The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  Lucius nodded, smiling, accepting as a compliment what the Greek had intended as a mild insult. ‘Might I suggest a walk in the night air, it has cooled somewhat now.’

  They were walking now, warm without being hot, at a slow pace set by Lucius, with the crickets numerous enough to make hearing difficult and the heady scent of the flowers filling their nostrils. ‘There is still a great deal to do, Cholon. Before that man tried to kill me I was preparing a motion to put before the house, which would have secured the rights of the patrician class for all time. It is a sad reflection on how diminished we are, that so many fled the city. I had to put aside all thoughts of introducing my Lex Faleria.’

  Cholon had several thoughts to contend with: if Lucius was being so open with him, perhaps his earlier fears were unjustified, but then this gaunt old man was a master of intrigue, so it could be just a ploy to trap him. One thought was paramount, however: he silently thanked the assassin, who had unwittingly done Rome a great service.

  ‘I’m surprised, in such circumstances, you decided to leave.’

  ‘At first I could not sleep,’ said Lucius, taking Cholon’s arm for support. ‘Worrying about how matters proceeded in Rome, but the further away I got from the city, the more I realised that things were out of my hands. Quintus has the responsibility now and since there is nothing I can do till I return to Rome, then conjecture is fruitless. Besides, it gives me a chance to see how he performs. After all, it is possible I may not live to see matters settled. It may well be that my motion will end up as the Lex Cornelia.’

  ‘A very stoical response,’ said Cholon with deep irony.

  ‘Let’s not start that again. I don’t think I have the energy for any more philosophy.’

  The old senator was tired; he had always been thin, now he looked cadaverous, the light from the oil lamps strung around the garden threw his gaunt features into sharp and skeletal relief and even the eyes, at this late hour, had lost their sparkle.

  ‘It still seems a strange step for you to take. Sicily is somewhat beneath your dignity.’

  ‘It may have appeared so at first, but according to the latest despatches, matters are getting steadily worse.’ The old man sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes. ‘Perhaps Silvanus was right. If we’d sent troops in the first place, we would have snuffed this thing out a lot earlier.’

  ‘You are weary, Lucius Falerius.’

  ‘I am indeed, Cholon, the wound still troubles me, yet here I am, faced with a delicate problem. I have stood in the Senate and caused the assembly to vote down the proposal to send troops and so has Quintus. It will look mighty odd, a request for soldiers, coming from me.’

  ‘If they are necessary…’

  Lucius let that go, too tired to explain the complexities: that it would do Quintus little good if his first major proposal in the house was one, originally, he and Lucius had so vehemently argued against. ‘There is one consolation. Perhaps at this late stage I will finally get to command an army.’

  ‘Would you like any advice on the standard you should aspire to?’

  ‘No,’ replied Lucius sharply, aware that Cholon would only use it as an excuse to praise his late master. ‘But I wonder if you would be so good as to call on me tomorrow. I might seek another sort of advice.’

  You are a Greek. They too are Greeks.’

  ‘That is an over-simplification, Lucius Falerius,’ replied Cholon. ‘I’m an Athenian. The slaves on Sicily are either Macedonian or boneheads from Asia Minor.’

  Lucius, looking refreshed from a good night’s sleep, waved that objection aside. ‘It is something I wish to try before calling on Rome to provide a legion. If I’m successful I can claim to have saved the Republic money and lives and if it makes any difference, the idea was brought on by something you said last night.’

  Again, Cholon had the feeling Lucius was being disingenuous, not prepared to fully explain his motives, but really he was grateful for that. Knights were bad enough, but the tendrils of senatorial politics were too baffling for him, nor could he think of anything he had said the night before that could cause the senator to propose such an idea. The offer was tempting, regardless of the element of danger, for he would be acting in the name of Rome, with the kind of authority, to make peace or war, once enjoyed by Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus. And, as he had said to Claudia, he had half a mind to go to Sicily and visit the temples, anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Aquila could not have been more wrong about Didius Flaccus; while he paid lip service to the idea of another attack on the rebels, his main interest remained in the yield from his own farms and he was not alone, which made the task of the governor that much harder. He had little true strength at his disposal; apart from a handful of Roman cavalry, most of the men under his command were locals, poorly trained, ill-equipped and badly led. Fine for guard duties, useless for battle with a growing force of rebels, if they could not be stiffened by a levy of veterans from the farms. The scheme for another sweep through the mountains had suffered from endless postponement, the actions of those who had pledged support beyond coordination. He had sent to Rome for the tenth time, requesting assistance, a plea which had again fallen on deaf ears. The city had too many other troubles to contend with; a few slaves running from their masters barely registered, especially since the owners had yet to see their profits severely dented by this insurrection.

