The Sword of Revenge r-2

by Jack Ludlow

  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.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They shifted a dining couch into Lucius’s study, which at least quelled the continual angry shouts that had emanated from his bedchamber, and he lay there, throughout the day, chafing at the bandages that circled his meagre frame. No amount of lectures by his doctor could persuade him to rest, so the man took the unprecedented step of talking to Marcellus behind his father’s back.

  ‘You must h
ave noticed how drawn he looks,’ said Epidaurianus. Fittingly, Lucius was attended by the most eminent medical practitioner in Rome, who not only worked as a doctor but served as a priest at the temple of Aesculapius, the God of Healing.

  Marcellus nodded, not sure that he should say anything.

  ‘He must rest. Hand the burden over to others. Really it would do him good to get out of Rome.’

  The doctor waited for Marcellus to speak and it pleased him that the youngster took his time, giving due consideration to his words rather than gabbling a response, something which would have come from most young men his age. But, of course, he was his father’s son, by all accounts a paragon of all the Roman virtues and destined for great things. He certainly looked the part. Epidaurianus studied him carefully, almost dissecting Marcellus with his acute observations. The dark hair was curled, but in a manly way, in the careless fashion redolent of an earlier age, not barbered as was the modern, Greek custom. The face, though young, showed all the gravitas associated with his family and its responsibilities, both present and future, the brow indicating brain as well as brawn. He seemed to combine a scholarly demeanour with patent physicality, being taller than his father by a good head; broad and muscular, his skin darkened from a life spent in the open, with hands callused through the use of weapons. Yet the fingers were long and elegant, used sparingly, which only added to their effect. The young man fixed his eyes on the doctor’s own. They were dark, unblinking, but the long silken lashes took away any hint of arrogance.