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Illustration IV: The death of Spartacus as imagined by Nicola Sanesi
On the banks of the Silarius, under the shadow of the crucified Roman, Spartacus drew his sword. The gray sky gave it a dull gleam; the blade was scratched and notched, scarred much like the man who wielded it. He stood beside his proud cavalry horse—perhaps the same one they had captured from Varinius, which would have felt like a lifetime ago—and with one swift strike, he killed it. The beautiful animal fell to the ground with a thud that every man in Spartacus’ army felt in their bones. He turned to them with hollow eyes, the dark blood of the horse spreading through the iced ground at his feet.
“If we win this battle,” he said calmly, “I will have my choice of horses. But if we lose, I will have no more need of a horse.”
Spartacus knew that day that he was walking into a battle to the very death. It was the only way he knew how to live: let alone fight or die, he knew he had to win or die. And as Crassus’ eight legions waited for the rebels with a quiet patience that nonetheless hummed with power, Spartacus knew that there was no way he could win. The fools who loved him, who followed him, had made one mistake too many. They should have crossed the Alps a year ago.
But they hadn’t. They were here now, facing the Roman legions in a pitched battle, and there was nothing that Spartacus could do about it. Ever since breaking through the ramparts, Spartacus knew he had been steadily losing control over his men. The sight of Crassus’ army showing up and setting itself in array against the rebels had already caused several small groups of rebels to break off from the main army and attack Crassus without Spartacus’ command, always ending in tragedy.
Even Spartacus had, for the first time, considered that there might be an option other than to fight or die. He sent messengers to Crassus, hoping to make peace with his enemy; the Roman army, for all its might, had also suffered much that winter, and Spartacus hoped that Crassus would opt for a quick peace. But the Roman’s goal was not to make peace. It was to gain glory, and even though making a truce with Spartacus could have saved thousands of lives, Crassus wasn’t interested in conserving human life—as he had clearly demonstrated in his decimation of the troops. He was interested in winning, in being as glorious and as praised and admired as Pompey. And the only way that was going to happen was if he utterly defeated and annihilated the wily Thracian who faced him.
Crassus was also aware that Pompey had already returned to Rome; in fact, the Senate had sent him and his war-hardened legions straight toward Bruttium. As Crassus prepared for battle with Spartacus, Pompey was already on his way. If the richest man in Rome was going to get his glorious military victory, he had to do it quickly, before Pompey reached them and claimed the glory for ending the war.
So, Spartacus was truly out of options. There would be no more surprise attacks on Crassus, no more guerilla warfare. There was only one thing left to do, and it was the last thing that Spartacus wanted: a pitched battle. He hoped that by using two grisly actions—the crucifixion of the Roman and the killing of his horse—he would inspire the rebels as well as he could. It felt like a last resort.
And then he charged into battle.
On foot, sword in his hand, Spartacus rushed forth, and the tidal wave of the rebels (what was left of them, anyway) came crashing after him. Spartacus headed for one particular spot in the line, the place where Crassus himself was standing, surrounded by centurions. In those moments, all that Spartacus could think of was his hatred. Hatred for this man who’d turned the tide of a war that had looked so promising. Hatred for this pompous Roman, a man who already had everything that Spartacus had ever dreamed of, a home, a family, a wife, the freedom to do and become whatever he wanted, the freedom to be wherever he wanted. But it hadn’t been enough for Crassus. The basic rights that Spartacus had been fighting for weren’t enough for him. Not even his overwhelming wealth was enough for him, wealth that gave him the freedom to do as he pleased. No, Crassus needed glory, too, and because of his need for praise and admiration, because of his arrogance, Spartacus wasn’t ever going to go home. He knew it deep down. But maybe, if he fought hard enough, he’d give Crassus what he deserved—a death at the edge of a sword.
All around Spartacus, the sounds of battle dissolved into a fog of madness and fear. There were clashes and screams, feet and hooves thundering and churning on the icy earth. Armor and weapons flashed at him as he continued his charge, and he shoved them all aside, even when the hot blood of his own comrades sprayed against his face. He made straight for Crassus, for the centurions surrounding him, fighting with that desperation that had kept him alive in the gladiatorial arena.
Maybe Spartacus believed that if he killed Crassus, the Roman troops would realize they had no one left to fear. Maybe they’d give up, and he could go free after all. Either way, it was with desperation and rage that he finally reached the centurions guarding Crassus and crossed blades with them. The legions began to close in around Spartacus and the men nearest him, but he fought on, slashing and stabbing, turning and striking, a whirlwind of rage and death, and the centurions’ blood splashed on his armor. He killed two of them, and then there was nothing standing between him and Crassus. The courageous gladiator and the jealous praetor faced each other for an instant, and Spartacus was ready to strike.
But Spartacus and Crassus, by all accounts, would never actually exchange blows. Instead, one of the other Romans struck first. He slashed Spartacus in the leg, opening an ugly wound that poured blood onto the icy ground. The rebel leader fell to his knees, unable to rise, but he still refused to surrender. Striking upward at the wave of enemies that kept on coming at him, he killed several more Roman soldiers before they were everywhere, butchering his men and surrounding him. And even then, he fought to his last movement, to his last strike.
To the last beat of his heart.
The Battle of the Silarius River, fought on an unknown date in early 71 BCE, was less of a battle than it was simply a massacre. Only one thousand Romans perished, while Spartacus’ force was utterly destroyed. Some of the rebels escaped into the mountains, but the vast majority of them were killed in numbers so great that their corpses lay strewn everywhere on the battlefield. One of those corpses belonged to Spartacus. The road from Capua, for all his courage and brilliance, had led him to a mass grave in Italy. He would never see Thrace again. Not even his bones would rest under Thracian stars, as Spartacus’ body was never even identified. Along with the thousands of his fellow rebels—the men he’d refused to leave behind, the men he’d fought and died for—he was cast into a mass grave and forgotten. The grave still lies unmarked somewhere at the mouth of the modern-day Sele River. He was only around forty years old when he died.
The bones of one of the world’s greatest heroes rotted away among the corpses of his followers, beneath the spot where he had both fought and died.
