by Jack Ludlow
‘Get in here, girl. I want a word with you.’
He was talking to himself when she entered his room, growling under his breath about betrayal, his hand rubbing furiously at his groin. Phoebe stood before him, meekly, hoping by her attitude to dent his temper. That failed; Flaccus suddenly shot out a hand and grabbed her hair and she squealed painfully as he pulled on it, forcing her to her knees, then bending her head back so that she was forced to look up at him.
‘Do you know what that boy has done, girl, do you?’ His breath stank of sour wine and his spit was cold by the time it landed on her face. ‘He’s betrayed me, that’s what. Betrayed the man who saved him.’
‘Please?’
The weak, plaintive word did nothing to calm Flaccus. If anything it inflamed him. ‘Please, girl. That’s what you did. You pleasured the ungrateful brat at my expense and he was soft on you, too.’
Flaccus pulled her head into his groin, forcing her face against his sweaty leather small clothes. ‘There’s a price to pay girl and since your hero ain’t here to cough up, maybe you’ll have to do so in his place. Happen I should get my lads to take it out on you, mount you till you bleed. Then maybe young Aquila will ride in to the rescue.’
Having pulled down his breeches, the overseer was pulling her head back and forth across his groin, but he had been drinking for days, and no amount of concentration, or vivid imaginings, could help him. Even if she had been willing, the effect of the wine robbed him of the ability to do what he wanted and take out his anger on this young girl’s body. Suddenly he stopped, as he remembered that she had woken him by being sick outside his window and he pulled her head back again, so he could see her tear-stained face.
‘You’re expectin’, ain’t you?’ Flaccus still had a tight grip on her hair, so she nodded with some difficulty. ‘Must be Aquila’s. You ain’t been near anyone else for months now.’
The terror in the girl’s eyes made him laugh, a horrible sound that made her start to shake with fear, but he stopped laughing. In Flaccus’s drunken imagination, he was back in that mountain ravine with an arrow aimed right at his heart. Aquila could have, and should have, killed him. The old centurion was well aware how good he was, had seen him take Toger with a spear. He knew that had the boy fired right away he could not have missed, but Aquila had hesitated, then aimed for someone else, deliberately sparing Flaccus’s life.
‘It’s hard to kill someone like that,’ he muttered, gazing out of the window at the sky, releasing the girl’s hair as he spoke, so she fell in a heap at his feet. Phoebe said nothing, not knowing what he was talking about. ‘The Gods could blight a man for such an act.’
Flaccus looked down at her again. ‘I must kill him, girl. He made me look a fool, but I can spare his brat, trade one life for another, which will appease the Gods.’
Phoebe did not give Flaccus a chance to change his mind; she left as soon as she had gathered her few possessions together, clutching the old centurion’s instructions to the slave vendor in Messana to take her as a trade-in for a pair of field hands. Flaccus watched her go, then emptied the contents of his goblet, which had stood by his side throughout the night, onto the black earth.
‘No more time for drinking,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s money to be earned.’
Aquila and Gadoric spent the next two weeks in the saddle, as they searched the mountains for runaway slaves. They met many who heeded their warning to flee, but found very few willing to stand and fight, lacking the persuasive quality that allowed Hypolitas to excite such people’s imagination. It was he, still quite a sick man, who proposed the solution. Instead of asking them to stand and fight, he requested that they make their way to a high valley near the northern slopes of the smoking volcano of Mount Etna, there to sit and listen. If he could persuade them they would stay; if not then they would have ample time to move out of the way of the advancing Roman reprisals.
Then, despite Gadoric’s pleas to the contrary, he announced that he must leave the camp. Hypolitas insisted on mounting the horse himself with the same determination he had displayed when he told them he needed to go into the hills on his own, putting aside all suggestions that anyone should accompany him, promising to be away for no more than two days, and requesting from Tyrtaeus that he strike the camp and be ready to move as soon as he returned.
