Spartacus tapped me on the shoulder as he ran past me towards the gates, followed by the others. I too rushed forward as he stopped at the gates and pointed at two of his men, who placed their backs against the gates and cupped their hands together. Spartacus ran at one of them, put his right foot in the man’s hands and was hoisted onto the top of the gate, then dropped over the other side. I followed him, landing hard on the ground inside the camp. He picked me up and we released the iron bar that had been dropped into brackets fastened to each gate to keep them shut. The guard that had been shot off his platform was moaning and trying to crawl away, but Spartacus pulled his dagger and slit his throat. I opened the gates and the others poured into the camp. The dawn was breaking now and in the half-light figures could be seen coming out of the huts that housed the guards. Morning roll call! Spartacus led his Thracians towards the straw-roofed huts, racing in front of the sheds where the silver ore was separated. In front of the huts, about a hundred yards away, was the slave compound, a fenced enclosure containing tents. Two guards stood at its iron gate, who were quickly felled by arrows. But now an alarm bell was being rung and out of the doors of the huts poured legionaries frantically adjusting helmets, belts and tunics. They formed up at the far end of the compound, two centuries of them being roughly shoved into their ranks by two centurions. Spartacus halted his men and formed them up into two groups eight ranks deep, the men standing ready to advance and hurl their pila. I ordered the majority of my men to deploy behind the Thracians, ready to loose their arrows at the Romans, deploying others to act as flank guards at the ore sheds and in front of the two entrances to the mine, as I did not know if there were any guards in the mine itself.
The Romans started to move forward, but then my archers on the outcrop overlooking the camp began a steady hail of arrows against them, which stopped them in their tracks. I gave the order to fire and arrows flew over the Thracians and into the front ranks of the Romans. The latter, true to form, locked their shields to the front, sides and over their heads, to produce what looked like two large red boxes sat on the ground. The men on the outcrop continued to shoot at the shield blocks, while Spartacus yelled, ‘Swords!’ and rushed forward. The Thracians dumped their javelins on the ground and charged the Romans. As they raced forward we fired another volley of arrows, which hit their shields seconds before the Thracians smashed into their ranks. I was told later by those watching from above that this charge buckled the front of the Roman formations, and then broke them as Spartacus and his men stabbed repeatedly at their enemies. Seasoned troops may have stood and fought as their comrades in front of them were disemboweled and lacerated by expertly wielded swords, but these were prison guards and in a few seconds the two formations had fallen apart. I led my men forward in the wake of the Thracians, as the fighting suddenly became a mass of individual fights, and soon only one. Most of the Romans threw down their weapons and begged for mercy, while others who carried on fighting were soon cut down. And so it happened that in the end Spartacus stood alone with sword and shield challenging the Romans to fight him. There was no shortage of takers. We formed a semi-circle around our general as he fought against five Romans who circled him. I must confess I was worried, but his men merely yelped and cheered him on.
He fought with skill and speed, using his shield as a weapon as well as his sword, parrying sword strikes and smashing the shield boss into faces and ribs. He moved quickly, light on his feet and swiveling his body expertly to face his multiple attackers. Spartacus also used his enemies, assuming positions where one Roman blocked the attack of another. He split one adversary’s skull with his sword, ducked low and swept his right foot to knock another off his feet. He threw off his helmet and fought bare headed, goading his assailants and deliberately exposing his chest to invite attack. One did so recklessly and died as Spartacus feinted to the man’s right, tripped him and then shattered his spine with a sword strike as he lay face-down on the ground. The men were shouting ‘Spartacus, Spartacus’ as he crouched low and delivered a fatal blow to the groin of the fourth Roman, his high-pitched squeal piercing the morning air. The fifth Roman probably knew he would die, but to his credit he attacked with vigour, but died instantly when Spartacus brushed aside his sword with his shield and then rammed his own blade through the man’s throat and out of the back of his neck. He left the gladius in the man’s flesh and walked away, the body momentarily remaining upright before collapsing on the ground. Spartacus stood with arms raised, accepting the rapturous applause given him, before retrieving his sword and helmet from the bloody ground.
I joined him as he wiped the blood from his sword and put it back in its scabbard.
‘I enjoyed that,’ he beamed. ‘It was like being back in the arena.’
‘You liked being in the arena?’ I said with incredulity.
He was shocked. ‘Of course, why not? I was good at it and everyone likes doing something that they are good at.’
Those Romans who had surrendered were quickly herded into the slave pen, while the slaves were let out and informed by Spartacus that they were free. Most just stood around looking confused, but one individual pushed his way to the front of the group and spoke to Spartacus. A thickset man with a chiselled face and narrow black eyes, he had manacles on his feet.
‘Lucius Domitus at your service. I thought I would die in this place but now, thanks to you, it appears that I shall die elsewhere.’
‘You are a Roman?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Ex-centurion of the Thirteenth Legion and for the last six months resident of this shit-hole.’
‘And why are you here?’ retorted Spartacus.
Domitus shrugged. ‘I had a disagreement with a tribune which resulted in him getting a beating and me being sent here.’
‘You were lucky,’ remarked Spartacus.
‘That’s my middle name,’ smiled Domitus. He tugged at his chains. ‘Any chance of getting these off? At least tell me your name.’
‘I am Spartacus, a Thracian,’ the name made no impression on the Roman, ‘and this is Pacorus, a Parthian.’
Domitus regarded me coolly, obviously assuming that my long hair indicated a lack of discipline and fighting ability. He had, however, noticed the effectiveness of our bows. He nodded. ‘Clever trick, that, putting archers up on the rocks.’
Behind us the last of the garrison had been thrown into the slave pen, whose iron gate was shut. The slaves, including Domitus, were being led to the smelting sheds where their fetters were broken on anvils. Spartacus ordered that all the weapons, armour, helmets and shields were to be loaded onto carts to be taken back to camp, while all the chains were likewise to be transported back, there to be forged into weapons. I sent twenty men down the track to fetch the horses, and ordered fifty more to retrieve any usable arrows. The garrison’s rations were distributed among the slaves, who sat on the ground and consumed them with frenzy. Spartacus and I wandered over to the entrance to the mine: two large passageways side-by-side cut into the rock face. Each tunnel was illuminated by means of oil lamps set into small recesses in the rock. Spartacus ordered that Domitus be fetched to us, and moments later he appeared, delighted to be no longer chained.