“Yes, I suppose we all should,” the man with the knife replied, rising smoothly to his feet. He was easily the tallest of all of them and moved with an efficiency of motion that marked a warrior. Brutus had it and perhaps it was that unconscious recognition that had raised the hackles of the one with a wrestler’s build.

“This has been . . . interesting. I hope you and I don’t meet tomorrow,” Julius said.

“I hope we meet,” Brutus added to the wrestler, who snorted in disdain.

The man with the knife stretched his back and winced. Then he clapped Julius on the shoulder and smiled.

“In the hands of the gods, lads. Now, I think my friend and I should climb down first, don’t you? I don’t really want you thinking better of our little soldier’s truce when you have your swords again. Get right over where you climbed up and we’ll be away in no time.”

The two older men scrambled from sight with casual agility and were gone.

Brutus let out an explosion of breath. “I thought we were dead.”

“So did I. Do you think that was Spartacus?”

“Possibly. When I tell the story, it certainly will be.” Brutus began to laugh simply to release the awful tension of the meeting.

“We’d better move, or that guard will serve us up to Pompey on a platter,” Julius said, ignoring him. They climbed down quickly and bore the scrapes and bruises of the descent without a sound. Their sandals were where they had left them, but the two swords had been taken. Brutus looked for the weapons in the bushes, but came back empty-handed.

“Bastards. There’s just no honor anymore.”

Chapter 38

                  CHAPTER 38                  

The legions broke camp and formed the battle line two hours before dawn. As soon as it was light enough to see, the cornicens sounded their wailing notes and the huge squares of legionaries moved forward, shrugging off the stiffness and cramp of the morning as they marched. There was no idle chatter in the ranks with the army of Spartacus filling the plain and seeming to stretch to the horizon. Even the crash of their sandals was muffled in the turf, and each man loosened his shoulders as he came closer and closer to the moment when the silence would rupture into chaos.

All along the legion lines, the heavy onagers and catapults were heaved into position. At colossal range, stones, iron balls, and arrows the weight of three men could be sent smashing into the enemy. The men around them cheered as the heavy horse-hair springs were winched back into firing position.