The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  The old man put a thin hand on Titus’s shoulder, adding an encouraging squeeze. ‘I trust that you are your father’s son. When the time comes, you will know precisely what to do.’

  ‘No explanation now?’

  Lucius shook his head. ‘Never fear, Titus Cornelius. When you are called upon to respond, it will be a duty you are happy to perform. It won’t feel like doing me a service at all.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They were now riding along a good road, a proper, paved Roman affair, straight as an arrow. Mount Etna was well behind them, rumbling and smoking in the distance, yet they could not see much ahead, with most of the town of Messana blocked out; in the warm southerly wind, occasionally gusting to the east, it was easier to see the mainland across the narrow straits. Smoke rose, thick and black, with the orange strip of flame just visible at the base, sometimes blocking out the sun and rolling out slowly over the bright blue strip of sea. The entire coastline had been sown with wheat; now they were burning the stubble after the harvest and behind the raging fires the fields lay blackened and barren, as though some great plague had struck the land.

  ‘Look at that boy,’ said Flaccus, pointing eagerly through the smoke to the grain ships loading in the harbour at Messana. ‘There’s a fortune before your eyes and a good part of it belongs to our lord and master.’ Aquila waited while another black cloud drifted out to sea, finally clearing enough to make the harbour visible. He could see the ships, their single square sails furled against the masts, with the long rows of ports for the oars. ‘Those are our proprietor’s own ships, too.’

  Flaccus’s eyes gleamed; they always did when he contemplated the prospect of wealth, his or someone else’s. The horses shied away from the heat as they rode past yet another band of flame, slowly eating its way across the stalks. Once through that, they were in the clear with the town now visible. White-walled, the Greek city still looked like the fortress it had been before the Romans took over the island. Inside the battlements, low buildings alternated with the numerous temples, each red tiled roof a slightly different shade, and at diverse angles. Stark against the blue sky, the row of crucifixes by the roadside stood out clearly. Flaccus reined in his horse as they came abreast and looked up at the men roped to the wooden crosses, examining them to see if they were dead.

  ‘Fresh today,’ he remarked, without emotion.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Aquila, his eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. He had not enjoyed the thought of crucifixions on the farms and he did not want to acknowledge them now.

  ‘Runaways, most likely. They’ve had more trouble with slaves here than elsewhere on the island. Stands to reason, they can see what they’re missing more easily in a town.’ He pulled the horse’s head round and made for the low gate in the town wall. Halfway between the crucifixes and the entrance a series of stakes had been driven into the ground, each one with a man lashed to it. ‘There’s tomorrow’s batch, that is, if those already strung up are properly dead.’

  ‘What do they do with them when they’re dead?’

  ‘Easy, boy.’ Flaccus laughed, then coughed as a last puff of smoke filled his lungs. ‘They just lay them in one of the fields they’re going to burn.’

  It was the laugh, followed by the cough, that made one of the trussed-up men lift his head. The hair was shorn, slave fashion, so that it formed only a grey stubble on the grime-streaked head and his gaunt face was a mass of bruising from the beatings he had already suffered, his smock torn open to reveal the bloody weals that were caused by repeated whipping. Aquila opened his mouth to say something, then shut it quickly, kicking his horse in such a way that it moved Flaccus on as well.

  The single eye of Gadoric followed him, his parched lips open in surprise, the great scar across his face, a stark white against the burnt skin of the face. The boy’s thoughts were in turmoil as they rode under the arch of the gate, the horse’s hooves echoing noisily in the confined space. He fought the temptation to look back, though he could almost feel that basilisk eye fixed on him, and his voice was slightly unsteady as called to Flaccus.

  ‘Those men at the stake will be crucified?’

  The old centurion caught the tone, and as he replied, his voice echoed off the buildings that lined the narrow street. ‘You’re not squeamish, boy, are you? Don’t fret for a dead slave, lad. It makes the others work harder.’

