‘Yes,’ hissed Atheas.
‘I want them silenced in the same way as the pickets. Think you can do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Make a noise like an owl when you’ve finished.’ As the warriors crept away, Spartacus inhaled deeply and slowly let the air out again. The tension was as great as the final moments before any of the battles he had fought. Calm, stay calm. Focusing on his breathing, he closed his eyes.
When the eerie sound reached him, Spartacus felt a surge of relief. The Romans might think of an owl’s call as bad luck, but he certainly didn’t. Another obstacle had been removed.
They stole up to the entrance — little more than a gap between two overlapping portions of the rampart — without difficulty. Spartacus immediately conferred with the other leaders. ‘The men should file out on to the open space that lies behind the rampart when they get inside. They must maintain complete silence. Wait until my signal. The more tents that are attacked simultaneously, the better, eh?’
‘Fine,’ replied Oenomaus. ‘I’ll take the left flank.’
‘You three to the right,’ said Spartacus. ‘And I’ll take the centre.’
The Gauls nodded.
‘Try not to let your men spread out. If we attack in groups, it will make us seem like a bigger force.’ He waited, but no one argued. Excellent. ‘Wait for my signaclass="underline" a raised sword, and an owl call.’
Spartacus watched as the four vanished to advise their men. Sudden doubt reared up in his mind. What are we doing? This is fucking crazy. Then his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sica. Far better to die like this than to be overrun by thousands of legionaries in the morning. He began to walk towards the tents.
The regular lines which came into view felt weirdly familiar to him. During his service with the legions, Spartacus had slept in many such camps. He had sat around campfires, singing and drinking wine with men such as those they were about to attack. That is all in the past. I am here to kill. We are here to kill. Spartacus muttered instructions to the Thracians following. Silently, they spread out on either side of him. Behind, he spotted the dim figures of men — Gauls and Germans — trotting to the left and right.
And then they were ready.
Spartacus raised his sica and glanced to either side. Seeing swords lifted in acknowledgement, he cupped a hand to his mouth and let out the owl call he’d practised as a boy. The distant figures began to move, and Spartacus gestured to the men behind him, whom he’d ordered to work in pairs, staying along the same line of tents. He noticed Aventianus nearby, a club gripped tightly in his fist. Carbo was beside him, his face tense. Seeing Spartacus’ look, the lad gave a resolute nod. He’ll do all right.
Closer and closer they went. Still there was no alarm, no noise unless a legionary coughed in his sleep, or grunted in the midst of a dream. Ten steps from the nearest tent, Spartacus could take the waiting no more. He quickened his pace to a trot. Getas was right on his heels. As soon as he was close enough, Spartacus slashed down with his weapon, cutting through the leather panelling with ease. The blade’s trajectory came to an abrupt end when it sank deep in human flesh. A heartbeat later, the silence was shattered by a terrible scream. Getas chopped down several paces away with similar success. ‘Quickly!’ hissed Spartacus, pulling back his arm and swinging down in a different direction. There was a meaty thump as the sica sliced into another man. Another bawl of pain. Take that, you Roman bastard!
Ariadne sat alone by the fire, staring into the glowing embers and brooding. Did Spartacus’ dream signal his death at the hands of Roman soldiers? Would it happen tonight? She was unsurprised but dissatisfied to find nothing to inspire her in the red-orange flames. The occasional shower of sparks that rose lazily into the night sky were no different. Dionysus had never revealed anything to her through the medium of fire before. He wasn’t about to start now, she thought. Ariadne tried, and failed, not to feel bitter. Only once could she recall needing guidance this much — in Thrace, when Kotys had been threatening her.
Do not lose faith. The god had come through in the end, bringing Spartacus into her life. She pictured him in her mind’s eye. It was easy to do so — did she not gaze at him secretly whenever she got the chance? Especially when he was undressing. Ariadne was glad that there was no one present to witness the sudden flush that coloured her cheeks. Yet she had long ago stopped denying to herself that Spartacus was damnably attractive. Gods, she was only human! He was handsome, with a powerful physique. He was slow to anger, quick to laugh, and deadly with a sword or his bare hands. He was a natural leader of men. Most importantly of all, he had consistently looked out for her when there was no gain in it for him. He had not argued on the occasion when she had rebuffed him. Moreover, he had not tried it on with her again.
Now I want him to. Shocked by her own daring, Ariadne started forward from her seat. She sat down again, her heart pounding in her breast. Why in hell’s name not? With Dionysus’ blessing, it will expunge the only other memories I have of sex. My father. Phortis. Dread overtook her excitement at once. For anything ever to happen between us, Spartacus has to survive tonight. And if his dream -
‘Stop it!’ Ariadne said out loud. She saw the other women’s heads turn from their fires, and quickly regained control. He will survive, she thought fiercely. But without a sign from the gods to the contrary, it was entirely possible that the snake Spartacus had seen foretold a terrible doom for him.
Ariadne resolved to make her best effort yet to seek guidance from Dionysus. The deity had already shown his goodwill in prompting Spartacus to use the wild vines. Perhaps he could be persuaded to extend some more aid? With new determination, Ariadne went to fetch her two statues of Dionysus. Spartacus, her husband, was fighting for his life on the plain below. The least that she could do was to spend the rest of the night on her knees in search of divine inspiration.
Spartacus delivered no more than four huge blows with his sword before he realised the effect of what he and Getas had done. The surviving men within — some of whom were wounded — were yelling and thrashing about, trying to free themselves from the collapsed tent. Even if the whoresons get out, they won’t want to fight. They’re absolutely terrified! ‘We can’t kill them all. There’s no need,’ he whispered to Getas. ‘Tell the others: “Attack and move on. Attack and move on.”’
Moving between the gladiators was already hellishly difficult. The only things visible in the darkness were the outlines of tents, and the shadows in between that were his men. The screaming and shouting that now filled the air added to the confusion. Spartacus gave up all pretence of being quiet. ‘It is I, Spartacus,’ he bellowed. ‘Hack at every tent a dozen times and move on. Speed is of the essence!’
Spartacus turned. ‘Getas?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Remember the Maedi war cry?’
‘Of course!’
‘Make it now! Let’s do it for Seuthes!’ Throwing back his head, Spartacus let a primeval roar rip free of his throat. Getas echoed his cry. Theirs was the same ululating sound that all Thracian warriors used when going to war. Named the ‘titanismos’ by the Greeks, it curdled the blood in the veins of a coward. Three thousand of the whoresons are waking up to it, thought Spartacus grimly. I can think of no better way to die than like this. He cut down at a fresh tent with a blur of blows. One, two, three, four. Each strike hit a target, caused a fresh victim to scream at the top of his lungs. Spartacus sensed rather than saw Getas alongside him, his sword flashing up and down in imitation of his own.
They moved on to the next silhouetted structure. And the next.