‘I must be alone. Only then can I call upon the spirits of the dead to show me the way.’ These words were accompanied by a glare that made even the most stalwart man present tremble with fear. ‘There is too much doubt here to see clearly, but alone, under the stars, I know that I will hear from the Gods. They will say what must be done.’
All watched anxiously as his retreating frame swayed in the saddle and at least one pair of eyes stayed fixed on that spot for the next two days, until, with the sun going down, Hypolitas, even more emaciated but with a firmer gait than that with which he had left, rode back into the camp.
‘The omens are good,’ he said, as they all gathered round him. ‘The Gods have given me a clear message. It will be hard and not without loss, but if we have faith, then we can prosper.’
Those who had accepted the invitation and congregated around Mount Etna must have wondered if the smell of sulphur, which filled the air, presaged a horrible death. Not everyone had come, indeed the number totalled less than a third of those Gadoric and Aquila had asked, yet the Greek, brought to the spot on a litter, was quite changed by the sight of this ragbag assembly. He rose to speak, pushing aside any attempts to support him, seeming to gather strength from the mere act of addressing a crowd. As he walked behind the fire, lit as a beacon, but now no more than smouldering embers, he raised his arms and all present immediately fell silent.
‘Fellow-slaves,’ he shouted. His voice, with an odd hollow quality, echoed off the surrounding hills. ‘Look at us, dressed in rags and half starved. I wonder how much you would laugh at me, if I named you heroes to rival Heracles.’
They did laugh at this, an association with the most potent warrior name amongst the Greek gods, nervously at first, then louder, with much digging of ribs to stimulate their mirth, until the sound filled this makeshift arena. Hypolitas let them indulge their humour, which worked just as well to calm their nerves, before raising his arms again to command silence.
‘Yet you have laboured, just as Heracles laboured. You have fought a monster greater than ever he faced. You have triumphed where great kings have failed.’ The voice dropped, till in its deep timbre it seemed to rival the grumbling volcano. ‘You have defied the might of Rome.’
This statement was followed by a bemused murmur. ‘You doubt that, do you not friends? Yet you are sitting here, in these hills, nearly free from the yoke that Rome has placed about your neck.’ He paused to let those words sink in, before raising one cautionary hand. ‘You will observe that I say “nearly”.’
His voice was husky, a compelling quality that made them attend his words as he talked of the lands they had left, of the battles many had fought, the defeats suffered and the low estate to which such conflicts had reduced them. The hands moved slowly, combining with the cracked and deep voice, to lure them into the web of hope he was weaving. Aquila had heard him speak before and had been impressed despite himself, but never had Hypolitas spoken like this. He turned to look at Gadoric; the Celt’s chin was up, his head held proudly and the single eye gleaming with anticipation. The other men and women in the crowd were the same. Hypolitas moved them to tears as he outlined his own fate, the loss of his own family, a tale with which they could identify, it being so very like their own. Then the voice changed abruptly. It was full of anger as the slave from Palmyra catalogued the crimes of the Roman state, which had left them in the hands of men who cared nothing for their well-being, even less for their happiness.
‘They have their profits, these senators in Rome, and that allows them to remain blind. They have eyes to see, but few come to look. Let every man and woman on this island die, rather than dent their incre
asing wealth, yet these are men who have conquered half the known world and carried off its treasure. A state that wants for nothing will kill us all in back-breaking toil to have even more.’
The voice changed again, rising even higher now, and as if to give credence to his words the volcano started to rumble. Hypolitas, now in a glassy-eyed trance, seemed able to time his words to the sounds of the mountain, each conclusion he elaborated accompanied by an underground response.
‘And who has had the courage to defy them? Not the kings and their armies. Us! Ragged-arsed slaves who have dared to say enough!’
He pointed at the volcano in the background, his arms open to embrace his audience. ‘Listen friends, for the Gods are speaking to us. We have made a stand by our escape, but that is not enough, that is what the mountain is saying. What farm numbers in guards the men we have assembled here?’
