‘Leave him alone,’ said Spartacus, putting his arm around my shoulder, ‘all will be settled as they wish. So let us drink to their happiness, long life and good fortune.’
Later, when Burebista had been carried back to his tent by two guards after collapsing into a drunken slumber, I asked Claudia how she knew about Gallia and myself.
‘Was it a vision, like you saw at Thurri?’
She laughed and embraced me. ‘No, my dashing young prince. Gallia told me, as she told Diana. She is so thrilled that she could not keep it a secret. You have made her very happy.’
‘Really?’
She jabbed me in the stomach with a finger. ‘Of course, you think a woman like Gallia gives her emotions lightly. She loves you body and soul, so you had better not let her down.’
‘I won’t,’ I said, solemnly. ‘By Shamash I swear it.’
She pulled a stern face. ‘So serious. But I know you won’t let her down.’
‘Is that what Spartacus told you?’
‘No, Pacorus, that is what a vision told me.’ She filled her cup with wine and went back to her husband.
We spent two weeks in the province of Umbria, reorganising and commencing the training of new recruits, for many escaped slaves began to flock to our banner once more. They were men, mostly, lean individuals with faces made hard from living in the hills and mountains tending flocks, or living under the lash of the overseer in the fields. Women came also, mostly from the gangs who had worked in the fields, mostly in their teens or twenties, in rags and threadbare cloaks, but whose faces were alight when they walked into our camp and asked to see the slave leader Spartacus. They embraced him, shook his hand and some fell to their knees and wept, and to his credit Spartacus made every one of them feel as though he or she was a long-lost friend. To me he was a friend, but I think that all those who filled our centuries and cohorts also believed him to be one of them. It was that bond of comradeship that held the army together, I knew that now, the strong bond of loyalty that united us all behind him. To me he was always kind, but one does not become the commander of an army by being kind. He also possessed a streak of iron, a degree of ruthlessness that had enabled him to survive as a gladiator in the merciless arena. I saw this in the days following our two victories. Spartacus had captured a cohort of the enemy, men who had thrown down their weapons when they had been surrounded during the pursuit. They had begged for mercy and had seemingly been granted it. But it was not to be, for five days after he had defeated the Romans, Spartacus gave a great feast for the army. The plundered wine and food from far and wide was provided for those who had bled for him, tables stacked high with meats, fruit and bread. And afterwards, in a fenced-off area around which seating had been erected, the prisoners fought in matched pairs to the death.
Spartacus declared it to be the funeral games for Crixus and thousands stood by as pairs of fighters, some armed with gladius and shield, others with a trident and a net, fought each other to the death. The combat went on for hours, the audience, former slaves now turned masters, hooted and cheered in their drunken state, while all the time a stony-faced Spartacus sat on a wooden dais and observed the slaughter. Beside him, squat and rock-like, stood Akmon, with a black-haired and stern-faced Castus stood on his other side. Under a hot sun men sweated, bled and died, each death greeted with rapturous applause from those present. Some refused to fight and threw down their weapons, then stared in defiance at the dais. Spartacus merely nodded to one of the many guards who surrounded the temporary arena, who then speared the reluctant gladiator with his javelin. Claudia and Gallia had been present at the start of this gruesome spectacle, but had departed soon after the first blood had been spilt. I had been asked to attend, as had Rhesus, Nergal and Burebista, though I had little enthusiasm for this organised slaughter. Spartacus noted my discomfort.
‘You do not approve, Pacorus?’
I shrugged. ‘I see no point in it, lord.’
‘Crixus was my comrade, so it is fitting that I should celebrate his life.’
‘With death?’
‘The first gladiatorial contests took place at the funerals of rich Romans,’ he said. ‘So I thought it right and proper that we should return to the old ways to give Crixus a proper send-off.’
In front of us two more men died, one screaming as his belly was sliced open by a gladius. Burebista smiled while Castus remained unmoved.
‘That used to be us down there,’ said Spartacus, ‘spilling our guts for the amusement of the Romans. Now the roles are reversed.’ He cast me a glance. ‘You waste your pity on them, Pacorus, and pity will get you killed if you’re not careful.’
‘Tempted to try your hand, Spartacus?’ Castus was being mischievous.
‘It had occurred to me,’ he replied.
‘Then why don’t you?’
Akmon look alarmed but said nothing. ‘I would advise against it, lord.’ I offered.
He turned to me and smiled, the first time he had done so that day. ‘Why? Do you think they can beat me?’
Before I could answer he had stood up, drawn his sword and leapt from the dais and into the temporary arena. He walked calmly among the fighting pairs until he was about a hundred feet from where we stood. He raised his sword to me in salute, and then bellowed to those around him to attack him, shouting that whoever cut him down would win his freedom. Within seconds five Romans were circling him like ravenous wolves. They had swords and shields and wore helmets on their heads; Spartacus wore just a tunic and had only his sword. Any lesser man would have surely perished, but one did not become a champion of the arena by being ordinary. And whereas gladiators were trained to fight on their own, the Romans facing him had been trained to fight as a unit. On their own they were clumsy and uncoordinated. One, his shield tucked tight to his body, thrust at Spartacus but the slave general pounced to the man’s right and stabbed the point of his sword into the man’s upper arm. The Roman yelped in pain and dropped his sword, whereupon Spartacus pounced and thrust his sword through the man’s neck. He used the Roman’s body as a shield as a second attacker lunged at Spartacus’ chest, only to become entangled in the corpse as he fell to the ground. He died with a gladius thrust through his back into his heart.
Spartacus was in his element now, his strong jaw thrust forward and his eyes alight with the thrill of the deadly drama he was involved in. He killed the third Roman at the end of a series of rapid sword strokes that his opponent could not parry, Spartacus driving his sword through the man’s groin. The fourth died after Spartacus feinted a trip and the man, thinking his opponent would fall, rashly charged forward, only to be tripped himself and then have his belly sliced open as he fell. Thus the last Roman, a pathetic figure who clearly did not want to fight, threw down his sword and shield, fell to his knees begged for mercy. Spartacus walked up to the man, placed his left hand on his shoulder and then looked to where we were standing. He smiled at me, turned to look at the man before him and then rammed his gladius through his throat. He left the blade in place, his hand still on the Roman’s shoulder, as the gladius was covered in a red froth. He then placed his foot against the dead man’s chest and pushed the corpse onto the ground, extracting his sword as he did so. He then walked calmly back to the dais and retook his seat.
‘Like I said,’ he said to me, ‘pity is a weakness.’
I confess that the gladiatorial contest was not to my liking and had seemed to me to be nothing more than sport.
‘Of course it’s sport,’ remarked a surprised Gallia. ‘Why are you so surprised?’
The two of us had ridden into the vine-clad hills surrounding our sprawling encampment, which was growing larger each day as new recruits joined us. The scenery we rode through was breathtaking, with deep gorges among the limestone peaks. The day was very warm, an intense sun beating down as we made our way upwards along an old goat track. The area teemed with wildlife and we saw deer, porcupine and a peregrine falcon fly overhead as our horses walked along the dirt track. Either side of us tall beech trees filled the landscape.