Chapter 3
Spartacus pulled his mount up astride Marcus and Tiberius's mounts. The day had broken and the army was at the ready. The Imperator and other more highly regarded Romans – Spartacus, Caesar, Tiberius, most notably – would wait at the back, sending the soldiers into the rebel masses first to thin the herd before the others joined the fight.
His palms itched for battle. This was his least favorite part. The waiting. Spartacus was a soldier and he'd prefer charging headlong into the rebel masses with the peons below his station, swords drawn and slashing as he cut down as many of those rebel fucks as he could.
"Look at their size compared to ours… they'll look for fools by the time we're done," Caesar commented, stopping his own horse to Spartacus's other side.
"Crixus is many things, but I wouldn't count fool among them," Spartacus replied, his eyes meeting Marcus's as the Imperator nodded his agreement.
"Would that I had taken that fucking Gaul's head when I had the chance," Tiberius muttered, clearly thinking about the events of a few weeks before when many of the rebel slaves had been captured.
Inwardly, Spartacus sighed at the thought. They'd been so close to ending this whole rebel debacle. They had the gladiator Gaul, Crixus, and his right hand general, Agron, in their possession. They'd hung Agron to a cross as a message to the other captives to loosen their tongues and give up the location of the remaining rebels, and Crixus… they'd been seconds from separating his head from his neck when the rebels Gannicus and Varro had stormed their camp with several others. They'd held the Romans' attention while other rebels had freed those held captive.
By the time the Romans had realized what was happening, all but five captives had been spared their fate.
Those five though… Tiberius in a fit after the ruse and rescue had ordered them beheaded, their bodies marred with knife, then crucified, and their heads mounted on stakes beside each cross. It had been a gruesome sight Spartacus beheld that night. While he would never feel pity for any insolent rebels – they were slaves after all, meant only to serve at master's hand – the sight of Tiberius's actions had still turned his stomach.
"You'll have that chance today, son," Marcus said, jarring Spartacus from his private thoughts.
"Sound the horn," Spartacus said and Caesar held his hand up in the signal for attack.
Despite the evening's waterworks and only two or three hours of sleep, Sura felt steady on the desert sands surrounded by the others. The Roman army facing them was massive, looming in the distance, a sea of shields and swords, spears and polished armor soon to be tainted with blood.
She met Crixus's eye from where he stood beside Naevia. He looked weakened but yet still strong. He'd taken a spear to his back not long before, had nearly lost his life, but his body had rallied as it always had even as a gladiator and champion.
"Stubborn ass that one, the fucking Gaul will be fine," Agron said softly to her side, his voice laced with equal sarcasm and equal endearment.
She smiled and cast a sideways glance at him, her eyebrow raised.
He grinned, "as am I, the thought is clear on your face. It would take more than a few Roman fucks to remove the undefeated Gaul and Agron from the lands East of the Rhine from this world."
Her eyes flickered to his bandaged hands, to the makeshift shield forged by loving hands, even as he spoke. She smiled meeting his eyes, seeing the surety there, the strength.
"Only the Gods themselves will take you from this world, Agron." She didn't clarify if it was vision that told her so, or merely idle speculation. The fates were something she would not share, for they were her own burden, and she would not have that burden weigh down anyone else in the moments before such an important battle.
The ambiguity didn't faze Agron in the slightest. "I am proud to call you sister," he said, his face suddenly serious, "stay at Nasir's and my side. I would not have you robbed from us on this day."
She smiled softly but was saved from speech when Crixus addressed the crowd.
"Today, on this day, we are all slaves, gladiators, brothers, sisters, equals… let us show those Roman shits the warriors that they through their own misdeeds and mistreatments have forged. Let us litter the field of battle with Roman blood!" Crixus laid his eyes on Naevia as he finished speaking, and he nodded to her. She hollered out a battle cry, her eyes fierce, her body taut and tense at the ready, and the others followed suit, raising their weapons and screaming their cries for blood, for war, for victory. Sura closed her eyes, letting the moment overtake her, and then – as she opened them – she herself let loose with her own primal cry, extending her arm, thrusting the weapon she held into the air. They began to run, headlong across the land that stretched before them, the land that divided Romans and Rebels, toward the surging sea of Roman soldiers that moved toward them.
When she reached the right place – the place discussed in strategy the night before – she outstretched her arms and screamed for the rebel force to stop. Every rebel, attune to her cry, halted in their tracks, steadying themselves in anticipation, bodies poised and at the ready for her signal.
"Hold," she screamed in the deafening roar of the approaching Romans.
"Hold," Crixus echoed.
"Hold!," reiterated Naevia.
"Come you Roman cunts," Agron hissed.
