The Sword of Revenge (24 page)

‘You know he’s responsible for the games to be held a week hence?’ Marcellus nodded. ‘Well, I asked the Parthians if, as a gift to the people of Rome, they would pay for them.’

‘And they agreed?’

‘More than that, my son. They offered their escorts as a gift as well, to fight any gladiators, or
even soldiers, that we care to put against them. Quintus has every right to be pleased. He’s going to have a really fine set of games, please the mob and enhance his prestige, and they’re not going to cost him a penny.’

‘I hope he thanked
you
,’ said Marcellus, with a slightly sour note.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Aquila, picking up his weapons, slipped out unnoticed, leaving Flaccus, Barbinus and the other overseers engaged in a tedious discussion about crop yields and the rising price of slaves. The horses had been taken to a nearby stable and checking on them was his first priority. Both were feeding happily, each tail flicking the flies off the face of the other. Flaccus’s mount, with the spear gash, seemed unaffected by the wound, which the ostler had redressed, covering it in an evil smelling compound. He placed his weapons alongside those belonging to Flaccus, which had been laid in the corner of the stall.

‘When will you be wanting them?’ asked the ostler, nodding towards the mounts.

‘Who knows,’ replied Aquila truthfully. ‘Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Well, you can come when you like. Cassius
Barbinus owns the stable, so there won’t be anything to pay.’

Outside, the men were still shuffling across the quayside, loading the ships with grain, and Aquila watched them while he tried to bring some order to his thoughts. Unaccustomed to choices, he was unsure which course to adopt; all the events in his life had been as a result of other people’s actions, now he was on his own, with a muddy set of alternatives. His fingers sought the charm as an aid to thought, and he seemed to draw strength from that; at least it seemed to clarify his options. He pushed gently through the line of slaves, then turned off the quay, making his way back towards the concourse before the Temple of
Pallas Athene
. It was crowded still and much harder going on foot than it had been mounted on a horse, all elbows and cursing to maintain any forward motion. Finally he managed to push his way through the crush and reach the stone steps, worn away by the feet of countless worshippers.

The colonnaded portico was full of tradesmen selling all manner of produce, few, if any, having much to do with the cult of
Pallas Athene
. Luckily, he had some money, given to him by Flaccus, and this allowed him to buy things, which in turn permitted him to ask questions. General enquiries told him that the city gates would be closed at night, not against any real threat but through long
habit. The crucifixion of slaves aroused little interest, the locals being much more taken with bloodier forms of retribution.

‘Can’t abide crucifixions,’ said the squint-eyed man selling fresh figs. ‘By they time they get them upright, they’re half gone, especially when they’ve had a good beating beforehand.’ He looked at Aquila closely with his good eye; the other was aimed in the general direction of Italy, only a few leagues distant across the straits. ‘Then what happens?’

The boy sucked on the fig and shook his head.

‘Nothing, that’s what. Now I say they should be nailed on, not roped, with a chance for a citizen of the town to do the hammering. And they should be fresh, well fed and cared for before the event.’ He winked at the mainland. ‘Then they’d really feel it when we break their legs, eh?’

There was much more in that vein, a general discussion of the relative merits of stoning, public beheadings, breaking on the wheel and ripping apart with horses. Further questions revealed that Gadoric and the other men tied to the stakes would be left outside the gates, under guard. ‘Not that they’ll be goin’ anywhere, lad. If the guards have a mind to sleep, they’ll probably break their legs tonight. Makes no odds to a dyin’ man and few are likely to be on hand tomorrow to complain about the difference.’

Aquila sat on the steps at one corner, listening to the pedagogue lecturing his pupils. The little Greek he had learnt from Phoebe was inadequate for a full understanding of what was being imparted, but he picked up the names of Hector and Patrocles, so he knew the man was talking about the siege of Troy, using gestures, as well as speech, to tell his class tales of heroes and their deeds of valour. Suddenly Aquila was back in the shepherd’s hut, Minca at his feet, hearing Gadoric’s long sagas of the men from the north, and the feeling he had had then came flooding back. The shepherd had always maintained that the Celtic way was superior to that of Rome, with everything in the Latin world put down in writing. Aquila, for the first time, wondered if Gadoric was right or wrong and it mattered, since it had a bearing on what he would do next. Barbinus’s words he recalled too, given what he had said to Flaccus was tantamount to an order: he had the chance of an education, the opportunity to learn to write, a valuable asset in the world in which he lived. Barbinus had hinted at a comfortable future, overseers being well rewarded.

