The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

He had no choice but to send a verbal message; Gadoric could not read or write, so Aquila sent his farewells with one of the men he knew the Celt trusted. Surrounded by the smouldering ruins of the farm he had watched as Pentheus led his men back into the hills. The bloody bodies of the mercenaries still swung on the makeshift gibbets, so he cut them down and transferred the corpses to the embers, then piled loose wood on to make a proper fire. A flaming ember was enough to torch the grave of Flaccus; grain burns easily, especially when dry. It was only then that he remembered Pentheus’s words about the women bearing the mercenaries children. Had Phoebe borne him a child? It was possible. He fingered the eagle round his neck, seeking guidance, at the same time recalling the way she had stroked it, which made him feel guilty; he had never really made any attempt to free her from a life she must have hated after he had gone.

The flames behind him again shot into the sky, fired by the grease from the numerous bodies of the mercenaries, and he knew that it was time to leave, for the smoke would bring others from the nearby farms to find out what had happened. Retracing his route without really having any idea where he was going, Aquila abandoned his original intention, to shadow the party ahead of him until he could find Pentheus alone and kill him. That would bring him back into an orbit he was determined to avoid, having, as he had, lost all feeling for this revolt, which seemed designed more to satisfy Hypolitas than as a fight to free more slaves. Gadoric would at least know what troubled him and he hoped he would understand, and perhaps detach himself from that hopeless endeavour before it was too late.

He rode till he was too exhausted to go any further, then, dismounting, he made up a bed for the night and spent the dark hours, clutching the eagle, pursued by dreams of fire and death. The following weeks were spent alone, close enough to the slave camp to observe them, but far enough off to hunt and fish in peace. He slept under the stars, wrapped in his cloak, the nights growing warmer as spring came.

‘Where are they now?’ asked Titus.

Silvanus glanced at Marcellus before replying, wondering at a youngster, not yet old enough for military service, being included in these discussions. Come to that, he was twice the age of this legate, Titus Cornelius, and he had held many important magistracies in Rome before becoming governor of Sicily, yet he felt that he was being obliged to explain himself like a nobody. He jabbed a finger at the map on the table between them.

‘They moved out of the mountains some three weeks ago, turned south, bypassed Catana and Leontini. We believe they are marching on Syracuse.’

‘What is their strength?’

‘Their numbers increase daily,’ the governor replied, as though that was too obvious to require explanation.

‘Numbers mean little,’ said Titus. ‘What I want to know is their fighting strength. Could we, by levying all the Romans on the island, make up a force strong enough to offer battle, or at least reinforce Syracuse?’

Silvanus bridled, unaware that Titus had not intended to be rude. He was just too wrapped up in the military problem to consider whether he was being polite.

‘What do you think I’ve been doing, sitting here on my thumbs? I wrote to Rome last year, warning them, but no one took a blind bit of notice. If I’d had an ounce of real support then I could have gone into the hills and easily flushed them out.’

Titus, with the powers vested in him by Lucius Falerius, did not have to choose his words even if this noble senator considerably out-ranked him, and it seemed to him the man was intent on laying the blame for everything at any door other than his own. ‘You could have done that anyway without the need of troops from Italy. You even called in the militia and left them lounging by their own hearths. Sitting on your thumbs seems to be exactly what you’ve done.’

Silvanus, who was a plain-speaking man, raised his eyebrows, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘I know. All I had to do was get the largest group of avaricious cretins it’s ever been my misfortune to meet, who are spread all over the island, and persuade them to let their crops rot in the fields while they chased all over Sicily trying to bring back a load of slaves, people who would disappear again at the drop of a straw hat.’ He leant forward, his finger pointed insultingly at Titus. ‘If you’re so clever, Titus Cornelius, with your little scroll of instructions from the Senate, you do it.’

Silvanus then turned round and stormed out of the room.

