The Gladiator

CHAPTER TEN

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 of the 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 off balance 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 me at -

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 immediately went into a crouch as he looked round for another threat.

'Good job,' Macro said grudgingly.

The leading wagon rumbled out of the 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!'

The 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 of the wagons. Some had begun to snatch up stones and small rocks from the ground, and hurled them at the Roman soldiers. The 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.

They passed the villa and continued up the track towards the junction with the road to Gortyna. The slaves kept with them, stooping to snatch up stones and rocks to keep hurling at the column. For their part, the auxiliaries kept their shields raised and, when the chance permitted, threw missiles back. The path of Macro's column was marked by dead and injured slaves, with a handful of civilians and soldiers amongst them.

'How long do you think they'll keep this up?' Atticus called out from where he crouched low by the driver's bench.

'Until they get tired of it,' Macro replied tersely as he ducked to pick up a shield from one of his men who had fallen at the head of the column. A large rock had shattered the auxiliary's knee and he gritted his teeth as he sat on the ground. Macro turned to the nearest of his men.

'Get him on to a wagon!'

While they hauled the soldier up and dragged him, crying out in agony, to the rear of the leading wagon, Macro hefted the shield and held it high to cover his body. The rain of missiles eased off and he saw that the slaves were pulling back. Two hundred paces away, standing on a stretch of wall, stood a figure shouting orders to them.

Unlike the others he was wearing leather body armour, with wrist guards, and a leather skullcap. A sword hung from a strap across his shoulder. Behind him stood several other men similarly equipped.

As the slaves gathered in a loose mob in front of him, the man continued to give his instructions. With deliberate gestures he pointed in the direction of the road, and at once a body of his followers ran off in that direction. The rest turned back towards the convoy and continued to bombard it with stones and rocks. But this time they had picked a new target. The ir fire concentrated on the leading wagon.

'They're going for the horses and mules!' Macro called out. 'Cover them!'

The men closed up along the flanks of the leading draught animals, protecting them as best they could. But the targets were too large to miss, and every so often one of the beasts would whinny and leap in its traces as it was struck. Atticus did his best to keep control of them, but the frequent stops slowed the pace of the column to a crawl. Macro gritted his teeth in frustration, well aware that the other group of slaves had raced ahead of them to the main road, no doubt with some plan in mind to renew the attack. Glancing up at the sky, he also realised that it was well past noon. If they did not quicken the pace there was a chance that they would still be on the road to Matala, surrounded by their attackers, as night fell. If that happened, then they could easily be rushed in the darkness.

He looked towards the slave leader again. The man was walking alongside the track, a hundred paces away, pausing now and then to watch the progress of his followers as they kept up their harassment of the wagons.

'You're not going to have things your own way for ever, mate,'

Macro growled, then turned to the men following him.' When I give the word, first three sections follow me. Go in hard and fast with as much noise as you can make. Get ready…'

Macro tensed his muscles as he walked slowly along the track, watching and waiting as the slaves grew more bold in their attack.

Some, grinning with contempt, ran up to within ten feet before throwing their rocks and snarling insults at the auxiliaries. Macro waited until there were several of them close by, hurling missiles and defiance. Then he filled his lungs.

'Charge them!' He sprang to the side, pumping his legs as he threw himself at the slaves. 'Get 'em, lads! Kill ' em all!'

With a throaty roar, his men turned on the slaves and charged after their commander. The nearest attackers turned and fled, some knocking into their comrades in their haste, sending three of them sprawling in the coarse grass. Macro paused briefly to stab his blade down as he passed one of the slaves struggling to rise up on his hands and knees. The sword went in deep between his shoulder blades and the slave fell flat as Macro yanked the blade free and charged on, bellowing at the top of his voice. Even though they were not encumbered by armour, as the auxiliaries were, some of the slaves were aged, and for others the harsh conditions under which they had toiled for years had sapped their strength, and they were run down and killed without mercy as they tried to escape. Macro and his men chased them across the open ground beside the road, slashing at any of their enemies that came within reach.

