‘But they’ll never do that.’
‘No, I don’t suppose they will.’
‘But I’ve sent messages to the hunters to come; with them, your cavalry and the slave-keepers we’ll be able to defeat the rebels; they’re no more than a rabble.’
‘A rabble that has nothing to lose other than lives not worth living, which makes them the most dangerous of rabbles. Face it, Izebboudjen, it was unsustainable and you should have seen this coming and trained your people to defend themselves rather than allowing them to sit around in a heap all day doing nothing. It took a few crack legions to stop the Spartacus rebellion and what have you got? An overweight population who have everything found for them. Well, my friend, if there was ever a chance for them to show their quality then I would say that it’ll be tomorrow.’
Izebboudjen’s face registered just what he thought the chances of the citizens of Garama showing any quality were. ‘I beg you, Governor, please.’
‘No!’
A vengeful glint appeared in the chamberlain’s eye. ‘Very well.’ In response to his terse order his litter-bearers turned about and headed back towards the gates of the city, illumined by two torches flaring to either side.
An hour before dawn the eastern sky was glowing as if the sun were only just below the horizon; in the west it seemed as if it had recently set, such were the fires that now burned. Already, small groups of refugees, silhouettes running in the night, hurried towards the city gates, banging on them for admittance and then slipping through as their pleas were answered.
Vespasian paced about the entrance to the camp, glancing at the gates every time they were opened in the hope that he would see people exit but each time he was disappointed; the knot in his stomach grew. ‘Come on, Decianus,’ he said under his breath as the gates opened again for a group of a dozen or so fleeing the oncoming rage.
‘I’ll bet you never thought that you would be anxious to see Decianus,’ Magnus observed as Bolanus led his Numidian auxiliaries, filled water-skins over their mounts’ rumps, out of the camp to form up between it and the caravan that was now moving off down the winding track leading into the desert far below.
‘It’s a novel feeling,’ Vespasian confessed, thinking as much about the pearls as the citizens, as his lictors joined the Numidians in preparation to move out.
As the gates began to close, the refugees safely within, angry shouting came from the other side, followed by a couple of screams, one long and drawn out that faded into a gurgle.
Vespasian glanced at Magnus. ‘Was that what I thought it was?’
‘Yes, and why would someone get killed just as they entered the gates looking for some sort of safety? Unless, of course, they were trying to get out.’
‘That’s what I was wondering. I’ve a nasty feeling that we may have a treacherous chamberlain to deal with. Bolanus!’
The decurion turned in his saddle. ‘Yes, Governor.’
‘Have two dozen men dismounted and ready for action immediately, swords and shields only.’
It was with believable urgency that the Numidian trooper thumped on the city gates, calling out in the local language to be admitted. His comrades, armed with their straight cavalry spathae and small round, hide-covered shields, then joined in the chorus, howling for ingress as if they had been chased through the night by the Furies themselves.
Vespasian and Magnus waited, swords drawn, at the centre of the gates, with Bolanus just behind them.
The Numidians continued the clamour for admittance, their shouts increasing in volume until finally they were rewarded with the sound of the bar on the other side being removed. The left-hand gate began to swing back.
‘Now!’ Vespasian shouted, leaping through the gap with Magnus barrelling after him. Through they went, followed by Bolanus and his men, crashing into the gatekeepers as they heaved on the ancient wood, bowling them to the ground. Looking up the street, Vespasian saw a tangle of figures in the torchlight and accelerated towards it. Kilted figures, brandishing whips and daggers, at least a score in all, were struggling to hold back a large group of men and women; a few were prone on the ground, some completely still.
‘Vespasian! The slave-keepers won’t let us through!’
The voice was that of Decianus; the outline of his carriage could be discerned within the scrimmage.
The shout alerted the slave-keepers to the threat behind them; they turned to face it. But men used to dealing out punishment to the downtrodden and receiving little or no resistance in return were at a loss when faced with a concerted charge of professional soldiery and they could not run as they were penned by their potential victims.
