The Sword of Revenge r-2

by Jack Ludlow

  The days dragged on into weeks as Cholon travelled between the camp and the city, finalising the arrangements that would return the slaves to their farms, albeit under the less brutal conditions that Lucius intended to force through the Senate. Titus had instigated a regular service from the mainland and legionaries, taken from the various city garrisons in the south, were quietly shipped to his camp. Lucius was most adamant that nothing be done to alert the Senate, but Roman strength grew daily, boosted most importantly by a detachment of cavalry.

  Lucius arrived to find his son ashore for once, in the kind of regular encampment he had served in as a soldier all those years ago. Paternal greetings were brief; the senator took over Titus’s tent and, with his health finally and steadily improving, went into deep consultation with Cholon.

  They met at the agreed rendezvous again, happy to see each other in good health. The tall Celt, riding a magnificent if slightly skittish horse, now wore elaborate, expensive attire: light wool clothing and a fine decorated leather breastplate and greaves. A plumed Greek helmet was looped over his saddlebow and his shield was embossed with carefully worked gold and silver images. Even his weapons gleamed. Aquila wore the battered armour that had served him for the last two years, carried the same sword with the sweat-stained pommel, so beside Gadoric he looked like a peasant. Ritual greetings exchanged, it was not long before they were discussing the situation of the slave revolt.

  ‘Are you still planning to fight?’ asked Aquila.

  The Celt scowled. ‘Right now we talk. You’ll have seen that Roman camp by the shore to the east.’

  Aquila nodded, but did not add how tempted he had been to enter it; the sight of those soldiers dressed in the same manner as his ‘Papa’ Clodius had acted as a powerful draw upon his primary allegiance.

  ‘We could drive them into the sea in an hour,’ said Gadoric, looking over his shoulder, ‘and leave their bones to bleach in the sun.’

  ‘They wouldn’t stand and fight, Gadoric. They’ve kept enough ships to get away if they have to.’

  ‘True, but it would be nice to try, instead of just sitting doing nothing.’

  ‘How is Hypolitas?’

  That produced a wry smile. ‘King Hypolitas, if you please.’

  ‘A strange title for an ex-slave.’

  ‘He says that it makes negotiations with the Romans easier, but in truth he loves the name, as well as the trappings of kingship. He’s become quite regal these last few weeks.’

  Aquila spoke with genuine concern; he knew, regardless of the risks, that his friend would be better off away from the likes of Hypolitas. ‘The Romans grow stronger every day?’

  Gadoric nodded. ‘We are supposed to finally decide on our actions tomorrow, whether to fight or accept the Roman terms.’

  ‘What are the Roman terms?’

  ‘Ask me tomorrow. So far only Hypolitas knows them all. He does all the negotiating privately.’ Aquila’s eyebrows showed clearly what he thought of that. ‘He has a point. I shudder to think what might happen if our people even got a hint we were talking. Anyway, he knows where I stand. I’ve told him nothing less than complete freedom is acceptable.’

  ‘Still determined to fight and die?’

  The older man smiled. ‘After all I’ve taught you, Aquila, you’re still too Roman in your thinking.’

  Aquila pulled a face. ‘I know. I’ll be happier on the other side. Do you really welcome death, you Celts?’

  ‘It’s not something I’d lie about,’ said Gadoric sadly.

  That sadness indicated the truth: no man likes the idea of leaving life, even if all his days he has been told that death is something to look forward to. Gadoric had as much trouble with his faith as any man, never sure whether those who were supposed to know, the Druid priests of the Celtic faith, could really see the promised Asgard, that paradise for the souls of warriors, or whether their pronouncements were just a ploy to excite bravery in men who might be afraid of death in battle.

  ‘It makes no difference,’ he continued. ‘Death, when it comes, answers those questions, but the manner of a man’s going is everything.’

  He reached out and took Aquila’s Celtic eagle in his hand, grasping it firmly. The youngster bowed his head, grabbed the chain and took it off. ‘Take it, Gadoric.’

