But Magnus did not respond to this assertion. Vespasian glanced at him and then looked to where he was staring, down at the desert floor in the lee of the cliff now made visible as they rounded the final bend. ‘Medusa’s unsponged arse!’
Magnus sucked the air through his teeth. ‘Did you just say that we were out?’
They looked down to where a unit of two to three hundred horsemen had formed up, four ranks deep, blocking the exit from the descent.
The hunters had come to prevent their leaving.
The caravan halted as the merchants registered the danger, completely blocking the path.
‘Move them out of the way, Bolanus!’ Vespasian ordered. ‘Get your cavalry through; we need to take those bastards head on and hard. They’re hunters not soldiers; charge straight into them.’
‘They’re still armed, though,’ Magnus muttered as Bolanus waded into the caravan, shouting and swearing at the merchants to move aside and let his men pass.
‘It’s pointless moaning about it seeing as, unless we go back up the hill and join in the chaos there, we’ve got to break through them.’ Vespasian looked back to where the battle still raged in the dust and then on up to the pall of smoke that now hung over Garama. ‘No choice, I’d say.’
Magnus grunted unwilling agreement as the Numidians began to filter through the caravan. A battle cry, long and fierce, rose from the hunters; the Numidians’ horses became skittish as they sensed the threat felt by their riders. Vespasian, Magnus and Hormus followed the tail of the Numidians; they cleared the caravan, passing Decianus in his carriage, and began to pick up speed as they descended the last few hundred paces along the track. At the head of the column, Bolanus rose in his saddle, javelin in fist, shaking it in the air and calling back to his men to follow him; the horn-blower gave a series of shrill blasts on his lituus. The Numidians responded with ululating cries; they followed their senior decurion’s lead and accelerated their mounts down the track to where the hunters awaited. But the hunters could do no more than wait, as to try to counter-charge would force them into the narrow confines of the track where their superior numbers would be of little account; so they could but watch as the professional soldiers hurtled towards them, gaining advantage from the incline. With nervous looks to one another the hunters hefted their javelins and, on an order from their leader, hurled them forward. But hurling a javelin uphill from a stationary horse is no easy affair and the velocity reached by the sleek missiles was nothing compared to that of the Numidians’ as they released their weapons. Down they rained upon the hunters, punching them from their saddles as they sat motionless, waiting for the inevitable rushing inexorably towards them along the narrow track that they thought they had sealed off.
A second storm of piercing hail fell amongst them an instant before contact was made. Slicing into man and beast alike, a swathe was cleared in the hunters’ ranks as men went down and horses bucked or bolted in terror or agony. As Bolanus’ mount almost shied at contact, the horse facing it, its nerves shattered, turned away, creating a gap into which the Numidians swarmed with little loss of momentum. And as they entered the hunters’ static formation so they expanded, left and right, into the chaos created in the wake of the two javelin volleys, ripping their cavalry spathae from their sheaths and bellowing rage at the tops of their voices. Down, across and up they slashed their blades, cleaving a passage through the heart of the enemy’s ranks as the hunters tried to wheel their horses away or defend themselves with parries and blocks. But these were men trained in the art of hunting and trapping, not war; these men had not spent day after day hacking at a wooden post, honing muscles and technique as had the Numidians. Through, the professional cavalry swept, in a frenzy of cuts, swipes and thrusts that pierced, dismembered and split open the panicking hunters. Blood exploded from deep rends and freshly carved stumps, spraying and slopping, its metallic tang registering in the senses of those splattered with it and adding to their battle-joy.
Shouting at his lictors to follow him, Vespasian, sword gripped in white-knuckled hand, swerved his mount left so that he did not follow the main bulk of auxiliaries into the hunters but, rather, raced along the fast-disintegrating front rank, slashing at the heads of horse and rider, opening them with arm-jarring cuts, leaving screeching beasts and howling men behind him for Magnus, Hormus and the others following to finish off.
