The Gladiator (21 page)

‘Another toast?’ Macro raised his cup. ‘Indeed.’ Sempronius laughed. ‘To success.’ Their cups clattered together and then the senator turned to Cato.

‘What? Not joining in? Raise a cup, Cato.’ Cato forced a smile. ‘If you say so, sir. To success.’ He drank, then lowered his cup. Julia squeezed his hand. ‘Why the long face?’ ‘I’m not sure.’ Cato shrugged. ‘Force of habit, I suppose. I just can’t help feeling that we’ve not seen the back of our problems here.’ Julia looked disappointed. ‘And there I was, taking you for an optimist, full of the joys of youth.’ ‘I’m young enough,’ Cato conceded. ‘But I have seen more of this world than most men my age, and many who are much older. Something tells me we’re not through this yet.You mark my words.’

‘It’s a fucking javelin, not a bloody crutch!’ Macro bawled into the auxiliary’s ear as he savagely kicked the butt away. T h e javelin clattered down, and with a gasp of surprise the exhausted soldier lost his balance and crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust.

‘What now?’ Macro bent over the man, hands on hips, as he continued to shout. ‘Asleep on my parade ground! You ‘orrible little man. Who do you think I am, your bleeding mother come to wake you in the morning?’ He kicked him in the ribs. ‘On your feet!’

Macro snapped upright and continued down the length of the century, which had just returned to the parade ground after he had taken them for a run twice round the city. Having witnessed the fate of the first man in the line, the others hurriedly shuffled to attention, chests heaving as they held their javelins and shields tightly to their bodies and stared straight ahead. Macro, in the chainmail vest, greaves and helmet he had taken from the stores of the Twelfth Hispania, was in far better shape than the men, and breathed easily as he strode down the first line, inspecting the Macedonians with a contemptuous expression. The only man amongst them with the kind of spirit he wanted to see was Atticus, who had turned out to be one of the best recruits Macro had ever encountered: tough, and with a natural talent with weapons. Macro had already earmarked the Greek for promotion to optio.

‘I’ve seen a sewing circle ofold women who looked more warlike than you lot! You are pathetic. How in Hades can you look so clapped out after a nice little trot like that? Right then, after javelin practice we’ll do it again, and if any man falls out, or fails to stand properly to attention when we get back here, I will kick his arse so hard he’ll be coughing his balls up. So help me.’

Macro reached the end of the line, pivoted round and pointed out the ten straw figures fastened to stakes thirty paces away. ‘There’s your target, one section to each. Ifyou can’t hit a still target like that on a nice neat parade ground then you are going to be no fucking use to me on a battlefield soaked in blood and covered in bodies.You will throw yourjavelins until every man has scored five direct hits. I don’t care how long it takes, because I am a patient man and nothing makes me happier than the prospect of spending all evening at javelin practice. Form section lines!’

The men hurriedly shuffled into position. Most sections had fewer than eight men, as some had been lost in the earthquake and others were sick or injured.

‘First man!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Make ready your javelin!’

The leading man in each line stepped forward, grasping the javelin in an overhead grip and swinging the throwing arm back.They were using light javelins, more slender than the standard weapon that sometimes doubled as a spear. Macro waited until every man was ready and had had a brief chance to take aim.

‘Loose javelins!’

With a grunt each man stepped forward and hurled his javelin. They arced through the air towards the targets. There was a brief explosion of straw on two of the dummies; three went wide and five failed to make it even as far as the targets.

Macro folded his arms and glared at the men who stood empty- handed. He took a deep, calming breath before he called out, ‘That was the most miserable display I have ever seen! Your best chance of survival on the battlefield would be to make the enemy die laughing at your utterly shit efforts. To the back of the line, ladies. Next rank!’

As the practice session wore on, the men failed to improve to anything close to the standard that Macro required of them, much to his exasperation. It was one thing to threaten to keep them at it until they got it right; quite another to have to endure it alongside them. Some of the men were adept with the javelin, most could hit the target half of the time and a handful were so hopeless that Macro feared they would have missed the dummies even if they stood within spitting distance.

At length he saw Cato making his way out ofthe nearest city gate and heading towards the parade ground. They exchanged a salute as Cato joined his friend. As another wave of missiles mostly missed their targets, Cato clicked his tongue.

‘Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch as an instructor.’

‘Ha fucking ha,’ Macro grumbled. ‘What are you here for? Assume you didn’t come out here just to take the piss.’

