The Sword of Revenge r-2

by Jack Ludlow

  Men died, Roman and slave, despite Titus’s attempts at a peaceful takeover, but he was successful. The slaves greeted the dawn in a city controlled by Roman soldiers, while the bulk of their forces, camped on the plain or holding the river lines to the east and west, found that their refuge, the city of Agrigentum, had been taken from them. Worse for their morale was the news that Gadoric was dead: that their leaders, in return for personal safety, had sold them back into bondage. Even against the smaller numbers of Romans, whatever hope they had seemed to crumble, for they lacked the heart to put up a proper fight.

  Cholon stood by the main landward gate of Agrigentum as the recaptured slaves were marched out. He recognised one face, that of the man who had greeted him at the very spot the day he arrived; then he had been happy, a mite cocky, his eyes full of hope and laughter, now those same eyes took in the figure of the Greek in a different way. They had lost all expression, as though the man behind them had ceased to exist, was in fact a mere shell, not human. Two young boys stumbled along beside him, his sons by the likeness. One carried the same lacklustre expression as his father but the other son looked at Cholon with such spirited loathing that the Greek had to steady himself to avoid taking a step back.

  ‘You will have the thanks of the Senate for this, Lucius Falerius,’ said the governor. ‘A magnificent result, without blood or financial loss.’

  ‘Just as long as we have a harvest I’ll be happy. As for the thanks of the Senate, I fear that will be muted when I introduce a statute to protect the working conditions of the slaves.’

  The governor, Silvanus, did not want to talk about that, lest by words he became associated with such a dangerous decree. ‘You sail today?’

  ‘I sail tomorrow. That pompous windbag, Hypolitas, sails today.’

  ‘I thought you would depart together.’

  ‘I cannot abide another day with that man,’ snapped Lucius. ‘How he ever came to lead this revolt escapes me. Anyone with half a brain would run a mile from such a creature. As for the others, the so-called leaders, they’re no more than a bunch of peasants, for all their stolen Greek finery. Mutton dressed as lamb.’

  Marcellus felt the same as his father; having been exposed to the Palmyran Greek for the entire journey across Sicily, he found his wheedling tone and constant self-regard offensive. He could not know that the fire that had made his words so effective was gone. Only one Roman had ever heard him address a crowd, or listened to him expound the cause of liberty in hushed tones, his hands weaving a spell.

  Aquila would be immune now; the arrangements Hypolitas had made with Lucius Falerius Nerva, which were the talk of the island, meant that no one cared about him any more. He did not wait to see the slave army brought back to their farms in chains; he built a pyre for Gadoric, burnt his friend’s body with proper honour, then rode across the island, ahead of Lucius’s party, to Messana. There he took working passage on a small trading ship to Italy and he was waiting in Rhegnum when they landed. A crowd had gathered to see this spectacle, since every boat that put into the port had foretold the event.

  His anger, so close to being madness, nearly boiled over when he saw the fine clothes they wore, worse still was the litter waiting to take them to their new home and the escort of cavalry provided by the praetor. They attracted crowds wherever they went, so trailing the party presented no difficulty; it was like a royal progress on the busy road through Brutium, Lucania and on, to the upland Samnite city of Beneventum, which stood at the centre of Italy, surrounded by high mountains.

  Their villa overlooked a fast-flowing river, standing on a rocky promontory, affording fine views over the city on the opposite bank. The escort departed to be replaced by a smaller number of locally recruited guards. Hypolitas was ecstatic, standing on his terrace, knowing life would be good, knowing he would no longer have to obey the dictates of other men, and if he had to suffer the company of Pentheus and his like, who seemed incapable of thought, could not read or write, whose sole intent, as they had travelled towards this place, seemed to be the best way to fill the villa with wine and women, that was a small price to pay for a man who, at best, had never occupied any accommodation better than a small square room shared with other household slaves.

