'Aye,' muttered the legionary. 'They stayed here after Gabinius returned in disgrace to Rome.'

'How many are left?' asked Romulus.

'A few thousand,' came the answer. 'But they've got plenty of help. Nubian skirmishers and Judaean mercenaries mostly, and Cretan slingers and archers. All tough bastards.'

'There are infantry as well,' said another man. 'Escaped slaves from our provinces.'

An angry growl met his words.

Romulus and Tarquinius exchanged a look. It was imperative their status, particularly that of Romulus, remained secret. Slaves were not allowed to fight in the regular army. To join the legions, which Romulus' press-ganging had effectively done for him, carried the death penalty.

'Those treacherous whoresons won't stand against us,' the first legionary proclaimed. 'We'll knock seven shades of shit out of them.'

It was the right thing to say. Pleased grins cracked across worried faces.

Romulus held back his instinctive retort. Spartacus' followers, slaves all, had bettered the legions on numerous occasions. He himself was the match of any three ordinary legionaries. With a new homeland to defend, the enemy slaves could prove tough to defeat. This was not the time, nor the place, to mention such matters, though. When was? Romulus wondered with a tinge of bitterness. Never.

With ready weapons, they waited as the clash became more desperate. Showers of enemy javelins and stones flew into their lines, cutting down men here and there. Lacking shields, Romulus and Tarquinius could only duck down and pray as death whistled overhead. It was most disconcerting.