive. Expect to stand in the front line of every battle. There, perhaps, you might redeem some of your honour.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Varinius mumbled.
‘Let this be a lesson to all of you.’ Crassus cast one more contemptuous look at the watching legionaries before he turned his horse and rode away, Caepio marching by his side.
‘That won’t happen ever again, sir,’ said the centurion approvingly.
‘You think so?’ asked Crassus, fishing.
‘That put the fear of Hades into every man who saw it, sir. Each of them will tell his mates, and they’ll tell theirs. The news will travel through the army quicker than shit through a man with cholera. Which, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, is a damn good thing.’
‘I don’t mind you saying that at all, centurion,’ replied Crassus.
Chapter XIII
Near the town of Croton, on the Ionian Sea
Carbo eyed the headland that jutted out into the sea about a mile away. Above the town’s tumbledown stone walls, he could just make out the impressive pillars of the sanctuary to Hera Licinia, the Greek goddess. Croton might be a ghost town compared to its heyday half a millennium before, but its remaining inhabitants were still civilised, he thought. The men in the cove he was spying on couldn’t have been more different.
After seven fruitless weeks of trawling up and down the coast, he had found some pirates.
Carbo didn’t know whether to feel relieved or alarmed: they looked even more cutthroat than the gladiators in the ludus. Black-, brownand fair-skinned, they were for the most part clad in ragged tunics or simple loincloths. The number of weapons each man carried more than made up for their lack of clothing. There was hardly an individual that didn’t have a knife, or two, as well as a sword, on his belt. Spears were stacked up near their tents. There were catapults on the decks of the two shallow-draughted, single-masted vessels that were drawn up on the beach. Carbo felt grateful for the presence — a couple of hundred paces back — of the century of soldiers that Spartacus had insisted he take with him.
The small bay to his front was protected from the worst of the weather by a large sandbar that ran outwards from a rocky promontory to his right. That had to be why the pirates had chosen it as their mooring point. There were perhaps eighty of them — forty to a boat, thought Carbo — sprawled about, sleeping, cooking food over fires, or wrestling with one another. They looked to have been busy. About thirty young people of both sexes sat wretchedly on the sand, ropes tied around their necks. A number of the women were being raped by some of the pirates, while others watched and made comments.
Carbo considered his options. There was no benefit to going in alone, or with just a few men. They’d end up dead, or captured as slaves. All he could think of was to march in peacefully, and to ask for the renegades’ leader. He slid backwards, down the landward side of the large dune that had served as concealment from the beach. It was fortunate that the pirates on sentry duty were too busy watching the violation of their captives to have spotted him.
A short while later, Carbo and his men — some of his own cohort — came tramping over the dune and down towards the beach. They made no effort to be quiet. Panic reigned as they were seen. Men ran for their weapons, and the captives were kicked to their feet and hurried to the boats. That didn’t worry Carbo as much as the sight of the catapults being manned. The light artillery pieces would have an accurate range of two hundred paces.
He raised his hands in the air, and began shouting in Latin and Greek, ‘We come in peace. PEACE!’
As they advanced on to the flat ground, the mayhem did not lessen. About half the pirates arrayed themselves in a rough phalanx before their boats, while the rest were frantically helping to push the vessels into the water. The catapults were aimed straight at Carbo and his men.
He cursed. This was what he had thought might happen. In the pirates’ minds, safety lay at sea. If they succeeded, he would lose all chance of making a deal with them.
There was a loud twang, and his stomach lurched. ‘Shields up!’
A heartbeat’s delay, and then the first stones from the catapults — chunks half the size of a man’s head — landed with soft thumps in the sand, about thirty paces in front of their formation.
‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Very soon, he was going to start losing men. And for nothing. ‘Halt!’
His soldiers gladly obeyed.
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Carbo. He dropped his shield and unslung his baldric, letting his sword drop to the sand.
‘What are you doing?’ asked his optio, a block-headed gladiator.
‘Showing them that I mean no harm.’ Carbo took a step towards the pirates. He did well not to flinch as the next stones landed. They were wide this time, but a lot nearer. ‘If I’m killed, return to the army and tell Spartacus what happened.’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘Maybe I am,’ replied Carbo, his heart thumping. But I’m not going back empty-handed. Not after Spartacus has placed such trust in me. He lifted both hands, palms out, and walked forward. ‘I COME IN PEACE!’ He repeated himself in Greek and Latin, over and over.
Another volley of stones came flying over, and he heard them rattle off his men’s upturned shields. There was a shout of pain as someone was hit. Carbo began to grow angry. ‘You stupid bastards. Can’t you see that we’re not attacking you?’ he muttered, continuing to advance. ‘PEACE! PEACE!’
A moment later, to his great relief, he saw a short man in the phalanx bellowing orders at the crew working the catapults. No more stones were loosed, and Carbo walked a little closer. He heard curses being shouted at him in a number of languages. Weapons were still being brandished, but no one threw a spear or charged him. Yet. Wary of going too near, he stopped about fifty paces from the pirates, careful to keep his hands in the air.