  The news that he was to receive a senatorial representative, instead of soldiers, sent Silvanus into a towering rage, all the more potent for the fact that the person coming was Lucius Falerius Nerva. As a result of this missive, he sent off despatch after despatch, outlining the deteriorating situation while calling all his own militia back into barracks, so that the three separate bands were free to roam almost at will. They avoided places that had strong protection, which meant that Flaccus was left well alone, free to worry about the winter sowing. His irrigation ditches were finished, the land under cultivation increased by a quarter, so that he had nearly replaced his fallow sections, and since he had put women and children back to work in the fields, he had enough slaves to do the job for this year, aware that he would lose a percentage, those who could not do the work on the poor rations they were given to eat.

  The rain teemed down, soaking everyone, carried on a wind seemingly strong enough to quieten even Mount Etna. Aquila, slithering and sliding as his horse sought a foothold on the muddy tracks, urged speed. The sooner he could get these freed slaves under some form of shelter the better; weak from work, hunger, the strain of their escape and now this foul weather, many were already being carried. Surprised to see Gadoric at his rendezvous, he rode ahead, leaving the rest of his men to bring in their charges. There was no welcome in the Celt’s eyes and he beckoned Aquila away from the encampment so that they could speak privately. They dismounted and huddled in their cloaks under a tree, Gadoric eyeing the line of slaves shuffling into the camp.

  ‘We must stop for the winter.’

  Aquila cast an ironic look at the grey, cloud-filled sky. ‘We might be too late.’

  ‘I’ve tried to persuade Hypolitas but he won’t listen. He’s obsessed with freeing as many people as possible, even if we can barely feed them. He thinks the more we have the stronger we’ll be.’

  ‘Surely it’s your decision, Gadoric. You’re a free man now, you can stop this when you like.’

  The Celt ignored the barbed remark. ‘Tell that to Hypolitas. He’s not so keen to take my advice these days.’

  ‘I doubt he was ever keen.’

  The two of them looked at each other, one a tall, fully grown man, scarred from numerous battles, the other a golden-haired youth, nearly as tall but unscratched. Neither wanted to be the one to say what was on their minds: that the Greek was falling victim to his own rhetoric. Hypolitas was beginning to think of himself as invincible and in that mood had no desire to take advice from anyone.

  ‘If we can persuade Tyrtaeus to join with us, Hypolitas will have to give way. We
must find him and persuade him.’

  Aquila just nodded, unconvinced, and went off to see to his charges.

  It was still raining steadily when they found Tyrtaeus’s encampment. The rain ran off his arched back and down the flanks of the horse. Gadoric lifted his head to examine the throat, cut raggedly from ear to ear.

  ‘That’s what happens when you’re soft,’ snarled Pentheus, who, with grey hair plastered over his head, looked more like a corpse than his late leader. ‘He was like you, afraid to spill blood.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Aquila.

  Pentheus shrugged, as though what he had to say mattered little. ‘One of the guards had a knife. He wasn’t searched properly.’

  ‘Stay here,’ snapped Gadoric. ‘No more attacks till you hear from me.’

  Pentheus opened his eyes in surprise and he looked at Aquila with that deep, ingrained suspicion which was now habitual. He also looked as though he was about to protest, for as second in command, the leadership of this group would naturally devolve on him and with Aquila holding a similar position, his lack of years could not be held against him. Gadoric, towering over him, spoke first.

  ‘You’ll get your fill of fighting, Pentheus, never fear. Maybe a bit more than you really want.’

