The Gladiator (13 page)

Macro nodded towards the bodies. ‘Those aren’t your slaves?’ ‘One or two of them. The rest are strangers.’ Macro stared at the nearest bodies for a moment, deep in thought.

‘That’s worrying. I had hoped that this was a local uprising. But it seems that your slaves must have been led on by outsiders. Possibly brigands from the hills who have come to stir things up and grab some loot, or slaves from another estate. Either way, your slaves are in open revolt now. They’ll have to be dealt with when I get the chance.’

‘Dealt with?’ Demetrius looked alarmed. ‘But I have a fortune invested in them.’

‘Well, it seems that your investment has just turned sour,’ Macro responded flatly. ‘Sour enough to burn down your villa, and roast your steward and some others into the bargain.’

‘When I find the ringleaders, I’ll make them pay dearly’ Demetrius said bitterly, and then quickly looked at Macro. ‘But why have you come here? To rescue us?’

‘No, but you and these others are welcome to join us when we return to Matala.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I’ve come for whatever supplies of grain, olives and any other foodstuffs you have in your stockade.’

Demetrius’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve come to take my property?’

Macro nodded. ‘I am here to commandeer it. Due note will be made of everything we take away on the wagons, and you can apply for compensation once order is restored to Crete. Now, if you don’t mind, I want the wagons loaded as quickly as possible. If there are rebellious slaves on the loose we should return to Matala before dark.’ Macro turned to call an order back to the waiting column. ‘Get the wagons into the stockade and load ‘em up!’

‘Wait!’ Demetrius grasped Macro’s arm. ‘You can’t take my property. I forbid it.’

‘The people in Matala need feeding. There’s not enough food in the town and we need yours. Sorry, but there it is.’ Macro lowered his gaze to the Greek’s hand. ‘Now, if you don’t mind stepping aside, my men can get on with it.’

‘No. No!You can’t. I won’t allow you to.’

Macro sighed. ‘I see. Well then . . . First section! Arrest this man. Disarm his followers. If anyone tries to resist, then knock ‘em on the head.’

‘What?’ Demetrius stared about wildly as he was seized by two of Macro’s men. The rest of the column marched on into the stock- ade, together with the wagons. As Macro had suspected, without Demetrius to lead them, his retainers meekly surrendered their weapons and stood in a little group, under guard, as the soldiers and volunteers began to load the first sacks of grain and jars of olives on to the beds of the wagons. Demetrius continued to complain, loudly, until Macro drew his sword and patted the flat against the palm ofhis hand.

‘Do be a good man and pipe down, eh? Otherwise I’ll have to make you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Demetrius spat back defiantly.

‘He would,’ Atticus interrupted. ‘Believe me. Best do as he says. For now.’

The estate owner stared at his friend for an instant, and then his shoulders slumped as he gave way and sat heavily on one of the piles of grain sacks that stood between the low storerooms that filled the stockade.

‘That’s the spirit.’ Macro smiled reassuringly.

The wagons were loaded as fully as possible, and the axles creaked and groaned under the load as the drivers steered them out of the stockade and back up the track towards the villa. Macro made a last attempt to persuade Demetrius to come with them, but the landowner was adamant that he wanted to protect what was left of his stock of food supplies. With a brief show of reluctance, some of his men opted to go with the column. A handful remained behind with him and watched as the column gradually disappeared into the pine trees that grew on the sides of the gorge.

As they headed back up the track, Macro turned to Atticus and muttered, ‘Your friend is a fool. He might have driven the slaves off the last time. But if they grow in strength they’ll be far more determined next time. Demetrius and the others will end up like those I saw at the villa, in all likelihood.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Hard to be sure,’ Macro conceded. ‘But it seems that the slaves are beginning to organise. If that’s the case, then we may have quite a problem on our hands. Things could get pretty rough, right across the island.’

Atticus was silent for a moment. ‘I hope you’re wrong.’ ‘So do I,’ Macro replied quietly, surveying the sides of the gorge as the heavily laden column slowly made its way along the track. As they emerged from the gorge he let out a sigh of relief. A short distance further on, the track began to pass through a thicker concentration of pine trees, and then, a little way ahead, it emerged from the trees on to open ground. In the distance Macro saw the remains of the villa. As he turned to Atticus, to make some joke about being out of the woods, there was a faint crack as a stick broke, somewhere off in the trees. Macro’s eyes shot round to stare into the shadows beneath the branches.

