Crixus turned to him, his weariness showing. “There’s no way out of this, is there?”

“No, I don’t think so. Without the ships, we’re done,” Spartacus replied.

Crixus looked at the men around them, sitting and standing without hope in the thin rain. “I’m sorry. We should have crossed the mountains,” he said softly.

Spartacus shrugged, chuckling. “We gave them a run, though,” he said. “By all the gods, we scared them.”

They were silent again for a long time, and out at sea, the last of the pirate ships were chased or captured, the galleys sweeping back and forth on their long oars. The smoke from burning decks rose against the rain, fierce and hot as vengeance.

“Antonidus has gone,” Crixus said suddenly.

“I know. He came last night, wanting some of the gold.”

“You gave it to him?” Crixus asked.

Spartacus shrugged. “Why not? If he can get away, good luck to him. There’s nothing left for us here. You should go as well. Perhaps a few of us will make it on our own.”

“He won’t get past the legions. That damned wall they’ve built cuts us all off.”

Spartacus stood. “Then we will break it and scatter. I’ll not wait to be slaughtered like lambs, here. Gather the men close, Crix. We’ll share the gold out so they all have a piece or two, and then we’ll run one more time.”

“They’ll hunt us down,” Crixus said.

“They won’t catch us all. The country’s too big for that.”

Spartacus held out his hand and Crixus took it.

“Until we meet again, Crix.”

“Until then.”

*                                                      *                                                      *

There was no moon to reveal them to the soldiers on the great scar that stretched from coast to coast. When Spartacus had seen it, he had shaken his head in silent disbelief that a Roman general would attempt such a folly to pen the slaves against the sea. In a way, it was a mark of respect to his followers that the legions did not dare pursue them, but were content to sit and peer over their trenches in the darkness.

Spartacus lay on his stomach in the scrub grass, his face blackened with mud. Crixus lay at his side, and behind them a vast snake of men were hidden, waiting for the shout to attack. There had been no opposition to this last gamble when he put it to them. They had all seen the ships burn and their despair had turned into a grim fatalism. The great dream had ended. They would blow away like seeds on the wind, and the Romans would never catch the half of them.

“It’ll be a thin line guarding a trench that long,” Spartacus had told them as the sun set. “We will be the arrow through their skin, and before they can gather, most of us will be through and clear.”