But it was.
Chapter XIX
Another shower of javelins was exchanged, and then the two sides struck each other with a sound like a giant thunderclap. Varinius’ legionaries reeled with the impact, the sheer fury of it. At least two score soldiers went down, or were knocked from their feet. They never got a chance to stand up. Gladii lanced down, thrusting into their flesh with a terrible hunger. Normally, the gaps left by such casualties would be filled immediately. Not this time. With froth spraying from their lips, the Gauls that Varinius had spotted thrust themselves, uncaring, screaming, into the breaches. Punching with their shield bosses and stabbing with their swords like men possessed, they drove the legionaries of the second rank back several steps. A centurion who jumped into their path was hacked to pieces in a storm of vicious blows. A signifer was killed and his standard raised into the air by a triumphant Scythian.
Varinius’ troops, so sure of success just a few moments before, quailed at their enemies’ sheer ferocity. This was a world away from what they’d been told to expect. These were no frightened, easy-to-kill slaves. They were more like ravenous, indestructible beasts.
The legionaries fell back another step.
Baying for blood, Spartacus’ men pressed forward with renewed strength.
‘Hold the line,’ roared Galba. ‘Hold the line, you fucking dogs!’ With contemptible ease, the veteran centurion lopped the sword arm off a short slave with a rusty helmet. Smashing him aside with his scutum, Galba ran the next man through the chest. He pulled out the blade, laughing as blood spattered all over his face. ‘Is this all you can do, you miserable sacks of shit?’
There was a momentary pause, and the nearest legionaries glanced at each other.
Listen to him, prayed Varinius. Listen to him!
‘Come on, you scumbags,’ screamed Galba. He leaped forward, using his shield to drive a big Gaul backwards into the arms of his fellows. Galba slipped his gladius around his scutum, running it deep into the man’s belly. An agonising scream split the air, and the legionaries took heart. Locking shields, they advanced towards Galba, whose heroic attack had left him alone.
‘FORWARD!’ shouted Varinius. ‘FORWARD!’
But someone else had also realised that Galba’s position was vulnerable.
A figure emerged from the enemy ranks. Those around him held back, and Varinius’ breath caught in his chest. The man was of average height, but his magnificent Phrygian helmet marked him out at once as someone to be reckoned with. He was clad similarly to his comrades, in a mail shirt, and he carried a scutum. Instead of a gladius, however, he bore a sica. A Thracian. He has to be. Without a word, the newcomer pointed the bloodied weapon at the senior centurion.
Galba’s lip curled. ‘Think you can take me? Come on, then!’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, lads. I want to carve this piece of dirt a new arsehole.’
Grinning with newfound confidence, the legionaries did as they were told.
Snap! The Thracian’s sword clicked into its scabbard. He stretched out his right arm. ‘Javelin!’
Stepping forward, a fierce-looking Scythian slapped one into his palm.
‘Scared of sword work?’ Galba sneered. ‘Slave scum!’
‘Not at all,’ replied the Thracian in accented Latin. Hefting the weapon, he drew back and hurled it with all his might. It covered the distance to Galba in less than a heartbeat. Punching through his scutum, the pilum ripped a hole in his mail shirt and sank deep into his chest. Galba’s eyes bulged with the agony of it; his mouth opened in shock. Froth poured from his lips in a bloody spume. He staggered and fell on to his back, his shield still pinned to his body.
‘It’s just that I’m better with a spear,’ said the Thracian mildly.
Varinius goggled. He’d never seen a throw like it.
Nor had the watching legionaries. Dismay and fear rippled across their faces, as when a stone lands in a pond.
With a savage grin, the Thracian drew his sica and aimed it at the Romans.
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ roared his men. ‘SPAR-TA-CUS! SPAR-TA-CUS!’
Acid-tipped claws of fear ripped at Varinius. Gods above. This is no halfwit rabble-rouser.
By now, the nearest legionaries were looking terrified. Their heads began to turn, seeking a way to retreat. The men in the front rank pushed back against those behind them. There was little resistance.
With a maniacal yell, Spartacus threw himself forward.
In a devastating surge, the slaves followed.
Varinius was struck dumb with shock. Mesmerised, he watched as the structure of his central cohort disintegrated before his eyes. Some legionaries fought desperately against the wave of attackers, but theirs was a hopeless cause. Once the line of shields was broken, and men presented their backs on the enemy, there was no way back. The soldiers at the front — the first to have turned to run — were also quickest to die. They were hacked down, like rotten branches torn off a tree by a gale. In the time it took Varinius to drop his shield, grab his horse’s reins and swing up on to its back, scores of men had been slain. The ground was carpeted with mangled, bloody bodies. Uncaring, the slaves trampled over the dead to reach their next victims. The slaves’ swords rose and fell in a dreadful, hypnotic rhythm. Their job couldn’t have been easier. Riven by fear, the legionaries were shoving and fighting with each other to get away. The screaming was absolutely deafening.
Despite himself, Varinius quailed. This cohort is finished.
Then he glanced to either side, and his desperation reached new levels. Seeing, hearing, sensing that their comrades had broken, the legionaries of the other two cohorts were also in full retreat.
A hand pulled at his leg, and Varinius glanced down in horror at a blood-spattered legionary. He had neither sword nor shield. ‘Help me, sir!’
Without thinking, Varinius smashed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face. He heard the crunch as the soldier’s nose broke, and then he was dragging his horse’s head around and drumming his heels into its sides. Not liking the chaos, it took off willingly.
What of the other cohorts? Varinius wondered. To the south, he could see Toranius’ units engaging with the slaves, who looked to have turned and formed up. Toranius wouldn’t be coming back to help any time soon. Damn it all to Hades! Varinius’ worst fears were confirmed when he looked towards the woodland to the north. Hundreds of horsemen — far too many to be his Germans — were swirling gracefully around a large cluster of armoured men. Varinius struggled to make sense of it. How could Spartacus have cavalry? It wasn’t possible that his riders had been driven off.
Was it?
He felt the thump as something struck his mount hard in the haunch. He shot a look over his shoulder. A javelin! Even as Varinius took it in, his horse reared up in pain, throwing him free. He landed on the flat of his back. All the air was driven from his lungs, and for a moment Varinius lay there, looking dazedly up at the sky. It was completely cloudless, he saw.
‘Are you hurt, sir?’
Varinius squinted. An optio whom Galba had praised was stooping over him. ‘Eh?’
‘If you want to live, sir, get up!’ A filthy hand was shoved in his face.
Varinius took it, and the optio heaved him to his feet. They had to brace themselves against the tide of men who were shoving past, blind to their commander’s presence.
‘All right, sir?’
‘Y-yes,’ muttered Varinius.
‘You go first, sir. I’ll guard your back.’
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere, sir.’ The optio actually gave him a shove. ‘Quickly!’
Normally, Varinius would have been incensed by such audacity and had the optio punished on the spot. Now he was happy to turn and run like everyone else. It was that option, or die. Varinius was very aware, however, that fleeing did not guarantee his survival.