  That brought a smile to the older man’s face and he examined the charm for a moment, twisting it so that it gleamed in the sun, then looked up at its owner. ‘This was meant to keep you alive, Aquila, not me.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Just by holding it.’

  Aquila opened his mouth to respond, but Gadoric stopped him. He slung the charm back over Aquila’s neck, shook his shoulders in a fatherly way, then turned and walked over to his horse to fetch the sack of food and wine he had brought out from Agrigentum. Aquila’s eyes, following him, caught the flash of the sun on metal somewhere far off.

  ‘Did you bring a bodyguard this time, Gadoric?’

  ‘No, I came alone.’ He turned, sack in hand, and seeing the look on the youngster’s face, mistook the cause. ‘Come on, enough of this talk of death. Let’s eat.’

  Lucius Falerius looked at the scroll Cholon had given him, nodding contentedly as he read it.

  ‘Hypolitas has sounded out all the other leaders. They will accept our offer of freedom and pension. That is, bar one.’

  ‘The one-eyed Celt you told me of?’

  Cholon nodded. ‘He stands head and shoulders above them all, both figuratively and in life. Hypolitas is a compulsive talker, who’s reached his pre-eminence through overuse of a silver tongue and the odd piece of primitive magic. The others are nobodies, hanging on to his coat-tails, more afraid of losing their skin than anything else. If this Gadoric was the leader, they would never have agreed to talks in the first place.’

  ‘Yet he hasn’t prevented Hypolitas from talking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he’s a fool for all his nobility.’

  The tent flap flew open and Titus stood framed by the daylight behind him. ‘A messenger for you, Cholon Pyliades, from the Temple of Diana.’

  Cholon looked quickly at Lucius, who was angry at this interruption. ‘I must see him. It has been arranged.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the older man sourly. ‘Show him in.’

  Despite the heat of the day the man who entered was wrapped in a heavy hooded cloak, which he declined to remove even for the eminent senator. Cholon stood while the man whispered his message in his ear. Once it was delivered he turned and swept out of the tent. In a matter of seconds they heard the sound of his horse’s hooves as he rode swiftly out of the Roman camp.

  Good news?’ asked Lucius.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied.

  Yet Cholon did not look as though he had received good tidings, he looked like a man whose favourite dog has just died. Later, as he watched the Decurion lead his cavalry out of the camp, with Marcellus in full uniform by his side, his expression was even more bereft of joy.

  Aquila rode steadily along just under the rim of the ridge, with an occasional turn to the top to check on Gadoric’s progress, grateful that the Celt had not allowed his horse its head, given that Aquila’s stunted upland pony was no match for that magnificent animal; he was having trouble keeping up at the moment and the other man was barely even trying. The heat had gone out of the sun now and it was warm at this altitude, without being stifling like the lowland plain. The hills on his left nearly joined the track, leaving him a narrow ledge to ride along, so Aquila cursed when he saw the rock fall that had blocked his way and looked vainly at the steep slope below him and the sheer face of the newly exposed rock to his right.

  There would be no tailing Gadoric now, but that flash he had seen earlier, which could only have come from something metal, worried him. He pulled his horse’s head round, retraced his steps and dismounting, started to haul the pony up the slope to the next ridge. The creature slithered and slid, but it was made for this sort
of terrain and eventually they emerged onto a scrub-covered plateau. Having made his way to the end he saw a clear path by a dried-out riverbed winding all the way down into the valley. Gadoric was there, a good league ahead now, a tiny figure with a trail of dust billowing behind him. Aquila looked towards the city, its white walls seeming to move in the haze of heat rising from the coastal plain.

  From that height he saw the trap long before his friend: horsemen blocked the route ahead of him where it narrowed into a gorge, the sun glinting on their spears, while the other half of the party, some twenty men, were hidden behind a thick clump of gorse and trees, ready to come round behind the Celt when he passed. Even at this distance he could tell by the uniform colour of their cloaks that they were Roman cavalry. He yelled a futile warning but there was no chance that Gadoric would hear him so he pushed his pony onto the path, forcing it to descend at a frightening speed, not caring whether he or the animal was killed in the process.