Aquila had trailed them round the saddle of Mount Etna, which was, as usual, smoking and rumbling threateningly, then followed them through the foothills until the whole mass of runaways, with their women, livestock and children, debouched onto the littoral north of the city of Catana. Coming down onto the plain, in their wake, he found empty farms, with the houses ransacked and storerooms stripped bare, but no bodies. Word spread quickly of this slave army and every overseer for miles around, and his guards, deserted their property and fled south to Syracuse. Even from a distance Aquila noticed the increasing size of the host as every freed slave, exposed to the flowing ideas of Hypolitas, flocked to join them. By the time the walls of Syracuse showed on the horizon their numbers filled the landscape.

Marcellus stood on the walls. To the north he could see the dust cloud created by the insurgents as they marched towards the city, behind him, if he had cared to turn, he would have seen numerous ships pulling out of the harbour as the less stalwart Romans, with those Greeks who had helped them, sought to escape across the narrow straits to Italy. Titus’s attempts to persuade them to stay had come to nought; indeed he had been asked, caustically, what he was doing on the island, supposedly a military legate, without a couple of legions to back him up.

‘They’ll be outside the walls tomorrow,’ said Titus.

‘Do we stay?’ asked Marcellus.

‘Yes. They have no ships, so they can’t blockade the harbour. They’ll soon find out it’s impossible to take Syracuse without a supporting fleet. We need to get a message to your father. If we can pin them down here, it will be easy to bring troops into the town by sea. If another legion came down the coast from Messana, we could trap them between two forces and destroy them.’

But they did not stop for the city; Gadoric was wise to the notion that he needed a fleet to subdue such a place, just as he knew, from the locals, that Syracuse had a history of withstanding lengthy sieges, even against enemies who possessed ships in abundance. It was too Roman and too well fortified to be easily taken. They invested it nevertheless, but only so that they could strip the countryside bare for miles around of food and slaves. The inhabitants of Syracuse who had stayed behind, under Titus’s command, and who had set themselves to fight until help arrived from Italy, woke one morning to find the plain before their city devoid of their foes, who had decamped during the night and headed south. Aquila watched the party of twenty mounted Romans, their red cloaks billowing behind them, leave the town and set off in pursuit. Too few to fight, they were obviously intent on shadowing their enemy.

Gadoric, turning west along the southern coast, ignored the offers of surrender from the small conurbation of Camarina, moving on quickly to stay ahead of the spreading panic, by-passing the major city of Geta by fording the river well to the north. He forced-marched his trained bands to the next river, one of the two that hemmed in the city of Agrigentum, leaving the mass of untrained slaves to follow. Mounted detachments were sent to cut the bridges and hold the fords on the river to the west and he ordered the straggling mass of slaves into the foothills north of the city, then spent two days sorting them into manageable groups. Finally, with no moon to warn of their arrival, he ordered everyone down onto the plains that stretched away on either side of Agrigentum.

The inhabitants, who supposed this threat, if it existed at all, was still well to the east of Geta, woke one morning to find what looked like a huge army camped outside their crumbling walls, with a simple offer available to them. Open your gates and you will be spared; resist and the whole city will be put to the sword. The recently freed slaves, in truth useless in a fight, looked formidable enough in their newly rehearsed and static formations, so for someone looking out from the crumbling walls of Agrigentum, the position seemed hopeless. Hypolitas, with Gadoric and Pentheus at his side, rode forward to talk to the leading citizens who lined the walls. He spoke of the tyranny of Rome, told them that he had no desire to hurt fellow-Greeks, and promised that his army would not occupy the city in strength, but would instead disperse to the surrounding farms to assist, as free men, in the cultivation of the land. He promised to respect the temples and the women and to abide by the statutes of the city, as long as he was afforded the same civility he intended to give to them.