The Roman army was but seconds from being upon them, Sura screamed out, "Hold!," one more time and then the ground before them gave way with a rumbling that shook the earth, Roman frontrunners dropping down from sight into a long trench that spanned the whole battlefield, impaling their bodies upon the stakes and spears that jutted out from the trench's bottom.
As the Romans struggled to halt in their tracks to minimize their losses, the call for archers came from Crixus and arrows came from the back, flying out and hitting the Romans still standing at the trench's edge. A sound lit the air from the Roman army and those at the trench's edge fell to one knee, raising shields to fend off the aerial assault.
"They fall to expected position," Agron muttered.
"Let us show them one less expected," Sura smiled, a glint in her eye. Then the rebels were working together to pull free the ladders they'd painstakingly placed beneath the sands, raising them, letting them fall heavily to bridge the gap in the land, pinning the Romans less fortunate to the ground beneath each ladder's weight.
Crixus let out a cry of words that Sura didn't quite catch and then he was running across the ladder, leaping into the air, sword drawn and ready for blood, slashing Roman soldiers as he landed, Naevia but only moments behind him.
Sura followed Agron, Nasir at her back, and then she was lost in the chaos of battle, forging her way forward, her spear finding its way into the flesh of all Romans who engaged her.
A fireball catapulted by the Romans flew overhead and she could hear the screams, of battle and of terror as it impacted with those battling – both Romans and Rebels alike. A second one landed in her wake and she fell to the ground, rolling out of the way, leaving her spear where it lay and snatching up a sword left behind by one of the fallen.
She surged into the thick of battle. She'd lost track of the others, of Naevia and Crixus, of Agron and Nasir. She was clear to purpose and though she feared her fate, she would not shy from it.
The clash of steel was all around her and her own sword rang out as she whirled to face an oncoming attacker, her eyes raised to meet the cold blue eyes she knew so well from her visions. Spartacus.
He was caught off guard when their eyes met, taken aback by the raw emotion in the woman rebel's face. The sheer beauty of her features, so different from others he had encountered. Her hair swirled about her face as she spun to face him, her movements matching his blow for blow as their swords deflected. Her eyes did not move from his as they fought. It was like her sword play was instinctual, like she was moved by a higher power.
Suddenly her eyes shifted from his at the sound of a cry of pain and agony. He should have advanced, cut her down in her distraction, but instead he turned to look at what drew her attention.
The rebel he knew as Naevia – lover of the undefeated Gaul, and the whole reason the house of Bathiatus had fallen at the hands of the gladiators – had fallen to her knees, Caesar was pulling his sword free from her body and she blinked, her eyes seemingly locked on the woman rebel, blood bubbling forth from her mouth as she fell to her side.
"Naevia!," a voice he only assumed to be Crixus yelled from somewhere before the clang of metal, the clash of Roman and Rebel steel, overtook any other sound.
Spartacus swung his swords, a glancing blow delivered by one to the now distracted and distraught woman to his front. Her eyes met his and there was a reflective disappointment to them. Not the hate he was accustomed to in the gaze of most of the rebels, but instead a disappointed resolve that he couldn't understand.
She stumbled back slightly, blood now leaking from the flesh wound on her arm, the price of distraction.
She screamed in frustration – or anger – and advanced, her sword flailing wildly before clashing with his again.
The thunderous sound of horses shook the earth at their feet and then Marcus was there, atop his horse, coming from behind, his sword cutting down the woman with a glancing blow to the back of the head and her eyes met Spartacus's once more as she fell to her knees. A shiver lit up his back at the joining of their gazes, at the calmness he saw in her dark blue eyes as she fell.
Spartacus looked about at the battle that was part raging and part waning around him. Many Romans had fallen but even more rebels.
"Take her," he yelled to one of his men. "I want her alive." He spun to address any of his men who could hear, "cut them down or take them captive, but do not allow for retreat."
Nasir's hand on his arm steadied Agron as he watched Sura be dragged away from where she'd fallen. Every fiber of his being needed to rush out there, needed to save his friend from certain death.
"We cannot help her now," Nasir said, his voice regretful, but right, "we must live to help her at next opportunity."
"And if there is none?," Agron hissed, his eyes not turning from the sight of his friend being pulled unconscious atop a horse by a treacherous looking Roman.
A moment passed before Nasir said his name, "Agron," his voice beseeching, his hand tightening in its grip on Agron's arm.
Agron snarled over having to retreat, over having to draw back with Nasir and those still living, but he did it anyway. He would trust his heart. He would live to fight another day.
He followed as Nasir led, his shield still latched to his arm, corralling those they could find – Crixus and Saxa among them. It was a struggle pulling Saxa along after they glimpsed Gannicus fall in battle, surrounded by Romans, certain for torturous death. But they managed, heading for the high ground in a hasty retreat.