Ahead of them the leader of the slaves unsheathed his sword and was shouting at his followers to turn and fight. The armed men who had been standing behind him closed up on each side, swords held ready as they made their stand. As the first slaves reached his position, the leader began to rally them. Faced with his ferocious harangue, they turned to confront the Romans, forming up in a crude line as they made ready to fight with their assortment of weapons. Some only carried the rocks they had picked up and others stood with bare hands as they confronted the auxiliaries.

Macro realised that the three sections had achieved all they could with their sudden charge. If they carried on they would be blown by the effort of the pursuit, and now that the slaves were turning on them, the advantage was lost. Macro drew up, panting heavily.

'Twelfth, halt! Form on me, lads!'

The first of his men ceased their pursuit, and hurriedly edged towards Macro. A handful of hotheads carried on a bit further, before they saw the solid body of the enemy waiting for them. Then they stopped and retreated to a safe distance before trotting back to the rest of their comrades, forming a line on either side of the centurion.

'Hurry it up!' Macro yelled at them. 'Quick as you can!'

One of the slaves shouted an insult after the Romans, but the sense of it was lost due to the blood pounding through Macro's head.

More voices joined in, and a moment later the air was full of the cries of contempt, jeers and whistles of the slaves as they watched the Romans retreat. Macro could not help a wry smile as he steadily backed away towards the rest of the column. Despite their noise, the slaves did not seem to be in much hurry to turn the tables on the Romans and chase them back to the wagons. Their leader must have felt the same, sensing the opportunity to counterattack slipping from his grasp. Calling to his immediate entourage, he strode through the milling ranks of the slaves and towards the auxiliaries, beckoning the rest to follow him. One by one they drifted forward, and then as a mass, closing on the outnumbered Romans.

'Shit,' Macro muttered irritably.' Thought it would take them a bit longer to get their balls back.'

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the column had moved on since he had led the wild charge. Now they were abreast of the last wagon, and the other sections of the century were continuing with their orders, staying close to the animals pulling the wagons.

'Right then, lads!' Macro called out.' When I give the order, break and run to the last wagon. Then we'll form the rearguard… Now!'

They turned and ran across the fifty paces of open ground separating them from the tail of the column. Behind them the slaves let out a great shout and broke into a charge, leaping over the bodies of their stricken comrades as they surged after Macro and his men.

As soon as the auxiliaries reached the last of the wagons, Macro turned and presented his shield. The others fell in on either side, forming a tight shield wall as they braced themselves for the impact of the charge. The first of the slaves struck at Macro's shield, ham me ring at the surface with a crude club. An instant later all his men were engaged, blocking blows and stabbing back as they gave ground, staying close to the wagon. Macro glimpsed the slave leader to his right, duelling with a thickset auxiliary. The slave sought for a gap between the shields to strike with his weapon, a finely decorated gladiator's sword that glittered in the afternoon sunshine. The auxiliary struck out, and the slave nimbly leaned to one side, before thrusting his point back at the auxiliary, narrowly missing his face as the tip glanced off a cheek guard. The slave looked up and caught Macro's eyes for an instant.

There was a flicker of recognition there, Macro was certain of it.

Then the slave launched into a furious series of blows that battered his auxiliary opponent against the side of the wagon. Too late the auxiliary saw the danger, and the solid timber disc of the wheel knocked him down and rolled over him, crushing his hips and snapping his spine, leaving him looking startled. As his mouth opened and shut and his arms flailed uselessly, he began to die in agony.

The one-sided nature of the melee told once again as the ground behind the wagon was littered with fallen slaves and only three of the auxiliaries. The leader of the slaves called his men off, and they ended their pursuit of the Romans and stood, chests heaving, glaring after the column as it rumbled its way up the track towards the Gortyna road. Macro waited until the gap had opened up to a hundred paces before he sheathed his sword and strode along the column to check on his men and the condition of the horses and mules. The rocks and stones had caused numerous minor injuries to man and beast alike, but they still continued steadily along the track.

'Not far to the road now, lads!' Macro called out cheerily.' Those bastards have learned their lesson. They won't be bothering the Twelfth Hispania for much longer.'