Even those who wanted to resist knew that it was impossible. Given time, the walls could have been repaired, making the city as formidable as it had been a hundred years before, but there was no time, the enemy was at the gates. Only Roman legions, backed by a strong fleet of ships, could oppose this slave army. The legions were nowhere to be seen and, besides, in such a Greek city, they would scarcely have been any more welcome than Hypolitas. He capitalised on this, talking of freedom for the whole island, of throwing off the Roman yoke, with slave and freedman combining to create a prosperous future. Such a dream, such words, in the mouth of another man, would have been risible, but Hypolitas had that compelling voice, which could hold the attention of the largest crowd, plus the finale with his magic fire. For him, the gates were open before the sun had reached its zenith.

Marcellus looked at Titus to see how he would react but the face was still, as if set in stone, gazing on the gates of Agrigentum, wide open, with the runaway slaves as free to enter as the citizens were to leave. Hypolitas and his ramshackle horde had a city and a fine harbour and they could see that some of that army was already busy repairing the walls.

‘Well, Marcellus,’ said Titus finally, gesturing towards the white walls. ‘What do you suppose this means?’

‘A long hard fight, a fleet to blockade the harbour, siege engines to batter the walls and several legions to carry out the assault.’

Titus swung his horse round. ‘The first thing we must do is seal the approaches east and west. That army is big enough. When word gets out that they’ve taken a city, every slave in Sicily will be trying to join them.’

Marcellus pointed towards the solitary horseman watching them from the ridge. ‘He’s still there. Is he following us, or the slaves?’

‘Time to find out,’ shouted Titus, who had studiously ignored the man trailing him, though the constant presence, like an itch you could not scratch, had annoyed him greatly. He kicked his horse and headed straight for him, followed by Marcellus and the rest of his men.

Aquila watched them for a moment; they were aimed at him like an arrow, with the billowing clouds of dust raised by their hooves adding to the effect of their streaming red cloaks. He hauled his horse’s head round, and calmly trotted off the ridge. Only when he was out of sight did he kick the mount into a gallop, heading for the deep ravines that furrowed the foothills of the mountains surrounding Agrigentum. Losing his pursuers was simple.

‘A fleet is the first priority,’ said Titus. ‘We must commandeer ships from Rhegium and Neapolis. Anything will do, just as long as we can man them with proper soldiers.’

Lucius listened carefully, his face drawn; still feeling the effects of his chest wound, the journey had not been kind to his health. ‘You fear they will seek allies?’

‘It’s what I’d do, Lucius Falerius. There are enough people on the coast of North Africa that still hanker after a strong Carthage. We may have razed the city, but I’m sure the dream persists and we can’t be sure how far afield they’ll go. The thought of conquering Sicily will appeal to more than one of our enemies.’

Lucius turned to his son. ‘It is central to Roman policy, Marcellus, that no other power holds Sicily, remember that. The whole of Italy becomes vulnerable if we allow such a thing to happen.’

‘Yes, father,’ he replied.

‘What I’m saying, Lucius Falerius, is that there is no time to consult Rome.’

‘Consulting Rome would be a waste of time, anyway, even though it must be done, but any legions we can muster will get here too late.’ Titus frowned, wondering what Lucius was talking about, but enlightenment followed swiftly. ‘What chance is there of a decent harvest coming out of Sicily in the present circumstances?’

‘None whatever.’

‘Well, Marcellus, what do we deduce from that?’

Having been away from his father, Marcellus had lost the habit of being prepared for searching questions, yet the answer came easily enough, having already occurred to him. More and more he found himself assessing a situation as Lucius would, often surprising himself by the complexity of his conclusions.

‘Disquiet in Rome as the price of grain rises. They may have to cut the corn dole in the spring and that will certainly cause riots. As soon as news reaches the city that the situation demands a consular army to subdue the slaves, those who have grain will start hoarding it, so we won’t have to wait for the actual shortages. Riots could break out just as we’re trying to raise the legions. It is absolutely certain that our allies will suffer from increased prices first, so they won’t wish to denude their farms to provide us with auxiliary troops when they need every man to be busy at his plough.’

‘Untidy, Marcellus, though accurate,’ said Lucius. ‘You really must work on the way you arrange the presentation of your conclusions.’

