The Sword of Revenge (22 page)

The man who had trained those leopards from cubs was furious; so was Aquila and there were many reasons why. He sat bolt upright and looked hard at Barbinus, but the object of his attention had turned to face his questioner. Was this really the rich senator whose woods he had raided for game, the man who owned the farm where he had last seen Gadoric, before encountering him tied to the stake today? He had, according to his overseer, Nicos, brutally raped the slave girl, Sosia, forcing from her throat a scream so plaintive that Aquila had mistaken it for the cry of a distressed fox, then sent her away, adding to the woes of that unforgettable day. The thought that anything he might have done these last months could have profited Cassius Barbinus nearly made him throw the platter in his hand at the man’s head. Barbinus, unaware of the effect his name was having on the boy, looked around his assembled bailiffs and provided his answer. ‘Indeed I do have a solution, my friends. If you look outside you will see I’m building a hoist.
Once it’s complete, each one of you will be given a plan to make one of your own.’

‘Using what?’ asked Flaccus; as the newest member of this select group he was the most concerned about cost.

Barbinus smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Flaccus, I’ll provide the timber. I will also provide sailcloth, specially cut, with eyeholes all round so that they can be lashed at the neck.’

He looked around to see if any of them had made the connection, only to be greeted by blank stares. Finally his gaze fell on Aquila, the senator mistaking the glare in the boy’s eye for interest. Barbinus walked over, the wine flagon still in his hand, as Aquila dropped his eyes to the floor, in a stew of still-troubled thoughts and uncertainty. The youngster was dirty from his riding, but his tall frame, tanned skin and that red-gold hair were enough to attract a man like Barbinus. Then the senator’s eye caught the golden eagle at his neck, which made his eyebrows arch in surprise.

Cassius Barbinus considered himself a connoisseur of Greek and Celtic art. What was a boy like this doing, wearing such a valuable object? Aquila, unaware of the interest, took the charm in his hand, then lifted his head, his eyes like two sapphires, boring into Barbinus. The senator did not know that the boy wanted to kill him but he did notice that Aquila was not cowed by his status, a
fact which only served to increase his attraction. He poured some wine into Aquila’s cup, his eyes never straying from the boy’s face.

‘Can you guess, boy?’

The answer seemed so obvious that Aquila obliged immediately, but his voice had a distant quality, as though he was talking to himself. ‘You load the grain into the bales and the bales onto the carts. Then the bales are loaded straight onto, and off, the ships.’

Barbinus turned and beamed at the others, waving an expansive arm. ‘Without spilling a drop. No more waste, and more important, no more arguments about being cheated.’ A general murmur of agreement followed this, with much nodding of heads. Barbinus turned back, giving Aquila another head-to-toe look. Used to people wilting before his gaze, the stillness clearly disconcerted him. ‘Who is this boy, Flaccus?’

The centurion, who knew Barbinus of old, was frowning. The man was a satyr, not to be trusted with two pieces of warm liver, let alone a girl or a young boy. ‘Aquila Terentius. He’s from a colony near Aprilium. His father was one of my men killed at Thralaxas. I picked him up on the way south. Sort of adopted him, you might say. Like a son to me now!’

‘He’s a bright lad.’ Barbinus had not mistaken Flaccus’s tone or the strength of the last statement;
the old centurion was telling him to keep his hands to himself. ‘I have some land around Aprilium.’

The senator’s eye dropped again and lingered for a moment on the charm round Aquila’s neck as if he was about to ask its significance, but he stopped himself and looked up again. ‘You stick with Flaccus, boy, he won’t want to be here in Sicily all his life. Someone young and ambitious, who knows the farms, would be an advantage.’ He did not turn round as he addressed Flaccus, but kept his eyes firmly locked to those of Aquila. ‘Have you educated him?’

There was a distinct note of anger in Flaccus’s reply; the way Barbinus asked the question sounded like a rebuke. ‘Didn’t see the need.’

