The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Time to find out,’ shouted Titus, who had studiously ignored the man trailing him, though the constant presence, like an itch you could not scratch, had annoyed him greatly. He kicked his horse and headed straight for him, followed by Marcellus and the rest of his men.

  Aquila watched them for a moment; they were aimed at him like an arrow, with the billowing clouds of dust raised by their hooves adding to the effect of their streaming red cloaks. He hauled his horse’s head round, and calmly trotted off the ridge. Only when he was out of sight did he kick the mount into a gallop, heading for the deep ravines that furrowed the foothills of the mountains surrounding Agrigentum. Losing his pursuers was simple.

  ‘A fleet is the first priority,’ said Titus. ‘We must commandeer ships from Rhegium and Neapolis. Anything will do, just as long as we can man them with proper soldiers.’

  Lucius listened carefully, his face drawn; still feeling the effects of his chest wound, the journey had not been kind to his health. ‘You fear they will seek allies?’

  ‘It’s what I’d do, Lucius Falerius. There are enough people on the coast of North Africa that still hanker after a strong Carthage. We may have razed the city, but I’m sure the dream persists and we can’t be sure how far afield they’ll go. The thought of conquering Sicily will appeal to more than one of our enemies.’

  Lucius turned to his son. ‘It is central to Roman policy, Marcellus, that no other power holds Sicily, remember that. The whole of Italy becomes vulnerable if we allow such a thing to happen.’

  ‘Yes, father,’ he replied.

  ‘What I’m saying, Lucius Falerius, is that there is no time to consult Rome.’

  ‘Consulting Rome would be a waste of time, anyway, even though it must be done, but any legions we can muster will get here too late.’ Titus frowned, wondering what Lucius was talking about, but enlightenment followed swiftly. ‘What chance is there of a decent harvest coming out of Sicily in the present circumstances?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Well, Marcellus, what do we deduce from that?’

  Having been away from his father, Marcellus had lost the habit of being prepared for searching questions, yet the answer came easily enough, having already occurred to him. More and more he found himself assessing a situation as Lucius would, often surprising himself by the complexity of his conclusions.

  ‘Disquiet in Rome as the price of grain rises. They may have to cut the corn dole in the spring and that will certainly cause riots. As soon as news reaches the city that the situation demands a consular army to subdue the slaves, those who have grain will start hoarding it, so we won’t have to wait for the actual shortages. Riots could break out just as we’re trying to raise the legions. It is absolutely certain that our allies will suffer from increased prices first, so they won’t wish to denude their farms to provide us with auxiliary troops when they need every man to be busy at his plough.’

  ‘Untidy, Marcellus, though accurate,’ said Lucius. ‘You really must work on the way you arrange the presentation of your conclusions.’

  For all the acidity, it was plain he was pleased with his son; it was in his eyes as he turned back to talk to Titus. ‘That infernal corn dole is the real problem; ever since it’s been in place, more and more ragged-arsed scum have poured into the city to claim it. Anyone who tried to reduce it, or remove it, would be strung up. Worse than that, anyone who promises to sustain it, regardless of the cost to the treasury, can have any office they want. The mob will vote for bread today and damn tomorrow.’

  ‘I am lost,’ said Titus. ‘I won’t pretend I don’t understand the politics of Rome, but I can really only see a military problem requiring a military solution.’

  ‘Let us first see if we can find another way.’ Titus looked even more bewildered. ‘I met that Greek in Neapolis, the man who served your father.’

  ‘Cholon?’

  ‘He has undertaken a little errand for me. We shall wait till he returns, before we alert the Senate to the scale of the problem.’

  Cholon had no difficulty in entering the city of Agrigentum, being clearly no threat, a wealthy traveller on a litter with eight attendants. Four carried him; the rest carried another open litter, which held his possessions. He was, of course, stopped at the gate and asked his business.

  ‘Why have I come here? Are you mad, fellow? Right now this must be the most interesting place in the whole of the Middle Sea. Great events, man!’

