The Sword of Revenge (33 page)

The young man, so well trained in the profession of arms, had entered into things in good heart, helping Gadoric to sift out those who had soldiered before, so they, in turn, could take small groups to teach, showing them the very basic skills necessary to be a disciplined fighter. He had stayed away from the leaders at night but he knew that as they sat round their fire, Gadoric, Tyrtaeus and Hypolitas had discussed various targets and that was as it should be; too many voices meant confusion. But he had also heard Pentheus’s excited talk of retribution and not thought of the blood that would be spilt, or the mortified flesh that would go to settle these old scores.

Yet his nightmares had reminded him, possibly for the first time since he had agreed to take part in this venture, that he was a Roman. A younger Fulmina had appeared, her hair black instead of grey, and spoken to him of his glorious destiny and so had Clodius, in his legionary uniform, asking if he had died fighting Rome’s enemies so that the boy
he had found in the woods could betray him to Greek slaves and help them spill Roman blood. Worst of all, he dreamt of the old crone Drisia, who had told Fulmina his fortune so many years before. In the dream she had the gold eagle in her hand, telling him to beware of angering the Gods, and repeating, over and over again, what she had intoned years before. ‘Go to Rome, go to Rome.’ Was Drisia dead too?

Aquila had woken suddenly, with his hand round the charm, which provided immediate reassurance, and free of sleep he felt less alarm, as well as a resurgence of the healthy scepticism he had about the Gods and their interventions, having seen how often they misled their worshippers. All Clodius’s singing and Fulmina’s beseeching had not saved them from a painful, penurious end, but dreams were different; that was when the souls of the dead, who could see so much more than the living, spoke to those they had left behind in order to guide them. Aquila believed it, Gadoric the Celt swore it was the key to all life, and even Hypolitas had used the power of his dreams to sway the crowd of runaway slaves. Aquila lifted the eagle and rubbed it against his lips, then he got to his feet and went to find Gadoric. He would explain to him first, then together they could go and talk to Hypolitas.

‘Remember, no killing the overseer or his family,’ said Hypolitas quietly.

It was not the first time he had said this but that did nothing to lessen the angry looks on the faces of the men around him, some of whom had escaped from this very farm and could not grasp the point. Pentheus, naturally, had been the most vociferous in his objections, citing yet again the litany of crimes from which he had personally suffered, his sallow complexion turning white with passion. Yet Hypolitas would prevail; for all his thin frame he was able to dominate these burly fighting men. It was not Aquila’s dreams that had persuaded the Greek to show caution but the source: as the young man recounted his reasons, he had taken hold of the charm, which swung from the boy’s neck, glinting in the light from the fire. Hypolitas closed his eyes for a second, before opening them suddenly, to fix Aquila with a hypnotic stare.

‘You woke holding this?’ he asked.

Aquila nodded slowly but he could not move his eyes, which seemed held by some exterior force. Hypolitas was talking, his free hand weaving slowly just outside Aquila’s line of vision, but the words made little sense, since the only thing which registered was the droning, soporific quality of his voice. He felt Hypolitas tug at the charm slightly, as if he was trying to pull it off his neck, and that snapped whatever spell he was weaving. Aquila
shook his head, then reached out to remove the eagle from the Greek’s grasp. It was impossible to say what he saw in the other man’s eyes, but it looked remarkably like disappointment.

Those eyes were as hypnotic and the hands weaved just as much in the firelight as he explained his reasons to the assembled soldiers, looking like an evil spirit as the rising sun lit his eager face. There was no mention of dreams, nor of the mystical powers of a gold talisman; for once, Hypolitas relied on plain common sense, even if it seemed to emanate from a supernatural source.

‘Nothing will do more to condemn us in the eyes of the Roman Senate than that any of their citizens should be harmed. They will see that as an act of war and respond in kind. Remember our aim, which is freedom.’ He glanced sideways at Aquila, as if to ensure that the younger man would remain silent. ‘I did not see this at first, but I do now. If we spare their people, we can appeal to justice.’

‘Justice!’ snapped Pentheus. ‘From a Roman?’

It was Aquila who replied. ‘If you seek justice it may be forthcoming, if you seek war, Rome will destroy you.’

‘Destroy us,’ he sneered, with a heavy emphasis on the second word. ‘Has the turncoat, Aquila, turned his cloak yet again?’

Gadoric’s hand restrained Aquila’s response but he spoke to Pentheus in the same angry voice the
boy would have used. ‘Beware, Greek. If you insult this Roman again, he may kill you.’

‘Are we to leave the Romans to live while we murder each other?’ Hypolitas’s angry words brought them back to the matter at hand: their first attack, which had to be a success. If they failed here, no amount of visions or dreams would keep the hopes of the multitude alive.

They left the mountains in darkness, progressing halfway across the coastal plain before dawn to crouch by the roadway, which led straight to their destination several leagues distant. In his capacity as military commander, Gadoric had chosen a small farm on the north coast near Tyndaris. For this he advanced several sound reasons: first, it was well away from their base and unguarded. It would be an easy way to blood their troops and it would also serve notice, once news of the attack spread, that no farm, even one relatively close to a large town and far from the mountains, with armed support readily available, was safe. Finally, after the attack, it would be clear to anyone who knew the country that the runaway slaves had marched past many more tempting opportunities. That, in turn, would induce a feeling of nervousness in the Roman overseers.

It was even easier than Gadoric anticipated. The whole of the province of Sicily, having had Roman
rule for a hundred years, had become complacent. The local inhabitants had long since ceased to cause trouble, content to serve their Roman masters as they had served the Carthaginians before them. The few who noticed the party of armed men on the road, in broad daylight, could barely be bothered to afford them close scrutiny and they took over the farmhouse well after midday without a blow being struck, for the Roman overseer and his guards were out in the fields, supervising the slaves. His fat wife fainted clean away at the thought of her fate in the hands of these ruffians but she was roused and told, in the company of the other members of the household, to prepare a proper meal, first for their captors, and after that for the returning slaves.

