Simon Scarrow - Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

SIMON SCARROW

PUFFIN

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First published 2011

Text copyright Simon Scarrow, 2011

Illustrations copyright Richard Jones, 2011

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

All rights reserved

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-141-93143-2

For Rosemary Sutcliffe who has inspired so many of us to love history

Centurion Titus Cornelius Pollenius mopped his brow as he surveyed the battlefield stretching out around him. The hillside was covered with bodies, heaped together in those places where the fighting had been most fierce. His men were searching for injured comrades, or gleaning what little loot they could from their fallen enemies. Here and there the wounded cried out pitifully as they writhed amid the carnage. Among the bodies were Roman legionaries in their red tunics and chain-mail armour, now stained with blood. Titus estimated that thousands of his comrades had been killed in the battle. Even so, the Roman losses were nothing compared to those of the enemy.

He shook his head in wonder at the men, and women, he had faced earlier. Many had been armed only with knives and agricultural tools and most had no armour, not even shields. Yet they had thrown themselves on Titus and his comrades, shrieking with rage and eyes blazing with desperate courage. None of which had saved them from defeat against the better-trained and properly equipped soldiers of General Pompeius, the commander of the Roman armies that had pursued and trapped the enemy.

Slaves, Titus muttered to himself in wonder as he stared at the bodies. Just slaves.

Who would have thought that the men and women whom most Romans regarded as little more than walking tools would have had so much fight in them? It had been almost two years since the slave revolt began and since then they had defeated five of the legions that Rome had sent against them. They had also burned many of the villas and pillaged the estates of the most powerful families in Rome. Once, Titus recalled, the slaves had even marched on Rome itself.

Looking down, he saw the body of a boy, little more than ten years old, he guessed. Flaxen-haired and finely featured, the boys head lolled back over the armour of a dead legionary. The boys eyes stared into the bright sky and his mouth hung slightly open as if he was about to speak. Titus felt a dull ache of sorrow in his heart as he gazed upon the child. There was no place for children in a battle, he thought to himself. Nor any honour to be had in defeating them, or killing them.

Centurion Titus!

He turned at the shout and saw a small party of officers picking their way across the bodies towards him. At their head stood a large figure, broad-shouldered and wearing a gleaming silver breastplate. A red ribbon was tied about his middle to indicate his status. Unlike the men who had been in the heart of the battle, General Pompeius and his officers were untouched by blood and grime, and some of the younger, fussier officers curled their lips distastefully as they struggled over the dead.

General. Titus stiffened to attention and bowed his head as his commander approached.

What a bloody business, General Pompeius observed as he gestured at the battlefield. Who would have thought that common slaves would put up such a fight, eh?

Indeed, sir.

Pompeius pursed his lips briefly and frowned. Their leader that Spartacus he must have been quite a man.

He was a gladiator, sir, Titus responded. Theyre a special breed. The ones that survive in the arena for any length of time, at least.

Did you know much about him, Centurion? That is, before he became a rebel.

Just rumours, sir. Seems that he had made only a handful of appearances in the arena before the rebellion broke out.

And yet he took to command like a duck to water, Pompeius mused. It is a shame I never had the chance to meet this man, this Spartacus. I might have admired him. He looked up quickly and glanced at his officers. A smile flickered on his lips as he fixed his eyes on one in particular, a tall youth with a narrow face. Rest easy there, Gaius Julius. I havent gone over to the enemy. Spartacus is, or was, only a slave when all is said and done. Our enemy. Now he is crushed and the danger is over.

The young officer shrugged. We have won the battle, sir. But the fame of some men lives long after they have fallen. If he has fallen.

Then we shall find his body, Pompeius replied tersely. Once we have that, and display it for all to see, then we will have put an end to any notion of rebellion in the hearts of every damned slave in Italia.

He swung round to face Titus. Centurion, where might Spartacus have fallen?

Titus pursed his lips and gestured towards a small hummock a hundred paces away. There the bodies were more thickly heaped than anywhere else on the battlefield. I saw his standard over there during the fighting, and thats where the last of them fought to the end. Thats where we will find him, if anywhere, sir.

Good, then lets go and see.

General Pompeius strode off, treading over and on the bodies as he made for the mound. Titus and the others hurried after him and the scattered soldiers ahead of them stood to attention as the small party passed by. When they reached the mound, Pompeius stopped to stare at the terrible scene before him. The fiercest fighting had been here and the bodies were covered with wounds. Titus shuddered, remembering that many of the slaves had fought with bare hands, and even their teeth, until they were cut down. Most of the corpses were so badly mutilated he could hardly recognize them as people.

The general let out a frustrated sigh and placed his hands on his hips as he climbed a short way forward over the bodies. Well, if Spartacus was killed here, then we are going to have a hard time identifying him. I dare say well not get any cooperation in finding him from the prisoners. He nodded towards the cluster of figures surrounded by watchful legionaries a short distance from the edge of the battlefield. Damn it. We need his body