Figures emerged from the gloom, stealthily closing in on the column from both sides. Macro drew his sword, snatched a deep breath and bellowed,’Ambush!’

There was a sudden shout from the trees, and the cry was taken up on all sides as the attackers swarmed out of the shadows, charging towards Macro’s column on the track. Macro planted his leading foot towards the nearest enemies and braced his shield up in front of him, sword arm drawn back ready to thrust.

‘Form up! Face ‘em!’ he shouted to his men above the din. Most reacted swiftly, turning to confront the enemy, spear tips lowered. A handful were momentarily dazed by the suddenness ofthe attack and stumbled back in the face of the onslaught.

‘Keep the wagons moving!’ Macro ordered the leading driver.

As the attackers raced out of the shadows, Macro saw that they were dressed in old tattered tunics, most of them barefoot, and armed with an assortment of knives, hatchets and pitchforks. Only a handful had swords or spears and they clearly had no idea how to use them. They waved them around above their heads, wearing frenzied expressions of hate and terror on their faces, as they charged in. There was no time to take any more in as the first of them, teeth gritted and eyes wide and staring madly, slashed at Macro with a scythe. Macro took the glancing blow on the side of his shield and then pivoted on his leading foot to knock the slave offbalance as he stumbled past.As the slave tried to retain his balance, Macro stabbed him in the side of the chest, driving the blade home, before ripping it free with a gush of blood. The man doubled up, releasing his grip on the scythe and clasped his hands over the wound as he slumped to the ground and curled up with a deep groan of agony.

Macro looked up. More slaves were pouring from under the trees. He could not estimate their strength, but they clearly outnumbered the men in Macro’s column. However, the auxiliaries were trained fighters, and well armed. As Macro glanced round, he saw that his men were holding their own, cutting down the slaves as they came on in a disorganised rush. A sudden snarl snapped Macro’s attention back to his front as a slave leaped towards him, swinging a meat- cleaver. He just had time to throw his shield up as the heavy blade slammed into the edge, cutting through the bronze trim and splintering the wood beneath, where it stuck fast.

‘My turn!’ Macro snarled, slashing at the side of the man’s head, and the blade jarred as it bit through skin and skull with a wet crack. As the man dropped to his knees with a stunned expression, Macro withdrew his sword and knocked the cleaver free with the guard.Just then he felt something grasp his ankle and looked down to see that the first man had dragged himself towards his boot and, having grabbed it, was preparing to sink his teeth into Macro’s calf.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Macro kicked the hand free and stamped on the man’s wrist with his nailed boot. Then he swung the lower edge of the shield at the slave’s head, knocking the stricken man out. ‘When I put you down, you stay down!’

Macro edged along the track, keeping pace with the leading wagon. He glanced to his left and saw that some of his men were too intent on the fight to realise that the wagons were continuing forward.

‘Keep moving!’ Macro yelled. ‘Protect the bloody wagons!’

Even though they were poorly armed and being hacked down in droves, the slaves continued their ferocious assault, as if they had no fear of death. Macro saw one spitted by a spear as he hurled himself at the auxiliaries. The bloodied tip of the spear exploded through the back of his tunic and the slave heaved himself along the shaft as he clawed at the auxiliary’s head. The soldier released his grip on the spear and snatched out his sword, thrusting it into the slave’s throat. With a bloody gurgle of rage the slave flailed at his opponent, spattering the auxiliary with blood before his strength gave out and he slumped to his knees, still pierced through by the spear. The auxiliary backed away, hastily looking round to make sure that he was keeping a loose formation alongside his comrades as they paced along the road, doing their best to stay close to the wagons. The ground on either side was strewn with bodies, and still the slaves came on. Macro struck down a toothless man, old enough to be his father, and the man cursed him as he died.

A hand grasped Macro’s shoulder and he spun round, ready to strike, until he saw Atticus and just managed to stay his sword in time. ‘Give me a weapon,’ Atticus pleaded. ‘Before they tear me to pieces!’ Macro looked round and saw a pitchfork lying beside the body of a slave, no more than a boy. ‘There! Take it.’ Atticus snatched the pitchfork up and grasped the shaft firmly as he lowered the prongs at a thin man racing towards him with a nailed club. The slave swung the club in a vicious arc, aiming at Atticus’s head.The latter ducked the blow and then thrust his prongs into the slave’s stomach, and with a grunt of brute strength carried the wiry slave up off the ground. The slave screamed as his weight carried him further down the sharp iron spikes that impaled him. Atticus twisted the shaft to one side and the slave crashed to the ground. Placing a boot on the man’s chest he wrenched the prongs free and immedi- ately went into a crouch as he looked round for another threat.

