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their swords. More than one drew blood, which drew jeers and catcalls down on the captives’ heads. This was better than the former slaves could have dreamed of.
    Still no Roman moved to pick up a gladius .
    Carbo felt a perverse pride in what he saw. Not all of their courage is gone.
    ‘Arm yourselves!’ shouted Spartacus. ‘I shall count to three.’
    An officer wearing the transverse-crested helmet of a centurion shoved his way to the front of the mob of prisoners. His silver hair, grizzled appearance and the multiple ornate decorations strapped to his chest revealed the length of his career – and his bravery. ‘And if we refuse?’
    ‘You will be crucified one by one.’ Spartacus raised his voice for all to hear. ‘Right here, for the others to see.’
    ‘Citizens cannot be—’ The centurion’s face purpled, and his voice tailed away as he realised that Spartacus’ alternative had been carefully picked. Their choice was an ignoble yet redeeming death by the sword, or the most degrading fate possible for a Roman. The centurion thought for a moment, and then stepped forward to pick up a gladius. Straightening, he glared at Spartacus. Perhaps ten paces and half a dozen armed men separated them.
    The Thracian grinned and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sica. ‘Should you choose it, there is a third option. While I would end your life quickly, I can’t guarantee the same of my men.’
    ‘Give me half a chance and I’ll cut his balls off and feed them to him,’ snarled Castus. ‘And that’s just to get me started.’
    Other men shouted what they’d like to do to the centurion, and all of his comrades. Carbo tried to harden his heart to the prisoners’ suggested fates, but failed. These soldiers were his enemies, but they did not deserve to be forced to slay one another, let alone to be tortured to death. He could not say a word, however. Spartacus’ patience had been worn too thin.
    Spartacus was still eyeballing the centurion. ‘Well?’
    The officer’s head bowed, and he shuffled to one side.
    ‘Next,’ called Spartacus.
    Intimidated even further by the cowing of the centurion, the legionaries began miserably filing forward to pick up a sword.
    Spartacus offered up a plea to Dionysus and to the Great Rider. Let the blood of these Romans be a suitable offering to you both, O Great Ones. May it ensure that Crixus and his men have a swift passage to the warrior’s paradise. It was nothing less than the Gaul deserved. Despite his faults, Crixus had been a mighty warrior.
    Ariadne did not relish the idea of what was about to happen, but it was impossible to deny the magnitude of this offer to the gods. Few deities would remain unmoved by such a gift. And if that helped her and Spartacus to leave Italy for ever, she was prepared to live with it.
    Soon two hundred pairs of legionaries stood facing each other around the fire. Some, like the centurion, stood proudly with their shoulders thrown back, but the majority were pleading to their gods. Some were even weeping.
    Awestruck by the role reversal, Spartacus’ soldiers had again fallen silent.
    Spartacus gave a short eulogy about Crixus. They would remember him for his leadership, his plain speaking, and his bravery. His men would also be remembered for their valiant efforts. Huge cheers met his words. Next, he addressed the Romans.
    ‘You have been taught today on the field of battle that every man here is your equal, or better! Now you are to learn it in another way. All of you will have witnessed gladiators fighting and dying to commemorate the dead. You have probably never considered that those men were forced to act as they did. Tonight you have that chance, because we slaves will watch you do the same.’ Spartacus scanned the terrified faces near him, his gaze lingering on the centurion. ‘It is a honourable death to choose and far worthier than crucifixion. For that I salute you. May you die well!’ He raised his sica high and held