  Persuading Hypolitas was not easy. He saw himself as the sole cause of the banditti’s success, forgetting that he, personally, could not wield a weapon. Aquila was right when he had hinted that the man had fallen prey to his own speechifying, but those who surrounded him contributed too, slavishly agreeing with everything their leader said, often flattering him outrageously. Gadoric soon realised that the Greek would not yield for all the right reasons, so the Celt wisely decided to play him at his own game, painting a golden vision of a great slave army making stupendous conquests. Towns would open their gates, cities would offer tribute, not to slaves but to their leader Hypolitas, and Rome itself would tremble at his name, but all this would be jeopardised if they continued with piecemeal raids.

  To begin with Hypolitas made no attempt to hide his disdain for Gadoric’s most recent military advice but that changed inexorably as this image of personal greatness was outlined for him. His eyes, slightly raised, looked above the other man’s head at the sulphurous smoke rising from the distant, smoking volcano, just visible against the grey overcast sky, then they began to glaze over, as if he could see everything that was being offered quite plainly in his mind. His lips moved silently as Gadoric, in the tradition of his race, borrowed freely from one epic to create another. The Greek’s lips had started to move first, soon followed by his head, nodding at each imagined triumph. Gadoric ended up almost singing his tale, but he brought his voice under control, returning it to normality.

  ‘But to do all this we feed our men to make them strong. We must train them to fight properly, as a real army, or they will take the field as a rabble.’

  Aquila interrupted; he thought that Gadoric had gone too far, since Hypolitas was clearly harbouring dangerous God-like tendencies. This feeling was evident in his voice when he spoke, carrying, as it did, a hint of irony. ‘You wouldn’t care to have your name associated with a rabble, would you, Hypolitas?’

  The Greek came out of his near trance-like state to stare at the younger man and for the first time Aquila saw undisguised dislike. Then the eyes dropped to the gold charm at his throat, and the look changed to one of greed. Knowing that Hypolitas coveted it, Aquila took the eagle in his hand, wondering if he had spoilt Gadoric’s whole idea by that one mundane, slightly ironic comment, and the look his friend gave him certainly indicated that he had.

  ‘You are a wise man and such a man moves with care,’ he continued, trying to repair the atmosphere. ‘We must take a city, you have said so yourself. Which city? How will we attack it? How many men will we need? These things cannot be left to chance.’

  This string of questions brought matters to a head, since Hypolitas, even in his most deistic mood, knew that he was unqualified to made such judgements. Slowly, now without difficulty, he was forced to concede each point. He would stop the raids, except where there was a need to acquire food, initiate more training and set others to the forging of weapons. Gadoric, with Aquila and a small band of mounted men, would reconnoitre the various Sicilian cities and decide which one was most susceptible to attack.

  ‘Can we really take a city?’

  The question was asked as they gazed at the distant walls of Agrigentum. To Aquila they looked just as formidable as all the others he had seen these past weeks and even though he was at home in the saddle he was tired out by their endless travels. Not all the time had been spent in riding, or gazing at walls, a great deal had been expended talking to the local inhabitants, all of whom seemed to hold similar, unflattering opinions on the benefits of Roman rule.

  Here in the south, if they knew of the slave revolt around Messana, it barely registered. They had no suspicion that these well-fed, mounted men, who spoke near unintelligible Greek with such barbaric accents, were anything other than legitimate travellers, so they were free in their criticism of Rome, hankering for a golden age, long before the tutelage of Carthage, when the island had been ruled by the Greek oligarchy in Syracuse. And following on from that, Gadoric had gone off on his own to look at the landscape with the eye of the warrior he was. It was after one of those lonely excursions that they had come to this place. He acknowledged the question, smiled, and spoke quietly so that only the boy could hear.

  ‘Not by assault, Aquila. We’ve none of your Roman siege engines and the like to batter the walls, nor do we possess the skill to make them. But perhaps by negotiation.’

  The reply was larded with heavy sarcasm. ‘We’d like your city, please surrender?’