  Gadoric hauled on the traces as soon as he saw the Romans stretched across the valley floor, over twenty horsemen, completely blocking his way, and the sound of hooves made him spin in the saddle to see that the same number now stood behind him. The steep slopes of the valley might have been possible on a really agile mountain pony, but this horse, sleek, fine-boned and bred to speed, would never make it up the hillside. Two men detached themselves from the party before him and rode forward and it was only when they got close up he realised one of them, regardless of his imposing height and build, was a youth.

  ‘You are the slave commander named Gadoric?’ said the older Roman, who wore the insignia of a Decurion.

  The Celt fixed him with his one good eye, taking in the insignia on his armour, plus the torque on his arm, which was a mark of a man who had proved himself brave in battle. ‘I am Porcius Catus,’ the Decurion continued. ‘I command the cavalry of Titus Cornelius, military legate to the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Falerius Nerva.’ Gadoric glanced at the youth, observing that his armour was finely wrought like his own, but it bore no mark of distinction and the Decurion, noticing Gadoric’s interest, added, ‘This is the senator’s son, Marcellus Falerius. As you can see, Gadoric, your position is hopeless. If you will surrender your arms we will escort you back to our camp.’

  ‘Then?’ asked Gadoric.

  ‘That is not for me to decide,’ replied Porcius.

  ‘I will be a slave again.’

  ‘Perhaps you will.’

  Gadoric shook his head slowly and his hand reached out to take his plumed Greek helmet from the pommel of his saddle. His voice, when he spoke, was without emotion and without fear. In fact his mind was on the words he had so recently said to Aquila. ‘You’re too Roman in your thinking, friend. I’d rather die in battle.’

  ‘That is stupid,’ said Marcellus, impressed with the man despite the fact that they were enemies.

  ‘To a Roman it is stupid, boy. To a Celt death is but a beginning.’ He looked at Porcius. ‘I offer single combat. I challenge Titus Cornelius.’

  Porcius grinned. ‘Which I must decline on his behalf. Perhaps if you had an army at your back our legate might oblige.’

  Gadoric raised his helmet, smiling just before he put it on his head. ‘That is one thing I always wished, to meet you Romans with an army at my back.’

  ‘Your last chance,’ said Porcius.

  ‘I am on my way to Agrigentum, Roman. Stand aside.’

  Abruptly the helmet was thrown aside. Gadoric loosed his blond hair so that it hung down to his shoulders, and detached his spear and shield from the rear of his saddle, putting the round buckler on his left arm. Porcius hauled his horse around and, followed by Marcellus, made his way back to the line of soldiers that still blocked the valley floor. They turned to face Gadoric, now armed and ready for combat.

  ‘May I make a suggestion to the men, Porcius Catus?’

  The officer looked at him; this was the son of Lucius and he was not stupid. ‘You may issue them with orders if you wish, young man.’

  Marcellus raised his voice to address the others. ‘Don’t attack him. Stay still and try and bring his horse down.’

  There was a dissatisfied murmur from the cavalrymen who were obviously looking forward to a kill. Porcius’s voice cracked through the air, stilling the dissent. ‘Do as you’re told, damn you. We want him alive, if possible.’

  Behind the line that blocked the Celt’s retreat a single horseman in a heavy cloak rode slowly into the middle of the valley, emerging from the same clump of gorse and trees which had hidden the soldiers who had formed the second part of the trap. He had thrown back the hood and his face was now clearly visible in the evening light. Gadoric, looking behind him to assess the odds, saw him too. Marcellus knew instinctively that the sight enraged him by the way the Celt hauled mighty hard to bring his horse round.

  He was charging the line at the other end of the valley before the turn was finished, aiming himself straight at the man in the cloak whose horse, no doubt unnerved by his rider, started to back up, its rear legs bending as it sought to retreat. The soldiers in the other line had received no instructions, so they lowered their spears and charged Gadoric, though they would have no time to get up speed before the Celt was upon them. Porcius kicked his horse hard, riding to intervene, but he must have known it was hopeless; the distance was too great. Marcellus trotted forward, watching the action as it unfolded.