The overseer’s son, who had originally hidden behind his mother, showed more grit by trying to run away to warn his father. Aquila spotted him and shouted a warning, setting off in pursuit just as he heard Pentheus laugh. It was the first time he had noticed the sound the man made, an odd, high, cackling affair, of the sort that would be produced by a witless fool. He also saw him raise his spear, and, ignoring the cries of alarm that were aimed in his direction, set himself to cast it at the running boy. Aquila changed direction and cannoned into him. The spear had already left his hand when Pentheus was bowled over, Aquila following through with his fist. Pentheus’s nose burst open as
the spear thudded into the ground, just in front of the overseer’s son. The boy stopped dead, shaking like a leaf, his nose up against the swaying shaft.

Pentheus was cursing through his hands, covered in the pumping blood from his nose, claiming that he had aimed to miss, but Aquila had seen his eyes as he cast the spear. He knew, if the others did not, that only inexperience had saved the boy. Hypolitas, called upon to adjudicate, was evenhanded; he cursed them both while the men round the farmhouse, arguing amongst themselves, seemed to divide into separate groups. There were those who agreed with Aquila and were content to obey orders but there were others who clearly felt, like Pentheus, that sparing Roman lives was a mistake.

Gadoric, with an angry shout that silenced even Hypolitas, brought everyone’s attention back to the present. The sun was starting to dip in the sky and it was time to get out of sight, because the overseer and his slaves would be coming in from the fields and everything must look normal. Hypolitas, annoyed by the challenge to his authority, seemed set to argue and for a moment the two leaders were locked in a mutual glare, but the Celt’s single eye triumphed in the contest of wills. Hypolitas took station behind the grain store, acceding to Gadoric’s request, the rest going to where he dictated.

They heard the crack of the whips from their
hiding places, a sound which held a deadly familiarity, and they could easily imagine the shuffling mass of tethered slaves staggering along, chained together between the lines of guards. Soon they were in sight, tired, covered in dust from the fields, it being impossible to tell the men from the women. Every time one stumbled, the guards fetched them a hearty blow with a vine sapling; a child, falling to his knees, was treated to a mighty kick that sent the poor mite flying. He would have been left to lie there if two others, who looked as if they barely had the strength to lift their own heads, had not bent to help him to his feet. The sound of his sobbing also carried across the flat ground, aided by the rapidly cooling air of the short twilight. They waited until the slaves had been shepherded into their stockade for the night, and as the gate shut, Gadoric’s men appeared from nowhere, rushing in small groups to capture their quarry, outnumbering the guards ten to one. The Roman overseer was the only one who attempted resistance, drawing the sword he wore at his side, but Gadoric and Aquila overpowered him easily.

The guards were quickly disarmed and bundled against the wooden walls of the stockade. Hypolitas, called from behind the grain store, emerged with a hammer, which he waved under the terrified overseer’s nose before he opened the gate and, entering the stockade, indicated that none
should follow. He did not have the volcano in the background to help him on this occasion but he had no need of it. Those outside only heard him when he raised his voice, yet all knew the words he used, for the choice for these people, compared to that of the runaways, was even more stark. Should they decline to follow him, the Romans would probably put those who stayed behind to the sword as an example to other slaves tempted to revolt. The oratorical magic he had worked on the slopes of Etna was employed again, bringing forth growls and cries of acclamation, which rose until his final promise, audible to those outside the stockade, that the Gods were on their side, was drowned by a roar of approval.

The hammer was employed to strike against the metal of the chains, the Greek keen to be seen as the saviour of each one individually as they went from slavery to freedom, until finally the gates opened and Hypolitas emerged, followed by three gaunt looking men. First he showed them the overseer, tied to the wheel of a wagon. The potency of Rome as an enemy was apparent in the man’s carriage; he fully expected to die, but he would not beg, nor plead with slaves. Instead, he stared at them defiantly and Aquila could not help but admire him. Hypolitas, denied the grovelling he had expected, quickly led his dusty companions over to inspect their guards, now cowering against the walls, unarmed.

‘Some of these men are ex-slaves?’ he asked. Fingers pointed eagerly at three of the guards and one of the slaves summoned up enough saliva to spit at them. Hypolitas greeted this with a grim smile. ‘Nothing is worse than a slave who turns against his own. Go back into your stockade. We will give you these vermin one by one.’

The buzz of excited conversation rising from the enclosure as they re-entered was evidence that, in their eagerness for revenge, they were not alone. Hypolitas called to Pentheus, whose swollen nose was smeared with dried blood. ‘You are eager for vengeance, Pentheus. Strip these men and throw them to their fate.’

Pentheus looked around, seeking those who would gain the honour of helping him. There was no shortage of willing hands and they gathered round the guards, now on their knees, pleading, to no avail, for mercy. Pentheus just laughed at them – that same high-pitched cackle that made him sound insane – then, eagerly assisted by those who shared his bloodlust, he stripped them of their helmets, breastplates and finally their tunics, till they stood, naked and vulnerable, in a tight, terrified group. They grabbed the first one, lifting him bodily to contain his struggles, while others opened the gates to the stockade. Inside the slaves, men, women and children, stood silent, their eyes glassy but fixed on the struggling guard as Pentheus and his helpers
threw the victim at their feet. At first they barely moved, shuffling round and cutting him off from the sight of those outside the circle, in which the guard was still pleading for mercy, his voice rising to an imploring scream.