Spartacus: Rebellion Read Free Page A

you’re a bigger sack of shit than you look.’
    Spartacus’ men jeered with delight.
    Baculus’ face went bright red, and he bit back an angry response. ‘I have been sent by Lucius Gellius, consul of Rome. I—’
    ‘We met his colleague Lentulus a few weeks back,’ Spartacus interrupted. ‘Did you hear about that little encounter?’
    More gleeful cheers erupted. Baculus’ mount’s ears went back, and it skittered from side to side. The tribune regained control of it with a muttered curse. ‘You and this rabble of yours will pay dearly for that day,’ he snapped.
    ‘Will we indeed?’
    ‘I am not here to bandy words with slaves—’
    ‘Slaves?’ Spartacus twisted his head around. ‘I see no slaves here. Only free men.’
    The roar that went up this time was three times as loud as before.
    ‘Listen to me, you Thracian savage,’ hissed Baculus. He lifted his left hand, which had been held down by his side. Drawing back his arm, he tossed a leather bag at Spartacus. ‘A present from Lucius Gellius and Quintus Arrius, his propraetor,’ he cried as it flew through the air.
    Spartacus didn’t like the meaty thump that the sack made as it landed by his feet, or the faint stench that reached his nostrils. He made no move to pick it up. He had an idea of what might be inside. A number of his scouts had gone missing over the previous weeks; he’d assumed that they had been captured by the Romans. Which one is this, I wonder? Poor bastard. He won’t have had an easy death.
    ‘Go on, take a look,’ Baculus sneered. ‘We’ve kept them packed in salt especially for you.’
    Not a scout then. I know who it is. ‘Have you anything else to say?’
    ‘It can wait.’
    ‘You arrogant prick.’ The bag wasn’t tied shut, so Spartacus upended it. He wasn’t surprised that the first thing to fall out was a severed head, but didn’t expect the man’s hand that followed. Spartacus took in the blood-spattered blond hair, and his guts wrenched. He rolled over the head, which was partly putrefied. Granules of salt stuck to the eyeballs, the slack grey lips and the reddened stump of the neck. The once-handsome features were barely recognisable, but it was Crixus. There could be no doubt. The massive scar on the man’s nose was sufficient proof. Spartacus had inflicted the wound on the Gaul himself. Their fight had been inevitable from the first time they’d met – and disliked – each other. Yet he was still sorry to see Crixus dead.
    After they had fought, and Spartacus had defeated Crixus, the Gaul and his followers had joined him. They had played a big part in their escape from the ludus. A dangerous and aggressive fighter, Crixus had been a thorn in Spartacus’ side, questioning his leadership and constantly trying to gain Castus’ and Gannicus’ support. Crixus had broken away from the main army after a battle at Thurii in which they had vanquished the praetor Publius Varinius. Between twenty and thirty thousand men had gone with him. Spartacus had heard rumours since of their progress through central Italy, but had had no further contact. Until now. This grisly trophy didn’t bode well for the fate of the men who had followed Crixus, but Spartacus kept his face impassive. ‘He didn’t deserve to be treated like this.’
    ‘Did he not?’ cried Baculus. ‘Crixus’ – he smiled at the shocked reactions of Spartacus’ men – ‘yes, that’s who it is. Crixus was nothing but a murdering slave who maimed brave Roman soldiers for no good reason. He deserved everything that was done to him and more.’
    Spartacus remembered how Crixus had ordered the hands of more than twenty legionaries at Thurii to be amputated. He had been disgusted but unsurprised by the Gaul’s act. The Romans wouldn’t forgive – or forget – such a deed. ‘You did this to his corpse! Crixus would never have been taken alive,’ he shouted. His inclination was to slay Baculus on the spot, to prevent him from delivering his