  ‘You’ve come to see the King of the Slaves?’ said the guard, with obvious delight.

  ‘I was not aware of any kingship. I am familiar with the name of a Palmyran Greek called Hypolitas.’

  ‘One and the same person, sir.’

  ‘So, fellow, he aspires to the diadem. I must gaze upon this King, considering he has made Rome shudder. I would dearly like to speak with him. Is he accessible?’

  ‘None more so, your honour. No airs and graces attach to our King. He remembers that he was a slave, just like the rest of us.’

  ‘He is acknowledged by all then?’ asked Cholon.

  The guard leant forward and Cholon tried not to flinch at the man’s stink. ‘Locals don’t bend the knee, but they will. All it needs is an assembly so that he can be acclaimed. A few prods from our spears will do the trick.’

  ‘It sounds as if this is already arranged.’

  The guard half-turned, then winked, with all the subtlety of a poor stage comedian. Clearly the man was looking for a coin. ‘When will this assembly take place?’ asked Cholon, reaching for his leather purse.

  ‘Tomorrow noon.’

  ‘Could you secure me a good place from which to watch?’

  ‘I can that, sir, though not till my duty is done. One of the men who guards our King is a friend.’

  Cholon slipped the man two silver denarii, which he palmed expertly. ‘Take this, fellow. One for you and another for your friend. If he asks who wishes a good view, say that a wealthy traveller from Athens, by the name of Cholon Pyliades, seeks a sight of this paragon. I will rest at the Temple of Diana.’

  That presented even less of a problem than entry into the city; the normal source of donations to the temple had dried up since the slaves arrived. Wealthy men, fearing the future, hoarded their money and dressed in rags. Cholon was more than merely welcomed, he was feted and the priests, like priests everywhere, seemed happy to grovel for a few coins, dropped noisily into their finely wrought Corinthian salver. He was happy; bribable Greeks were so much easier to deal with than sententious Romans. Mind, Lucius Falerius had practically given him proconsular power, so sour remarks regarding Roman faults had been avoided of late. He wondered what Titus and the Lady Claudia would say if they could see him now.

  Claudia had never thought of her life as restricted until the problems associated with searching for her lost child surfaced. Aulus had left her independent, but that did not release her from the natural constraints attendant upon any woman, let alone one of a noble family, and she could not just travel around the country like a man, asking questions. While her husband had lived such an extended search as she was now planning was impossible. The short excursion she had taken, and her talk with the midwife who had delivered her baby, had been fruitless. After Thralaxas Claudia had pinned her hopes on Cholon and she refused to accept that her son was dead, as Cholon insisted he must be, so she combed his words, which were etched on her memory, for clues. The Greek had mentioned a road; the child had been placed in woods far from some highway. Such roads were not numerous and there had been even fewer when the boy was born.

  ‘A map, Lady? asked Thoas, who had never seen or heard of such a thing.

  ‘Yes.’ Claudia explained, first what they were and how she thought the slave could get one. ‘If you cannot find someone who sells such things, there must be maps in the Temple of Juno Moneta.’

  The slave repeated the name slowly. He knew the place, a wooden structure at the summit of the Capitoline Hill, next to the building where they minted c
oins. He had often looked at it, wondering if it was possible to dig a tunnel from one to the other.

  ‘I am a slave, lady, and no worshipper of your Gods. Can I go into such a place with this request?’

  ‘This is Rome, Thoas. Even a slave is allowed to worship in our temples. I will give you something to pay the priests, plus a written request that any map be entrusted to you.’

  Quintus Cornelius now found himself working as hard, if not harder, than Lucius had done in the past but he was happy, for he wanted nothing more in life than to be the leading man in Rome. He would need a military victory to ensure that, but given sufficient prestige, he could pick and choose his Consular year and thus his campaign. He was in a happy mood as he made his way from his bedroom to his study, for once leaving his mouse-wife with a delighted smile on her face.