He spoke too soon. Once a safe gap had opened up between the wagons and the slaves, their leader led his men forward again, keeping level with the Roman column. Macro regarded them warily, but when they made no attempt to close the gap, he took satisfaction in the knowledge that every step along the track was taking them closer to the safety of Matala. Now that he thought about it, he felt there was a good chance his column might get through after all, and the people of Matala would be fed for a few more days at least from the stocks piled on the wagons.

'Sir!'

Macro turned towards the voice and saw one of his men on a slight rise in the track at the front of the column. He was waving his spear to attract Macro's attention.

'What is it?'

The first wagon ground to a halt as it reached the rise, and Atticus stood up on the driver's bench and stared ahead along the track.

Macro trotted forward, past the other wagons.

'What's the bloody hold-up? What the fuck are you stopping for?'

'Look!' Atticus thrust out his arm.

As Macro drew level with the leading wagon, he looked in the direction Atticus indicated. From the higher ground he could see the junction with the Gortyna road barely a hundred paces ahead, where the track had been built up to meet the height of the road. Across the junction stood the slaves who had been sent to cut off the column.

They had torn up some of the stone slabs from the road. With these, and some hurriedly felled trees, they had constructed a crude barricade. Macro estimated that there were over two hundred men waiting for them, with another two hundred behind the wagons. It was a neat trap, he admitted ruefully. The barricade would give little enough protection from Macro's auxiliaries, but it would stop the wagons from making any further progress before the way was cleared. The banked track meant there was no chance of driving the wagons round the barricade. Not without them toppling over on the slope. The choice was simple. Either Macro would have to abandon the wagons and retreat to Matala empty-handed, or he must continue the advance into the teeth of those defending the obstacle and try to cut a path through, while those behind attacked the rear of the column. If the column be came stuck, Macro and his men would be surrounded and cut down one by one.

'What do we do?' asked Atticus. 'Well, Macro?'

'Shit,' Macro muttered under his breath. 'We keep going. We take the barricade and clear it away and fight our way through. The food has to get to Matala. Advance!'

Atticus took a deep breath and flicked the reins. His wagon lurched forward. After a short pause the others followed and the auxiliaries trudged on, shields held close to their sides. As they neared the barricade, Macro could see the slaves grimly preparing to defend it. Rough — hewn spears and pitchforks were lowered, ready to receive the Romans. Some collected more rocks to hurl at the men and horses approaching them. Glancing over his shoulder, Macro saw that the other party of slaves had already quickened their pace to catch up with the convoy. It was going to be a bloody business, he reflected, and the odds were lengthe ning against getting the wagons, the food and his men back to Matala. But there was no helping it, he thought resignedly. The only route to safety was through the barricade. He hunched his neck down a little and tightened his grip on his sword and marched steadily towards the enemy.

Suddenly, the slaves on the left of their line turned away from the approaching wagons and stared down the road towards Matala. An instant later some were backing away, and then the first of them threw down their weapons and ran diagonally across the field away from the road, making for the nearest grove of olive trees. The panic spread along the line, and before the Romans even reached the barricade the last of the slaves had fled.

'What the hell?' Macro turned to look down the road as the wagons halted. Once the rumbling of the wheels and the grinding tramp of boots had stilled, he could hear a new sound, the distant thunder of horse hooves pounding along the road. Around a corner in the road came the first of the horsemen, wearing red tunics and Gallic helmets, urging their mounts on. They carried spears, and shields were slung across their backs, except for the rider at the head of the column. He was dressed in scale armour and wore the helmet of a centurion, his crest swept back as he led his men towards the junction.

'They're ours!' Macro beamed. 'Ours!'

Behind the wagons the second party of slaves was melting away.

Except for their leader and his companions. He stared at the approaching horsemen for a moment and then back at the wagons.

When he saw Macro, he raised his sword in a mock gladiator's salute and then turned to follow the rest of the slaves running for the safety of the olive trees.

Macro turned his attention back to the approaching horsemen as they slowed to a trot and approached the barricade. The leader reined in, and steered his mount round the obstacle to the wagons on the other side.

'Centurion Macro,' a familiar voice called out. 'What on earth have you been up to?'

'Cato!' Macro the gods. What the bloody hell are you doing here?'