The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Aquila could not have been more wrong about Didius Flaccus; while he paid lip service to the idea of another attack on the rebels, his main interest remained in the yield from his own farms and he was not alone, which made the task of the governor that much harder. He had little true strength at his disposal; apart from a handful of Roman cavalry, most of the men under his command were locals, poorly trained, ill-equipped and badly led. Fine for guard duties, useless for battle with a growing force of rebels, if they could not be stiffened by a levy of veterans from the farms. The scheme for another sweep through the mountains had suffered from endless postponement, the actions of those who had pledged support beyond coordination. He had sent to Rome for the tenth time, requesting assistance, a plea which had again fallen on deaf ears. The city had too many other troubles to contend with; a few slaves running from their masters barely registered, especially since the owners had yet to see their profits severely dented by this insurrection.

The news that he was to receive a senatorial representative, instead of soldiers, sent Silvanus into a towering rage, all the more potent for the fact that the person coming was Lucius Falerius Nerva. As a result of this missive, he sent off despatch after despatch, outlining the deteriorating situation while calling all his own militia back into barracks, so that the three separate bands were free to roam almost at will. They avoided places that had strong protection, which meant that Flaccus was left well alone, free to worry about the winter sowing. His irrigation ditches were finished, the land under cultivation increased by a quarter, so that he had nearly replaced his fallow sections, and since he had put women and children back to work in the fields, he had enough slaves to do the job for this year, aware that he would lose a percentage, those who could not do the work on the poor rations they were given to eat.

The rain teemed down, soaking everyone, carried on a wind seemingly strong enough to quieten even Mount Etna. Aquila, slithering and sliding as his horse sought a foothold on the muddy tracks, urged speed. The sooner he could get these freed slaves under some form of shelter the better; weak from work, hunger, the strain of their escape and now this foul weather, many were already being carried. Surprised to see Gadoric at his rendezvous, he rode ahead, leaving the rest of his men to bring in their charges. There was no welcome in the Celt’s eyes and he beckoned Aquila away from the encampment so that they could speak privately. They dismounted and huddled in their cloaks under a tree, Gadoric eyeing the line of slaves shuffling into the camp.

‘We must stop for the winter.’

Aquila cast an ironic look at the grey, cloud-filled sky. ‘We might be too late.’

‘I’ve tried to persuade Hypolitas but he won’t listen. He’s obsessed with freeing as many people as possible, even if we can barely feed them. He thinks the more we have the stronger we’ll be.’

‘Surely it’s your decision, Gadoric. You’re a free man now, you can stop this when you like.’

The Celt ignored the barbed remark. ‘Tell that to Hypolitas. He’s not so keen to take my advice these days.’

‘I doubt he was ever keen.’

The two of them looked at each other, one a tall, fully grown man, scarred from numerous battles, the other a golden-haired youth, nearly as tall but unscratched. Neither wanted to be the one to say what was on their minds: that the Greek was falling victim to his own rhetoric. Hypolitas was beginning to think of himself as invincible and in that mood had no desire to take advice from anyone.

‘If we can persuade Tyrtaeus to join with us, Hypolitas will have to give way. We must find him and persuade him.’

Aquila just nodded, unconvinced, and went off to see to his charges.

It was still raining steadily when they found Tyrtaeus’s encampment. The rain ran off his arched back and down the flanks of the horse. Gadoric lifted his head to examine the throat, cut raggedly from ear to ear.

‘That’s what happens when you’re soft,’ snarled Pentheus, who, with grey hair plastered over his head, looked more like a corpse than his late leader. ‘He was like you, afraid to spill blood.’

‘What happened?’ asked Aquila.

Pentheus shrugged, as though what he had to say mattered little. ‘One of the guards had a knife. He wasn’t searched properly.’

‘Stay here,’ snapped Gadoric. ‘No more attacks till you hear from me.’

Pentheus opened his eyes in surprise and he looked at Aquila with that deep, ingrained suspicion which was now habitual. He also looked as though he was about to protest, for as second in command, the leadership of this group would naturally devolve on him and with Aquila holding a similar position, his lack of years could not be held against him. Gadoric, towering over him, spoke first.

‘You’ll get your fill of fighting, Pentheus, never fear. Maybe a bit more than you really want.’

Persuading Hypolitas was not easy. He saw himself as the sole cause of the banditti’s success, forgetting that he, personally, could not wield a weapon. Aquila was right when he had hinted that the man had fallen prey to his own speechifying, but those who surrounded him contributed too, slavishly agreeing with everything their leader said, often flattering him outrageously. Gadoric soon realised that the Greek would not yield for all the right reasons, so the Celt wisely decided to play him at his own game, painting a golden vision of a great slave army making stupendous conquests. Towns would open their gates, cities would offer tribute, not to slaves but to their leader Hypolitas, and Rome itself would tremble at his name, but all this would be jeopardised if they continued with piecemeal raids.