Confusion now was rampant in the hunters’ ranks as they attempted to fight off or run from the enemy within their formation and then, at the same time, realising that they were being enveloped. Now what they had considered to be, because of their numbers, a foregone conclusion had become a massacre due to their military ineptitude, and they looked to escape; but to where? From the dust cloud up the hill the rebel slaves were emerging, victorious from their battle with the hated slave-keepers; death certainly lay in that route for the hunters as sure as it did in the opposite direction, the empty miles to the Empire’s border with the auxiliaries now reaping their lives, chasing them all the way to Leptis Magna. But frightened men want just to escape the cause of their fear and rather than try to go east or west, along the rough edges of the hill-range where shelter might have been found in caves or gorges, they fled directly away from the blades of their tormentors, out into the desert. And the Numidians followed, hacking at the haunches of the horses or hurling javelins in pursuit, bringing many more down in leg-thrashing agony as they too fled north to escape the rebel slaves swarming down the hill towards the stationary caravan.
Too late did the merchants notice the threat closing on them from above, transfixed as they were by the spectacle of the hunters’ defeat still playing out before them. With worried cries they tried to get their mounts and pack-animals up to speed, but they were still in the narrow confines of the track; horse blocked horse and the caravan did no more than lumber forward. Only Decianus, his driver frantically whipping all those around him, managed to get his four-mule carriage going as he had been positioned at the front of the caravan; on he went, down the hill as, to cries of despair, the rest of the caravan was enveloped by escaped slaves with an unsated love of vengeance. The merchants disappeared in a frenzy of hate and with them went the provisions that Vespasian had relied on for the journey.
Cursing at the loss, Vespasian slashed his sword at the neck of a fleeing hunter, almost severing the head; he urged his mount on, through the disintegrating enemy formation, out into the desert, away from the chaos of Garama. All around him the Numidians were dealing out bloody massacre as they surged through the hunters whose cries to their gods rose to the heavens, unacknowledged by the deities who this day had abandoned their people to a hideous fate in a kingdom turned upside down.
‘Vespasian! Vespasian! Don’t leave me!’ The voice was desperate and insistent.
Vespasian turned in the saddle to see Decianus a hundred paces behind, his mules struggling to pull the carriage over rough ground, no matter how much the driver whipped them. But, despite the payment for his passage being still outstanding, Vespasian was not about to go to the ex-procurator’s aid even though the rebel slaves had overwhelmed the caravan and were now swarming out onto the desert floor. As Vespasian turned away, Decianus punched a dagger into his driver’s ribs, threw him from the vehicle and took up the reins himself. The carriage, lighter now, became less of a burden to the unfortunate beasts hauling it and they sped up, sweat frothing from them, enough to outpace the rebel slaves behind.
‘That’s a shame,’ Magnus observed, kicking his horse on after Vespasian. ‘I’d have enjoyed watching Decianus make the acquaintance of the objects of his system.’
Vespasian squinted against the copious amounts of dust kicked up by the cavalry ahead of him. ‘And I’m sure they would have been equally as thrilled, but that’s not to be.’ Hiding his relief at the ex-procurator’s survival thus far, he gave another glance over his shoulder; with no chance of catching any more victims to tear apart, the rebel slaves halted, unwilling to venture further into the desert
now that they had a kingdom of their own.
The surviving hunters turned left and right, realising, finally, that their best chance of survival was not to run, like frightened rabbits, straight before the pursuer, but rather to try to avoid him. Thus did the Numidians lose contact with them as they steered their course north, towards the first of the water dumps that Vespasian prayed still contained amphorae filled with that precious liquid.
But it was not water that caused Vespasian and the Numidians to halt just an hour later as the sun began to burn in earnest; it was blood. Above the heat haze, vultures circled, descending in languid spirals as more flew in, drawn by the scent of death, from their high places in rocky outcrops.
‘I think I can guess what’s attracting them,’ Vespasian muttered, squinting as shapes began to materialise out of the shimmer that veiled the distance.
‘The question is: how many?’ Magnus said as the first shape resolved into a slumped body.
