The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  Aquila smiled, his white teeth flashing in the pale light from the moon and the stars. ‘I have two. You eat and drink. I’ll go and get them.’

  His voice took on a note of urgency, his finger pointing to the two dead guards. ‘We must go soon. Those two will be expected, so the guards at the city gate will wonder, when they don’t show, where they are. They might come out to investigate. Another thing, I can move myself without being seen or heard, but that won’t apply to horses. There’s no point in my trying to lead them over, so I will ride them. As soon as you hear the hooves, gather up the food, get to your feet and be ready to mount.’

  Gadoric pushed himself onto his knee, then using the stake as support he got painfully and slowly to his feet. ‘Best to be sure we can stand up.’

  Aquila helped the other slave up and half-carried him to the other stake, addressing him urgently in Greek, ordering him to remain upright. He gathered up the food himself, pushing the bread and fruit into the sack, then went to make a last check on Gadoric.

  ‘If anyone comes while I’m getting the horses, head off down the right hand side of the road.’

  The shepherd just nodded slowly, then he lifted his head and smiled, hard to see in the darkness, but it was there and it cheered the boy. He ran back the way he came, stopping by the dark city gate to listen. The odd faint voice, but no sign of any discussion about the two men he had killed. Back at the copse he took the hobbling off the animals’ legs and, mounting his own, leading Flaccus’s horse, he set off at a trot. The sound of the hooves, on the hard earth, rang like huge drums in his ears. The voice he heard could have shouted for any number of reasons, but Aquila didn’t wait to find out; he kicked his horse into a canter, then a gallop.

  More shouts erupted as he approached the line of stakes and crucifixes. The two injured slaves were still hanging onto their stakes so Aquila dismounted and led the horses to them. He grabbed the stranger and threw him up onto the animal’s back. The man, clearly no rider, could not mount properly so Aquila took the hobble rope and lashed it round his hands, ducked under the horse and tied the other end round the feet. Quickly he gathered the remaining food and lashed the sack to the saddle horn. The sound of shouting increased as the gates to the city opened. He made a grab for the reins, tied them to the saddle horn of his own horse, then led both animals over to Gadoric’s stake.

  The voice was cracked again, full of despair. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

  The boy pushed him towards the horse, bent down and lifted his foot. The voices were loud now, getting close and sounding excited. The lack of reaction from the two guards must have alerted them to what had happened. Aquila heaved on Gadoric’s legs, throwing him up so the Celt fell forward across the withers. Aquila hauled his spear out of the dead guard and jumped up behind him, then kicked hard. The overloaded horse moved slowly. Too slowly! The soldiers from the city were running at them full tilt and the boy could see their uniforms now, as they caught the glim from the pale moonlight, and he also saw the tips of their spears, raised and ready to throw. He kicked the animal again and it started to trot. No time for sentiment, he spun the spear in his hand and jabbed it into the horse’s flank. The animal tried to rear but the weight of two riders held it down.

  Aquila jabbed again, and with a terrified scream the horse took off. Their pursuers kept pace to start with, but once the horses got going, the gap opened up. The thud of spears as they hit the ground behind him was loud, but not as shrill as the cries of frustration until they faded away. It was only a breathing space; they would go back to the city and rouse out some cavalry, and Aquila knew they would be an easy target on the open plain. He hauled hard on his reins, aiming the horse over the fields of still-smouldering stubble, heading for the black line of hills that stood stark against the moonlit sky.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘No wonder father preferred life in the army,’ said Titus.

  Cholon had just finished his list of the latest scandals to rock Rome, most of which concerned her illustrious senators. There were the usual cases of attempted seduction, blatant pederasty and financial chicanery, yet most alarming was the way that some, including the most senior, had tried to recover the presents given to them by the Parthians. Informed by the priests, this had led to a thundering denunciation in the Forum from Lucius Falerius Nerva. Once on his feet, he had not spared them, alluding openly to the bribes that some members had taken to further the interests of Rome’s eastern rivals, for once setting aside his normal reserve in addressing his peers and delivering some very unpalatable truths in words that had all of Rome talking.

