Mars, the Bringer of War, forgive my poor judgement. Let me live.
By mid-afternoon, the battle was over. It was a spectacular victory for the slaves. The Romans had been completely driven off, suffering massive casualties in the process. Spartacus estimated from the bodies littering that field that more than two-thirds of Varinius’ force had been killed. Several senior officers were among the slain. No doubt hundreds more enemy soldiers would die before nightfall. Crixus and his men were pursuing them northwards on the Via Annia. Then there were those who would die of their wounds in the following days. Serves the bastards right. Grim satisfaction filled Spartacus as he surveyed the field from one of the wall towers.
Grinning with exhilaration, his men descended on the town like a cloud of locusts. In their eyes, it was now time for the pillage that they’d been denied the previous night during the successful assault on Thurii. The defenders had been cut down then in their scores, but Spartacus had prevented any killing of the city’s denizens, who had been cowering in their houses ever since.
He was waiting for his troops at the main gate. Half a dozen Thracians surrounded him, carrying the fasces that had been dropped by Varinius’ lictores as they fled.
The slaves greeted Spartacus like a conquering hero, roaring their approbation until their throats were hoarse.
‘You did well,’ he cried to the first arrivals. ‘I’m proud of you. The fat senators in Rome will tremble when they hear of your deeds.’
‘SPAR-TA-CUS!’ they bellowed delightedly.
He held up a hand, and silence gradually fell. ‘Two things, though, before you go inside the city to claim your just rewards.’
‘What are they, Spartacus?’ yelled Pulcher, the smith.
‘I want no killing of children or babes. Enough of them were slain in Forum Annii.’ Spartacus stared from face to sweat-grimed face. Many could not meet his hard stare. ‘Any man seen harming a child or an infant will be executed on the spot. There will be no exceptions. Clear?’
An uncomfortable silence fell.
‘We hear you,’ said Pulcher, glaring all around him. ‘Don’t we, lads?’
Men grunted in assent, or shook their heads.
Spartacus nodded, satisfied. ‘The second thing is to remember that Rome will not regard this loss as anything more than a spur to raise new armies. We have not won a war today. We haven’t even won a campaign. To those parasites in the Senate, this will be little more than a nasty shock. They will send far more soldiers next time, and not under the command of a mere praetor. I’d say it would be fair to expect a consul, at the head of an entire army.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Pulcher with a scowl.
‘We can’t stay in this area forever. Think on that as you celebrate tonight.’
Spartacus was glad to see that many men bore sober expressions as they passed by into Thurii. They might forget his words in the haze of wine that would undoubtedly follow, but the seed would have been planted.
He stood by the gate, receiving the adulation of his men, and repeating his words until night fell, and Crixus returned. Like his men, the Gaul was spattered in blood from head to foot. Seeing Spartacus, he raised a fist. ‘You should have come with us. The hunting was good, eh?’
Several of his men howled like dogs.
‘The Romans won’t forget Crixus in a hurry.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Spartacus.
‘The last twenty legionaries that we captured had their eyes gouged out, and their right hands amputated,’ revealed Crixus with a cruel smile. ‘I ordered them to carry my name to Rome, and to warn the Senate that the same fate would befall every soldier they sent against us.’
A loud cheer went up from his men, and Crixus glared at Spartacus.
So now he makes his move to take control. Spartacus was even more glad that he’d spoken with the slaves as they entered the city. ‘A powerful message,’ he conceded.
Crixus grinned triumphantly.
‘I’ve done similar things myself, in Thrace. What it does is to make the Romans come back in even greater numbers.’
Crixus’ brows lowered. ‘Is that right? Always bloody know better, don’t you?’
He’s never going to agree to my plan. This final, stark realisation unleashed Spartacus’ anger. ‘Not all the time, no,’ he replied sharply. ‘But when it comes to fighting the Romans, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever learn.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ bellowed Crixus, the veins on his neck bulging dangerously. ‘Won’t we, boys?’
His voice was lost in the torrent of shouts that followed.
Spartacus waited until the noise died down. ‘I’m going to assemble the army tomorrow. Make an announcement.’
‘Which will be?’ demanded Crixus.
‘I’m going to head north, to the Alps. Leave Italy.’
Crixus’ eyes widened. ‘Do Castus and Gannicus know about this?’
‘Not yet.’ I think they’ll stay with me rather than go with you, the hothead.
‘So you’re going to ask the men if they want to follow me, or you?’
‘That’s right,’ replied Spartacus. ‘Unless of course you want to come with me.’
‘Eh?’ Crixus threw him an incredulous look. ‘Why would I want to leave behind the riches that can be plundered here? Why would anyone? Everything in this land is ripe for the plucking.’
‘Not everything,’ warned Spartacus. ‘Two full-strength consular armies will stop you in your tracks.’
But his words were drowned by Crixus’ men’s jeers and catcalls.
Spartacus shrugged and stood aside. He watched as the Gaul led his followers into Thurii. Each man chooses his own fate. It’s not for me to try and change their destiny. Yet a trace of unease tickled the back of his mind. Who would listen to him tomorrow? How many would cleave to Crixus? What would Castus and Gannicus do? Maybe it had been premature to bring the matter to a head.
Spartacus clenched his jaw. His words could not be unsaid. Now is as good a time as any. He glanced up at the darkening sky. Great Rider, you have my thanks for what happened here today. I ask for your help again tomorrow.
Spartacus waited until late the following morning before having his order to assemble on the ground outside Thurii put about. Thanks to the amount of wine that had been consumed during the night, it took several hours to rouse everyone from their stupor and force them outside the walls. Egbeo, Carbo and their troops were the unlucky ones to be given this duty, and it won them no friends as they scoured the city’s houses and alleyways for their sleeping comrades. Curses rained down on their heads, as well as helmets, cups and plates. Even the occasional amphora was lobbed at them. The former slaves had changed markedly over the previous months, Carbo decided. They had discovered their bark, and with it, their bite. Before, he would have been frightened of such a sea change. Now, it thrilled him. Spartacus had really forged an army.
No one actually put up a fight and gradually the bleary-eyed, filthy men were chivvied on to the open area before the main gate. Few had bothered to wash the previous day’s blood from their arms and faces. The reek of sweat and stale wine hung everywhere. Mixed with it was the first faint smell of decay from the hundreds of Roman bodies that lay among the slaves. High above on the battlements, Spartacus’ nostrils were filled with the sickening miasma. It was fortunate that spring was only starting, he thought. If it had been summer, the stench would already have been unbearable.
He had picked the position because it meant that everyone could see him. Crixus was there too, of course, glowering like an angry bull. Castus and Gannicus stood alongside, looking irritated. Spartacus cursed silently. He’d gone to tell them about his plan the previous evening, but Crixus had already got to the pair. I could have managed that far better, he reflected, giving them a confident grin anyway. He was heartened somewhat by Gannicus’ nod, but Castus looked away rather than respond. Spartacus’ doubt grew. Great Rider, help me. Do not let them turn from me now.