There was a loud crack and a huge cloud of sulphurous smoke shot out of the volcano as Etna belched. Hypolitas threw out his hand, his voice matching the roar. ‘That is the sound of war, of the Gods telling us to take what is ours, the food we grow and the land we plough. The Gods command us to combine, to attack the farms one by one and free our fellow-sufferers.’ The voice dropped to a whisper, which made his enraptured audience lean forward to hear his words. ‘I went into the wilderness, alone, to talk to the spirits. I had a vision, friends, and I saw fire.’
Hypolitas seemed to suck in his cheeks. He raised his hands and clapped them before his mouth. A stream of flame shot from his mouth, forming an arc between him and the glowing embers. Those closest to him fell on their faces, frightened to look upon such magic. The orator clapped his hands before his mouth again and the flame died.
‘I saw in my dream that we, not in rags, but well fed and clothed, would treat with Rome as equals. We would live in villas with servants to attend our needs. Slaves, in numbers enough to make the legions tremble, mightily armed, would make the conqueror relent.’ He paused, holding them. Etna cracked again and Hypolitas really shouted for the first time, surprising everyone with the carrying power of the voice. ‘I will obey the Gods as I will obey my vision. I will defy the might of Rome and I will make them treat with us. Who will join me?’
A split second elapsed before the whole semicircle of slaves erupted in a resounding cheer. Those few with spears waved them in the air, yelling war cries, and Etna rumbled mightily again as if to spur them on.
Through Gadoric’s intervention, the mood of euphoria was short-lived and good sense prevailed. Invited by the Greek to lead the cheering slaves into battle, he immediately poured a douche of cold water on the prevailing excitement. They could not fight the Romans as they were, so Hypolitas was reluctantly persuaded to move south of Etna until the sweep through the mountains had passed.
‘You are not accustomed to war, Hypolitas. If we stand here we will be massacred. The Romans will use trained men, which we are not.’
It was clear, by the look on the man’s face, that the Celt had, by his reference to Hypolitas’s lack of military skill, angered him. Others, impressed by his sorcery or because they saw where the true power lay, were willing to tell him otherwise, but publicly, Hypolitas had acknowledged Gadoric as his military commander. He would be content, as he said, to study the art until he too was proficient in war.
Flaccus knew, after they found the third abandoned settlement, that the quarry had flown but he said nothing to the commander, since to do so would only bring more trouble down upon his head. Aquila had been present when Barbinus had outlined the plan for the sweep through the mountains and clearly the slaves had heeded his warning, and got away before the governor, Silvanus, at the head of his militia, backed up by every bailiff in northern Sicily, had set out on what was now a fruitless campaign. Barbinus had left before the raid commenced, to go back to Rome, determined to vote in the forthcoming consular elections, attend the Aedile games and keen to assure the Senate that, despite the worries of that old woman Silvanus, everything in this Roman province was under control.
The games he attended on his return were the talk of Rome for years to come. Quintus Cornelius had contracted for some unusual animals before the Parthians offered him theirs, so he had an overabundance of events to place before his audience, so many that the day might end before the entertainment. His planning was meticulous for he knew that the excitement of the occasion must build to a crescendo, which would occur when all of his important guests were present. These included the Parthian ambassadors, the reigning consuls, and the two consuls-elect. Recently voted in, Servius Caepio and Livius Rutulius would take office at the beginning of the year.
Rutulius was already badgering Lucius Falerius for permission to take a consular legion to Spain, boasting loudly that he would bring the frontier war to an end and present the Senate with the head of the troublesome Brennos on a silver salver. Servius Caepio, less bellicose, would smile ruefully and remind Rutulius, his junior colleague, that nothing could happen without his agreement and that until they knew the thinking of the Senate, no decision could be made. Rutulius was not fooled by that; he knew who had power and who was weak and had been lobbying both Lucius and Quintus with great vigour.