  ‘Your father always maintained that their reputation didn’t bear too close a scrutiny.’

  Titus threw back his head and laughed. ‘Close. You can smell the corruption from the Pillars of Hercules to the Pontus. They ask men to die on the frontiers when every law that they have enacted to control their own behaviour is openly flouted. Senators make fortunes yet baulk at the provision of proper supplies for soldiers in the field. Don’t they know that these men on short commons hear of how they feed dozens at their table with expensive imported delicacies, how they line each other’s pockets with lucrative offices, which is an even greater scandal. It’s about time someone told them so, though I never expected that it would be Lucius Falerius.’

  Cholon looked out of his window though the height afforded a very limited view, confined to his nearest neighbour ten feet away across the narrow street. ‘How goes the knights campaign?’

  Titus pulled a face. ‘Not well enough. People like Lucius are too shrewd to be caught out by tribal votes in the Comitia. He knows just who to bribe and he also knows those knights whose only dream is to be senators. As long as he holds the censor’s office, or fills it with one of his nominees, the Senate is safe from everyone but himself. No one gets in of whom he does not approve.’

  ‘Are you not, yourself, one of his nominees?’ asked Cholon.

  Titus looked at him closely, thinking he was still the same carefully barbered fellow he remembered from years past, though the odd line had appeared to spoil that smooth countenance. The question bordered on the impertinent, even if Cholon was a free man, but the Greek had always talked to his father in the same manner and in some ways it was flattering to be treated like that, rather than be subjected to the barely disguised contempt with which Cholon addressed his brother Quintus.

  ‘Strictly speaking I am being supported by my brother, but since he is close to Lucius Falerius, the exalted one ensured that the Falerii votes were at my disposal.’

  ‘Odd. I never imagined that you’d be beholden to the Falerii, after what happened.’

  ‘Don’t bait me, Cholon,’ replied Titus with a wry smile, refusing to be drawn.

  The Greek’s eyebrows shot up in mock alarm. ‘Was I baiting you, Titus?’

  ‘You know you were, you slippery Attic toad.’ This was delivered with a wider smile and caused no offence. ‘For you, and for you alone, I will explain. Lucius merely asked me to attend his son’s coming of age. That I did. Quintus, seeing me in the house of his own patron, took the hint, just as Lucius intended he should. I even went as far as to ask the exalted one what he wanted in return.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said that I would know what to do when the time comes.’

  Cholon frowned. ‘An unspecified favour at an unspecified time? Sounds as though he may be asking a great deal.’

  ‘I’m content to leave that to the Gods, Cholon, and provided it’s consistent with my principles, I will happily oblige.’ He saw the Greek’s frown deepen, and he knew the cause. His continuing dissatisfaction with what had happened at Thralaxas was well known. ‘Quintus will not do what must be done, even if he is a senator, just in case it harms his long-term interests, so it falls to me to gain redress. That means, in turn, that I must also enter the Senate. I can only get the money to do that by successful soldiering. I’ll never get hold of a million sesterces in Rome.’

&nbs
p; ‘Are you not now, as Quaestor Urbani, in charge of the public purse?’

  Titus ignored the interruption. ‘Lucius Falerius has pressured Quintus by acknowledging me, so my brother will do everything he can to get me a profitable posting once my term of office is ended. Not because he loves me, but because Lucius has made him see sense. That it’s consistent with his own dignity that I should prosper, but I don’t think that will extend to a seat in the Senate.’

  ‘You said, when you arrived, that you needed a favour from me?’

  ‘I do. You’re a clever fellow, Cholon.’ He noticed the Greek puff out his chest slightly. ‘Though my father did say, several times, that you’re not as clever as you think you are.’

  The eyes narrowed at the same time as Cholon’s shoulders. ‘That’s an insult, Titus. It’s not normally the way to elicit a favour.’

  ‘True, but you won’t do what I am going to ask for love of me. Once I’m in the Senate, if he’s still alive, I intend to impeach Vegetius Flaminus for what happened in Illyricum.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Titus. No senator will convict him.’