  The town was busier than any place Aquila had ever seen. As they approached the centre, an open space dominated by a large wattle and daub temple, the crowd increased so that forward movement became a struggle and Flaccus, to little effect, lashed out at those who blocked his path; they could not move out of his way because of the overall crush. Aquila could see the packed steps of the temple, full of people trading. In one shaded corner a teacher addressed a group of young men, his arms waving as he declaimed; in another moneylenders transacted their business, with a great deal of shouting and slapping of foreheads. Stalls lined the spaces between the tall columns, each with its own yelling vendor. Exceedingly colourful, little of what he saw really registered; he could not put aside the look of hate that had filled that single eye, the look of a man who feels betrayed.

  Flaccus turned away from the temple and headed down the incline towards the harbour, still struggling to make any headway. Once out of the square the crush eased, though it was still difficult for a mounted man to move with any speed until they emerged onto the wharves, full of carts laden with grain, each one with a trail of exhausted-looking men filling their baskets at the tail. Flaccus asked one of the sutlers for directions; the man took in the freshly tended gash on the horse’s flank, before pointing to a large warehouse.

  The front was clear of carts, the slaves, instead, trudging in and out of the open warehouse doors. Armed men lined their route, with the occasional crack of a bullwhip or a vine sapling striking on a bare back, accompanying the loud exhortations that they should move faster. Down by the edge of the wharf a group of carpenters were working with great lengths of timber, which they had erected to form a triangle, now being threaded with ropes. Both dismounted and hitched their animals to the rail, and Flaccus stood for a moment watching the steady procession of labour: all men, all dull-eyed and every one looking undernourished. He nodded slowly, as if in approval, before walking into the shaded interior of the warehouse.

  One rotund fellow, with a leather apron over his white smock, and a wax tablet in his hand, stood by a large set of scales. As each basket was filled from the grain store it was put on the scales. He then noted its weight before indicating that it should be removed. Nodding to Flaccus, and without interrupting his work, he pointed to the rear of the building with his wooden stylus. The air was full of fine golden dust, which covered everyone and everything, giving the slaves, with their bare ribcages sticking out, the appearance of skeletons rather than human beings.

  Aquila followed Flaccus up a narrow staircase, through dampened screens, carefully placed to contain the dust. The top floor of the warehouse held the cargo that the ships had fetched in from Ostia: bales of cloth, large ampoules of wine, weapons and a whole stack of hardwood tree trunks, grown specially so that one branch at each end formed the point of a plough. At the front, overlooking the wharf, a table had been set up, laden with food and wine, with bales arranged to provide seating, so that the overseers of the various properties could take their ease and feed themselves, all the while able to watch the fruits of their farms being loaded onto the ships. One of them, a fat fellow with a bald white head, was talking loudly and Aquila had a vague feeling of recognition, without being able to place why. Better dressed than his companions, he had the proprietary bearing of a man who owned the place and he was busy explaining to the others his plans for the future.

  ‘Every time you shift grain you lose a bit. Some ends up on the ground when you’re loading your carts, more when they’re bucketing along some of the interior roads. Now, that’s our money dribbling out. Remember we get paid on the weight that arrive
s in Ostia, not the weight of what we grow.’

  He turned to greet Flaccus and the boy could see that for all his well-fed, carefully barbered look, the round face was hard, the eyes calculating rather than friendly. He greeted them effusively, ran his eyes up and down Aquila, before he bade Flaccus to eat and take his ease. The ex-centurion returned the greeting, acknowledged the others present, then filled a platter for the boy, gave him a cup full of wine and sent him to sit on a bale well away from the table, before looking to his own needs. Aquila accepted with glum ill-grace, his mind still on the sight outside the gates, which earned him an enquiring stare from Flaccus. The look the large fat fellow gave him was different; more to do with his lithe young body than his mood. Aquila ignored him and he turned back to the table, eager to expound his theories. Flaccus, caught between two thoughts, had no time to enquire of the boy what was amiss.

  ‘And every one of you complains to me about the weight I record, since it never tallies with your own.’ Heads nodded at that, and despite the friendly tone of the meeting, many a black look was aimed in his direction. ‘I lose too, friends. Just cast your eyes over that trail of grain between the warehouse door and the ship. That’s mine, every bit of it. There’s a trail just like it at the unloading, with half the folk of Ostia fetching their chickens down to the wharves to feed for free, and it all adds up to a pretty denarius at the end of the day.’