  Gadoric ignored the Roman cavalry. He raised himself in the saddle, one hand on the horse’s neck and the rest of his body weight held by his knees. It was stunning horsemanship and he seemed to tower over the men coming at him. Just as they converged he threw his spear, aiming it over their heads at the solitary horseman behind them, but the man was too far away, so it was defiant rather than effective. The Roman spears, cast at close range, took him in the exposed chest, piercing his decorated leather armour, but the weight of his charge carried him on and he burst, still upright, through the line of attackers like a maddened boar. The horse, which had also taken a spear, faltered, but Gadoric hauled on the reins to keep its head up, using his other hand to pull out his sword. Marcellus heard the shout as it filled the valley, not a shout of pain, but a high-pitched war cry, emitted from the throat of a fatally wounded Celtic warrior.

  The man he was trying to reach spun his horse awkwardly, attempting to flee as the Celt broke the Roman line. Sheer speed carried Gadoric on and he closed on his quarry, but Marcellus saw the shoulders slip as they came abreast, saw the upraised sword slip from the warrior’s hand. The huge body slid sideways at the same time that his animal’s forelegs gave way and both horse and rider crashed to the ground, the sound of breaking wood quite audible in the evening air as the weight of the falling horseman snapped the spear shafts still embedded in his chest. A great cloud of dust billowed up in the air as both horse and rider slithered along the hard earth, grinding to a halt, the animal twitching wildly, the warrior totally still.

  Marcellus kicked his own horse and rode up, like everyone else, eager to examine the body. Porcius was looking down at the corpse unhappily, but the stranger, who had approached cautiously, was smiling, his sallow-complexioned face lined with pleasure. The prematurely grey hair took the dying sun, seeming to shine. He pulled his head back, filled his mouth and with an over-elaborate gesture spat on the corpse of the dead Gadoric.

  ‘We’ll take the body back to the camp,’ said Porcius.

  ‘No,’ snapped the stranger. ‘Leave him here. Let the vultures feed on his bones.’

  ‘He deserves better,’ Porcius replied.

  ‘Does he, Roman? I say you leave him here.’

  Porcius’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘Why should I listen to you?’

  The cloak was thrown back, to reveal armour every bit as gorgeous as that of the man who had just died. ‘I can’t see it will help in the negotiations or please your legate, Titus Cornelius, if you choose to insult the new leader of the slave army.’

  The man laughed, a high-pitched c
ackle which echoed off the surrounding hills, then with a mocking air, he bowed low in the saddle.

  Aquila’s pony had tried, but eventually he had had to dismount and run, leaving it, legs splayed and chest heaving half a league from the spot where Gadoric had ridden into the trap. He heard the war cry loud and clear, knowing as he did that he was too late to intervene, but he ran on nevertheless. The silence made him stop in the trees, and breathing heavily he walked carefully to the edge. The ring of horsemen was still, looking inwards, so Gadoric was in there, dead: there was no way his friend would have allowed himself to be taken alive. He heard the orders for the cavalry to form up, watched as the ring broke and horsemen fell into formation. Three people still sat over the inert body, easily identifiable by the finely wrought armour. One was a Roman officer, the other a youth who looked about his own age, but it was the third man that took his attention. The silver grey hair on that sallow-complexioned face was unmistakable. So was the voice.

  ‘Well, Porcius Catus, will you and this young man consent to accompany me back to Agrigentum? After all, it is fitting that a general should have an escort.’

  The head went back and the man let out that slightly mad laugh, the same one Aquila had heard when Pentheus had buried Flaccus in six feet of golden grain.

  Hypolitas and Pentheus, with four of the other leaders, left by one of the smaller city gates and made their way through the Roman lines with just the occasional creak of harness as evidence of their passing. The legionaries slipped into the city through the same gate, spreading out quickly, house to house, to take and disarm the slave army in manageable groups. Titus, with a small escort, made his way to the square before the palace, there to coordinate the actions of his men, while Marcellus, fretting and impatient, waited with Cholon and his father outside the city till the outcome of the operation was certain. No amount of pleading had gained him a place on such a dangerous enterprise.