Spartacus: Rebellion

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The furious thrumming of blood in his ears dimmed the cacophony of battlefield noises: the screams of the wounded and maimed, the shouts of his bravest followers and the moans of his most fearful. Despite the awful clamour and his ravening anger — against the Romans, against the gods, against what had happened thus far that morning — the big man’s attention was all on the enemy lines, some hundred paces distant. Every fibre of his being wanted to charge up the rocky slope again, and hack as many of the massed legionaries into bloody chunks as he could. Calm down. If we’re to have any chance of succeeding, the men need time to recover their strength. They need to be rallied.

The blaring of bucinae shredded the air, and he scowled. The trumpets were ordering consul Gellius’ two legions to regroup. He breathed deeply, focusing on the metallic clatter of the enemy soldiers’ swords off their shields as they taunted his men, trying to provoke them into another fruitless attack uphill. The pathetic response of the few warriors left with voice enough to shout was infuriating.

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