‘I would advise you to be less short-sighted. If this boy has a brain, take advantage of it. Teach him his numbers and if he can write, Greek as well as Latin, then he could have a future.’

‘Right now he’s learning to fight,’ snapped Flaccus.

Barbinus still had not turned round. ‘Admirable, but limited. Our world is full of those who can fight. Not many of them can think, as well.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’

Barbinus was now looking at Aquila’s mail shirt and at the sword worn loose by his side. ‘Do it, Flaccus!’ He spun round on his heel to face the now blushing bailiff and Aquila was subjected to an
angry look from Flaccus, as though what had happened was his fault. Barbinus went back to the head of the table, patted his newest overseer on the shoulder, and changed the subject. ‘But, old friend, we have more important things to discuss.’

He looked at them all in turn, lounging about the place, forcing them to sit up and pay attention; for all his jovial manner Barbinus demanded respect. ‘I’ve had a meeting with the other owners and they’ve agreed we must coordinate action against the growing threat of banditry.’

‘We were attacked on the way here,’ said Flaccus.

‘Where?’

Flaccus explained what had happened like the soldier he was, making no attempt to sound heroic, concluding with the opinion that whoever had sought to ambush them did not appear to be either capable, or numerous.

‘Not numerous now, Flaccus, but they could be if enough slaves escaped to join them.’

‘None of mine will escape,’ Flaccus replied, with a sneer. ‘They don’t have the energy.’

Polite coughing greeted what sounded like a bit of boasting, especially in the company of men who knew their trade better than he, men whose help he had sought on first arriving in Sicily. Flaccus realised what he had done and mumbled words to the effect that he still had a lot to learn and would be happy to take advice, but Barbinus cut right
across him, producing another angry glare.

‘That’s what’s caused the trouble we have now. People being complacent, thinking that it’ll always be someone else’s slaves that will cause trouble. Well it isn’t, and if you doubt me just go out of the southern gate and you’ll see.’

‘Are those men yours?’ asked Flaccus. He made a sudden, dismissive gesture with his head to Aquila, who had begun to edge closer.

Barbinus frowned. ‘Sad to say, they are, and they weren’t just trying to escape either, they were much more ambitious. Wanted to rise up and take the town, which is just as well for us, since the plans frightened enough of the other slaves into betraying them. Those bandits in the hills might not amount to much but they act as a beacon for all the other malcontents. That’s why we have to root them out. Slaves are less likely to run if they’ve got nowhere to go.’

‘Do we have a plan of action?’ asked one of the others.

Barbinus nodded. ‘We do. I’ve already persuaded the governor to call his auxiliaries out. The main base of these villains, at least the ones that worry us, seems to be here in the north. They don’t go south of Etna much, so we’ll use that as a pivot to work on. They have women and children with them, so they can’t move fast. Most of our forces will gather to the west, sweep down through the
mountains, skirting the volcano. The rest will form a barrier between Etna and the route south along the coast. If we can drive them out onto the plain we can deal with them easily.’

Barbinus laid both his palms on the table and leant forward to emphasise his point. ‘I want to see every one of them either dead, or stretched out on a crucifix by the side of the road.’

‘When?’ asked Flaccus.

‘It has to be soon. We’ve got cooler weather coming and the slaves have less to do so they don’t need as much supervision.’

‘That might be true for some,’ Flaccus responded. ‘I’m still working on the irrigation ditches.’

Barbinus fixed him with a look. ‘One of the things these bandits are very good at is smashing up irrigation schemes. Seems a good idea to put a stop to that, and I haven’t forgotten that you were very recently a soldier, Flaccus. Since the governor can’t field the troops necessary to mount a proper campaign, then we must assist him.’

