SOLDIER
The Spartacus Rebellion: BOOK I
by Jay Penner
Series
Book I: Soldier
Book II: Slave
Book III: Savior (final)
BEFORE YOU READ
The events in this book take place in the years around 80 B.C.
Rome is a growing power, and its tentacles extend in all directions. Egypt is not yet under its control; a Ptolemy rules it, and it will be nearly another two decades before the famous Cleopatra is born. Gaul has not yet been conquered. The Romans have not yet set foot in Britain. It has been over a hundred years since Hannibal ravaged the Italian countryside, and the bitter memories of his devastating campaign are fading. But Rome is now engaged in a long-running war in the east against the formidable Pontic king, Mithridates. They have made inroads into modern Spain, Greece, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Turkey, and Syria. Italy is embroiled in its own troubles—the factions of two powerful statesmen and generals, Lucius Cornelius Sulla and Gaius Marius, are at war. There is much unrest and politicking in every corner.
Rome is still a functioning Republic. The two most powerful officials of the Republic, the Consuls, are elected once every year. At the end of their term, they often assume lucrative governorships outside Italy or take command, or receive imperium, of Roman armies to conquer new lands. Men of the influential upper class become Senators, and the office is for life.
The Roman military legions are a powerful force after the reforms enacted by Marius, and they are taking shape into a structure that will last for hundreds of years. The legions have found ways to incorporate non-citizens into their ranks. They call them auxiliaries, and these men—often in the cavalry, archery, and sometimes in the infantry—are offered regular salaries (lower than citizen legionaries) and the promise of Roman citizenship after lengthy service. Most auxiliaries come from modern France, Belgium, Germany, Bulgaria, and surrounding regions. The great names of Rome—Gaius Julius Caesar, Marcus Licinius Crassus, Pompey Magnus—are in the picture, making names for themselves; Pompey is already venerated, Crassus is rich, but Caesar is just barely influential.
The slave trade is active and thriving—in fact, slavery is an integral part of life and woven into the fabric of Roman society. Almost one-third of Italy’s populace will be slaves in just a few decades. The economic engine is irrevocably tied to the participation of a large-scale slave workforce. Slaves are supplied through Rome’s thriving military adventures and sold for hefty profits. They come from regions that now constitute modern France, Germany, Spain, Bulgaria, Greece, and other eastern areas. Slaves are also inducted into the system through “slave-breeding”—the unfortunate children of slave mothers become slaves themselves. In fact, birth to a slave mother may have been the common source of slaves. Their conditions are exceptionally harsh; the laws governing their lives are unforgiving and brutal. They are involved in a wide range of activities—artists, cattle grazers, hairdressers, tutors, herders, farmworkers, secretaries, singers, guards, maids, housekeepers, gladiators, prostitutes, and any number of other professions. They are considered property and have no rights. The laws that protect their well-being are few and rarely enforced—their lives are almost entirely at the mercy of their masters. For all the slaves do for them, the rulers regard them with great suspicion—the memory of two slave rebellions, termed the first and second servile wars, still lingers in their minds.
Thrace, an important region for this story, is roughly modern Bulgaria. The Thracians belong to a branch of the Indo-Europeans. They are known to be brave and warrior-like but are divided by their many tribes. Not much is known about these people, and little about their languages and names remains. They are caught in the middle of two warring factions—the Romans and Mithridates. They do not know it yet, but their inability to unite under a single banner is about to put them in grave danger from the Roman legions crisscrossing their lands.
Dear reader, as we step into this tumultuous time and world, it is essential also to note that this is a novel and not an academic paper or a historical journal. I have strived to paint the picture of the time, and any errors, omissions, and dramatic license are entirely mine. At the end of the trilogy, you will find a notes section where I detail my portrayal of the key characters in this book and explain what is known from ancient writers such as Sallust, Plutarch, and Appian.
And with that, let me lead you into the dark and murky waters of this long-gone world. And when you finish, I would greatly appreciate it if you could take a moment to leave a rating or a review.