  It never occurred to Thoas that his mistress’s stepson would want to work so late and he had checked, listening as Quintus and his wife noisily made love. Odd that such a meek creature should be such a screamer in bed! She had exhausted her husband by the sound of it, so he was out of the way for the night. Apart from them, the entire house was fast asleep. The lamplight in the study first alerted Quintus, so he approached the door cautiously, then the rustling of the papers alarmed him. After what had happened to Lucius Falerius, he never travelled anywhere without a long-bladed knife. Since he did not share a room with his wife, he was dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing all day, including the weapon, so he pulled it out now, eased himself through the open door, and saw his mother’s Numidian slave rifling through the scrolls in his tall map cupboard.

  The thought that the man was a fool was the first thing that entered his mind: there was nothing of value amongst those maps. It was unlikely he could read, so he had tried the wrong cupboard but that did not alter the fact that Thoas was trying to steal something from his papers and there was only one way to deal with such a thing. The Numidian was tall, muscular and could prove a difficult opponent. This was no time to take a chance.

  Thoas started to turn as Quintus stabbed him, which meant the blade took him in the side of his leg rather than the back, and in turning he added effect to the sideways motion that Quintus used, tearing his thigh muscles even more than the senator had intended. Quintus was a soldier, as adept in the martial arts as any of his contemporaries. The left-handed punch hit the slave on his open mouth, removed several teeth, and killed the sound that Thoas had started to make. Quintus kicked his other leg from under him and dropped, with his knees thudding onto the slave’s chest as he hit the floor. Then the knife was at the Numidian’s throat.

  ‘Make a sound and I’ll take out your gizzard.’

  Terror made Thoas’s eyes look white against his dark skin, fear made him gurgle, the knife pressed into his throat made him stop. The slave’s mind was racing, since there seemed no way out of the trouble he was in. Then he had an idea. It would be pointless to plead mercy on the grounds that he was acting on Claudia’s behalf, but what about Lucius Falerius Nerva? Everyone in Rome was afraid of Lucius and gossip in the wine shops had it that this included Quintus Cornelius, so when the question came, he gave the answer that he thought would save him.

  They found his body in a street leading to the market-place, the throat sliced open. Rome at night was a lawless enough place for murder to be commonplace and Thoas, who was much given to staying out drinking in places he could not afford, spending money he should not have, on women he could never hope to get, had met a deserved end, probably at the hands of someone jealous of his attentions to his paramour. Claudia, as a favour to help her heartbroken maid, paid for a funeral for the Numidian, even though she did wonder what he was doing out at that hour. Even more mysterious was the way that Quintus, without a word of explanation, handed her the note she had written out for the priests at the Temple of Juno

  Moneta. As he did so, her stepson cursed himself again for that moment of blind fury, when he heard the name Lucius Falerius. That had made him slice the man’s throat without asking him what he was looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was immediately obvious that the slave army, despite the promises of their leader, had taken over the city. The guard at the gate had been an ex-slave and the entrance to the palace, normally the meeting place of the local oligarchy, was also guarded by runaways, simple questioning establishing that it was now the sole residence of the ‘King of the Slaves’. Cholon waited, in a very privileged spot, as the crowds gathered and watched this paragon emerge into the square before the palace. He was surrounded by his advisers, one of whom, a tall blond fellow with a single eye, towered head and shoulders above his leader. The crowd, now a dense mass of bodies, who had gathered for a mere glimpse of this man, erupted into wild and unrestrained cheering.

  Hypolitas was still thin, just as bald with the same wild eyes, but he had shed his simple smock for more elaborate garments, made of finer materials. He wore jewellery on his wrists and neck and the way he carried himself, the gestures he used to acknowledge the cheering, made it easy to imagine him wearing a diadem. The speech, to Cholon’s ears, was less impressive, but he was prepared to admit to himself that bias could play a part in his judgement. The ritual with the fire, shooting out of Hypolitas’s mouth, to form a great ball above his head, certainly stunned the crowd, even those runaways who had seen their leader perform this magic before. Then came another speech full of messages of peace and brotherhood, which ended with six white doves flying out from Hypolitas’s sleeve.