To begin with Hypolitas made no attempt to hide his disdain for Gadoric’s most recent military advice but that changed inexorably as this image of personal greatness was outlined for him. His eyes, slightly raised, looked above the other man’s head at the sulphurous smoke rising from the distant, smoking volcano, just visible against the grey overcast sky, then they began to glaze over, as if he could see everything that was being offered quite plainly in his mind. His lips moved silently as Gadoric, in the tradition of his race, borrowed freely from one epic to create another. The Greek’s lips had started to move first, soon followed by his head, nodding at each imagined triumph. Gadoric ended up almost singing his tale, but he brought his voice under control, returning it to normality.

‘But to do all this we feed our men to make them strong. We must train them to fight properly, as a real army, or they will take the field as a rabble.’

Aquila interrupted; he thought that Gadoric had gone too far, since Hypolitas was clearly harbouring dangerous God-like tendencies. This feeling was evident in his voice when he spoke, carrying, as it did, a hint of irony. ‘You wouldn’t care to have your name associated with a rabble, would you, Hypolitas?’

The Greek came out of his near trance-like state to stare at the younger man and for the first time Aquila saw undisguised dislike. Then the eyes dropped to the gold charm at his throat, and the look changed to one of greed. Knowing that Hypolitas coveted it, Aquila took the eagle in his hand, wondering if he had spoilt Gadoric’s whole idea by that one mundane, slightly ironic comment, and the look his friend gave him certainly indicated that he had.

‘You are a wise man and such a man moves with care,’ he continued, trying to repair the atmosphere. ‘We must take a city, you have said so yourself. Which city? How will we attack it? How many men will we need? These things cannot be left to chance.’

This string of questions brought matters to a head, since Hypolitas, even in his most deistic mood, knew that he was unqualified to made such judgements. Slowly, now without difficulty, he was forced to concede each point. He would stop the raids, except where there was a need to acquire food, initiate more training and set others to the forging of weapons. Gadoric, with Aquila and a small band of mounted men, would reconnoitre the various Sicilian cities and decide which one was most susceptible to attack.

‘Can we really take a city?’

The question was asked as they gazed at the distant walls of Agrigentum. To Aquila they looked just as formidable as all the others he had seen these past weeks and even though he was at home in the saddle he was tired out by their endless travels. Not all the time had been spent in riding, or gazing at walls, a great deal had been expended talking to the local inhabitants, all of whom seemed to hold similar, unflattering opinions on the benefits of Roman rule.

Here in the south, if they knew of the slave revolt around Messana, it barely registered. They had no suspicion that these well-fed, mounted men, who spoke near unintelligible Greek with such barbaric accents, were anything other than legitimate travellers, so they were free in their criticism of Rome, hankering for a golden age, long before the tutelage of Carthage, when the island had been ruled by the Greek oligarchy in Syracuse. And following on from that, Gadoric had gone off on his own to look at the landscape with the eye of the warrior he was. It was after one of those lonely excursions that they had come to this place. He acknowledged the question, smiled, and spoke quietly so that only the boy could hear.

‘Not by assault, Aquila. We’ve none of your Roman siege engines and the like to batter the walls, nor do we possess the skill to make them. But perhaps by negotiation.’

The reply was larded with heavy sarcasm. ‘We’d like your city, please surrender?’

Gadoric pointed past the walls they overlooked, his finger aimed towards the angry, grey-blue sea. ‘Agrigentum is the closest Sicilian city to Africa. It lies, unsupported, between two wide rivers, something which, if the local farmers are to be believed, has always made it vulnerable.’

‘Why?’

‘Any city under siege looks at the means of relief. Agrigentum is a port, so it should most easily come by sea. That was true when the city was Carthaginian, but where is the Roman fleet? Most likely scattered across the whole of the Middle Sea.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘Any army coming by land has to cross an easily defended river, whichever route they choose.’

Aquila cast his mind back to his childhood, to Clodius teaching him to swim, something every legionary was trained to do. ‘That won’t stop a Roman army.’

Gadoric grinned at him. ‘What Roman army? Imagine you’re inside those walls, which are not as formidable as they appear from this distance. I know, I have looked. Lacking any credible threat, they’ve been left to rot. You’ve heard rumours of trouble in the north, a few slaves raiding and looting, then one morning you wake up and find a whole army camped on your doorstep.’

‘I don’t think you can yet call us a whole army.’

