Spartacus had immediately sent a messenger to Egbeo, ordering him to bring his cohort forward. The moment that had been done, and he had seen Ariadne and Maron were safe, he’d sent word for the rest of the army to advance. It had been an orderly enough procedure, oddly accompanied by the sound of fighting to either side, where the outnumbered Romans were retreating further.
It had been a wise decision to have the remainder of his men trail the footsteps of those who would lead the attack. In little more than two hours, the vast majority of his forces had crossed the wall. Even Castus and Gannicus had made it, skulking by without so much as a nod or wave. When word reached him that Roman reinforcements were making their way up to the ridge, only half the cavalry remained without the enemy fortifications. Cursing, Spartacus had ordered the mounts that could not be brought through in time to be set free. Riders were worth more to him than horses, more of which might be captured as they marched. The myriad of camp followers — tradesmen, whores, itinerant priests and hucksters of every hue who had trailed after his troops for months — were absent. Spartacus had ordered them, on pain of death, to stay behind. Their fate did not concern him. It was time to move fast.
Leaving five thousand men under the command of Pulcher and Navio to hold the passage to their rear, Spartacus had ordered his army to move out. They had taken the mountaintop road that snaked its way along Bruttium’s spine to join the Via Annia some fifty miles to the north. At first, it had been understandable that Castus and Gannicus had done the same thing. There were legions on both coastal plains but none at this altitude. After three days, however, Spartacus’ patience had worn thin.
He had wandered the camp each night, assessing his soldiers’ spirits, and had seen plenty of Gauls talking to men by their fires. They had sloped off at his approach, but there was little doubt that they returned when he’d gone. Much as he tried, he couldn’t be everywhere at once. Castus and Gannicus’ motives were obvious. Morale had been boosted by their audacious escape, but memories of the pirates’ failure to appear and of the defeat suffered at the wall were still raw. Men were also unhappy because they were hungrier than ever. Until they renewed their stores of grain, Spartacus had ordered that everyone was to receive one-third of his normal daily ration.
‘Those Gaulish bastards are like vultures picking over a corpse,’ he ranted to Ariadne. ‘They want to win over as many soldiers as possible before they split off.’
‘You can’t stop them.’
‘Oh yes, I fucking can! I’ll take a cohort over to their tents and kill the pair of them! It’s what I should have done a long time ago.’
Ariadne’s temper flared. ‘Do you think their followers would take that lying down? You’d set the entire army at each other’s throats. Crassus would piss his pants when he heard that you had done his job for him.’ Spartacus glowered at her, but she was determined to say her piece. ‘Do you really want to keep men who are so easily persuaded to leave?’
‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.
‘What do you care if Castus’ and Gannicus’ followers talk to the faint-hearts then?’ He didn’t answer, which encouraged her. ‘We know now that Crassus’ soldiers are wary of attacking us, but we didn’t at first. It’s been no harm having the Gauls at hand while the legions were only a few miles behind us.’
‘So I’m supposed to do nothing while they spread their poison?’
‘Did I say that? You need to be seen by as many of the troops as possible. Men love to see their commander appear among them. Your words help to give them courage. You know that as well as I do.’
Brooding, Spartacus stared into the fire. He knew that Ariadne was right, but that didn’t douse the fury he felt towards the Gauls. After all he’d done for them, this was how they repaid him? He longed to crucify both men, to smash their legs and arms in multiple places, to stand over them as they cried for their mothers and pleaded to die. Like the legionary on the ridge. But he wouldn’t do it. Any short-term satisfaction he gained from such an action would surely be lost by the benefit gained by Crassus.
As if that whoreson needed any more advantage handed to him, he thought grimly. The cost of breaking out of the toe had been high. Nearly a thousand men had been killed, perhaps twice that number wounded. These were in addition to the eleven thousand lives lost during the first, failed assault. About half of the cavalry’s horses and a similar number of mules had been left behind. Of the sixty thousand or so soldiers who had hoped to sail to Sicily, about forty-six thousand able-bodied men remained. And that was before Castus and Gannicus were taken into account. They wouldn’t stick around for much longer. As soon as they reached the fertile lands of Campania and Samnium, Spartacus reckoned, they would leave.
There would be no fixed battles from now on if he could help it. Crassus’ soldiers now outnumbered his. The odds would lengthen once Pompey arrived. Spartacus knew the Roman war machine well, and one lesson stood out from all the others that he had learned during his time in its service. To have any chance of victory against the legions, it was imperative to have superior numbers of troops. Parity of forces was not enough. If his people, the warlike Thracians, had not been able to beat Rome that way, neither could those who had once been slaves. Spartacus grimaced. He hated having to think like this, but it was the brutal truth. Few men thought or acted as he, a trained warrior, did. Navio did; so too did those some of his soldiers who’d been born free, and who had fought for their living.
To expect the rest of his army to do so when faced with such an implacable enemy would be to court disaster. He had to work to his men’s strengths, and that did not include standing toe to toe with equal numbers of legionaries. Once again, they would have to act like latrones. Hide out in the wilderness, among the forested peaks that formed Italy’s backbone. From there he would send out word that hard men — agricultural slaves and herdsmen — were wanted. There, with the help of the Great Rider, he could rebuild his army. Until the time came to face Crassus once more.
Spartacus knew in his gut that that would happen one day. Crassus and he had become mortal enemies. Their struggle would go on until one of them was dead. He tried to stay focused on that outcome, but it was hard not to dwell on the fact that if Crassus defeated and killed him, the rebellion would be over, whereas if he did the same to Crassus, the war against Rome would merely enter another phase. Not for the first time, Spartacus compared the Republic to the Hydra. Each of that creature’s multiple heads breathed poisonous fumes, and if one was cut off, two grew in its place. It was like that with every damn legion that his men had destroyed. Yet the Hydra had not been invincible: only one of its heads had been immortal. Its end had come when the hero Hercules had cauterised the stumps of each head he’d chopped off, preventing them from regrowing and allowing him to find the head he really needed to remove. What was Rome’s invincible head? Spartacus wondered. And how could he sever it? Before the Great Rider, I swear that I will never stop searching for it as long as I live.
Spartacus had barely seen either Carbo or Navio since the breakout. They were uninjured, but more than that he did not know. Wanting some companionship as much as to hear their thoughts, he made his way to their tent later that night. There was no sign of either Roman. It wasn’t that late, thought Spartacus. Had they already gone to bed?
‘Carbo? Navio?’
‘Who is it?’ Carbo’s voice came from a short distance away. He sounded irritated.
‘It is I, Spartacus.’
A moment’s delay, and the flap on a nearby tent was thrown back. Carbo poked his head out.
‘What are you up to?’ Spartacus asked.
Carbo’s face clouded over. ‘It’s Publipor. He took a flesh wound on the ridge. At first, it didn’t look like much, but then it turned septic. The poor bastard has gone downhill fast since. The surgeon offered to take off his arm, but he’s too weak to survive the operation. I don’t think he’ll last more than another day or two.’