Note: In the end, check out the link to a Google Maps flyby—you can visit all the locations from the novel.
UPPER SILARUS RIVER, 71 B.C.
Marcus Licinius Crassus watched with trepidation as the large army encamped a few hundred feet beyond the ditch his men were digging. Six months of miserable pursuit through mountains and valleys had led him to this moment, and the hour of a decisive outcome was near. What a travesty that he had to subdue and destroy the lowest scum that was ravaging his land. What hubris! Men who arrogantly refused to accept their station had decided they were greater than their destiny.
His legions stood ready, yet he knew their underlying worries. What if the bastard leader of this slave army once again managed to gain the upper hand? How long would this shame foisted upon the Republic endure? But it was too late to contemplate such thoughts. He was confident that the armies of the Republic could destroy the slaves, for Pompey was on the way, and so was Lucullus. There was no viable method for this rebel to fight all of them, no matter what barbarian gods showered him with benevolence.
The morning dew still lingered on the grass; the smell of freshly dug earth was inviting. The omens were favorable—the soothsayers reported that two eagles had flown in their direction through the cloudless morning sky. The tinkle of the river was barely audible over the sounds of the many thousands gathered on either side of the battleground. His men toiled diligently, digging a trench six feet wide and four feet deep—not deep or wide enough to stop an advancing army, but sufficient to slow it down. They had no time to undertake anything more ambitious, for the slave leader was dangerous and unpredictable. The wretched men were already causing a ruckus, and some had begun to advance menacingly toward the ditch. But the enemy army had not assembled in formation, and Crassus was not yet ready to offer battle.
What a contrast! These servile men, abandoned by their gods, dressed in rags, dared to come up against the mighty armies of Rome. He did not know whether to admire this astonishing enterprise or to spit in disdain at the humiliation they had brought upon the land.
Their leader was nowhere to be seen. Yet he was present—plotting, planning, watching.
Crassus removed his polished bronze helmet, adorned with bright red plumes and the general’s insignia. He gazed at the horizon, busy with the immense slave army, and rubbed the smooth surface of his helmet absentmindedly.
How could a low soldier who became a slave build such a force and be seen as a savior?
PART I
Years ago.
1. BESSI LANDS
The nine men crouched and inched silently toward the small cluster of huts beyond the dense pine. Only a few fires burned, but the village remained dark and quiet otherwise. No sentries were posted in the trees or the clearing outside the village. The village’s northern border lay along the bank of a lake called the Blade of Kotys, a narrow, long, wedge-shaped, and spectacularly beautiful body of deep-green water, while the other three sides were dense forests and bushes.
“Be quiet,” the leader cautioned them. He was a tall, powerfully built man, and those around him, even those who called him a friend, listened to his every order as if he were their chieftain.
But he was the son of the chieftain.
“Today is not to please Kotys. There will be no slaughter in her honor,” he whispered. “We will only steal their ceremonial gold—”
“And carry away some of their girls. My loins—”
“Be quiet! The Bessi must learn that if they steal our sheep and burn our pasture, we take what belongs to their gods. Zibelthiurdos knows that we seek justice.”
“And gold, of course,” another man added helpfully, causing many to snigger.
“Do you want Zibelthiurdos to singe your balls with his thunderbolt?” someone else whispered.
“Does your father know we are here?” a voice asked the leader. “I did not know we were coming to raid the Bessi!”
Venturing into the Bessi lands was always a sensitive topic. That tribe was a violent bunch, responding to minor transgressions with murder. Most tribes hated the Bessi, and rightly so, for they were full of pride and cunning. The biggest problem lay in their numbers—they outnumbered everyone except the Odomanteans, but the Odomantean land lay very far from Bessi lands, so there was rarely any conflict between them.
But someone had to humble the Bessi or even confound them from time to time.
“I am my father’s son, and he did not rise in the tribe by waiting for orders,” the leader said slowly, his measured manner of speaking revealing irritation at the question.
“I am sure his wife gave him permission,” someone else sniggered.
These insolent fools will get themselves killed!
