Forty paces to the wall. There were gaps in the line to either side of him now, but Spartacus did not order them closed. Everything was moving far too fast. What mattered was reaching the base of the Roman wall, and getting out of the withering hail of missiles. They’d have a moment’s respite before more stones were dropped on their heads, but that would be enough time to encourage his men to swarm up their ladders.
They reached the filled-in ditch. Because of the prisoners who had been dumped in last, it looked as if it contained only corpses. Except, as Spartacus realised, they weren’t all dead yet. Here and there amid the careless sprawl of bloodied men, an arm or a leg moved, a voice called out for a comrade, or for someone to end the pain. Even if he had been inclined to provide the killing stroke, there was no time. In two heartbeats, he had pounded over the soft ‘ground’ and was tearing across the forest floor again.
Twenty paces. They had passed under the lower limit of the catapults’ arc of fire. The Roman slingers had redoubled their efforts. So many of Spartacus’ men had dropped their shields that their work was now easy. It was the same for the legionaries still with pila. Despite this, Spartacus’ front rank, which had been eighty men wide, was ragged but unbroken. ‘Ladders at the ready!’ he yelled, increasing his speed to a sprint. He sensed the Scythians matching his pace. Encouraged, the soldiers to either side swarmed forward, screaming insults at the defenders atop the wall. Ten paces. Five, and then Spartacus slammed into the fortification’s wooden stakes. ‘Ladder!’
Atheas was already by his right shoulder, shoving the ladder’s foot into the ground, leaning it against the wall, supporting it, gesturing at him to start climbing.
Spartacus eyed the remaining scuta held by his men. Things would be far worse on the rampart without them, but there was no way they could safely ascend carrying such a weight. ‘Leave your shields!’ he shouted. ‘Grab one from the first Roman you kill. Up! Up! Up!’ More and more ladders came smacking in against the barrier. Spartacus gritted his teeth and began to climb. This was the most dangerous part. He peered grimly up at the pointed stakes that formed the lip of the rampart. It was difficult to climb with one hand — the other held his sica — and easy to miss his footing on the rungs. Even more perilous were the defenders who awaited him. He was two-thirds up the ladder when a legionary appeared above, gripping a forked length of stick. With fierce concentration, he placed it against the top of Spartacus’ ladder and began to push.
Shit! Adrenalin surged through Spartacus’ veins and he shot up several more rungs. His ascending body weight made it much harder for the Roman to push the ladder outwards. Cursing, the legionary braced his feet and put all of his strength into it. Spartacus felt himself begin to move backwards. He climbed another rung and stabbed forward with his sica. His blade skidded off the Roman’s mail, causing no injury. For an instant, however, it distracted the soldier from what he was doing.
Spartacus came up another rung. A quick glance to the right revealed no defenders close enough to skewer him in the armpit. Up went the sica. Down it came, striking the legionary in the neck. The curved blade nearly clove him in two. His torso split apart, exposing neatly bisected muscles, the white of ribs and the purple-blue of pumping organs. Spartacus was showered in blood as he came leaping on to the walkway. The Roman’s body fell backwards off the wall, spraying sheets of crimson over the soldiers below.
Spartacus’ heart leaped. There weren’t more than five thousand of them. Caepio had been lying; the spy had not been able to get the word through to Crassus. After the previous day’s fighting, his enemy had assumed that the slaves had had enough. How wrong he was. Spotting a scutum leaning against the palisade, he scooped it up. He had just enough time to spin and raise it as a legionary thundered in from his right. With a heavy thump, the two shield bosses met.
Spartacus shoved his blade at the Roman’s eyes, but his opponent saw it coming. Sparks flew as the sica hit the iron rim of his shield. The legionary lunged forward with his gladius, and Spartacus twisted desperately out of the way, smacking his back off the rampart. There was almost no room to manoeuvre. All the advantage was with the Roman, whose blows hammered in, away from the void. With every strike of his own, Spartacus risked hurling himself into space.
He clenched his jaw. If they didn’t gain a foothold on the wall, their attack would fail. Placing his left shoulder behind the scutum, he advanced a step. Clash, clash. Their swords battered off their shield fronts. Spartacus punched forward with his scutum and then his sica. One, two. One, two. He pushed the legionary back a step. And two more. They traded blows again before the Roman’s heel caught on a pilum that had been left lying on the walkway. He stumbled, and Spartacus was on him like a hawk on its prey, barging him backwards so that he fell on his arse, squawking with surprise. The last thing he ever saw was the Thracian’s blade scything in towards his open mouth. The legionary choked to death on a gobful of iron and blood.
Air moved past Spartacus’ head. Instinct made him pull back, which just saved him from being struck in the neck by a pilum. Instead it scudded harmlessly by, over the palisade. He glanced down. The soldiers below were launching volleys at the rampart, regardless of the fact that they could hit their own men. Exultation gripped him. That meant the enemy officers thought the fight on the walkway was being lost. He leaned out over the front of the wall. He could see at least five ladders. ‘Come on!’ he roared at his men. ‘It is I, Spartacus! We have the whoresons on the run!’
Eager shouts met his words.
He spun back to the walkway to find a grinning Taxacis at his side. Behind him, Atheas’ head was emerging into view. ‘Which… way?’ asked Taxacis. ‘Left… or right?’
To his left was a large bunch of enemy soldiers, and in their midst, the scarlet transverse crest of a centurion. It was Caepio. We won’t get through there quickly enough. Spartacus pointed to his right and the nearest set of steps. ‘There!’ Six legionaries blocked the walkway, but before them, there was a gap perhaps ten paces wide where more and more of their men were spilling over the palisade. He darted forward. The Scythians were right behind him. ‘Get to the stairs!’ he shouted at his soldiers. ‘Kill those bastard Romans! MOVE!’
They hurried to obey.
Spartacus shoved in behind them. The outcome of the attack still hung in the balance, but at last he had a good feeling in his belly.
Chapter XVI
Despite Crassus’ wealth, he was a man of moderate taste. It was a small weakness to like a comfortable bed. The mattress in his quarters was purportedly of good quality — gods, it was thick enough — but he hated it with a vengeance. At first, when they had left Rome, it had seemed fine. Now, though, it felt lumpier than a straw tick used by the poorest of the poor. It was the reason that he was already up, a good hour before dawn. A scowl twisted his handsome face. The damn thing would have to do for the moment. There was no chance of locating a better one around here. As far as he’d seen, no one lived in Bruttium but primitives and latrones. And Spartacus.
Crassus put the mattress from his mind, but felt no less irritated. He was sick of everything about this shithole. It felt laughable now, but he had been glad to enter Bruttium. He had enjoyed the sea breezes and the escape from the filthy heat that they had endured in Campania and Lucania. No one could deny that the wild, mountainous countryside was magnificent or that the views of Sicily were incredible. Yet as autumn had passed into winter, these pleasures had soon soured. Weeks of lowering grey cloud, damp cold air and frequent rain had worn him down.