  He stopped to top up the goblets of those nearest him, turning as he did so to look at Aquila again. The boy, slouched across a bale, did not notice; he was looking at the sun, coming in through the open doors, turning the stream of poured wine bright red, which made him think of Clodius. He had seen that very effect as his adopted father had held the wine gourd above his head on a hot day, expertly aiming the contents into his open throat, and the sight further served to take him back to a world he thought lost forever.

  ‘You have something in mind to solve this, Cassius Barbinus?’

  That wiped any thoughts of Clodius and his past from his mind as a flash of hate coursed through his body, because suddenly he knew where he had seen the fat man before. It had been the day the supposedly tame leopards had attacked Gadoric’s sheep. The animals had been intended as a gift for some important visitor, one of them, a scented prick of a boy his own age, who had been just as responsible as Cassius Barbinus for the fact that the leopards had been let loose within sniffing distance of the set of prey animals he was shepherding. The results were all too predictable, though Gadoric had pointed out, when Aquila told him of what had happened, the sheep belonged to Barbinus. If he wanted to feed them to a pair of big cats that was his right.

  The man who had trained those leopards from cubs was furious; so was Aquila and there were many reasons why. He sat bolt upright and looked hard at Barbinus, but the object of his attention had turned to face his questioner. Was this really the rich senator whose woods he had raided for game, the man who owned the farm where he had last seen Gadoric, before encountering him tied to the stake today? He had, according to his overseer, Nicos, brutally raped the slave girl, Sosia, forcing from her throat a scream so plaintive that Aquila had mistaken it for the cry of a distressed fox, then sent her away, adding to the woes of that unforgettable day. The thought that anything he might have done these last months could have profited Cassius Barbinus nearly made him throw the platter in his hand at the man’s head. Barbinus, unaware of the effect his name was having on the boy, looked around his assembled bailiffs and provided his answer. ‘Indeed I do have a solution, my friends. If you look outside you will see I’m building a hoist. Once it’s complete, each one of you will be given a plan to make one of your own.’

  ‘Using what?’ asked Flaccus; as the newest member of this select group he was the most concerned about cost.

  Barbinus smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Flaccus, I’ll provide the timber. I will also provide sailcloth, specially cut, with eyeholes all round so that they can be lashed at the neck.’

  He looked around to see if any of them had made the connection, only to be greeted by blank stares. Finally his gaze fell on Aquila, the senator mistaking the glare in the boy’s eye for interest. Barbinus walked over, the wine flagon still in his hand, as Aquila dropped his eyes to the floor, in a stew of still-troubled thoughts and uncertainty. The youngster was dirty from his riding, but his tall frame, tanned skin and that red-gold hair were enough to attract a man like Barbinus. Then the senator’s eye caught the golden eagle at his neck, which made his eyebrows arch in surprise.

  Cassius Barbinus considered himself a connoisseur of Greek and Celtic art. What was a boy like this doing, wearing such a valuable object? Aquila, unaware of the interest, took the charm in his hand, then lifted his head, his eyes like two sapphires, boring into Barbinus. The senator did not know that the boy wanted to kill him but he did notice that Aquila was not cowed by his status, a fact which only served to increase his attraction. He poured some wine into Aquila’s cup, his eyes never straying from the boy’s face.

  ‘Can you guess, boy?’

  The answer seemed so obvious that Aquila obliged immediately, but his voice had a distant quality, as though he was talking to himself. ‘You load the grain into the bales and the bales onto the carts. Then the bales are loaded straight onto, and off, the ships.’

  Barbinus turned and beamed at the others, waving an expansive arm. ‘Without spilling a drop. No more waste, and more important, no more arguments about being cheated.’ A general murmur of agreement followed this, with much nodding of heads. Barbinus turned back, giving Aquila another head-to-toe look. Used to people wilting before his gaze, the stillness clearly disconcerted him. ‘Who is this boy, Flaccus?’