The priests sacrificed before the noisy multitude, announcing the day auspicious, and Lucius, in his capacity as president, declared the games open. The programme commenced with some old favourites — dogs hunting stags and bears — before moving on to one that always pleased the crowd: a bull and a bear chained together, condemned to fight until one was dead. The bull had only sharpened horns as weapons, while the bear, which could not move more than a few feet from those dangerous points, needed brute strength enough to snap the muscular neck if it was to survive. Being animals that rarely fought each other there was always a hiatus while the pair adjusted to the unfamiliar dangers.
Their minders had to prod them, opening up painful wounds, and these, angering the beasts, left them no alternative but to take out their rage on each other. The bull gored the bear twice, producing a sound halfway between a scream and a roar, before the black-furred creature finally realised its plight. Raising itself onto its hind legs, the great paws took hold of the horns, holding them with such strength that the bull could not move its neck, then the ursine beast set about trying to tear out the bull’s eyes with its teeth. The roar of the crowd drowned out the horrendous bellowing this produced, a sound which rose to a deafening level when one of the eyes was removed, along with half the animal’s face.
Young, lean and strong, maddened by the pain, the bull spun with such power that it dislodged the bear’s grip. There was little room to use its hooves but it managed a kick of enough force to break its attacker’s lower leg. Unable to stay upright on one leg, the bear dropped down, but it kept its grip on those horns, dragging the bull after it. That act, set against the efforts of the bull to stay upright, twisted and broke its neck. Suddenly, far from straining against the mighty pull, the bull went limp. The bear, still hauling hard, fell backwards, and the dead creature followed it down, one of the sharpened horns slicing through the bear’s chest as they hit the blood-stained sand. The animal went into a frenzy, as it tried to dislodge the weight now crushing its body, but such an action only served to end its life, as the horns of the bull did in death what they had so singularly failed to achieve while the animal was alive.
‘What a result, Quintus,’ shouted Lucius Falerius, struggling to make himself heard over the delighted crowd. ‘The priests did not lie. Your games would be remembered for that alone, even if they ended now. I’ve never seen the like.’
The audience shared his opinion and all present stood to applaud the podium. Marcellus and Titus, favoured guests, stepped forward to congratulate him. Lucius, as president, acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, but he was careful to ensure that his hand pointed towards Quintus Cornelius, so that the true author of this remarkable occurrence could take the credit. Even the Parthian ambassadors stood to applaud and they, splendidly attired as always, exc
ited the crowd even more. From then on it was as though he was blessed with the power of Jove himself.
The elephant, set to fight four lions, was as brave as a creature of that species could be, not content to stay on the defensive, but determined to attack its opponents. It charged around the arena, bellowing mightily, taking one beast that allowed itself to be caught against the fencing, and having gored it, expertly, with one metal-tipped tusk, it used its trunk to toss it into the crowd. The packed audience parted as if by magic and the fatally wounded creature landed in an open space, writhing and roaring, its back clearly snapped. Careful to stay away from the still potent jaws, the mob set about it with anything that came to hand, beating at its body till it lay still. Meanwhile, inside the arena, the other lions had attacked. The elephant now had one hanging on to its swinging trunk, while another clung precariously to its back, claws dug into the grey flesh, trying to bite through the thick skin of the neck to achieve a kill. The third lion, circling on the ground, was foolish enough to wander too close and died, crushed like a gnat, under the elephant’s great feet.
The beast swung its trunk, desperately trying to dislodge the lion that, snarling and ripping, was intent on tearing it off, finally showing it had a brain. The elephant suddenly charged the barrier, swinging so that the animal was forced against the wooden palisade, and then it just leant sideways. The crushing of the bones was audible above the screaming din of crowd approval, and was accompanied by a great fount of blood as the lion was flattened. The elephant’s final opponent was still on its back, great fangs tearing chunks out of the thick grey folds, exposing the flesh and bone underneath. Primitive instinct told the starving lion that survival lay at the point where the elephant’s head was joined to its body; break the slender bone that held them conjoined, and the great beast would collapse to the ground, easy prey to further assault.