And there were many: at least a couple of hundred, Vespasian reckoned, lying dead on stony ground; a banquet of carrion.
‘Most of them seem to have been struck down from behind,’ Bolanus observed as, leading their horses, they passed the first dozen or so corpses.
Hormus placed a toe underneath a young boy’s shoulder and heaved him onto his back; sightless eyes gazed up at the scavenging birds that would soon feast on them. ‘The citizens who left last night?’
Vespasian shrugged. ‘Who else could it be?’ He looked around in all directions; it was as if the column had scattered. ‘But not all of them were killed; only about a half, I’d say; there can’t be more than two hundred or so bodies.’
‘Well, it’ll help with the water issue,’ Magnus pointed out as they moved on through the sea of corpses.
‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose; but it hasn’t helped with the problem of supplies: they’ve all had their provision bags taken. The real question is who did this?’
‘The hunters?’
‘They could have but, as we’ve seen, they’re not the best of fighters.’
‘But all they had to do was run down unarmed people on foot.’
‘Unarmed people who were protected by two turmae of Bolanus’ cavalry. Look at the bodies and what do you notice?’
It was Hormus who noticed it first. ‘There are only freed slaves, master.’ He pointed over Vespasian’s shoulder. ‘And a couple of Numidians.’
‘Exactly. Where are the bodies of the hunters, because some of them must have died and I don’t imagine that the survivors took their dead comrades back with them? And, besides, these people left last night; this is about three hours from their starting point. This happened in the dark; if it was the hunters, then why did they wait until they were out in the open desert, where people can run off into the night, as many evidently did, before attacking? Surely it would have been better to have taken them where they tried to take us just now? No, I don’t think that it was the hunters.’
‘Then who was it?’ Bolanus asked, although his look and tone betrayed the fact that he suspected he knew the answer.
‘I think what you suspect may well be true, Bolanus, as there are a couple of your men lying out here.’
‘But they had two decurions with them; Roman citizens. Trustworthy men. They wouldn’t massacre their own.’
Vespasian spread his hands. ‘Then you explain what happened, because I can’t.’
Magnus heaved himself back onto his horse, groaning with the effort. ‘Well, whatever happened, standing around in this heat, chatting about it ain’t going to help matters. We better get going because if the Numidian auxiliaries ain’t behaving themselves then I’d say that the chances of them leaving enough water for us at the first dump are negligible and we’re not carrying enough to get us all to the second dump. We’d better get after them and show them exactly how we feel about that.’
Vespasian could but agree. ‘And we can only do that by keeping going day and night.’ He remounted, looking about with a growing sense of unease, his eyes eventually falling on Decianus, still driving his carriage, and realised that pearls were of no use to a man dying of thirst in the desert. ‘I shouldn’t have waited for Decianus to get the citizens from the city.’
It was Magnus’ turn to agree. ‘In that they’re all dead now anyway? Of course you shouldn’t have, and besides it would have given you the chance of leaving without that slippery shit; because I can guarantee you that it’ll be a lot worse than any thanks that you get for saving his miserable hide, if you take my meaning?’
Looking at the ex-procurator who had just happily murdered his driver to save his own life, Vespasian muttered: ‘I do, Magnus, I do; perhaps we should try and lose him along the way.’
‘Not before he’s paid you what he promised, though; and I hope it’s a decent amount.’
Vespasian tried but failed to conceal his surprise.
‘It was obvious: why else would you have let him come along?’
*
The way back was far more arduous than the outward journey; even though it was the exact same route and completely flat. It was the haste that they needed to maintain in order to run down the very real threat to all their lives travelling ahead of them. On the outward journey they had been able to travel at a leisurely pace and so conserve water but this time they drove their mounts hard and were forced to give the best part of the water they carried to the animals. It was with parched throats that they welcomed the setting of the sun.
‘We keep the north star directly ahead of us,’ Bolanus explained as the swift desert dusk matured into night. ‘That’s how the caravans do it. There’ll be an almost full moon rising later so we should be able to keep up a good speed. With luck we’ll reach the first dump soon after dawn.’