“I will beat you once we get home, Inthos, I will. Now everyone, listen carefully,” he instructed the cluster around him.
“Be quiet,” the leader admonished them again. “We run along the periphery toward the temple, club the sentries if they are awake, grab everything from the temple, and we run. Is that clear? Do not wait and fight.”
“The Bessi need a sound thrashing and a few lopped heads!”
“Not today. We are insufficient in numbers, we are not well-armed, and they fight well. They are no trouser-wetting cowards like the Ordani. Today we are not here to die.”
“Just to steal gold!”
“To claim justice,” he corrected. “Are you all ready?”
A chorus of whispers and chants to Kotys and Zibelthiurdos affirmed that they were ready.
With blood pumping through his veins and excitement coursing through his being, he sprinted, hidden behind thick bushes, toward a stone structure at the far end. The Bessi placed their sacred building at the eastern edge of the village, believing it allowed the sun to send in its rays without any obstruction. The soft mud underfoot made no sound. The few cracks of branches or crunching of gravel caused no alarm, for these dense woods were full of animals that made all manner of noise.
He felt the cool breeze on his face, and the moon hiding behind the clouds was a good omen. The gods blessed his mission and provided cover! They halted behind a large bush facing the temple entrance.
No guards.
That was no surprise, for rumors of anyone invading deep into Bessi territory had not circulated. Even the Romans, whom he had heard of but never seen, had only skirted the Maedi territory some time ago before leaving for Macedonia and Asia.
The temple had no door, and a lone oil lamp burned inside.
Bless us, Zibelthiurdos, he prayed.
He waited for all sounds to die down, leaving only the noises of the forest.
Once there was only stillness, he gestured for two men to follow him and then ran into the temple. He covered the distance quickly and ascended the stone steps into the sanctum. The Bessi too worshipped Zibelthiurdos, only he appeared different in their statues. But they worshipped Sabazios more, always depicted as sitting on his horse.
The sanctum was a small room constructed with closely placed stone walls, plastered and adorned. In the middle stood a star-shaped stone dais on which rested a small gold statuette of Sabazios, his spear raised while seated on a horse. Several golden offering lamps placed near the horse’s feet lay dim, although only one burned brightly.
Next to the dais sat a bronze jug and a golden staff.
So much! Father will be livid but thrilled!
He pulled out the linen bag tied to his belt and quickly removed all the gold objects—including that of Sabazios—ensuring that the god received his due once he returned to their village. Surely Sabazios would understand why he had to be taken from the Bessi abode.
The two with him collected the bronze and copper.
We thank you, Zib—
A scream suddenly echoed, followed by a loud thud, and then the unmistakable sounds of alarm ripped through the air.
Pigfuckers!
He rushed outside with the others while still holding the bag. Two men ran toward him and his companions, but his men charged from the bushes and clubbed them before they made contact. The village had awakened to the sounds of whistles, and many more emerged from the darkness.
Something had gone wrong.
But the rest remained at a distance. He and his men had to escape while there was still confusion. The Bessi were known to inflict terrible torture on those who trespassed their property, and an invasion of their sacred ground would be met with even worse.
He shouted, “Let us go! Run!”
And with that, they all turned and fled through a path they knew well. But this raid was a success! What a resounding success! He felt glee as it soon became clear that the Bessi had lost them. The trip back home would take three days, but in these mountains, forests, and narrow passes, it was exceedingly unlikely that anyone would find them, and no one would know who they were.
His father would send appropriate messages to the Bessi chieftain later. The Bessi would learn not to wander outside their territory and harass others. For many tribes, losing a god from his sanctuary was a bad omen.
With his heart ready to explode from exertion, panting and tired, he gestured for his men to stop so they could rest. He arrived at a clearing on a mountain slope, and the space was surrounded by large rocks and bushes, affording good cover.
He waited as they arrived, one by one, emerging from the dense foliage, exhausted, bleeding, but gleeful.