‘As if ‘Anyway, you’re no bloody good with a javelin. Seem to recall that you nearly skewered me that time in Germany’

‘I was just a raw recruit then,’ Cato responded defensively. ‘I’ve mastered it now, of course.’

‘Really?’ Macro’s eyes twinkled. He turned towards his men. ‘Ladies! I am delighted to announce that we have a proper soldier here who is only too happy to show you the art of javelin throwing.’

‘Macro . . .’ Cato growled.

‘You there!’ Macro pointed to the nearest man. ‘Hand your javelin to Centurion Cato!’

‘Macro, I really haven’t got time.’

‘Bollocks. Let’s see who has lost their touch, shall we?’ Macro waved a hand invitingly towards the javelin the soldier was holding out. ‘Be my guest.’

Cato’s eyes narrowed furiously. He snatched the weapon and strode to the front of the line. Turning to face the target, he focused on it intently as he flipped the weapon in his hand and caught it in an overhead grip. He placed his leading foot carefully, eased back his throwing arm and sighted the target along his left arm, lining it up with his middle finger. Then, taking a deep breath, he tensed his muscles and hurled the javelin forward with all his strength. The weapon arced up, reached the apex of its trajectory and then dipped down and punched through the centre of the dummy’s body Cato spun round towards Macro, hands balled into fists as he hissed triumphantly, ‘Yessss!’

At once he forced himself to recover his composure and strolled back towards his friend, trying hard to look casual, as if hitting the target was all in a day’s work. Macro nodded his head in admiration.

‘Nice throw’ ‘Eat your words, Macro.’ ‘Not bad at all, except that you somehow managed to throw the bloody thing the wrong way round.’ ‘What?’ Cato turned quickly to look at the target. Sure enough the point of the javelin was protruding from the chest while the butt sagged on to the ground on the other side. ‘Shit . . .’

‘Well, never mind.’ Macro patted his shoulder. ‘It’s a useful demonstration in improvisation, if nothing else.’

Cato scowled. ‘Ha fucking ha.’ Macro laughed. ‘Now then, what brings you here?’ ‘Message from Sempronius. A section of the sewer has collapsed and needs to be dug out. He wants you and your men to see to it.’ ‘Oh, thanks. Just what I needed.’ Cato smiled as he saluted Macro again. ‘What goes round comes round, eh? I’ll see you later on. Right now I have to get back to the acropolis, and the delights of record-keeping. Have fun.’

The sunlight was streaming through the windows high on the wall in the office next door to the one recently vacated by Glabius. Here too there were windows overlooking the city, and Cato was staring out over the damaged buildings and ruins, now washed in a pale orange hue. His mind gradually drifted back to the concern that was consuming him. Over the previous days, Marcellus’s optimistic reports on his progress were being countered by fragments of news and rumours arriving at Gortyna that told of numerous raids by the slaves on isolated farms and estates. Then, the previous day, a cavalry squadron sent in search of a patrol that had not reported in returned to inform Cato that they had discovered the bodies of the missing men.The cavalrymen had also passed through a village where every man, woman and child had been slaughtered and left in a pile of mutilated bodies in the centre of the village, scarcely three miles from Gortyna.

‘Hey!’ Julia called out from the other side of the desk. ‘Would you mind keeping your attention on the job?’ She tapped the slate in front of her with a stylus. ‘My father wants the revised figures tonight, and we still have to account for the supplies on those wagons that turned up at noon.’

‘Sorry.’ Cato flashed a smile. ‘Just thinking.’

He picked up the inventory of the first wagon and prepared to add up the ticks for each sack and announce the total to Julia to note down.

There was a sudden sharp rap on the door, and Cato turned round.

‘Come in!’

The door opened, and one of Sempronius’s clerks entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the senator wants to see you at once.’

‘At once?’ Cato glanced at Julia and saw her frown. ‘Very well, I’ll come.’

He pushed his chair back and stood up, pausing a moment. ‘We’ll continue later on.’

Julia nodded wearily. Cato followed the clerk out of the office. He wondered why Sempronius had summoned him so peremptorily.They were not due to meet until the evening briefing. At the end of the corridor, the door to the senator’s office was open and the clerk stopped to knock on the frame.

‘Centurion Cato, sir.’ ‘Very well, show him in.’ The clerk stood to one side and Cato strode past him into the office. Sempronius was sitting at his desk.To one side stood an officer. Cato recognised him as one of Marcellus’s centurions. The man was in armour, and a bloodstained rag was tied round his sword arm. His face was covered with stubble and he looked exhausted and strained. Sempronius glanced at Cato with a drawn expression. ‘I have sent for Macro. He should join us shortly. Meanwhile, do you know Centurion Micon?’

