The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The assassin tried to kill Lucius Falerius Nerva after the sacrifice of the bulls, as the line of senators made their way towards the Forum for the opening session. Servius Caepio, as senior consul, led the procession, with Livius Rutulius one pace behind. Lucius, acknowledged as Princeps Senatus, was so close to Rutulius that none could say who had precedence. Marcellus marched alongside, proud of the position his father, through both age and eminence, now held. He noticed the man detach himself from the crowd and he alone saw, given the angle of his approach, that he was not reaching into his toga for a petition but for a weapon. The glint of the long thin shaft of steel acted on the young man long before he knew the intended victim.

He shot forward as the blade swung and time assumed a different, almost stationary dimension, each movement taking an age to complete, each one destined to be clearly etched on the boy’s memory. He was too slow by a fraction; his outstretched hand only managed to deflect the blade slightly, yet that saved his father’s life. The knife seared across his chest, causing a deep gash and a fountain of red blood, rather than going straight to the heart as intended. Lucius fell backwards, shocked and silent, yet to feel the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus saw the other senators back away, registered the bright red stain on his father’s whitened toga, but his main focus was still on the assassin, who had turned to face him, swinging the blade round to gut his belly. The boy hit him right-handed, with all the force he could muster, his left hand pushing forward to parry the knife.

It sliced across the fleshy part of his outstretched arm just as Marcellus grasped the wrist that held it. His right hand swung again, a true boxer’s punch, smashing the man’s nose, which sprayed his blood in all directions. His knees buckled and Marcellus hit him again, this time on the ear as the sounds of panic began to impede upon his senses: the senators crying out for protection, the mob shouting and screaming. The assassin had fallen back towards the crowd, too dense to admit him and allow escape. Marcellus, still hanging on to his wrist, hit him again, but, surprisingly, he arched forward, his mouth opening to emit a high-pitched scream. The young Falerii raised his fist to strike again, feeling the wrist, which he had been struggling to hold, go limp; the knife dropped from his opponent’s grasp and stuck upright in the earth. The man’s knees gave way and he fell forward on the boy, eyes and mouth wide open, as if in shock, then, too heavy for Marcellus to hold, he crumpled to the ground. The whole crowd could see the short sword which had been rammed upwards into his back, with such force that only the hilt showed.

Lucius had been lifted onto the rostrum, a platform from which he had spoken many times, and he lay now with his eyes shut tight as the lictors rushed around like disturbed geese, countermanding each other’s orders. Quintus Cornelius, who had been a long way behind, pushed his way through the other senators and jumped up on the platform, shouting for order in a parade ground voice, sending one of the lictors off to fetch a surgeon. Then he organised a guard round Lucius, with his brother Titus, who had been standing on the Forum steps, taking command. They pushed the curious onlookers back so that the wounded man could breathe. Marcellus found himself pushed back too and the feet of many men trampled over the body of the dead assassin before Titus pushed his way through to mount guard over that too.

‘Marcellus,’ he shouted, indicating his whereabouts to the soldiers who had obeyed his instructions. ‘Fetch the senator’s son.’

Swords came out of their sheaths, with that rasping sound familiar to anyone who had ever stood near a soldier, and the crowd seemed to melt away as they pushed through to where Marcellus stood, tears in his eyes.

‘He’s alive!’ Titus called out, praying he was right, because the breath the old senator was drawing looked mighty laboured to him. He took Marcellus by the arm and led him towards the rostrum, helping him up and shouting for those surrounding Lucius to stand aside. Blood soaked the front of his father’s toga, but the eyes were open, brittle, hard and angry.

‘Get me out of here, Marcellus. Am I to be gazed at, in my distress, by the mob?’

Aquila lay on his back, staring at the stars, his fingertips toying with the wings of the eagle charm, as men moved restlessly around him. The fires were low now, merely embers glowing in the dark, but he was too troubled to sleep, going over in his mind the events of the last few weeks and relating them to the dream he had just had, so unusually clear in his mind. He thought back to that day when they had gathered at the base of Mount Etna. He had found Hypolitas’s speech as uplifting as the runaway slaves, been equally stunned by the magic fire he produced from his mouth and that feeling had lasted while they remained south of the volcano, probably because he had been too preoccupied to truly examine that with which he had become engaged. Not that things had eased off after the governor’s men had gone back to their normal lives; the slaves commenced training for action as soon as they returned north, to hills and mountains now clear of the Roman threat.