Up the hill Vespasian charged, his chest burning with the exertion, Magnus in his wake, he too gasping for breath, as Bolanus and his younger, fitter, dismounted cavalrymen outpaced them. On they ran towards the visibly wavering slave-keepers; the sight of armed assistance put heart into the slaves they had been attempting to hold back. Tooth and nail ripped into the slave-keepers’ backs, hands clenched on throats, crushing with slow relish, as arms were flung about their chests, restraining them so that, as the first slashes and stabs of the Numidians’ swords tore at their bodies, the slave-keepers were helpless. Down they went in a whirl of brutality dealt to them from fore and aft as blade sliced open flesh and bloodied fingers tore at the gashes, ripping them still further.
Vespasian punched his sword forward, groin height, into a man desperately trying to shake off a slave clamped to his back with his teeth embedded in his neck; his wrist jerked as his blade’s tip ground against the pelvis but his grip remained firm. The scream that issued from the slave-keeper’s mouth rang in Vespasian’s ears, momentarily blocking out all other sound; he pressed the honed iron on into shredding guts as the slave wrenched his jaws away in an explosion of blood, ripping out a huge hunk of neck, his eyes maniacally wide with killing-joy. Pulling his arm up with all his strength, Vespasian cut through abdominal muscle, rending open the belly and releasing the stench of viscera. Next to him, Magnus ducked under a blurred swipe of a dagger, catching the wrist as it passed above his head to twist it down and back with sudden violence, ripping the elbow from its socket the instant before his forehead crunched into the owner’s face, punching the head back, open-mouthed and shattered-toothed.
Down the slave-keepers fell, slashed and torn; their erstwhile charges giving vent to the years of torment endured under their whips. Eyes gouged, hair ripped, flesh chewed, they succumbed to the wave of fury unleashed by the dispossessed regaining a modicum of control over their lives and avenging themselves on the cause of their deprivation, so that the swift death dealt by a thrusting blade was a mercy gratefully accepted.
‘Pull your men back, Bolanus!’ Vespasian yelled as spathae slashed into the slaves exposed by the demise of their keepers. ‘And make for the camp. We leave immediately.’
A repeated barked order cut above the mayhem and the Numidians pulled back, none of their number fallen. They turned and with haste headed back down the hill.
‘Follow them,’ Vespasian urged the released citizens in Latin, ‘fast as you can!’
The citizens did not need a second invitation and pelted after the Numidians, revealing Decianus’ carriage and the ex-procurator looking shaken but otherwise unharmed.
‘Izebboudjen has gone to fetch more slave-keepers,’ Decianus said as his driver whipped the mules on down the hill. ‘They won’t be long.’
Vespasian nodded, unwilling to thank Decianus for the information or, for that matter, even acknowledge that it was of use. He turned and, along with Magnus, ran back down the hill. The gates stood open and were deserted by the living. Only the dead remained, slumped, their limbs at strange angles; a group of refugees hurried into the town, their relief at seeking shelter shattered by the sight of death at its entrance. Vespasian and Magnus passed through the gates with Decianus’ carriage in close attendance. Before following the Numidians and citizens to the camp, Vespasian glanced back up
the hill: a mass of handheld torches was less than two hundred paces away and travelling fast; in their midst was the silhouette of Izebboudjen’s litter. Vespasian turned and ran.
The Numidians were mounted by the time Vespasian had traversed the four hundred paces to the camp; Hormus, already in the saddle next to the lictors, held Vespasian and Magnus’ mounts by their halters. They scrambled up as the rear of the merchant caravan disappeared into the darkness with the newly released citizens following.
To the east and to the west the fires had grown and now the glow was accompanied by the distant roar of thousands of voices shouting and cheering as more groups of refugees pelted in from the gloom, their comfortable world having been turned upside down.
‘Move out, Bolanus!’ Vespasian shouted as he steadied himself in the saddle.