‘If it’s still there,’ Magnus said, his tone more than stating his pessimism in the matter.
‘If it’s not still there,’ Vespasian said, trying to hide his irritation at his friend’s gloom, ‘then we’ll just have to make it to the next one.’
‘If that’s still there.’
‘Magnus!’
Magnus made a bold attempt to look contrite. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, sir; not good for morale and that sort of thing. I’ll spend the rest of the night-march praying to all the gods that the dump is still there; if they’re still there, that is.’
But either Magnus’ prayers were ignored by the gods or they really were not still there; either way it was a depressing sight that greeted them at the second hour of the day as they arrived at the first dump. It was not just the hundreds of amphorae that had been filled with water but were now in shards, nor the bodies, strewn around the dump, that caused the most anxiety; it was the two headless corpses that had evidently been executed rather than killed in a melee.
‘They were good men,’ Bolanus said as he looked at the severed heads of his two former decurions.
Vespasian shook his head, puzzled. ‘Why did they wait until they got here to kill them? Their men must have overpowered them back at the original massacre; why not murder them there?’
‘I don’t know; but what I do know is that I’ll castrate whoever was responsible.’ Bolanus turned to his men who were muttering to one another about the grim sight. ‘Get them buried and do it decently.’
As the graves were being dug with swords, Vespasian knelt amongst the broken earthenware; he scooped up a handful of sand, rubbing it through his fingers. Frowning, he looked up at Magnus. ‘It’s moist.’
Magnus spat. ‘The bastards! They destroyed what they couldn’t take.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘To ensure that they get back, whatever happens, and that no one can come after them with nasty tales of murdering Roman citizens, I assume.’
‘But there was no need to kill anyone; we had enough water to get back.’
The strain on Vespasian’s countenance became even greater. ‘It would have been very tight; some
wouldn’t have made it.’
‘Governor!’
The shout made Vespasian turn, looking east. From behind an outcrop of rock two figures emerged.
‘Governor, it’s me, Marcus Urbicus, optio in the Third Augusta.’
‘Urbicus,’ Vespasian muttered to himself, recalling the slave that he had met on one of the farm complexes.
‘We were waiting for you, Governor,’ Urbicus said as the two men neared. ‘Although we didn’t think that you would be this close behind.’
‘What happened here, Urbicus?’
‘It was that fucking slave-keeper.’
‘Nepos?’
Urbicus tried to spit but his mouth was dry. ‘Yes, that bastard.’
‘How did it start?’
‘Well, as we were going down the hill, me and my mates – I found four of the lads that I’d been sold into slavery with up at Garama.’ He pointed to his companion, not yet out of his teens but hard and muscular with expressionless dark eyes; the eyes of one who has endured. ‘This is Lupus.’
Vespasian nodded at the man, thinking him well named.
‘Anyway,’ Urbicus continued, ‘me and my mates were at the front of the column seeing as we were amongst the fittest, so that we were right behind the escort cavalry, and we saw Nepos walking next to them, talking to them all in turn. Well, I didn’t think much of it and I didn’t hold it against him that he had been a slave-keeper, I mean, who wouldn’t if they were given the chance? Any of us certainly would; better to inflict suffering on others than to have it inflicted on yourself, I think you’d agree?’
Vespasian could not fault the argument, especially when the suffering inflicted in the Kingdom of the Garamantes was so severe. ‘Quite.’
‘Anyhow, Nepos stayed with them all the way down to the desert floor and then on as we followed the north star. And then suddenly they weren’t there any more.’
‘Who wasn’t there?’
‘The Numidian cavalry; they just rode off. All of them, except their two decurions who seemed as puzzled as us and could do nothing to stop them. Nepos was still there but he said he didn’t know what they were doing. Well, it didn’t take long before we found out where they had gone as from the end of the column came shrieks; we were under attack. I thought it was the hunters at first but then it became apparent that it was our own escort.’
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