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.

Hypolitas ordered the gates closed as the screams turned from fear to pain and Aquila closed his eyes. He knew that, inside that gate, the fellow was literally being torn apart by bare hands. One of the other potential victims, taking advantage of those around him who were transfixed by the sounds emanating from the stockade, grabbed a sword and fell on it. He screamed as it thrust into his belly and Hypolitas, in a rare show of emotion, rushed over and kicked him repeatedly, then ordered that he be thrown over the wall so that those inside could get to him before he expired. The last victim did not struggle; he was like a limp, naked rag as he was taken to the gate. It opened and the circle of slaves parted to show the mangled corpses on the ground. Their dusty rags as well as their faces were streaked in blood, some of it dripping off their chins. Even Hypolitas blanched at the thought of that but the last victim had to die. Still in a trance he was pushed towards the slaves and the doors were shut again. No shouting or screaming this time, just the steady thud of a human body being reduced to bloody pulp.

‘Gadoric, the yoke,’ called Hypolitas, as he walked towards the overseer. He gave Aquila, who was standing beside the cart, a quick glance, then spoke softly. ‘You deserve the same fate, pig.’ The Roman did not react, even though he too had been able to see through those gates. ‘Perhaps we should throw your fat wife in there?’

Still nothing but a defiant glare. ‘Or your son, perhaps?’

For the first time the face showed a trace of fear, then his shoulders drooped and the voice was hoarse as he spoke. ‘Take me, spare the boy.’

‘And your wife?’ asked Hypolitas with a thin smile.

He squared his shoulders again. ‘She is the boy’s mother and a Roman. If you ask her, she will say the same.’

Hypolitas pushed his face close to that of the overseer. ‘So if I really want to hurt you, to make you suffer as others have suffered, I need only torture your son before your eyes.’

Aquila moved to intervene, to tell Hypolitas to desist. The Greek held up his hand, but the words that followed were addressed to the prisoner. ‘Never fear, pig. We do not make war on children. Nor will you, or your wife, suffer more than the loss of your dignity.’

He pointed to the yoke, now held aloft by two men. ‘You will pass under that, all of you, acknowledging that your slaves have now become your masters, and you will bear a message, pig. Tell all your fellow overseers, and the greedy owners gorging themselves in Rome, that the slaves are no longer prepared to die in their fields.’

He turned slightly, raising his voice so that all could hear, including the blood-spattered slaves, who had finished their sport and emerged from the stockade. ‘Rome can have her grain, as much as Sicily yields now, and more in the future. The people who grow it now will continue to do so, but not as slaves. We will grow it as free men.’

He ordered the overseer untied, his wife and son were fetched from the house. ‘Remember the message, pig. Rome can have her grain.’

They and the remaining guards were paraded beneath the yoke, the eternal sign of servitude, the proof that a power lay vanquished. The food that the household slaves had prepared disappeared quickly down the throats of the starving field workers and everything that could be carried or moved, farming implements, oxen, tools, as well as food and weapons, was stripped out of the farm. Hypolitas, who had been watching this work, sent everyone away from the house and he stood alone, his head back and his arms outstretched, as if seeking power from the heavens for what he was about to do. Then the hands came together suddenly, clapping hard in front of his mouth, and a jet of flame shot up towards the edge of the thatch that covered the farmhouse roof. Dry as tinder, it took light immediately until Hypolitas clapped his hands again and the jet of flame ceased. Then he turned and looked at the frightened prisoners, his bald head and prominent features giving him a demonic appearance.

‘It is not just the slaves you must fear, Romans. The power of the Gods is against you. Now go, and tell of what you have seen.’

All the buildings were burnt out long before the overseer and his family were out of sight. The freed slaves were herded along again, this time by friendly runaways, who cajoled them to hurry without the aid of whips, heading for the hills and freedom. Gadoric, Aquila and the best trained men formed a cordon at the rear, ready to turn and fight if the armed men from the town of Tyndaris should venture out to investigate the column of smoke that rose from the smouldering buildings.

From that day they were rarely still. They had to raid to feed the extra mouths and each raid produced more racked bodies in need of nourishment. Also they were short of weapons and the weather was deteriorating, so the provision of shelter became an acute problem. The original small band had grown substantially as freed slaves and runaways joined them until the worried military commander called a conference to discuss this, and further operations.

