Content that his forces were ready, Varinius looked towards Thurii, which lay perhaps half a mile away. The messenger had been correct in his estimation. The black stain around the walls told him that the slaves had surrounded the entire town. Just to do that meant that they outnumbered his legionaries by a considerable margin. What of it? he thought scornfully. There was no visible order to the seething mass of men before him. Far from it. Instead of battle cries, the sound of frightened shouts wafted through the air from Thurii. Excellent. ‘They’ve seen us. Sound the advance!’ Varinius shouted.
The musician beside him raised his instrument to his lips and blew a short series of notes. This was taken up at once by the other trumpeters. Then, with measured tread, the lines of legionaries began to march forwards. Tramp, tramp, tramp.
With his excitement growing, Varinius walked his horse some twenty steps to the rear.
‘Hold the line, men,’ bellowed a centurion. ‘Have your first pilum ready!’
‘Steady,’ ordered Galba. ‘We want to hit the bastards all at the same time.’
‘Revenge for Lucius Furius and his lads!’ roared a voice.
‘And for Lucius Cossinius,’ added another.
‘REVENGE!’
The cry began echoing up and down the line, drowning out the slaves’ noises of distress.
‘SI–LENCE!’ screamed Galba, clattering the flat of his blade on the helmets of the men around him. ‘We close in on the fuckers in silence!’
It took some time, but the centurions and junior officers regained control eventually. An odd quiet fell over the legionaries. Varinius had not fought many battles, but he recognised the atmosphere well. The air was laced with the smell of leather and men’s sweat. The dominant sound once more was the heavy tread of his soldiers’ studded caligae on the muddy ground. Interspersed with this was the clash of pila shafts off the sides of shields and the metallic jingle of mail. Everywhere, men were hawking and spitting. They muttered prayers to their favourite gods and surreptitiously rubbed at the amulets hanging from their necks. Varinius felt his own stomach tighten with anxiety. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Think of the effect this will have. It’s absolutely terrifying to have an enemy advance in complete silence. That’s why we do it.
The distance between them and the slaves closed to perhaps 250 paces. Varinius’ anticipation grew. They were still well beyond javelin range, but close enough to mean that battle was likely. Sensing the slaves’ fear, his men were growing keener by the moment. But the seasoned centurions stayed calm, ensuring that no one broke ranks.
At two hundred paces, the legionaries were ordered to begin smacking their pila rhythmically off the metal rims on the tops of their scuta.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
It was an unnerving sound. A sound designed to send fear darting into men’s hearts. To promise the kiss of death from javelin tip or gladius blade. To ensure a trip to the River Styx, there to meet the ferryman.
Few enemies could take the terror of its approach.
A wall of incoherent shouts rose up from Spartacus’ men, and then, before Varinius’ very eyes, the main body of slaves broke in two. Half began running to the south, and the rest broke and fled for the trees to the north.
Varinius stifled a cheer. ‘Two cohorts wheel to the left, three to the right!’ He waited while the trumpeter sounded his commands, before directing the four cohorts in the second line to split equally and follow their comrades, and the final line of three to halt and hold the centre. ‘Toranius, I want you to lead the chase to the south. It’s open farmland, so the sheep-fuckers will have nowhere to go but face down in the mud. Chase them hard. Kill them all if you can!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Toranius’ teeth flashed white in his swarthy face.
‘You stay here,’ said Varinius, glancing at two of his tribunes. ‘The rest of you, follow the cohorts to the left. I want you to run them right on to the Germans. They’ll charge when it’s time and smash the whoresons against your shield wall.’ To his trumpeter: ‘Sound the charge. Javelins at will.’
He watched with great satisfaction as his orders were rapidly obeyed. The charging legionaries began to roar battle cries, and this time the centurions did nothing to stop them.
‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’
The air to Varinius’ left darkened as hundreds of pila were thrown after the retreating slaves. They soared up in graceful, lethal arcs and he counted his heartbeat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The missiles’ tips turned to point earthwards. Six. Seven. Eight. The screaming began, and Varinius stopped his count with a smile. There’s nothing like javelins to create panic in a fleeing mob.
Varinius glanced to his right, seeing the same scenario unfold. Toranius would do a good job. He was young, but steady.
His gaze casually returned to the front. The town’s main gate was opening. The defenders are making a sally, he thought with some amusement. The sluggards best hurry if they want a piece of the action. Or maybe they’ve come to thank me for saving their miserable hides.
Hundreds of armed men swarmed out of Thurii. Dressed in Roman mail shirts and wearing typical plumed bronze helmets, they ran with their shields close together. In total silence. Straight at Varinius’ three cohorts.
Varinius blinked. ‘What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?’
He glanced around, but Toranius and the tribunes were all long gone.
When he looked back, the men were twenty paces nearer. Varinius was startled to see that some of them had long hair and moustaches. His eyes flickered across their lines and his heart nearly stopped. There was a Nubian in the front rank too. And a man with facial tattoos who could only be a Scythian, or similar. ‘T-they’re not Romans! It’s a trap!’ he screamed.
With an anxious look, his trumpeter half raised his instrument. ‘What are your orders, sir?’
‘Close order,’ bawled Varinius. ‘A volley of javelins at fifty paces.’
Tan-tara. Tan-tara-tara.
The legionaries’ shields slammed together almost as one. ‘Right arms back,’ yelled the centurions. ‘Pila ready!’
Dismounting, Varinius threw his reins to his orderly, who began to lead his horse out of harm’s way. He took up his shield and drew his sword. Varinius had wielded the weapon in battle just once before, but he took comfort from the firmness of its carved ivory hilt. ‘All right, men. Let’s how the scumbags the meaning of courage. FOR ROME!’
‘FOR ROME!’ they roared back. ‘FOR ROME!’
Varinius’ courage rallied. ‘Is this all you can throw at me, Spartacus?’
It wasn’t.
His eyes widened in horror. The tide of men issuing from the town gate had not stopped. Instead, it had grown even denser. Now his three cohorts were outnumbered, and the balance was fast tipping further in the slaves’ favour. Moreover, the men running at his legionaries looked every bit as determined as the most hardbitten Roman veteran. They still hadn’t uttered a word either. Fifty paces separated the two sides now, no more. Right on cue, orders rang out from the centurions and a tide of Roman javelins flew up. The slaves slowed in response, and sent a volley soaring in the opposite direction. Then, to Varinius’ complete amazement, they raised their scuta to protect themselves.
‘Raise shields!’ went the cry from the centurions.
Foolishly, Varinius looked up. Seeing something flashing towards him, he ducked down behind his scutum. The movement saved his life. There was a sharp, whistling sound, and a pilum flew through the space where his head had been. It sank more than a handspan into the dirt. Two more thrummed down to his left, and a sickening scream behind him told Varinius that his orderly had been hit. He shook his head like a drunken man trying to find his way home. ‘This can’t be happening.’