  As soon as the assembly was over Cholon composed his request. The leading priests from the Temple of Diana, who would add their voices to his plea for a private audience, would deliver this. Discretion had to be exercised if he was to keep his head on his shoulders, but the relish he took in his new role was undiminished by the danger. His impression of the man he had seen, that morning, contrasted greatly with the little information available to Lucius and the Romans.

  That hinted at some person, near God-like in his simplicity, a man beyond avarice, yet he sensed that he was, in his fine clothes and flashing jewels, not like that. The apparent magic with the flames might impress an ignorant crowd, but it did not have the same effect on him, since he was sure he knew how it was done. If anything convinced Cholon that he could talk, profitably, with Hypolitas, it was the way he had accepted the accolade ‘King’, shouted from numerous throats. There was no attempt to curtail this, no modesty, more an apparent welcome in the eyes and an acknowledgement in the gestures that such a title was nothing less than his rightful due.

  The message he sent had to be couched in language that hinted, discreetly, at the nature of his mission. If, indeed, this Hypolitas was an upright man his request would meet with a blank refusal. The venal priests, accepting the largesse that he bestowed with ill-concealed greed, listened carefully as, verbally, he outlined his instructions. Nothing that could compromise him, or the recipient, could be committed to paper.

  ‘Say that Cholon Pyliades, a native of Athens, an ex-slave yet also a citizen of Rome, seeks private audience. I would speak with the King of the Slaves personally and alone. Take care to acknowledge his majesty, since he relishes the title. You may say that I bear an offer from the chosen representative of the Roman Republic, one that will guarantee him and those he leads, peace, life and prosperity. I exert no pressure for this meeting and I am willing to depart without it, sure that the fates have already laid out the future course of events. Perhaps his enterprise will prosper, perhaps every road in Sicily will be lined with crucifixes. As a Greek and an ex-slave, I can sympathise. As a Roman citizen, I am only too aware of the power available to that state.’

  He looked around the assembled priests. Well-fed men of few real scruples, they would accede to only two things: power and money. He tossed the purse, full of gold, in his hand.

  ‘They have a saying about the Romans. When they sack a city, they are very thorough, they even slaughter the animals.’ He raised his head and look
ed around the rafters of the wooden temple. The way the priests shuddered convinced him it was enough. ‘They will come and they will burn and be assured, the Romans will kill every man, woman and child in Agrigentum if this revolt is allowed to continue. Hypolitas is bound to ask you, as augurs and priests, for a prediction. You will tell him that you see this temple a smoking ruin, the city razed to the ground, the plain before the walls a mass of dead. Do that, and I promise you that this wooden structure will be replaced by a larger one, made of the finest stone.’

  ‘How much did you pay the priests for that doom-laden prophecy?’ asked Hypolitas.

  Cholon raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Pay? I’ve given them something for my lodging.’

  ‘I think you lie.’ Hypolitas, lounging, like Cholon, on a gilded divan, put no emphasis in the words, but he sought to hold Cholon’s gaze with those compelling eyes.

  Cholon replied smoothly. It was no business of envoys to show temperament, even at personal insults. ‘If you’re convinced of that, I fear no words of mine will sway your opinion.’

  ‘So Rome is afraid of me?’

  ‘That could be a fatal assumption. It would be more accurate to say that Rome is cautious. You have succeeded, Hypolitas, but only up to a point.’

  The Palmyrian Greek was prepared to play the same game. If he was angry, he kept it in check.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Rome cannot grow enough food in Italy. Too much of the land has been given over to rearing cattle, so it depends on Sicily for grain. If that crop is less than normal…’ Cholon tailed off with a shrug, sure that his host knew the rest as well as he did.

  ‘I have offered to supply grain, quite possibly more than Rome receives now. All the grain you need, as long as we are left alone. Get the Romans out of Sicily, and leave the slaves. It’s very simple.’

  ‘What a tempting prospect,’ said Cholon, wearily. ‘Yet you know it cannot be. You are, after all, no fool, Hypolitas.’