Son of Spartacus

1

The raiders came shortly after nightfall, emerging stealthily from the belt of cedar trees that stretched along the slopes of the hill above the villa. Over fifty of them, armed with a mixture of swords, spears and clubs. Some had armour: chain- mail or old bronze cuirasses, and helmets and shields in a wide variety of designs. Most of the men were thin and gaunt, used to a life of hard labour and perpetual hunger. Their leaders were different: powerfully built individuals who carried the scars of their profession. In contrast to the other men, their armour was ornately decorated and well cared for. Before they had escaped from their owners these men had once been gladiators — the most deadly fighters in all the lands ruled from Rome.

At the head of the small force rode a broad-shouldered man with tightly curled dark hair. He sat astride a fine black mare, part of the spoils of another villa attacked a month before. A livid white knot of tissue stretched across his brow and nose, the scar of a wound received only a few months earlier from a centurion in command of a patrol that had been ambushed. The patrol had been part of the force sent out from Rome to track down and eliminate the bands of brigands and runaway slaves who were hiding deep amid the Apennine mountains. Many of the fugitives were the survivors of the great rebellion led by the gladiator Spartacus some twelve years earlier, and they still carried his legacy close to their hearts. That revolt had nearly brought Rome to its knees and ever since the Romans had lived in fear of another bloody uprising. Thanks to the wars that they had been fighting outside Italia, it had not been possible to complete the destruction of the surviving rebels and over the years their numbers had swollen by thousands. Escaped slaves, together with those who had been set free by the rebels’ raids on the villas and farming estates owned by the richest men in Rome, now made up the large army of freedom fighters.

Soon, the leader reflected with a thin smile, they would be strong enough to carry out more ambitious attacks on their Roman masters. He had already made his plans. The time would come when once again a gladiator would lead an army of slaves against their oppressors. Until then, the leader was content to carry out small raids, such as the one this night, to unnerve the wealthy men who controlled Rome, and to inspire the oppressed slaves eking out their miserable lives in the houses, fields and mines stretching the length and breadth of Italia.

The leader's keen eyes scrutinized the dark shapes of the buildings and walls lying before them. For two days he and his men had been watching the villa from the shadows of the trees. It was typical of the farming estates owned by wealthy Romans. There was a grand house to one side, built round a courtyard within which neat flower beds and gravel paths ran round pools and fishponds. A wall separated the house from the low, plain buildings where the slaves, overseers, guards and agricultural tools were accommodated along with the granaries and store-houses where the produce of the estate was amassed before it was sent to market. The resulting profit would be added to the fortune of the owner living in Rome, heedless of the sweat, toil and suffering of those who made him rich. Round the whole collection of buildings ran a ten-foot wall, built to keep the slaves in and any threats out.

As they had lain in concealment, the raiders had noted the routines of the villa and the coming and going of the chain-gangs and their guards as they worked the fields and groves that surrounded the complex of buildings. The leader’s rage had burned in his veins as he watched the overseers cracking their whips and using their clubs to beat the slaves who moved too slowly. He would have liked to charge his men down from the trees there and then to cut down the guards and set the slaves free, but he had learned the value of patience. It was a lesson that Spartacus had taught him many years before.

The first thing in any fight was to watch your enemy closely and learn his strengths and weaknesses. Only a fool launched k himself into a fight without such preparation, Spartacus had insisted. So the leader and his men had waited, noting the times when the guards had been changed on the walls and gate of t the villa. They had counted the guards, how they were armed and which building in the compound served as their barracks. They had also discovered a small section of the wall that was cracked and crumbling behind a spruce tree, barely visible from The men on watch rarely passed by that section of the wall, and that was where the raiders would strike.

Now they moved silently across a freshly ploughed field and into a square grove of olive trees close to the outer wall of the villa. Ahead, the leader could see the bright flames of the brazier burning above the gatehouse, providing illumination for the guards, and warmth on this cold January night. Smaller flames flickered in the darkness atop the watchtowers at each comer of the wall, and the figures of the lookouts were visible as they huddled in their cloaks and stamped their booted feet to stay warm, their spears resting against their shoulders.

‘Slowly now.’ the leader murmured over his shoulder. ‘No sound. No quick movements.’

His order was relayed in whisper from man to man as the raiders crept through the trees and approached the damaged section of the wall. The leader held up his hand as they reached the edge of the grove, and his men stood still. Then, beckoning to six of the nearest raiders, the leader dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one of his men. He undid the clasp of his cloak and laid it across the saddle. It would be foolhardy to enter a fight encumbered by the thick woollen folds. Underneath the cloak he was wearing a dark blue tunic with a black leather breastplate inlaid with the silver motif of a wolf’s head. A short sword hung from a baldric across his shoulders and his forearms were protected by studded leather bracers.

He turned to the others. ‘Ready?’

They nodded. ‘Yes, Brixus.’

‘Then let’s go.’

