I ask the gods that you see fit to agree to my request. Rest assured that as I humbly await your response, the campaign against Spartacus is being prosecuted with all the vigour and courage that Rome’s finest soldiers can bring to the conflict.
With filial piety, I remain your servant, Marcus Licinius Crassus
He reread the letter carefully, and was pleased with his efforts. His words contained just the right mix of humility, cajolery and flattery to win over most senators. They would no more be able to resist the idea of Lucullus also returning than a man with dysentery could stop himself from shitting. When Pompey found out, he would be incandescent. But he would be unable to do a thing about it.
Not that it mattered, thought Crassus in triumph as he rolled up the parchment and sealed it with wax. Before either Pompey and Lucullus had come upon the scene, he would have ended the rebellion. With a little bit of luck, he would be able to invite both of his fellow generals to his victory feast, the highlight of which would be to display the Thracian’s head on a silver platter.
A discreet cough brought him back to the present. Crassus turned his head. One of his guards stood in the doorway.
‘A centurion is here to see you, sir. He’s come from the ridge.’
A finger of unease tickled Crassus’ spine. ‘What does he want?’
‘He didn’t say, sir. Just that Caepio sent him,’ replied the soldier awkwardly. He wouldn’t have dared to ask such a senior officer his business, but he couldn’t say that to Crassus.
‘Send him in.’ It’s probably Caepio asking again for blankets, he thought irritably. The veteran had already mentioned that his soldiers on the ridge were suffering from exposure. Crassus had meant to do something about it, but it had slipped his mind. Damn Caepio for being impatient! A night or two in the cold would do the men good. It’d sharpen them up.
A middle-aged centurion with a sharply pointed nose and close-cut beard entered. He approached the desk and came to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘At ease.’ Crassus noted the spatters of mud that covered the officer’s legs and the pteryges protecting his groin. This wasn’t about blankets, he thought in surprise. The man had come in a hurry. ‘You’ve come from Caepio? From the ridge?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’ snapped Crassus. ‘Why are you here?’
‘There’s been another attack, sir.’
Scorn twisted Crassus’ face. ‘What, a morale-building exercise for Spartacus’ men after yesterday’s humiliation? One of our patrols ambushed, is it, or have the ditches been filled with burning branches again?’
‘It’s worse than that, sir.’ The centurion’s eyes flickered towards him, and then darted away.
‘Explain yourself, centurion,’ said Crassus in a wintry tone. ‘Quickly.’
‘It started before dawn, sir. At first we thought it was just a probing attack, something to keep us on our toes, but it soon became apparent that it was a full-scale assault.’
There had been no word from the spy about this, mused Crassus. ‘So soon? They must be even shorter of grain than I thought. It was fortunate that I ordered more ammunition to be carried up there after yesterday’s skirmish, eh?’
An unhappy grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it, man? The ditches were cleared by last night, weren’t they?’
‘They were, sir, but Spartacus’ men filled them in a number of places.’
‘They’d need to chop down the entire forest to have enough wood. What did they use?’
‘Mules, sir. They didn’t have enough, though, so they led out about a hundred of our lads whom they’d taken prisoner. The poor bastards were executed in cold blood and then their bodies were thrown on top of the beasts, like so much carrion. It was as bad as the Esquiline Hill, sir,’ he said, referring to the place outside Rome where the corpses of slaves and criminals were disposed of alongside household rubbish and the carcases of animals.
‘That is monstrous, but Caepio didn’t send you here to tell me that. Did their attack come immediately afterwards?’
‘I wish it had, sir, but that savage Spartacus wanted to make an even bigger statement. He’d held one of our boys back in order to crucify him in front of his own men. The fuckers loved that.’
‘Are there no lows that these slaves will hold back from?’ Crassus was furious now. ‘So they attacked after that?’
‘Indeed, sir. They came on hard and fast.’
‘The artillerymen must have wreaked havoc.’ Crassus was pleased by the centurion’s nod of agreement. ‘Did the scum break and run as they did yesterday?’
Another dart of the eyes. ‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘ Not exactly,’ repeated Crassus.
The centurion straightened his shoulders. ‘Between the artillery, the slingers and the men’s javelins, they must have lost hundreds of men. It seemed to make no difference, sir. They were like wild beasts, or demons of the underworld.’
Crassus’ nostrils pinched white with fury. ‘What are you telling me, centurion? Has the wall been breached?’
‘It hadn’t when I left, sir, but things weren’t looking good. Caepio sent me to inform you, and to ask for reinforcements.’ The centurion hesitated, but didn’t have the courage to remind Crassus that it was he who had elected not to send any fresh soldiers up to the ridge after the previous day’s encounter. ‘He said to say that he would hold on as long as he could, sir.’
Crassus’ jaw clenched and unclenched. He clutched his fury to him as he would a lover, using it to fuel his loathing of Spartacus. He had underestimated the Thracian’s determination. It had been a reasonable decision not to send fresh troops to the ridge, he told himself. There had been no word from the spy. Besides, what enemy would mount such a daring attack so soon after a heavy defeat? Spartacus would, and did, his inner critic shot back. And now he had no chance of responding. Any reinforcements sent up the mountain would arrive too late. The battle would have been won or lost, the wall held or breached. Crassus knew in his gut that it would be the latter. Caepio, his best officer, would probably be among the dead. Even worse, his chances of ending the campaign before Pompey arrived had just vanished into thin air. The letter asking for Lucullus’ recall would have to be sent to Rome with all speed. Damn Spartacus to Hades and back!
Crassus rubbed his temples, trying to decide what to do. Carry on, he decided. ‘Have two of the legates assemble their legions and march them to the ridge. There may still be slaves trying to get across the wall.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion didn’t argue, which told Crassus that he also thought Spartacus had escaped. ‘Which ones, sir?’
‘I don’t fucking care! The remaining legates are to have their men strike camp. We march as soon as possible.’
‘Where are we heading, sir?’
‘Where do you think?’ shouted Crassus. ‘After fucking Spartacus of course!’
When the Romans had been driven back from a large enough section of the wall, Spartacus had had several thousand of his troops continue engaging them. Some of his soldiers had been ordered to set fire to the ballistae while the rest had begun tearing a hole in the fortifications. It wasn’t long before a gap wide enough for ten men to pass through abreast had been made.