  ‘What if they aren’t sitting on the case? Say the court that tries Vegetius is manned by knights?’

  ‘You plan to become a senator, yet you want to ally yourself to the knights?’

  Titus nodded vigorously. ‘That’s right and I want you to help me. Instead of sitting here composing plays that no one will ever perform, I want you to take up your duties as a Roman citizen. Father left you enough and if you put yourself forward you’ll be in the knight’s class as soon as they undertake the next census.’

  Cholon was angry, though more because of the accuracy of his visitor’s words than their impertinent delivery. ‘Firstly, you inform me that I’m not as clever as I think, now you tell me that I cannot write either. Truly, Titus, you have a strange way of seeking support. Do you have any more insults left to deliver before I ask you to leave?’

  ‘I didn’t know my father as well as I should, but I think if he had his life over again, he might spend more time on the affairs of Rome than he did on the battlefield. Something has gone wrong, Cholon. Perhaps it is because we have grown too big in the world. The city reeks of licensed villainy. As Rome has conquered, the spirit that animated our forefathers has become corrupted by naked greed. If we are to hold what we have, we must change things at the centre. If we cannot rely on trust, we must make those with power accountable to their fellow citizens. If that means knights, sitting in judgement on senators, so be it.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you require of me?’

  ‘Participate, Cholon, and when you feel you have something useful to say, or advice to give, then tell me.’

  Cholon looked sideways at the sheet of papyrus, empty except for a few drawings scratched on the edges. ‘Do you really think that we can challenge the likes of Lucius and Quintus?’

  ‘Lucius Falerius wasn’t born powerful, Cholon, he made himself so, and as far as I can tell, his personal probity is beyond question. But he believes that the Senate should have untrammelled authority over the state. The knights should be content with what they have and our Italian allies should merely provide troops to die on our behalf. Events in Spain are allowed to drift and the chief of the Duncani taunts our provincial governors.’

  Titus saw the Greek’s eyes narrow at the mention of Brennos and continued without pause.

  ‘He either shuts his eyes, or his mind, to what goes on. Or perhaps he thinks that is the price that must be paid to retain senatorial power. I believe he is wrong, and I think that a successful impeachment of someone like Vegetius Flaminus could open up the whole tub of worms to proper inspection.’

  ‘Vegetius could be dead before you get to the Senate.’

  Titus favoured the Greek with a grim look. ‘That is true, but believe me Cholon, there’s no shortage of candidates for condemnation.’

  The dust rose behind the wheels as Titus manoeuvred his chariot through the Campus Martius. He would have to wait a while, until the space cleared, to put his horses through their proper paces, charging from one end of the field to the other, but this human obstacle course presented a good opportunity for a more precise training of his animals. He handled the traces deftly as he swung right and left through the wrestlers, boxers and those practising with weapons. Soon he was by the bank of the river and as he turned upstream a crowd, all intent on watching a fight, barred his route. Titus could see, from his vantage point, young Marcellus, wearing a head guard. Sweat dripped off him, as the boy sought to nail his nimble opponent with a decent punch. The crowd around the dancing pair cheered him on, booing his opponent, who seemed disinclined to engage in a proper bout, merely concentrating on avoiding the blows aimed in his direction.

  Titus hauled on the traces, bringing his chariot to a halt outside of the ring of spectators, his mobile platform affording him a perfect view. The boy was fighting a grown man, fully bearded, though the fellow was shorter than Marcellus by a head. He also had the air of a professional about him; the way he weaved and ducked proved that he knew his business and if he was being driven backwards it was not because of fear or pain. Titus realised that the opponent, back-pedalling furiously, was trying to tire Marcellus out, it being a hot afternoon, with the sun blazing down out of a cloudless sky. He could also see the old centurion, Macrobius, standing silently, watching his pupil; the look on his face was hard to place, seeming to be a mixture of disapproval and satisfaction.