  He turned from the terrace, looking at the spacious bedchamber that was now his. There were other rooms, a private bath-house for his use alone, a study, and a grand atrium in which he could receive guests. The local magistrates would come, as would the leading citizens of the Samnite state, after all, the King of the Slaves was famous. He would hold banquets that would be the talk of the city, build a library that local scholars would come to consult, engage in learned discussion with philosophers and perhaps write a treatise that would, when he was dead, keep the name Hypolitas alive for future generations.

  The local Samnite guards were dumbfounded, for they had heard nothing in the night. Every bedchamber had the same names on the walls, written in blood, but they meant nothing to these men. Who were Gadoric and Flaccus and Phoebe? And what did it mean, that drawing of an eagle in flight? The only thing in Hypolitas’s bedchamber, apart from that and the bloody signatures, was a crushed walnut shell on the floor of the terrace. They found the bodies over the next few days as they were washed up on the rock-strewn banks of the rushing mountain river, well downstream. Four of them had died through having their throats cut, including Hypolitas, who had also lost his tongue.

  The grey-haired one who had been known as Pentheus was different. The skin had been flayed from his back, his face was a hollow pulp and they had neither the time nor the inclination to search for his missing hands and feet.

  EPILOGUE

  The news of the murder of Hypolitas and the others reached Lucius Falerius fifty leagues north of Neapolis, where he had stopped his journey to rest. Titus had gone ahead, to take his news to the Senate, something that would raise his name in the public mind and aid his bid in the forthcoming elections for the praetorship, which would, in turn, provide a route to the command of armies. Marcellus, naturally, had stayed with his father, using the time to visit the nearby shrine of the Sybil at Cumae, one-time home to another, who had made Tarquinus Superbus squirm to get hold of only part of her predictions.

  Lucius was on the mend; the conclusion of events in Sicily and weeks in a static camp had raised his spirits and allowed his body to recover. Not that such a thing allowed for any softening in his rigid interpretation of right and wrong. His response to the news from Beneventum was entirely lacking in sympathy. ‘Whoever did this had the best interests of the Roman treasury at heart, don’t you think, and I cannot believe the world will mourn for the likes of Hypolitas.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Marcellus, with a look that Lucius understood.

  His father ignored the implications of the look, that perhaps he had sent the assassins; his mind was on other things. Given this bloodless success in Sicily, Lucius was probably more potent now than he had ever been, so he would probably find it easy to push his reforms through the centuries, which would secure the power of the Optimates and consign the Populares and their madcap ideas to the scrap heap. After that he might retire; one more speech to the Senate would suffice, to say his farewells and watch as the tears of hypocrisy flowed. His son was pushing a scroll towards him that he could not really be bothered to read.

  ‘You saw the Sybil?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Heard more than saw,’ Marcellus replied, dropping the scroll on the desk. He tried to keep the unhappiness out of his voice, talking quickly to cover it up. ‘She hangs in a wicker cage, in a huge cavern, high above the heads of those who visit. I think they have it there so that her voice echoes off the walls to increase the effect of her prophecies.’

  ‘And did she prophesy for you, Marcellus?’

  ‘She did not, father. All I got, for my overgenerous donation to the Temple of Apollo, was a single sentence telling me that I would inherit everything I needed to secure my future from my father, who had
secured the past for me.’

  ‘By name?’ asked his father.

  Marcellus nodded. ‘The priests must have some method of telling the Sybil whom she’s addressing.’

  Lucius treated his son to a thin smile. ‘You will inherit from your father. Did she say how soon?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No prophecy, ever given, is plain and clear.’

  ‘Nor are they always the truth, father. It is a trade full of charlatans.’

  Lucius agreed with his son, but he still hated to be interrupted and it showed on his face. He had a paternal duty to perform, which was to give his son a faith that he himself had never possessed. He knew Marcellus to be different from him, despite all his years of training; the boy would always need something to believe in, other than the mere concept of Rome. Prophecies could fill a void and cause Marcellus to act wisely instead of emotionally. Despite the reforms he was about to introduce, the Republic would always be in danger, always need men to defend it against the threat of tyranny. As he opened his mouth to speak, his mind went back to that prophecy he had heard as a child, with Aulus Cornelius. Lucius had seen that prediction off, had even survived an attempt to kill him. He was about to cap his life’s work with a triumph sweeter than any celebrated by a mere general.