‘Good job,’ Macro said grudgingly.

The leading wagon rumbled out ofthe wood on to clear ground and continued towards the ruined villa, the driver cracking his whip over the heads of the horses and mules as he urged them on. Ahead of him, a couple of auxiliaries were forced to scramble to the side of the track before they were run down. Macro ground his teeth furiously as he trotted after the wagon.

‘Not so bloody fast, you fool!’

T h e driver carried on heedlessly, and the others followed his example as the wagons emerged from the wood, leaving the auxiliaries and volunteers scrambling to keep up as they tried to fight off the slaves swarming round the column like angry wasps. One of Macro’s men, at the rear of the last wagon, stumbled -and fell, sprawling across the gravelled track. At once several slaves leaped on him with bloodthirsty howls of triumph and hacked and stabbed at him as he struggled on the ground. He let out a piercing shriek, before it was savagely cut off as axe blows rained down on his head.

Macro could see the danger clearly enough. If the men in the column could not stay together then they would be overwhelmed and butchered one by one. He had to slow the leading wagon.With a curse he released his grip of the shield handle and tossed it to one side so that it would not weigh him down. Fortunately there had been no time to find any greaves for his legs, and the scale armour was not heavy enough to stop him breaking into a run. He sheathed his sword and ran as fast as he could to overhaul the leading wagon, passing the heavy rear wheels. As it lurched over a bump, a jar of olive oil tipped over the side, narrowly missing Macro, and shattered on the stony track. He leaped over the shards of pottery, and as he drew level with the driver, grasped the side of the bench and launched himself up on to the foot rail. The driver glanced down in panic, before he saw it was one of his own side, and then cracked his whip again.

Macro did not waste time with any more words and struggled to his feet, driving his fist into the man’s stomach so that he doubled over with a grunt, dropping the whip and traces as he slumped across the bench, gasping for breath. Macro snatched the traces up and pulled them sharply, dragging back on the horses’ bridles.

‘Whoa! Whoa there!’

With frightened whinnies the horses drew up and the slight incline of the track slowed the wagon at once. Macro settled them on a steady pace and then glanced round. He saw Atticus close by, still brandishing his pitchfork as he kept two slaves at bay. Now that the column was in the open, Macro had a far better view of his situation. Scattered across the field on either side were two or three hundred slaves. After witnessing the fall of so many of their comrades in the first moments of the attack, the rest were now more wary, and they hung back from the column, waiting to pounce on any stragglers, or charge into any gaps between the wagons and the men defending them.

‘Atticus!’ Macro shouted to him. ‘Over here!’

Atticus thrust at the slaves nearest to him and trotted warily up along the side of the leading wagon. Macro leaned towards him, clasping the man’s hand and hauling him up on to the driver’s bench.

‘Here, take the traces. Keep the speed down so that the rest of the wagons and the men can keep up. Is that clear?’

Atticus nodded, still breathing raggedly from his exertions. He took the traces in one hand, and kept a tight grip on the shaft of his weapon with the other. Macro waited a moment to be sure that he had the right pace, and then jumped clear of the wagon, landing heavily. At once he straightened up and drew his sword again.

‘Twelfth Hispania! Stay with the wagons!’

The auxiliaries and those volunteers who had snatched up weapons from the dead and injured formed a loose cordon around the wagons as the column continued up the track at a measured pace. The slaves stayed with them, but kept more than a spear’s length away, to one side ofthe wagons. Some had begun to snatch up stones and small rocks from the ground, and hurled them at the Roman soldiers. T h e uneven rattle and thud of the makeshift missiles accompanied the column all the way to the remains of the villa. Having cast his shield away, Macro did his best to duck any stones he saw coming, but one still crashed off his shoulder. Some of the unprotected volunteers were not so fortunate, and Macro saw one take a blow to the head. The man cried out, clasping a hand to his temple as he staggered away from the track. At once a slave with a mallet leaped forward and smashed it down on his head, crushing the skull in a welter of blood and brains.