Sempronius indicated the other officer, and Cato looked at him briefly and nodded as he crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. ‘I take it you have a report from Prefect Marcellus?’

Micon looked to the senator for guidance. ‘Just tell him,’ Sempronius said wearily. ‘Tell him everything.’ Cato turned to Centurion Micon, as the other man cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Centurion Marcellus is dead.’ ‘Dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Micon nodded wearily. ‘Him and all his men.’

The Parthian glanced up as he held the needle and lamb’s-gut thread poised over the wound. A sword cut had laid open the gladiator’s thigh. Fortunately the wound was shallow and clean and had bled nicely to keep it clear of dirt and grit. The muscle was superficially torn and would mend without causing any handicap. The gladiator was standing in front of him, stripped down to a loincloth. His torso bore several scars, some of which looked like they might have killed or crippled a lesser man. Although he had been strong and fit before he had become a slave, two years of hard training had left him with a superb physique.The Parthian had never seen the like in all his days tending the warriors of his master’s bodyguard.

It had been a good life, he reflected briefly, before the border skirmish that had led to his capture and then being sold on as a surgeon to the family of a wealthy Greek merchant. Since then, it had been an endless succession of slaves with boils, sprained ankles and wrists, and venereal diseases amongst the girls of a brothel the merchant owned in Athens.The Parthian had been travelling with his master when the earthquake had struck Crete. He had been outside the inn where the Greek and his retinue had been staying when the earth roared and rumbled beneath him, throwing him to the ground. When the earthquake had passed and he stood up, there was nothing left of the inn, and not a sound came from beneath the heap of rubble.

The Parthian had taken the chance to flee into the hills, where he wandered for two days, growing steadily hungrier, until he came across the gladiator and his band of slaves. At first he was content to accept the scraps of food that were freely given to him, and resolved to travel to the coast and find a ship heading east on which he could stow away. But then he had come to know the gladiator. There was something about him that reminded the Parthian of his master back home. An inextinguishable aura of authority and determination that would brook no obstacle. Once the gladiator had learned of his medical expertise, the Parthian was asked to remain with the slaves and tend to their needs. For the first time in his life he had been offered a choice, and as he pondered the novelty of deciding his own fate, he saw the gladiator watching steadily, waiting for his reply. At that moment he knew that his choice had been made.

In the days that had followed, the gladiator’s band of followers had swelled as more slaves flocked to his side, begging to be given the chance to take up arms against their former masters. T h e gladiator had taken them all, selecting those who were fit to be part of his growing war band. The rest were sent to the large, flat-topped hill that served as their base. Already the approaches to the summit had been protected by earthworks and palisades, and thousands of slaves lived on the hill in a variety of crude shelters, or even in the open air. Despite the hardships and the ever-present fear of Roman soldiers and recapture, they were happy and savoured every day that they remained at liberty.

The Parthian leaned closer to the wound and examined it briefly. Three stitches would suffice to reattach the severed muscle. Another nine or ten stitches would be enough to close the wound, the Parthian decided. He glanced up.

‘This is going to hurt. Are you ready, Ajax?’ ‘Do it now’ As the gladiator stood still, the surgeon leaned forward and probed into the wound, drawing the two ends of the muscle together. Then he pierced the tissue, pressed the needle through and sewed his stitches, before cutting off the spare thread and knotting it securely. He glanced up. ‘All right?’

Ajax nodded, keeping his steely gaze on the vista below him. He stood on the cliff above the defile, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. The sun had risen an hour earlier, and the first shafts of light had shone down the length of the defile, illuminating the corpses of Roman soldiers sprawled and heaped along the narrow path. In amongst them were the bodies of horses and hundreds of the slaves who had closed in to finish off the Romans caught in the ambush. It had been a bloody fight, Ajax recalled vividly. The desperate courage of his men against the training, armour and weapons of the Romans. The last of the enemy had been hunted down and killed just before dawn. Now his men were picking the bodies clean of anything that would serve the needs of his growing army. Before, they had a miscellany of swords, knives, scythes, spears, pitchforks and clubs. N o w they had proper kit, and Ajax knew how to use it. Several of his followers had once been gladiators themselves, and had already started to train the best of the slaves in the ways of combat. Soon, they in turn would train other slaves, and before the month was out, Ajax would have thousands of men under arms, and nothing would stand in the way of his revolt.