He collapsed on the ground, his throat feeling as if it were on fire. Yet there was a sense of accomplishment. For too long, he had been seen as the big philosopher, his ideas laughed at, and too many wondered if he would depart from his secondary missions with his father and do something truly bold and admirable on his own. Such qualities were prized among the Maedi, who, like most Thracians, prided themselves on their warrior-like life. He was no stranger to conflict, often defending his people from tribal warfare or fighting in skirmishes of their own making. Still, all that fell under the organization of the town elders or his father. He possessed the qualities of a good fighter, blessed by the gods for his physique and speed, but fighting was not his true passion. Taught by a Greek tutor since childhood, he was perhaps one of only two learned men in the village. But that was no cause for celebration.
It was time to show the village what he was capable of. Build his status. Show his powers. Let them see that he was not just a man of knowledge, philosophy, and history. That his brave heart did justice to his impressive size and his father’s station.
Even as he fantasized about the adulation, he realized more pressing matters required his attention.
Once he caught his breath, he turned to one of the men. “Is everyone here?”
They propped themselves on their elbows and looked around. The stragglers lay around them, either lying down or kneeling.
“One, two, …”
“Eight, including us,” Inthos replied.
The leader stood and walked around, counting again.
He cursed under his breath. Where was the ninth man?
Then he opened his bag to check whether all the valuables were present.
The golden objects shone under the moonlight that drenched them without obstruction. They were all there, except for the golden idol of Sabazios.
The god had decided not to come with them.
Not only that, it seemed the patron god of the Bessi had kept one of this raider’s men back as a hostage.
There was punishment and celebration at home.
His father screamed damnation, condemning the men to twenty days of isolation from the rest of the tribe. But once that punishment was ordered, he raised his hand for many cheers, proclaiming, See, he has the heart of a fighter, a true son of mine, blessed by Kotys! In his father’s eyes, there was pride that his son had finally broken his constraints and displayed an audacity so treasured among his men.
The lost man’s mother fell to her knees and despaired for his death or capture. She rent her clothes and shouted her son’s name. She spat in the air, then threw flowers in honor of the bravery of the men. She viewed her son’s fate as a matter of great glory, and the family would receive compensation in the form of free grain and sheep, for death in conflict was the highest honor of all for the Maedi, as for many other Thracians.
The elders lamented the loss of the Bessi god but placed the rest of the valuables in the Maedi temple.
A nightlong fire lit up the middle of their village in honor of the raid and the missing man.
Loud revelry echoed throughout the night, beginning with the sacrifice and roasting of a lamb, a bath, wine-fueled dances to drumbeats, incantations to Zibelthiurdos, and then wanton acts by those swept away by the heady rituals, with offerings to Dionysus, the Greek god who had been integrated into the ways of the Maedi.
A priest poured the lamb’s blood, collected in a silver vessel, into the fire as the first rays of sun painted the sky in the morning. Then the village priestess wiped her thumb along the inner surface of the cup and smudged his forehead in blessing.
“A fool or a warrior? Only the goddess Kotys knows!” his father finally said, laughing as he beat his son and prepared to send him away to the “prison hut.”
“A foolish warrior, perhaps,” he responded, with his typical modesty and light humor.
Many villagers screamed invectives and heaped abuses as custom dictated.
His wife performed the expected dramatic ritual of sorrow and pride, tearing her clothes and ripping her hair bands. “How will you give me a son if you sleep alone?” she screamed.
The gods would be so proud, he thought as he walked away beaming, followed by his men.
I am a Maedi. By stature, by action, and I have brought honor to myself.
He showed his father that he too could be bold, reckless, daring, and willing to go to extremes to hoist the pride of the tribe.
He demonstrated that he could one day be chief.
Also by Jay
The Whispers of Atlantis AnthologyAn anthology of thrillers set in the ancient world.
Cleopatra - The Last PharaohA series on the rise and fall of Egypt's famous queen.
The Spartacus RebellionA trilogy on the astonishing rebellion against Rome.
Dark ShadowsHigh stakes, cerebral modern thrillers.
Upcoming WorksWhat's coming next.