‘We will be by the time we get here. I intend to march south along the coastal plain, picking up every slave we can on the way.’

Aquila looked at Gadoric with a degree of apprehension; had he also become a victim of his own vision? He made it all sound so simple, as if his potential opponents were people of little account, instead of the formidable legions that had conquered where they marched. It was a tempting dream, which would ease all their difficulties. Unfortunately his pride in Roman military prowess, deeply ingrained, would not allow him to share it.

‘And if the negotiations fail? What happens if you’re stuck outside the walls when the Romans arrive?’

Gadoric fixed him with that solitary eye, his voice dropping again, and the words he used highlighted two facts: first, that the Celt had his feet firmly on the ground, and secondly, even as the closest of friends, they faced very different dilemmas.

‘Then we might as well fight, Aquila. We must go on because we cannot go back. Only you have that choice.’

Pentheus had moved his men back to the main camp, his first act being to get Hypolitas to confirm him as Aquila’s equal. From that position he set out to dominate the men left behind, and this was harder than his other task, which was to become the sole confidant of the leader. This he managed by raising the art of flattering Hypolitas to new heights. The Palmyran was increasingly seen in Pentheus’s company, nodding sagely as his companion outlined some point regarding the future management of the slave army. At every gathering the others would hear Pentheus repeat, to welcome applause, the same message.

‘Remember, Hypolitas, that you alone are our leader. We look to you, and no other, to guide us. You command and we obey.’

Insidiously and assiduously he undermined Gadoric, not by belittling him but by praising him. Hypolitas could not fault the Celt’s military ability but the constant drip of Pentheus’s praise, liberally sprinkled with allusions to his superior, if unclouded genius, rapidly eroded any feelings Hypolitas might have had for the man with whom he had escaped. Pentheus, seemingly ever eager to please, subtly exploited this, gradually feeding the leader’s burgeoning ego.

‘Look at me, Hypolitas. I was no soldier. I was a farmer before I became a slave, yet I took up a spear and went out to fight. I may, modestly, claim some success.’

‘I hinted, to Gadoric, that I should do the same.’

‘And he said no! Perhaps he fears to risk your person?’

The older man frowned at this and Pentheus did not add anything else; it was sufficient to let Hypolitas draw his own conclusions. Instead he seemed to change the subject.

‘I wonder if it is wise to do nothing at all for the whole winter. Will the Romans not see this as a sign of weakness, a sign that the rebellion has burnt itself out?’

Word of their homecoming spread quickly and a sizable crowd gathered before they had dismounted. Hypolitas greeted the returning Gadoric like a long-lost brother, taking his arms with a smile, embracing him, then hauling him into his own hut. Aquila followed slowly, content to allow the two old comrades a moment alone. He looked around the camp, now a well-ordered affair, with scores of new huts replacing the makeshift wicker tents that had been there when they first arrived. A few of the men he had led pushed forward, eager to greet him, but the smile was wiped off his face when they told him what had happened, information that caused him to spin round and rush into the hut.

‘Pentheus!’ The single shouted word made both men turn to face him. Gadoric looked confused, Hypolitas angry. ‘How long has he been gone?’

‘You dare question me!’ snapped Hypolitas.

‘Aquila?’ said Gadoric, shocked at the expression in his young friend’s eyes.

‘He’s gone after Flaccus with eighty men.’

‘Who?’ the Celt enquired, still confused.

‘Pentheus did so with my blessing,’ said Hypolitas, with an airy wave of the hand. ‘We agreed that…’

‘You old fool!’ It was a long time since anyone had even checked Hypolitas, let alone insulted him, and the shock on his face was total, almost like a man who had received a hard slap. ‘He’s wanted to get his revenge on Flaccus ever since we started this revolt. Gadoric kept him well away from the area for that very reason.’

The Celt still looked confused and Hypolitas’s thundering response did nothing to help him. ‘I lead here! Don’t think that bauble round your neck gives you the right to question me.’

Not in the least cowed, he grabbed at his charm, pushing it out towards Hypolitas. ‘I’m not sure of what you trusted, my dreams or this, but the message was clear. No Roman blood, remember? That was the policy and it was supposed to give us some hope.’

For the first time Hypolitas, his eyes fixed fearfully on the eagle, seemed to falter, his voice, for once, devoid of confidence. ‘Pentheus knows that as well as anyone.’

‘He didn’t tell you where he was headed, did he?’

‘We must remind the Romans that we are here.’

‘Hypolitas,’ said Gadoric, sadly.

‘Get out! I will not be addressed like this,’ screamed the Greek. ‘I will be obeyed.’