He stepped cautiously out of the treeline into open ground. The spruce tree loomed tall and dark seventy paces away. A small watchtower was the same distance further along the wall and a lookout stood black against the glow from the brazier behind him. Brixus stepped out and crossed the grass towards the wall. He limped as he walked, the result of an injury to his hamstring many years earlier in his last arena fight. The small party of men slipped out from the trees and followed him, stealing across the ground like shadows. Only the faintest rustling of grass accompanied their progress and soon they were beneath the scented boughs of the spruce tree, beside the wall.

‘Taurus, by the wall,’ Brixus whispered, and a huge figure I leaned his back against the plastered surface and braced his boots in the soil as he cupped his hands. At once one of his companions, Pindar, a lithe, tall man, jumped up, and with a Taurus lifted him towards the top of the wall. His companion quickly worked a brick loose and passed it down to one of the men waiting below. The brick was carefully lowered to the ground and then the next was passed down. Soon Pindar had removed all the bricks that had worked loose and had to pull out his dagger to work at the mortar holding the others in place. The work proceeded slowly and the leader limped out a short distance, then knelt down to keep watch on the man at the lookout tower. He still stood there, hands out, warming them over the flames of the brazier. Eventually he took his spear and slowly paced along the wall in the direction of the fugitives.

‘Keep still,’ Brixus whispered as loudly as he dared, and then eased himself down into the grass, pressing his body to the ground while keeping watch on the approaching sentry. His comrades froze and Pindar flattened against the wall. The sentry continued towards them and then, not more than twenty feet from the gap, he stopped and turned to stare out over the wall towards the trees. Brixus prayed that his men were keeping still and out of sight as they waited in the shadows there. There was no sign of alarm from the sentry and after a moment he turned and began to make his way back towards the brazier.

‘All right,’ the leader breathed. ‘Carry on.’

Brick by brick the gap was enlarged until it was only a short distance above Taurus’s head.

‘That’ll do. Up you go.’ Brixus gestured to the small party of men. Taurus hoisted them in turn up towards the gap, and they crept over the wall and dropped down inside the compound. To their right lay the wall of the villa with a small gateway providing access between the house and the working section of the complex. A separate, more impressive gateway led into the villa from a treelined avenue, so that influential visitors to the estate need not pass by the squalid slave quarters. In other directions lay the slave barracks and those of the overseers and guards. Beyond them loomed storehouses and granaries.

Brixus took one last glance at the sentry to ensure nothing was amiss, then turned towards the trees and cupped a hand to his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he let out a low owl hoot, three times. An instant later he saw the rest of the raiding party creep out from the trees. They went down into the grass and bent low as they moved towards the spruce tree.

This was the moment of greatest risk, thought Brixus. If the sentry was alert, he could not help but see so many men swarming out of the darkness. It was up to Pindar to deal with him. Before the men were halfway across the open ground, there was a soft thud and when the leader looked up at the wall had disappeared. Brixus breathed a sigh of relief as he rose up and waved the men on before limping over to Taurus.

‘My turn, old friend.’ He smiled in the darkness and saw the dull gleam of the big man's teeth as he responded. Then, placing his boot in the large paws of Taurus, the leader clambered up and through the gap.

On the sentry walk he looked to his left and saw Pindar dropping from the wall, leaving the body of the guard sprawled behind him. On the ground below, the other men of the advance party knelt in a shallow arc, keeping watch. Brixus lowered himself over the side of the walkway and then dropped the last two feet to the ground. Above him he could hear the first of the second group climbing through the gap, and hurriedly moved aside. One by one the raiders dropped down into the compound and joined the men spread out in an arc. With a strained grunt Taurus pulled himself up and crawled through the gap to join his comrades.

Brixus drew his sword and looked round at his men as he raised the weapon. In response they grasped their weapons and held them up to show that they were ready.

‘To the guards’ barracks.’ He spoke just loudly enough for them all to hear. ‘Go in hard. Show no mercy.’

There was a low growl of assent from Taurus and muttered comments from the others, then the leader led the way along the side of the wall, keeping to its shadow as he limped towards the barracks, a hundred paces away. The muffled sound of voices carried across the compound, light-hearted chatter interspersed with the cries of glee and groans of men playing a game of dice. There was no sound from the slave barracks. They would be too exhausted to do much but sleep after they had eaten their evening ration of barley gruel. Besides, Brixus reflected, most slaves were forbidden from talking in such estates, for fear that it might encourage them to plot against their masters.

They were no more than fifty feet from the entrance to the barracks when the door suddenly opened and a finger of rosy light spilled out across the compound, revealing the men? hurrying along the base of the wall. Two guards stood in the L entrance to the barracks holding empty jars, which they were | taking to the well to refill. They stopped dead and stared at j| the raiders before one of them reacted.

‘Alarm!’ he shouted, then turned towards the door and he repeated the cry. ‘Alarm!’

Brixus turned to his men and thrust his spare hand towards Pindar. ‘Take your men and clear the walls of sentries. The rest of you, follow me!’

He thrust his sword towards the entrance of the barracks and bellowed as loudly as he could into the cold night air. ‘Attack!’