Returning to the other leaders a short time later, Spartacus held out his hands. ‘It was in front of us all along.’
‘That’s a length of wild grapevine,’ said Gannicus in an incredulous voice.
Crixus’ scorn was clear. ‘What shall we do with it? Strangle Roman soldiers?’
Castus laughed.
‘Can you explain what’s going on?’asked Oenomaus, looking bewildered. The place is overrun with vines. So what?’
‘It’s clear as the sun in the sky.’
Crixus’ lip curled. ‘Put us out of our misery.’
‘These vines are excellent for weaving baskets, are they not?’
‘Yes,’ replied Oenomaus, visibly controlling his irritation.
‘Instead of baskets, we can make ropes. Ropes strong enough to take the weight of a man. Once it’s dark, we can lower ourselves down one of the cliff faces on to the slopes below. I don’t imagine that the Romans expect to be attacked from anywhere other than the path.’ Spartacus’ confident smile belied his churning stomach. The odds against us are still terrible, but this will be a damn sight better than committing suicide in the morning.
‘That’s a fantastic idea!’ Oenomaus clapped him on the arm.
‘It would give us a fighting chance,’ admitted Gannicus.
Spartacus glanced at Castus. His sour expression had weakened. ‘I thought you had gone mad. But you haven’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a good plan.’
‘It might work,’ said Crixus with a dubious shake of his head. ‘Or then again, we could all break our damn necks.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Oenomaus.
To Spartacus’ delight, Castus and Gannicus rumbled in agreement.
Crixus scowled. ‘Very well.’
Thank you, Great Rider. It’ll be easier with him on board. Spartacus made a quick calculation. ‘It’s at least a hundred paces from the lowest part of the cliffs to the ground below. We’ll need a minimum of two ropes. More if they can be woven in time.’
‘And then?’ asked Oenomaus.
Spartacus was pleased to see that this time, all four waited to hear his response. He offered up more silent thanks. ‘Wait until it’s nearly midnight. Pray for cloud cover. We’ll blacken our faces and limbs with ashes from the fires. Climb down to their camp. Kill the sentries at their pickets. Fall upon their tents in silence.’
‘The bastards won’t know what hit them!’ interrupted Gannicus.
‘They won’t. We’ll slay as many as we can before the alarm is raised,’ said Spartacus.
Oenomaus frowned. ‘What will happen after that?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps we’ll escape!’ He didn’t voice the other, more likely outcome. No one looked disheartened, however, which satisfied Spartacus. ‘An offering of thanks to Dionysus is imperative now. These are his vines.’
No one argued with that.
By the time darkness had fallen, the gladiators had three ropes, each 120 paces in length. Every man and woman present had laboured to complete the cords. Some had stripped vines from the crater walls while others had trimmed them down to a central stalk. Plaited in threes and securely knotted into four sections, the ropes were tested by having a pair of the heaviest men haul with all their might on each end. To Spartacus’ delight, none broke. He ordered the fighters to prepare themselves, but they were to wait until he gave the word before making a move.
While the other leaders drank wine with their followers, Spartacus sat by the fire with Ariadne. They did not talk much, yet there was a new, intimate air between them. This might be the last time I ever see her, he thought regretfully. Across the fire from him, Ariadne’s mind was racing. Those vines belong to Dionysus. Did he make Spartacus aware of them? It seems too much of a coincidence to be anything else.
Despite the blanket around his shoulders, Spartacus eventually began to feel chilled through. He glanced upwards. The sliver of moon in the sky had been covered by a bank of cloud. There was little wind. ‘Time to move.’
‘I have asked Dionysus to lay a cloak of sleep over their camp.’
‘Thank you.’ He rubbed a final bit of ash on to his arms and stood. ‘By dawn, it will be over. I will see you then.’ He shoved away a pang of uncertainty. Great Rider, let it be so.
‘Yes.’ Ariadne was unwilling to trust her voice further. Come back to me safely.
Without another word, he walked off into the darkness.
‘There’s the picket,’ whispered Spartacus, pointing at a huddle of shapes no more than a long javelin throw away. Fierce satisfaction filled him at what they’d achieved thus far. They’d scrambled down the cliff face with little problem. One man had broken his ankle, and had been left behind, but the others had moved like eager, silent wraiths, scrambling through the darkness to their present position. A hundred paces beyond the Roman sentries lay the southern rampart of Glaber’s camp. Spartacus was lying on his belly in the scrub grass, the Scythians to his right, and Getas and another Thracian to his left. The remainder, including the new recruits, were waiting some distance to their rear. Given their small numbers, Spartacus had decided not to bother assaulting the other sides. Their best hope lay in a savage, frontal attack using all of their force. The other leaders had seemed happy with that idea too.
‘We go,’ muttered Atheas, lifting his dagger.
Taxacis grunted in agreement.
‘Make it quick. Keep quiet,’ warned Spartacus. ‘The slightest sound could screw it up.’
‘Have you forgotten?’ hissed Getas. ‘I’ve been doing this since I was old enough to wield a knife. The Scythians are no different.’
‘I know.’ Spartacus tried to relax. He couldn’t stop his throat from constricting, however, as the four crept forward and disappeared into the pitch black. He waited, counting his heartbeats and trying to calculate how long it would take to reach the Roman sentries. He had nearly reached five hundred when a rush of movement reached his ears. Spartacus froze. The sound of fierce struggling rapidly ended with a couple of short, choking cries. They’ve done it. Did anyone hear? A cold sweat bathed Spartacus’ forehead, but the silence that followed remained unbroken.
His men returned not long after, grinning fiercely. They were soon joined by the three Gaulish leaders and Oenomaus. ‘It’s time to move,’ said Spartacus.
‘Let us thank Dionysus again,’ whispered Oenomaus. ‘May he continue to watch over us. What lies ahead may cost us all our lives.’
Eighty of us are about to attack a camp containing three thousand legionaries. It’s complete madness. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else,’ hissed Spartacus. ‘Not for all of Crassus’ gold. Whatever the outcome, this will show the bastards that we are no ordinary latrones.’
Rather than argue, Crixus made a low, growling sound in his throat. Castus’ teeth flashed in the darkness, signalling his agreement. ‘It’ll show them we’re not just fodder for their games,’ added Gannicus.
With that, they shuffled back to fetch the gladiators.
Spartacus had the men trail him in a long line as they padded towards the Roman camp. None of the others protested at this. Grim satisfaction filled him that they were prepared to let him take the lead. He paused by the dead sentries, allowing some of the more poorly armed fighters to strip the corpses of their weapons. Then he carefully walked on, pleased that those following him were making almost no sound. They reached the ditch without being challenged, and Spartacus’ heart began thumping in his chest so hard that he wondered if it was audible. Breathe.
He eyed the ramparts. Without doubt, there would be sentries patrolling. How many, Spartacus did not know, but it would be no less than two per side. The nearest ones would have to be neutralised as the pickets had been. Scrambling out of the other side of the trench, he lay down. ‘Stay where you are,’ he hissed at the men behind him. As his order spread, the gladiators’ advance stopped.
It wasn’t far to the earthen fortifications, which were little more than a long, raised mound running from left to right in front of them. Spartacus scanned the top of the wall, finally picking out the shapes of two helmets off to his left. Straining his ears, he could just make out the murmur of voices. ‘See them?’