  The centurion, who knew Barbinus of old, was frowning. The man was a satyr, not to be trusted with two pieces of warm liver, let alone a girl or a young boy. ‘Aquila Terentius. He’s from a colony near Aprilium. His father was one of my men killed at Thralaxas. I picked him up on the way south. Sort of adopted him, you might say. Like a son to me now!’

  ‘He’s a bright lad.’ Barbinus had not mistaken Flaccus’s tone or the strength of the last statement; the old centurion was telling him to keep his hands to himself. ‘I have some land around Aprilium.’

  The senator’s eye dropped again and lingered for a moment on the charm round Aquila’s neck as if he was about to ask its significance, but he stopped himself and looked up again. ‘You stick with Flaccus, boy, he won’t want to be here in Sicily all his life. Someone young and ambitious, who knows the farms, would be an advantage.’ He did not turn round as he addressed Flaccus, but kept his eyes firmly locked to those of Aquila. ‘Have you educated him?’

  There was a distinct note of anger in Flaccus’s reply; the way Barbinus asked the question sounded like a rebuke. ‘Didn’t see the need.’

  ‘I would advise you to be less short-sighted. If this boy has a brain, take advantage of it. Teach him his numbers and if he can write, Greek as well as Latin, then he could have a future.’

  ‘Right now he’s learning to fight,’ snapped Flaccus.

  Barbinus still had not turned round. ‘Admirable, but limited. Our world is full of those who can fight. Not many of them can think, as well.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  Barbinus was now looking at Aquila’s mail shirt and at the sword worn loose by his side. ‘Do it, Flaccus!’ He spun round on his heel to face the now blushing bailiff and Aquila was subjected to an angry look from Flaccus, as though what had happened was his fault. Barbinus went back to the head of the table, patted his newest overseer on the shoulder, and changed the subject. ‘But, old friend, we have more important things to discuss.’

  He looked at them all in turn, lounging about the place, forcing them to sit up and pay attention; for all his jovial manner Barbinus demanded respect. ‘I’ve had a meeting with the other owners and they’ve agreed we must coordinate action against the growing threat of banditry.’

  ‘We were attacked on the way here,’
said Flaccus.

  ‘Where?’

  Flaccus explained what had happened like the soldier he was, making no attempt to sound heroic, concluding with the opinion that whoever had sought to ambush them did not appear to be either capable, or numerous.

  ‘Not numerous now, Flaccus, but they could be if enough slaves escaped to join them.’

  ‘None of mine will escape,’ Flaccus replied, with a sneer. ‘They don’t have the energy.’

  Polite coughing greeted what sounded like a bit of boasting, especially in the company of men who knew their trade better than he, men whose help he had sought on first arriving in Sicily. Flaccus realised what he had done and mumbled words to the effect that he still had a lot to learn and would be happy to take advice, but Barbinus cut right across him, producing another angry glare.

  ‘That’s what’s caused the trouble we have now. People being complacent, thinking that it’ll always be someone else’s slaves that will cause trouble. Well it isn’t, and if you doubt me just go out of the southern gate and you’ll see.’

  ‘Are those men yours?’ asked Flaccus. He made a sudden, dismissive gesture with his head to Aquila, who had begun to edge closer.

  Barbinus frowned. ‘Sad to say, they are, and they weren’t just trying to escape either, they were much more ambitious. Wanted to rise up and take the town, which is just as well for us, since the plans frightened enough of the other slaves into betraying them. Those bandits in the hills might not amount to much but they act as a beacon for all the other malcontents. That’s why we have to root them out. Slaves are less likely to run if they’ve got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Do we have a plan of action?’ asked one of the others.

  Barbinus nodded. ‘We do. I’ve already persuaded the governor to call his auxiliaries out. The main base of these villains, at least the ones that worry us, seems to be here in the north. They don’t go south of Etna much, so we’ll use that as a pivot to work on. They have women and children with them, so they can’t move fast. Most of our forces will gather to the west, sweep down through the mountains, skirting the volcano. The rest will form a barrier between Etna and the route south along the coast. If we can drive them out onto the plain we can deal with them easily.’