For all the acidity, it was plain he was pleased with his son; it was in his eyes as he turned back to talk to Titus. ‘That infernal corn dole is the real problem; ever since it’s been in place, more and more ragged-arsed scum have poured into the city to claim it. Anyone who tried to reduce it, or remove it, would be strung up. Worse than that, anyone who promises to sustain it, regardless of the cost to the treasury, can have any office they want. The mob will vote for bread today and damn tomorrow.’

‘I am lost,’ said Titus. ‘I won’t pretend I don’t understand the politics of Rome, but I can really only see a military problem requiring a military solution.’

‘Let us first see if we can find another way.’ Titus looked even more bewildered. ‘I met that Greek in Neapolis, the man who served your father.’

‘Cholon?’

‘He has undertaken a little errand for me. We shall wait till he returns, before we alert the Senate to the scale of the problem.’

Cholon had no difficulty in entering the city of Agrigentum, being clearly no threat, a wealthy traveller on a litter with eight attendants. Four carried him; the rest carried another open litter, which held his possessions. He was, of course, stopped at the gate and asked his business.

‘Why have I come here? Are you mad, fellow? Right now this must be the most interesting place in the whole of the Middle Sea. Great events, man!’

‘You’ve come to see the King of the Slaves?’ said the guard, with obvious delight.

‘I was not aware of any kingship. I am familiar with the name of a Palmyran Greek called Hypolitas.’

‘One and the same person, sir.’

‘So, fellow, he aspires to the diadem. I must gaze upon this King, considering he has made Rome shudder. I would dearly like to speak with him. Is he accessible?’

‘None more so, your honour. No airs and graces attach to our King. He remembers that he was a slave, just like the rest of us.’

‘He is acknowledged by all then?’ asked Cholon.

The guard leant forward and Cholon tried not to flinch at the man’s stink. ‘Locals don’t bend the knee, but they will. All it needs is an assembly so that he can be acclaimed. A few prods from our spears will do the trick.’

‘It sounds as if this is already arranged.’

The guard half-turned, then winked, with all the subtlety of a poor stage comedian. Clearly the man was looking for a coin. ‘When will this assembly take place?’ asked Cholon, reaching for his leather purse.

‘Tomorrow noon.’

‘Could you secure me a good place from which to watch?’

‘I can that, sir, though not till my duty is done. One of the men who guards our King is a friend.’

Cholon slipped the man two silver denarii, which he palmed expertly. ‘Take this, fellow. One for you and another for your friend. If he asks who wishes a good view, say that a wealthy traveller from Athens, by the name of Cholon Pyliades, seeks a sight of this paragon. I will rest at the Temple of Diana.’

That presented even less of a problem than entry into the city; the normal source of donations to the temple had dried up since the slaves arrived. Wealthy men, fearing the future, hoarded their money and dressed in rags. Cholon was more than merely welcomed, he was feted and the priests, like priests everywhere, seemed happy to grovel for a few coins, dropped noisily into their finely wrought Corinthian salver. He was happy; bribable Greeks were so much easier to deal with than sententious Romans. Mind, Lucius Falerius had practically given him proconsular power, so sour remarks regarding Roman faults had been avoided of late. He wondered what Titus and the Lady Claudia would say if they could see him now.

Claudia had never thought of her life as restricted until the problems associated with searching for her lost child surfaced. Aulus had left her independent, but that did not release her from the natural constraints attendant upon any woman, let alone one of a noble family, and she could not just travel around the country like a man, asking questions. While her husband had lived such an extended search as she was now planning was impossible. The short excursion she had taken, and her talk with the midwife who had delivered her baby, had been fruitless. After Thralaxas Claudia had pinned her hopes on Cholon and she refused to accept that her son was dead, as Cholon insisted he must be, so she combed his words, which were etched on her memory, for clues. The Greek had mentioned a road; the child had been placed in woods far from some highway. Such roads were not numerous and there had been even fewer when the boy was born.

