Spartacus: Rebellion Read Free

his brother who had died fighting the legions. The legions that had laid waste to their homeland, Thrace. I might yet see it again. Gellius and his men are about all that stand in the way. He half smiled. Kotys, the malevolent king of Spartacus’ tribe, the Maedi, and the reason for his enslavement, would get the shock of his life when he returned. I can’t wait. Spartacus placed the brass whistle that hung from a thong around his neck to his lips. When he blew, signalling the advance, the trumpeters would let the entire army know.
    His plan was simple. He had arrayed his soldiers in two deep lines about thirty paces apart. Castus was in charge of the left wing: a Gaulish gladiator who had aided Spartacus in their escape; short, stubborn and with a temperament as fiery as his red hair. Gannicus, another Gaul from the ludus, commanded the right; he was as strong-willed as Castus, but more even-tempered, and Spartacus had more in common with him. At his signal, they would all move forward in one great bloc and, after throwing volleys of javelins, engage the Romans head on. If things went well, their superior numbers and high morale would quickly allow them to envelop Gellius’ legions. This while their cavalry swept away the enemy horse and then took the legionaries in the rear. The Romans’ defeat would be total, their casualties far higher than in any of the previous encounters.
    By sunset, Rome will have learned another lesson. Great Rider, grant that it be so. Watch over us all in the hours to come, Spartacus prayed. Dionysus, lend us the strength of your maenads. While the Thracian hero god was his main guide in life, he had also learned to revere the deity associated with wine, intoxication and religious mania, whom his wife Ariadne worshipped. His remarkable dream, in which a venomous snake had wrapped itself around his neck, had marked him out as one of Dionysus’ own. May it always be thus.
    He filled his lungs and prepared to blow.
    Tan-tara-tara-tara went the Roman bucinae.
    Spartacus held his breath, waiting for the legions to advance.
    The enemy trumpets sounded again, but nothing else happened.
    What the hell is Gellius playing at?
    To his surprise, a horseman emerged from a gap in the centre of the Roman line. Not a legionary stirred as he guided his mount straight at Spartacus.
    Spartacus’ men were so keen to begin the fight that few noticed.
    ‘Let’s be having them!’ shouted Pulcher to a roar of approval.
    ‘Stay where you are!’ ordered Spartacus. ‘Gellius has something to say. A messenger comes.’
    ‘What do we care?’ cried a voice from the ranks. ‘It’s time to kill!’
    ‘You won’t lose that opportunity. But I want to hear the rider’s message.’ Spartacus gave his men a granite-hard stare. ‘The first fool who moves a muscle or throws a javelin will answer to me. Clear?’
    ‘Yes,’ came the muted reply.
    ‘I can’t hear you!’
    ‘YES!’
    Spartacus watched the approaching horseman. I don’t like it. Fortunately, he didn’t have time to brood. Less than a quarter of a mile separated the two armies. As the Roman drew near, he slowed his horse, a fine chestnut, to a walk. He appeared unarmed. Spartacus noted his polished bronze cuirass, scarlet crested helmet and confident posture. This was a senior officer, probably a tribune, one of the six experienced men who assisted the consul in commanding each legion. ‘That’s close enough,’ he called out when the envoy was twenty paces away.
    Raising his right hand in a peaceful gesture, the Roman walked his mount several steps closer.
    ‘Don’t trust the bastard!’ shouted Aventianus.
    The Roman smiled.
    Spartacus lifted his sica menacingly. ‘Come any nearer and I’ll send you to Hades.’
    There was no acknowledgement, but at last the Roman tugged hard on his reins. ‘I am Sextus Baculus, tribune of the Third Legion. And you are?’ His tone couldn’t have been more patronising.
    ‘You know who I am. If you don’t,