It was wishful thinking.
Perhaps two heartbeats later, a volley of darts came scudding in. Carbo felt his bowels loosen. He’d seen the carnage that the missiles could do. Around him, more than one man cried out in fear. Their advance slowed, and then stopped.
‘Close order! All ranks except the front, shields up!’ bellowed Spartacus.
They’d been drilled to do this a thousand times before. With a loud clattering noise, the scuta of those behind Carbo came up, forming a giant cover, the famed Roman testudo. He and the men of the front rank closed their shields together, forming an almost solid wall to the front. It was good protection against lighter missiles such as javelins, but, as everyone knew, it could not stop larger ones, such as the darts that were humming down towards them with frightening speed.
‘STEADY!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘STEADY, BOYS!’
Other officers shouted similar reassurances.
Carbo didn’t look up. If he was going to be transfixed by a barbed dart, he wanted it to happen without him knowing. His heart was thumping off his ribs like a wild thing. The soldier to his left was muttering the same prayer over and over. A man nearby began to vomit. Carbo started counting his breaths. One. Two. Three. Gods above, slow down. He forced himself to exhale as slowly as he could.
Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. Crash. With a noise like thunderbolts, the missiles arrived. Carbo closed his eyes. Sent skywards by a torsion catapult that had to be cocked by two legionaries winding a handle, the darts had huge penetrative power. They punched through scuta like a hot knife through cheese, maiming and killing the unfortunate men beneath. Arm bones were shattered, skulls smashed open, chests ripped apart. Howls of agony marked the spots where soldiers had only been injured. The dead just collapsed to the ground.
Carbo blinked. He was still alive, and whole. So too were Spartacus and the man to his left. They exchanged a relieved look.
‘Lower shields. Forward, at the double!’ shouted Spartacus.
Carbo needed no encouragement. The quicker they closed with the Romans, the fewer volleys would land among them. The risk of death from a blade seemed far more appealing than having his brain pulped to mush or his chest split asunder by a dart. Cocking back his left arm, he trotted forward. Soon there would be an exchange of javelins. Then a final charge.
A hundred and fifty paces. Still the Romans made no sound. Carbo didn’t like it one bit.
Another volley, this one of stones, came sweeping over the enemy lines. He was hypnotised by their trajectory. Part of him wanted to sprint forward, to miss the deadly rain if he could. Another part wanted to drop his shield and pilum and run away. But he couldn’t. Spartacus was by his side, relying on him. And Crassus, the cause of his parents’ deaths, was skulking behind a wall of legionaries. He focused his attention on the lines nearing him. All he could see was their eyes, peering over their shield rims, and their javelins, which were already aimed at the sky, ready for the order to release. Carbo was suddenly aware that he needed to piss. More than anything, he needed to piss. He swallowed hard, forcing the urge away.
Thump. Crash. Bang. The stones landed, splintering shields into kindling, crushing men’s ribs and stopping their hearts.
Carbo shot a glance at Spartacus, who seemed oblivious. He rallied his courage. Here was the closest thing to a god that he’d ever seen. Was the man scared of nothing?
‘Ready javelins!’ Spartacus drew back his left arm. ‘On my order!’
Carbo squinted at the enemy lines, which were about ninety paces away. Too far for an accurate throw. He could see the Roman officers watching them, waiting until they drew closer. Bastards.
Spartacus was doing the same. His lips moved as he counted down the distance. Eighty. Seventy. Sixty. The legionaries’ pila flew up into the air.
Damn it, thought Carbo, give the order!
‘Aim short! LOOSE!’
Carbo heaved his javelin into a low, curving arc. He tried to follow its progress, but it was joined by scores of others. He watched in fascination as they sped towards the Romans.
‘Shields up!’ roared Spartacus for the second time.
The javelins caused far less consternation than the artillery barrage. They crashed down, turning many shields into useless lumps of wood, but injuring and killing fewer men. Behind him, Carbo heard a couple of soldiers wagering with one another about who would get hit first. He felt an elbow in the ribs from his neighbour.
‘Crazy the things that men can laugh about, eh?’
Carbo’s dry lips cracked as he smiled.
‘Zeuxis is the name. Yours?’
‘Carbo. Do I recognise you?’
A sour grin. ‘Maybe. You were with Spartacus when he shoved me arse first into a fire.’
Carbo’s chuckle was drowned by Spartacus’ shout. ‘Anyone with a second javelin, LOOSE!’
Half as many pila as had gone up the first time took to the air. In the same instant, a far greater number of Roman javelins were launched.
‘Raise shields, draw swords! FORWARD, AT THE DOUBLE!’
Ducking his head in a futile attempt to make himself smaller, Carbo broke into a run. His world had narrowed. All he could see was the Romans directly opposite him. Crassus, even the line of standards that waved above their lines, had vanished. He was aware of Zeuxis on his left, Spartacus on his right, his shield in one hand and his gladius in the other. That was it.
Little more than thirty paces separated the two sides.
The legionaries had drawn their swords now. Finally, an almighty roar left their throats, and they ran forward.
Carbo and every man around him responded with an ear-splitting yell. He heard Spartacus shout something unintelligible in Thracian. A quick glance sideways. Awe filled him. He’d never seen his leader look so angry. The veins in Spartacus’ neck were bulging. His face was bright red, and his eyes were flat and dead. The eyes of a killer. Carbo had never been more glad to be on the same side as this man.
Gaze back to the front. Twenty-five paces. Carbo felt the scream crack in his throat, but that didn’t shut him up. He must sound like a madman, but that was a good thing. The aim before they struck was to cause as much fear in their enemies as possible.
The two sides closed in on one another with frightening speed. Twenty paces. Fifteen.
Carbo focused on the designs emblazoned on the shields nearing him. The majority were a red colour with a swirling yellow line decorating each quarter, but the most striking one had lightning bolts radiating from the shield boss. The eyes above its rim were calculating, the helmet battered. A veteran, thought Carbo, his fear bubbling up. And they were heading straight for each other.
The last steps were covered in a blur. Carbo did his best to make sure that as he hit, his left shoulder was shoved forward. Of course his opponent did the same. Their shields crashed off other with an almighty bang. Both men staggered back a pace; both regained their poise and lunged forward with their swords. Carbo ducked down behind his scutum first, which allowed the legionary to follow through with his thrust, while Carbo’s right arm shot uselessly into the air. Aware that he’d exposed his armpit, Carbo desperately pulled his blade back down. As he tried to peep over his shield rim, his enemy stabbed at him again. Cursing, Carbo hid again. He battered forward with his scutum, wanting to catch the other off balance. It was a faint hope. The legionary’s shield was like a brick wall.
Carbo didn’t give up on his attack. He punched his shield at the other’s, following through with a thrust of his sword. It was what Paccius had taught him. One, two. One, two. The legionary’s response was to do exactly the same thing. Carbo realised that his enemy was stronger and more skilled than he was. It seemed as if the legionary knew it too. His eyes glittered as he redoubled his assault.