Aquila had withdrawn into the shadows, only half listening to Barbinus. In his mind he could easily imagine Gadoric, trying to persuade others that revolt was worthwhile and being betrayed for his pains. He thought about the men he shared a hut with; they would be involved in this and revel at the prospect. Given a clear command to kill they
would do so with pleasure, not bothering much if those they murdered were guilty men or innocent women and children. It worried him that, having achieved manhood and a fair degree of martial prowess, he would have to go along, required to participate, indeed expected to enjoy the rape and murder that would be inevitable, all on behalf of a man called Barbinus.

‘Could we not request troops from Rome?’

Barbinus threw his head back and laughed. ‘What? To put down slaves? I think you’ve had too much sun, Didius Flaccus. When did Rome ever need soldiers to subdue slaves?’ He patted the top of his head, stark white in contrast to his olive-skinned face. ‘Do as I do, friend. Always wear a hat, especially in Sicily.’

He had said the same thing to Silvanus, the governor, at the meeting that morning, unaware that he, a more astute politician than Barbinus, had already sent off a despatch to Rome. Not that he disagreed with the landowner about the requirement for troops to put down a few slaves, but the governor knew that in the febrile world of Republican politics it was a good idea to cover all eventualities. Sicily was an exceedingly lucrative office, one of the best in the Senate’s gift. It was therefore axiomatic that others, even those he could call friends, continually sought to have him replaced.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Quintus Cornelius tried hard to concentrate on the reports that Lucius had asked him to read, but his mind kept returning to the games that it was his task to organise. They were going to be expensive, more than in a normal year, since it was necessary to head off the rising discontent of the poorer sections within the city. People continued to pour in from the countryside, quite a number being ex-soldiers, either citizens of Rome or former auxiliaries. Already volatile, their previous skill at the profession of arms made them dangerous. The corn dole had become an ever-increasing burden on the state and that, at least, meant that the reports from Sicily had his undivided attention.

One bad harvest in that island and the effect in Rome could be incalculable. Lucius Falerius, with Quintus as his willing helper, now controlled the Senate in a way that no faction had achieved for a
hundred years but that had a negative side. Some of those who opposed them, aware that any attempt to change matters in the legislature was doomed, tended to seek exterior means of advancing their cause and what better method to choose than allying themselves with the bare-arsed mob whose slum dwellings disfigured the outskirts of Rome? Denied bread, that lot could well burn the city.

Chariot races were a useful way of allowing the populace to let off steam, but nothing worked as well as a proper set of well-organised games. As one of the urban aediles it was not something he could avoid, since it fell within his responsibilities as a city magistrate and he was cursed by the behaviour of some of his more profligate predecessors, who had sought to bribe those who voted in the Comitia by pandering to their whims. Gone were the days when a few wild boar, bear baiting by dogs and the odd raging bull trying to gore a criminal, satisfied the Roman multitude. Now it was wild beasts from Africa and Asia; elephants versus lions or tigers and mass gladiator contests that had to be fought to the death, something that increased the price ten-fold. How was it that a ceremony, once a graveside contest between specially chosen warriors to honour a dead chieftain, had grown so that it now dominated the way of entertaining the masses?

He shook his head, partly in disgust, but more to aid his concentration. Spain, Illyricum, Numidia,
Macedonia: all required his attention. He had never dreamt that there would be so much work involved in trying to maintain political superiority. His mentor passed over as much work as he could, claiming as he did so that Quintus could not advance in stature and maintain his position in the future unless he understood all the ramifications, the levers that constituted their means of holding power. Lucius Falerius stood in the background, ready to intervene when matters reached an impasse, leaving the younger man staggered by the apparent simplicity with which he solved thorny problems. Often he could bring a recalcitrant senator to heel with a few whispered words, and this after weeks during which Quintus had tried all manner of cajolery and persuasion. Really, all the difficulties stemmed from supporters; their enemies they could ignore but those who purported to share their views were a source of constant irritation. Fellow senators, supposedly august and dignified individuals, were really like a set of squabbling children, intent on endlessly pressing petty complaints.