‘We can no longer operate as one unit, nor should we,’ said Gadoric.

Hypolitas did not enjoy being told what to do by anyone, but, lacking knowledge, he had always bowed to the Celt in such matters. Yet he was taking a closer interest himself, asking advice from a variety of sources, so that each act of persuasion seemed to take longer and longer. Aquila, though invited to attend this conference, stayed out of the discussion. Others, particularly Pentheus and those who thought like him, were present and any interventions from that source, however sound, would be unwelcome, even if most accepted that, despite his years, Aquila was Gadoric’s second-in-command.

‘Surely the larger our forces, the safer they are,’ replied Hypolitas, looking around the assembled faces as if seeking support for his view.

Gadoric cut in quickly, aware that only those who disagreed with him would speak out. In doing so, he responded in a more dismissive way than normal. ‘We rely on speed more than numbers. When we attack a farm, it makes no sense to use a hundred men where thirty would do.’

The Greek’s black eyes flashed angrily. ‘The governor has patrols out all the time now. What if thirty men run into a hundred of them?’

‘I seem to recall our desire to avoid a war. Even if we outnumbered the governor’s patrol, I would recommend that we avoid a fight.’

Hypolitas frowned and clearly, to him, that sounded very much like cowardice. Gadoric was obviously aware of the impression he had created, both by his manner of speech and the words he had used, so he added quickly, ‘Better to attack three farms at once.’

There was a long silence while Hypolitas weighed up the options but he used the time to fix everyone with an intimidating stare, as if to ensure that they understood that whatever the advice, the final decision was his. ‘Who would lead them?’

‘I would command one, Aquila another and Tyrtaeus the third.’

‘Who will obey a mere boy?’ snapped Pentheus.

Gadoric’s reply was icy. ‘Would you care to fetch your weapons, Greek? I have no objection to you fighting Aquila for the post.’

Pentheus’s sallow face went as grey as his hair and he shook his head quickly. Hypolitas put his fingers to his lips to demonstrate the depth of his thinking, and Aquila, bolstered by his friend’s support, volunteered an opinion.

‘I agree with Gadoric, and I believe in the end we’ll be safer.’ Their leader gave him an enquiring look, so he continued. ‘Smaller groups move faster and I don’t think the Romans are just sitting waiting to be attacked. Staying together offers them a single target, a chance to snuff out this rebellion in one engagement.’

‘Only if they know where we’re going to attack.’ Pentheus, with his usual malice, now underpinned by humiliation, managed to imply, without saying it, that Aquila the Roman was not to be trusted.

‘I’ve had occasion to call you a fool before this, Pentheus, so I won’t bother again. You have made much of my association with Flaccus. What do you think he did before he came to Sicily?’ Pentheus just glared at him; he knew the answer to that as well as anyone. ‘He’s spent half his life soldiering, mostly fighting rebellious provincials. Up till now, if we’ve faced any resistance it’s been from half-trained militia. If they had any real soldiers we’d have been caught months ago but it’s only a matter of time before Roman troops arrive. Then all the knowledge he and the others have acquired will be brought to bear against us. If we stick to the same methods long enough, Flaccus and men like him will catch us and when they do they’ll make sure we are outnumbered. They will annihilate the fighters and crucify the rest. Right now the governor will be working on some plan to thwart us, based on our policy of single raids. If we start to attack in several places at once, that will throw their calculations out.’

‘Well said, boy,’ put in Gadoric.

Pentheus favoured him with the kind of look humans normally reserved for rats. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes!’ snapped Aquila. ‘We need to set up meeting places for incoming slaves. Right now our best equipped fighting men are going all the way to the plains, then returning every time into the mountains. If some of our less able people could be put to use, shepherding them up through the valleys, the fighters could get on with what they’re best at, raiding farms.’

‘We’re going to have a lot of people to look after,’ said Tyrtaeus. ‘Winter is coming. How are we going to feed them?’

‘Don’t imagine the Romans haven’t thought of that,’ replied Gadoric.

Hypolitas, who had remained silent, finally spoke, voicing an opinion that many had thought of but few saw as realistic. ‘We can’t stay in the hills anyway. Sooner or later we must attack and take one of the fortified towns.’