‘A map, Lady? asked Thoas, who had never seen or heard of such a thing.

‘Yes.’ Claudia explained, first what they were and how she thought the slave could get one. ‘If you cannot find someone who sells such things, there must be maps in the Temple of Juno Moneta.’

The slave repeated the name slowly. He knew the place, a wooden structure at the summit of the Capitoline Hill, next to the building where they minted coins. He had often looked at it, wondering if it was possible to dig a tunnel from one to the other.

‘I am a slave, lady, and no worshipper of your Gods. Can I go into such a place with this request?’

‘This is Rome, Thoas. Even a slave is allowed to worship in our temples. I will give you something to pay the priests, plus a written request that any map be entrusted to you.’

Quintus Cornelius now found himself working as hard, if not harder, than Lucius had done in the past but he was happy, for he wanted nothing more in life than to be the leading man in Rome. He would need a military victory to ensure that, but given sufficient prestige, he could pick and choose his Consular year and thus his campaign. He was in a happy mood as he made his way from his bedroom to his study, for once leaving his mouse-wife with a delighted smile on her face.

It never occurred to Thoas that his mistress’s stepson would want to work so late and he had checked, listening as Quintus and his wife noisily made love. Odd that such a meek creature should be such a screamer in bed! She had exhausted her husband by the sound of it, so he was out of the way for the night. Apart from them, the entire house was fast asleep. The lamplight in the study first alerted Quintus, so he approached the door cautiously, then the rustling of the papers alarmed him. After what had happened to Lucius Falerius, he never travelled anywhere without a long-bladed knife. Since he did not share a room with his wife, he was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing all day, including the weapon, so he pulled it out now, eased himself through the open door, and saw his mother’s Numidian slave rifling through the scrolls in his tall map cupboard.

The thought that the man was a fool was the first thing that entered his mind: there was nothing of value amongst those maps. It was unlikely he could read, so he had tried the wrong cupboard but that did not alter the fact that Thoas was trying to steal something from his papers and there was only one way to deal with such a thing. The Numidian was tall, muscular and could prove a difficult opponent. This was no time to take a chance.

Thoas started to turn as Quintus stabbed him, which meant the blade took him in the side of his leg rather than the back, and in turning he added effect to the sideways motion that Quintus used, tearing his thigh muscles even more than the senator had intended. Quintus was a soldier, as adept in the martial arts as any of his contemporaries. The left-handed punch hit the slave on his open mouth, removed several teeth, and killed the sound that Thoas had started to make. Quintus kicked his other leg from under him and dropped, with his knees thudding onto the slave’s chest as he hit the floor. Then the knife was at the Numidian’s throat.

‘Make a sound and I’ll take out your gizzard.’

Terror made Thoas’s eyes look white against his dark skin, fear made him gurgle, the knife pressed into his throat made him stop. The slave’s mind was racing, since there seemed no way out of the trouble he was in. Then he had an idea. It would be pointless to plead mercy on the grounds that he was acting on Claudia’s behalf, but what about Lucius Falerius Nerva? Everyone in Rome was afraid of Lucius and gossip in the wine shops had it that this included Quintus Cornelius, so when the question came, he gave the answer that he thought would save him.

They found his body in a street leading to the market-place, the throat sliced open. Rome at night was a lawless enough place for murder to be commonplace and Thoas, who was much given to staying out drinking in places he could not afford, spending money he should not have, on women he could never hope to get, had met a deserved end, probably at the hands of someone jealous of his attentions to his paramour. Claudia, as a favour to help her heartbroken maid, paid for a funeral for the Numidian, even though she did wonder what he was doing out at that hour. Even more mysterious was the way that Quintus, without a word of explanation, handed her the note she had written out for the priests at the Temple of Juno

Moneta. As he did so, her stepson cursed himself again for that moment of blind fury, when he heard the name Lucius Falerius. That had made him slice the man’s throat without asking him what he was looking for.