Gadoric took him by the shoulders and shook him, speaking quietly. ‘We didn’t escape one tyranny, Hypolitas, to endure another.’ They stared at each other for several seconds before Gadoric spoke again. ‘Go after him, Aquila. Stop him if you can.’

His nose informed him that he was too late before his eyes; the smell of burning wafted into his nostrils on the northerly wind. The horse, which he had pushed to the limit of its endurance, was winded, so he could not urge it to greater speed. The black smoke rose into the sky and as he came closer he saw the flames at the base. Then he heard the screams, high pitched, mixed with loud and maniacal laughing. The fire rose above the barracks which had, at one time, been his home. When he saw what Pentheus and his men were doing he jumped off the horse and ran as fast as he could towards the blaze. The screams grew louder, so did the laughing and he barely noticed the row of flayed bodies hanging from the trees. Had he looked closely he would not have recognised any of those he had lived with, men like Dedon and Charro. The skin had literally been stripped from their bodies, leaving a bloody pulped mass dripping into the dark soil and onto the heap of broken staves under their feet.

He saw one of the women break out through the window, her hair on fire so she looked at this distance like a flaming torch, a small child cradled in her arms. One of Pentheus’s men tripped her up, grabbed her as she fell, lifted her and the child bodily, then threw them back into the burning building. Aquila was amongst the raiding party now: some of the men, disgusted as he was, had stood back from this outrage. Pentheus was in the middle of the compound directing operations, his face and arms purple from the blood that had spattered all over him. In the flames, with his wild staring eyes and grey hair, he looked like a madman, laughing in that high-pitched cackle that came upon him in the presence of death. He screamed with crazed delight as his men poked their long spears through the windows to drive back the maddened women who were trying to escape from the all-consuming flames.

Aquila grabbed him and spun him round, slapping his face to try to bring him back to his senses. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Whores!’ spat Pentheus, pointing to the bodies swaying on the trees. ‘They pleasured that vermin. Some of them are with child by the bastards. This fire will cleanse that plague.’

Aquila hit him, knocking him to the ground, then ran towards the inferno screaming Phoebe’s name, but no one was alive in there now, for the flames had started to suck in the surrounding air, and they rose to a flickering peak, carrying the souls of the dead women and children with them in a huge funeral pyre. Some of Pentheus’s men, as bloody and wild-eyed as their leader, had seen him strike the blow, seen their leader knocked to the ground, and they turned on him angrily. Others, mainly men who had served with Gadoric, and who had stood off from this barbarity, rushed forward to protect him, swords and spears at the ready. For a moment the two groups stood facing each other, until one of his rescuers took Aquila’s arm and led him away. Only when he got away from the heat of the fire did Aquila realise that he was crying.

They led him towards a steep-sided pit which had been dug in the ground, surrounded by bulging grain sacks, and Aquila leant on one and looked down. Flaccus was there, as bloody as the men on the trees, but still alive. His hands and feet had been hacked off and Pentheus had laid the hands where the feet should be and the feet in place of the hands.

‘There he is.’ Aquila turned to face Pentheus, who had lost none of the crazed look he had before. The man was giggling insanely as he talked. ‘He’s not so mighty now, is he, your Roman friend?’

Aquila wanted to kill him, but if he tried now, others would die. These two groups of men, still eyeing each other warily, would fight, and once joined who could say how many would be killed? Flaccus and Phoebe were beyond any help he could give. Pentheus came closer, the smell of his sweat mixed with the odour of dried blood.

‘Have you heard his prophecy, Aquila? That he would not die till he was showered with gold? He told me all about it as I tore off his skin.’

He threw his head back and laughed out loud and those who supported him laughed too, a crazy cacophony mixed with the loud crackling of the flames. Aquila turned and jumped down into the pit to kneel beside Flaccus. The centurion’s eyes, staring out of a bloody smashed face, flickered in recognition.

‘I never did thank you for not turning your back on me, Flaccus.’ With that he slipped a coin out of his pouch and started to place it under Flaccus’s tongue. ‘I cannot avenge you or Phoebe now, but I will, I swear. Think well of me when you’ve crossed the Styx.’

The eyes flickered again and the lips parted to expose the pulverised teeth. A slight hissing sound escaped from the centurion’s throat as the coin slipped into the pool of blood in his mouth. He was trying to speak, but no words came. Aquila stood up and, pulling out his sword, he saluted him like the Roman soldier he had once been. Hands reached down to help him out of the pit and he stood watching silently as Pentheus’s men cut open the sacks. Then, to the sound of loud cheering, they poured the golden grain into the pit, suffocating what was left of the life, as well as fulfilling the prophecy of the one-time centurion, Didius Flaccus.