Decianus’ carriage rumbled past, the driver whipping the four mules furiously, overtaking the Numidians. Vespasian, Magnus, Hormus and the lictors turned their horses and kicked them towards the head of the track that was the only north-facing route down from the ridge of hills.
‘I can’t say that any of us will be displeased to leave this shithole,’ Magnus opined, urging his mount onwards, with a nervous look over his shoulder; torches streamed through the gate, heading towards them. The slave-keepers were in pursuit.
‘They’d be mad to attack us,’ Hormus said. ‘They should bolt their gates and man the walls, not come out here; the main force of the rebellion can’t be more than a mile away, judging from the noise. They’ll be caught in the open.’
‘At least the slave-keepers will be between us and the rebels,’ Vespasian observed. ‘All we need to do is outpace them, which should be easy seeing as we’re mounted.’
‘We may be,’ Magnus pointed out, ‘but the citizens that we just got out of the city ain’t and neither are the ones that we sent on yesterday evening. And if I remember rightly, from my time under the Eagles, a column marches at the speed of its slowest component, not the fastest.’
Vespasian grimaced as dawn began to break, embellished by the handiwork of thousands of rampaging slaves. ‘I think you’ve recalled that quite accurately, Magnus. We’ve got a long day ahead of us and I—’ But his sentence was cut short by a thwack and his horse bucking, kicking out its back legs. As he struggled to control the beast he was aware of a couple of unseen objects fizzing past them. He turned his head, looking back in the direction of the slave-keepers: many of them were whirring their arms around their heads; he ducked involuntarily as another object passed close by. ‘Slings! Even at this range they can do damage.’
Magnus glanced back as he kicked his horse into a gallop. ‘Then it’s time to put some distance between us and them.’
But even as he spoke the sun crested the eastern horizon to reveal, in the distance, backlit, a swell of humanity.
The slave revolt had arrived at the city of Garama.
CHAPTER IIII
FELL WAS THE howl that greeted the dawn; for just as the rising of the sun had revealed the rebel host so had it illumined the object of its deepest hatred: the slave-keepers, distinctive, even in the pale light, in their leather kilts, stood before them in the open; almost two hundred of them.
Too late did they see the danger, intent as they were on carrying out Izebboudjen’s will and preventing the escape of Vespasian and his auxiliary cavalry and thereby compelling them to join with Garama’s small forces. Indecision split their ranks for there were two options, apart from standing to fight and thereby being ripped limb from limb: there was a rushed return to the gates that were, as yet, still open; or there was flight into the desert in the Romans’ footsteps. And as Vespasian looked back over his shoulder, past his mounted lictors, he saw the decision dividing them as those closest to the city turned and ran back whilst those nearest the fleeing Romans sprinted after them, all thoughts of bringing them down with slingshot now forgotten. So the rebel host also divided and the last image Vespasian had of Garama was of a portly chamberlain being run down by a baying mob as the slaves who once bore his litter blocked his escape towards the closing gates.
Vespasian, Magnus, Hormus and the lictors slowed their mounts, fearful of them losing their footing on the stony ground, and cantered away down the hill, easily outpacing the slave-keepers following. Before long they had caught up with the fleeing Roman citizens, bunching together as the track narrowed to no more than four paces across – its average width, Vespasian knew from the ascent, all the way down to the desert floor. Slowing their horses to a trot they attempted the passage through the terrified group who, by now, were well aware of the slave-keepers descending behind them. Hands grabbed at bridles, legs and saddles in attempts either to unhorse the riders or climb up behind them.
‘Piss off!’ Magnus shouted, drawing his sword and kicking a snarling man in the teeth who pulled at his tunic.
Vespasian and Hormus followed his example and slashed with the flats of their weapons at the desperate people around them, knocking a couple senseless in order to discourage the rest; the lictors were less sensitive and blood was spilt. Slowly they waded through the huddle, their passage pushing a few off the track to slide down the scree of the steepening drop, their cries unnoticed in the growing panic. Onwards Vespasian pushed, until his mount broke free of the citizens and he could see the rear ranks of the Numidians, half a mile along the winding track and two hundred paces below them, snaking to and fro down the steep hillside.