  The professional stopped dead and caught Marcellus with a blow on the pads that covered his ears. That was the prelude to a punch aimed at the boy’s stomach, which Marcellus only avoided by an ungainly backwards leap, leaving him off balance for the next assault, as his opponent followed up quickly. He parried as best he could, but a fair number of punches got through and they were hard knocks; the man was not sparing the youngster, treating him as an equal. Marcellus kept his hands up, covering his face as he rode the sustained assault. Blows rained on his forearms and shoulders as he weaved untidily, till the man halted for a split second, setting himself up for a straight jab that would pierce the boy’s defences, as soon as he looked through his fists to see why his opponent had stopped.

  Marcellus did not oblige him by waiting. One of his upraised arms shot out and his guard being too low, it caught the boxer unawares. The left-handed blow took him on the cheek, raising and turning his head to the side, exposing his bearded chin for the punch that followed, but he was too wise to wait. He did not fight the force of the blow; instead he rode it, letting the punch carry his head back out of danger so that Marcellus’s right hook missed the chin by a fraction. The man had got his feet right and he spun slightly, his own right hand swinging easily through Marcellus’s guard, to land a blow that knocked the boy clean off his feet.

  The watching crowd rushed forward to help Marcellus up as Titus hauled on the traces and took his chariot round the outside, bringing it to a halt alongside Macrobius. The boy’s tutor had not moved but his head did, for he was nodding and the purple-veined face was set in a look that boded ill for his pupil.

  ‘Who was he fighting, Macrobius?’ asked Titus.

  The old man looked up. ‘Nicandros, a Greek professional.’

  ‘Isn’t he a little young to be taking on professional boxers?’

  The purple, cratered nose twitched angrily. ‘He wants to be a soldier. If you can assure me that all those he fights will be amateurs, I’ll stop training him now.’

  ‘What I meant, Macrobius, is that he’d be better off fighting boys his own age.’

  The old warrior sniffed again, and the anger was tinged with just a trace of pride. ‘No point, Titus Cornelius. He just beats ’em.’

  Nicandros, the professional, had helped get Marcellus to his feet and he was talking to the boy encouragingly, patting his hunched shoulders and assuring him that he had put up a good fight. Titus passed his traces to Macrobius and climbed down and as Marcellus saw him approach he pulled hims
elf upright, fighting to stay steady. Nicandros looked up too and though he did not know the charioteer, he could see by his dress, and the way others deferred to him, that he was important.

  ‘I’ll take care to avoid this lad in five years, sir. If he was to come to Greece for the Olympiad, fully grown, I’d back him to walk off with a branch of Zeus’s own olive tree.’

  Titus put his hand under the boy’s chin and lifted the head. The eyes were still a bit glassy as Marcellus shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, his face bearing the pain that accompanies defeat.

  ‘Tell me, Marcellus, has Macrobius taught you to handle a chariot yet?’ The boy shook his head very slowly. ‘Then I shall take it as my duty to do so.’ Marcellus gave Titus a weak smile. ‘I doubt I’d be much of a pupil today.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve had a hard blow, but it’s nothing that cold water won’t cure.’

  Titus looked around the assembled faces questioningly. ‘Who are his friends?’ Several claimed the honour, putting up their hands, and Titus smiled, looking into Marcellus’s eyes as he gave them an order. ‘Then it falls to you, as his friends, to revive him. Chuck him in the Tiber.’

  Eager hands grabbed at the young boxer and he was lifted bodily and borne towards the nearby river, where, with due ceremony, he was swung through the air three times, before being released to land with a great splash in the water.

  ‘Turn round, girl.’

  The naked body, slim, olive-skinned and shining, spun slowly and Lucius Falerius noticed the uplift of the breasts and the erect nipples as she complied. Her dark brown hair, freshly washed and still slightly damp, covered the whole of her back, all the way down to the rise of her firm buttocks. They were like two perfect orbs, with a straight dark line where they joined the legs. Gratifyingly, there was no excess flesh at the top of her thighs to spoil the rounded lines that extended from her narrow waist.