‘Jupiterrrrrr, that hurts!’ screamed the legionary. He dropped his shield and clutched a hand to the bloody hole in his mail.
Carbo smashed his scutum forward, knocking his opponent into the soldier immediately behind.
‘FORWARD!’ shouted Spartacus.
Blood pounding in his ears, Carbo advanced two steps. Then another. Despite the protests of the man to his rear, the injured legionary staggered backwards. Carbo’s eyes shot from side to side. Zeuxis was at his left shoulder; Spartacus was to his right and beyond him was Taxacis. Further out, their comrades also appeared to be moving forward. His heart leaped. He took another step.
‘FORWARD!’ roared Spartacus again.
Pace by pace, they walked towards the Romans, who continued to retreat. It went on for about twenty steps, and Carbo began to hope that their enemies would break. They didn’t. His attention was drawn to a couple of centurions in the front rank near him. They were screaming blue murder, threatening their men with the most terrible punishments if they did anything but hold the line. Their tactic was working. The legionaries slowed down and came to a halt.
‘When we hit the whoresons, I want every centurion killed! Hacked into a hundred pieces! Do you hear me?’
The nearest soldiers bellowed in assent.
‘If we can do that, they’ll fucking run,’ Carbo heard Spartacus mutter. Then, ‘CHARGE!’
They ran forward. This time, the Romans did not come to meet them. Carbo took some solace from that. The enemy officers didn’t trust their men to advance. That meant they were worried.
Carbo saw that the man to face him would be a centurion, and his breath caught in his chest. The previous bouts he’d fought would be as nothing compared to this. Centurions were veterans of at least twenty years’ service, brave men who led by example, who stuck at nothing to win a fight. He struggled against the first tinge of panic, knowing that if he gave in to it, he was sure to die. The centurion was staring right at him and roaring insults at the top of his voice. Blocking out the sound as best he could, Carbo tried to spot any detail that would help him win. He saw nothing except the scarlet-dyed horsehairs on his opponent’s helmet crest and the merciless eyes beneath its tinned brow. Death was waiting.
Three paces out, it came to Carbo. The centurion was a short man. In turn, that meant that he was a lot heavier than him. Praying that his idea would work, he ducked as low as he could behind the rim of his scutum. Pulling his left arm close in against his body, he slowed down a fraction before throwing his entire body weight forward with his shield. He struck the centurion with such force that the Roman was shoved several steps backwards. Carbo lifted his head, readying himself to land the killer blow. He got the shock of his life. Incredibly, the centurion had maintained his balance, and was waiting for his chance. Carbo had just enough time to register the other’s blade as it swept forward at his face.
I’m dead.
There was a loud crash.
Carbo blinked. The gladius was gone. He looked again. The centurion had been knocked on to the flat of his back by Spartacus, who had driven sideways into him with his scutum. Stooping over the officer, the Thracian ran him through the throat. Dismayed cries rose from the legionaries who’d seen what had happened, and they fell back a step or two. Spartacus quickly resumed his position, throwing Carbo a grin. ‘Push the whoresons back!’ he yelled.
Carbo took a step forward with the rest. He glanced at his sword arm, which was trembling like a leaf. Snap out of it! he told himself. You’re still alive. The battle’s not over. Steeling himself for more carnage, he looked up. The centurion had been replaced by a furious-looking legionary. Perhaps five paces separated them. ‘I’m going to rip your head off and shit down your neck!’ the Roman screamed.
Behind the ranks of enemy soldiers, Carbo caught sight of a red cloak. It was Crassus, dismounting from his horse. Standard-bearers swirled around him, including one bearing a silver eagle. Carbo couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s concerned enough to make a stand right here. ‘Spartacus! This is our chance!’
A moment later, there was a shout of acknowledgement. ‘CHARGE! CHARGE!’
Carbo’s gaze returned to the legionary. Cold rage now filled him. All he wanted to do was reach Crassus. ‘I’m coming for you, you fucking maggot!’
There was a surge behind him as he advanced. It was the men in the ranks behind, Carbo realised with exhilaration. He made short shrift of the legionary, dispatching him with a couple of vicious stabs to the face. The man after him was a barrel-chested individual who spat obscenities with each thrust of his gladius. Carbo had little difficulty in dodging the powerful but inaccurate blows, but soon the press grew so great that he was driven right up against the legionary. Neither was able to use his sword.
‘Slave filth!’ screamed the soldier. ‘You’re dead! Dead!’
‘Fuck you!’ Carbo let go of his gladius, which, jammed between them, didn’t even fall to the ground. With a struggle, he reached around to his left side and tugged out his dagger. Drawing up his arm with great care, he whipped it up, above the crush. Panic flared in the legionary’s eyes, more curses filled the air, but he could not prevent Carbo from hammering the blade down into his neck. Carbo stabbed him several more times for good measure. Gouts of blood splattered his forearm, his face, the front of his shield. He didn’t care. ‘Crassus, I’m coming for you!’ he shouted, spittle flying.
But he couldn’t move — forward or back. In fact, the pressure from both sides was starting to become uncomfortable. The cursing legionary had slumped forward; he was now being held upright by Carbo’s scutum. Blood ran in streams from the wound in his neck, covering Carbo’s left hand and arm. There was nothing he could do about it. He was glad that the Romans in the second rank weren’t trying to get at him. They had to be as tightly compressed as he and his comrades were.
‘Gods above, what do we do now?’ roared Zeuxis.
The red mist receded a little. Carbo glanced at Zeuxis, who had also killed the Roman in front of him. ‘We’re stuck!’
Zeuxis glowered. ‘Bloody genius, aren’t you?’
Fighting a crazy urge to smile, Carbo looked to his right. Unsurprisingly, Spartacus had slain his man. He was helping Taxacis to slaughter his opponent. Carbo waited until it was done. ‘What do we do now?’
Spartacus’ head turned. His face and helmet were covered in blood, and his eyes had a mad gleam to them. Carbo had difficulty holding his gaze.
‘We’ll have to withdraw a few steps. The sheep-fucking Romans won’t do so, that’s for sure. This kind of stalemate suits them. Crassus will be trying to wear us out.’
Carbo was suddenly aware that his muscles were screaming for a rest.
‘Fall back!’ cried Spartacus. ‘Fall back ten steps. Only ten! Pass the word along!’
Carbo leaned over to Zeuxis. ‘Tell your mate to spread the word. We’re to pull back ten steps, no more.’
Zeuxis nodded and did as he was asked. Spartacus was doing the same to Carbo’s right. Soon the air was filled with the shouted command. As the men in the ranks behind realised, they began to shuffle backwards. Feeling the pressure on his chest reduce, Carbo sucked in a deep breath. He gripped his gladius again and took a couple of steps away from the big legionary. The man’s corpse slumped to its knees. A heartbeat’s delay and it toppled on to its face. Carbo tensed, preparing himself for an enemy charge, but it didn’t happen.
Keeping in line with Zeuxis and Spartacus, he walked back six, seven, eight more paces.
‘HALT!’ roared the Thracian.
His command was obeyed.
Carbo saw Spartacus eyeballing the Romans, but they did nothing. They had to be grateful for the breather too, he thought.
‘Pull back another ten steps!’
Carbo glanced at Spartacus in alarm. ‘Why?’ he hissed.
‘I need to see what’s going on at the flanks. This is the only damn way I can do it.’