  ‘You must look behind the words for the meaning. If they are not plain to you, they are to me. Perhaps approaching death gives one a clearer sight of things.’

  He saw the look of consternation on his son’s face and pushed out a hand to touch his arm. ‘I have no fear of death, Marcellus. I had one fear, that all I’d striven for would disappear when I died; that the Republic would fall into the wrong hands, then disintegrate. As you know I have seen the Sibylline books in Rome. There are many portents in those, but they are written as verse riddles and difficult to comprehend. Only one thing seems clear. Rome will always be in danger, both from external foes and ambitious men, but the Republic will last and prosper, if the right men lead the state. I must have you accept that.’

  ‘I do, father.

  ‘This Sibylline prophecy, being spoken, has a clarity the books lack. One day you may get to see them and I’m sure you’ll be just as confused as I was.’ Lucius rubbed his ribs where the knife had struck, making his son wonder if he was still in pain. ‘This prophecy of yours has eased my mind.’

  Marcellus frowned. ‘It is little enough.’

  ‘It is everything.’ His hand gripped Marcellus’s arm, and for the first time the boy noticed the translucent skin, over prominent bones, and the brown patches of age. ‘Despite what I’m about to do, there will still be work. My reforms will need to be protected. That is your task. The Sybil has said so.’

  ‘What about Quintus?’

  ‘You’ll be ten times the man he is, Marcellus. Trust Titus, but do not consult with him, for he will help you out of nobility. Quintus will help you too, but he will demand a price. You must pay that price, but slowly. In the cellar lies that chest of scrolls and in there is everything you will need…’ The voice trailed off for a few moments. Lucius lay back, again rubbing his chest. ‘I know you. I have raised you like the Romans of old, to be upright and honest. I was like you, Marcellus, until I realised that the Gods had given me a higher aim. What you find in that chest will not please you but I made you swear once to do as I did, and put Rome before everything. The Sybil has confirmed your oath. Do not think badly of me.’

  His hand took an even firmer grip on Marcellus’s arm and he looked his son in the eye. ‘Rome first and always, Marcellus. Not pride, nor expediency and never a faint heart.’

  Marcellus picked up the scroll, more as a way of changing the subject than from any real interest. ‘They sent you this from Beneventum, father.’

  ‘What is it?’ Lucius asked, as his son unrolled the papyrus.

  ‘Whoever killed Hypolitas and the others was obviously acting out of vengeance. He wrote several names on the walls in blood.’

  ‘You’ve already told me that. Apart from Gadoric the names meant nothing to me.’

  ‘Apparently there was a drawing in each room, of an eagle in flight. They wondered if that might give us a clue as to who committed the murders.’

  Marcellus held the open scroll before his father. He was looking at the drawing himself, so did not see the look of horror in Lucius’s eyes, but he heard him mouth the words and turned to look. What he saw shocked him, for what blood Lucius had had drained out of his father’s face.

  Look aloft if you dare

  Though what you fear cannot fly

  Both will face it before you die.

  At once Lucius was back in that cave in the Alban Hills, a mere boy alongside his friend Aulus Cornelius, both pretending to be men, and the words of the prophecy they had heard filled his mind, and the moment a piece of papyrus like the one he was looking at now had burst into spontaneous flames in his hands. With a vision only granted to a man on the verge of death he knew that Aulus had seen this very thing at Thralaxas, that same blood-red eagle that was before him now, telling him that everything he had striven for all of his life might not now come to pass.

  ‘Call my litter,’ he gasped, clutching at his chest now. ‘I must get to Rome.’

  Marcellus looked set to protest. His father, whose eyes never left the drawing of the eagle, shouted, ‘I am your father, boy, you must obey me!’

  Lucius Falerius Nerva’s heart gave out before they had gone ten leagues. Marcellus had the body drained and embalmed, before loading it onto a chariot. By forcing his pace, and constant changes of horses, he was in the capital within three days. His father’s pyre would rise from Rome and his genius would disperse with the clouds of smoke, into the air above the city which had consumed his life.

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