With care they urged their horses on as fast as they dared, while, from above, there came cries of anguish as the slave-keepers crashed into the rear of the citizens, their pursuit by the rebel slaves adding haste to their descent. With thoughts only of their own safety the keepers barged their way into the formation but, unlike Vespasian and his companions who had gone in single file, they occupied the full width of the track. Many of the citizens went down under the feet of their former tormentors, but they were the lucky ones as clouds of dust rising from the loose scree on the hillside marked the swift passage of those barged off the track. Down they tumbled, uncontrolled, their skin grating and their bones cracking on embedded rocks that threw them in the air to crunch down to yet more agony.
‘Shit!’ Magnus exclaimed as the body of a young woman, either dead or unconscious, her flesh raw, crashed down onto the track just next to him, almost thumping into his horse’s front legs. Pulling on the reins, he just managed to control the spooked beast before another, a youth, hurtled down in a flurry of gravel that hit as hard as hailstones, further unsettling the horses.
‘Quick!’ Vespasian shouted, kicking the flanks of his mount and looking up to the struggle; smoke from the fires above hazed the morning air. ‘We need to get out from under them.’ On he went, along the track, at a speed he would not have employed unless it were to get clear of danger.
Magnus, Hormus and the lictors followed after him as two more bodies rained down from above in a clatter of falling rock. With another turn back on itself the track began to descend even more steeply so that the horses were forced to slow to a walk as they struggled on the uneven surface, snorting freely with growing anxiety. But Vespasian did not let his control of his beast slacken and steadily it made its way down as shouts and screams still continued to emanate from the heights above, their intensity rising despite the fact that Vespasian and his companions were more distant.
‘The rebels have caught up with the slave-keepers,’ Magnus said, risking a quick glance above him. ‘That should slow them all.’
Vespasian did not look up as his horse negotiated another sharp twist in the track. ‘How many of the rebels are there?’
‘I don’t know; they seem to stretch all the way back up the hillside.’
Vespasian looked up to the rear of the Numidians, now only a couple of hundred paces ahead and just about to disappear around another bend; the third to last before they reached the desert floor. ‘If we can keep going we’ll outpace them as soon as we’re on level ground.’
The gradien
t lessened gradually, speed was acquired and very soon they caught up with the Numidians who were in turn held up by the lumbering caravan. Above, a battle raged but what its direction was none could guess as dust rising from pounding feet and the many bodies tumbling over the steep inclines screened most of the action. Some fugitives, former slaves, appeared from within the cloud, pelting down the track and often losing their footing in their haste; but of any leather-kilted slave-keepers there was no sign.
Vespasian moved through the ordered ranks of the Numidians with ease and drew up next to Bolanus at the front of the formation, now pressed up against the rearmost mounts of the merchants’ caravan. ‘As soon as we’re down we’ll move through the caravan and push on as fast as possible to catch up with the main body; I want to be sure that they’re leaving enough water for us at the dumps.’
Bolanus nodded and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Do you think that the rebel slaves are going to be happy staying here?’
‘I don’t think they’ll have much choice in the matter. Most won’t have anything to return home to even if they knew where that home was and how to get to it. And why risk leaving? They’ve got a good piece of land here and almost everything they need.’
‘But who will do the work?’ Magnus asked.
‘Ah! Thereby will lie the problem. I imagine that the first thing they’ll do is put any surviving Garamantes out into the fields but that won’t be nearly enough labour.’
‘So they’ll just go back to the old system, except there’ll be different people sitting around doing bugger all but it will still be known as the Kingdom of the Garamantes.’
Vespasian shrugged. ‘What do I care? We’re out and I’ve brought most of the Roman citizens with me.’
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