  Gadoric pointed past the walls they overlooked, his finger aimed towards the angry, grey-blue sea. ‘Agrigentum is the closest Sicilian city to Africa. It lies, unsupported, between two wide rivers, something which, if the local farmers are to be believed, has always made it vulnerable.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Any city under siege looks at the means of relief. Agrigentum is a port, so it should most easily come by sea. That was true when the city was Carthaginian, but where is the Roman fleet? Most likely scattered across the whole of the Middle Sea.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  ‘Any army coming by land has to cross an easily defended river, whichever route they choose.’

  Aquila cast his mind back to his childhood, to Clodius teaching him to swim, something every legionary was trained to do. ‘That won’t stop a Roman army.’

  Gadoric grinned at him. ‘What Roman army? Imagine you’re inside those walls, which are not as formidable as they appear from this distance. I know, I have looked. Lacking any credible threat, they’ve been left to rot. You’ve heard rumours of trouble in the north, a few slaves raiding and looting, then one morning you wake up and find a whole army camped on your doorstep.’

  ‘I don’t think you can yet call us a whole army.’

  ‘We will be by the time we get here. I intend to march south along the coastal plain, picking up every slave we can on the way.’

  Aquila looked at Gadoric with a degree of apprehension; had he also become a victim of his own vision? He made it all sound so simple, as if his potential opponents were people of little account, instead of the formidable legions that had conquered where they marched. It was a tempting dream, which would ease all their difficulties. Unfortunately his pride in Roman military prowess, deeply ingrained, would not allow him to share it.

  ‘And if the negotiations fail? What happens if you’re stuck outside the walls when the Romans arrive?’

  Gadoric fixed him with that solitary eye, his voice dropping again, and the words he used highlighted two facts: first, that the Celt had his feet firmly on the ground, and secondly, even as the closest of friends, they faced very different dilemmas.

  ‘Then we might as well fight, Aquila. We must go on because we cannot go back. Only you have that cho
ice.’

  Pentheus had moved his men back to the main camp, his first act being to get Hypolitas to confirm him as Aquila’s equal. From that position he set out to dominate the men left behind, and this was harder than his other task, which was to become the sole confidant of the leader. This he managed by raising the art of flattering Hypolitas to new heights. The Palmyran was increasingly seen in Pentheus’s company, nodding sagely as his companion outlined some point regarding the future management of the slave army. At every gathering the others would hear Pentheus repeat, to welcome applause, the same message.

  ‘Remember, Hypolitas, that you alone are our leader. We look to you, and no other, to guide us. You command and we obey.’

  Insidiously and assiduously he undermined Gadoric, not by belittling him but by praising him. Hypolitas could not fault the Celt’s military ability but the constant drip of Pentheus’s praise, liberally sprinkled with allusions to his superior, if unclouded genius, rapidly eroded any feelings Hypolitas might have had for the man with whom he had escaped. Pentheus, seemingly ever eager to please, subtly exploited this, gradually feeding the leader’s burgeoning ego.

  ‘Look at me, Hypolitas. I was no soldier. I was a farmer before I became a slave, yet I took up a spear and went out to fight. I may, modestly, claim some success.’

  ‘I hinted, to Gadoric, that I should do the same.’

  ‘And he said no! Perhaps he fears to risk your person?’

  The older man frowned at this and Pentheus did not add anything else; it was sufficient to let Hypolitas draw his own conclusions. Instead he seemed to change the subject.

  ‘I wonder if it is wise to do nothing at all for the whole winter. Will the Romans not see this as a sign of weakness, a sign that the rebellion has burnt itself out?’

  Word of their homecoming spread quickly and a sizable crowd gathered before they had dismounted. Hypolitas greeted the returning Gadoric like a long-lost brother, taking his arms with a smile, embracing him, then hauling him into his own hut. Aquila followed slowly, content to allow the two old comrades a moment alone. He looked around the camp, now a well-ordered affair, with scores of new huts replacing the makeshift wicker tents that had been there when they first arrived. A few of the men he had led pushed forward, eager to greet him, but the smile was wiped off his face when they told him what had happened, information that caused him to spin round and rush into the hut.