The alternative was stark: to put it all behind him, heading off for an unknown fate and quite possibly a painful death. The two did not compare, yet the memory of Gadoric, almost like a father to him, and the time he spent with him, haunted Aquila. He thought back to the raft of advice he
had had from the shepherd, hoping to find in the man’s wisdom and knowledge the words that would release him from this dilemma. Gadoric, if he had the chance, would tell him to stick with Flaccus and Barbinus; no one in their right mind would seek to help a half-dead prisoner to escape, regardless of how much he loved him. The boy looked up at the blazing sun, beginning to set in the hard blue sky. For all his speculation, he knew the decision had already been made, had been as he had watched that line of slaves and held his personal eagle talisman in his hand. There was really no choice. Aquila got to his feet abruptly and made for the stall of the man selling local wine, buying a complete rush-covered ampoule.

They were the dregs! Scruffy, lazy and foul-mouthed. Aquila remembered the day that Clodius left home to join his legion, with the metal and leather of his uniform polished and gleaming, his spear and shield slung in regulation fashion on his back. A proper soldier! It was a travesty to apply the name to these two layabouts. They were not Romans, of course, but locals; mercenaries, hired by the governor of the province. Aquila smiled and poured more wine into their wooden gourds, keeping them brim full.

‘It’s no fun for us, mark it,’ said the taller of the two, flicking his thumb towards the three men tied
to the stakes. ‘That is, once they’re outdoors.’

‘No, lad, we get our laughs indoors,’ said the other one, small, fat and just as untidy, giving a wheezing laugh. ‘They start off with their heads high, spitting in our eyes, but we soon see to that. They’d lick our arse for a kindly look when we’re finished.’

Aquila glanced towards the men slumped forward on the stakes. Even in the twilight he could still see the evidence, on their heads and shoulders, where they had been savagely beaten. The three men on the crucifixes were motionless, the last spasmodic jerk from the one in the middle had happened an hour ago. If they were not actually dead, they were so close it made little difference.

‘The fig seller favoured stoning,’ said Aquila. ‘Said that was a real joy, second only to a beheading.’

The tall guard leant forward, his bony, unshaven face pained and his eyes full of hurt and doubt. ‘Not for the likes of us, we have to just stand and watch and when they do a beheading, we’re not the ones who get to wield the axe.’

‘Who’d be a soldier?’ said the other, holding out his empty gourd.

Gadoric had only raised his head once since Aquila had arrived, giving a look, with his single eye, that conveyed nothing. As they sat, talking and drinking, the carts had rumbled out of the town as
the traders, farmers in the main, went home for the night. Those who had been out in the fields, and sought either comfort or distraction inside the city walls, had trooped through the gate as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

‘Do you feed these men?’ asked Aquila.

‘We’re supposed to,’ the small guard replied, his hand rubbing the black stubble on his chin. The tall one was shaking his head to stop him talking, but drink had loosened his companion’s tongue. ‘Don’t seem much point in wasting food, giving it to a dead man.’

‘So who eats it?’

‘Don’t know. We sold it at the temple. They sell it on.’

The tall fellow spoke again, his face and voice reeking of suspicion, proof that, in his opinion, Aquila was asking too many questions. He seemed unconvinced now that this youth, liberal with his wine, had the deep interest he had implied, a desire to watch men die on the cross.

‘You best be getting along, lad, before they close the gates. Otherwise you’ll be stuck out here for the night, just like us.’

The small one opened his mouth to speak, but the other man kicked him on the leg. ‘Best get the fire goin’, don’t you think?’

Aquila shook the ampoule. ‘There’s a drop left in here. Might as well see it off.’

They exchanged glances and an imperceptible nod, holding out their gourds. Aquila filled them, hearing in the background the sounds of their fellows shouting that the gates were about to be shut. He suspected that they would not be shut to this pair; they would light a fire, stack it high, wait until the town had settled down, then rap on the gate to be let in. The question was, would they maim their charges beforehand?

He stood up, wished them goodnight, and made off into the gathering gloom. The sun had just gone, the sky was black above and azure blue to the west, with only the odd star showing and the moon still below the horizon. As soon as his body was lost against the darkness of the town wall he turned towards the sea, heading for the patch of scrub by the shore where he had tethered the animals an hour before. Flaccus would probably be more upset about the loss of his horse and his weapons than the disappearance of Aquila, cursing at the money it would cost to replace, but it would be morning before he discovered that both were missing. He was at the governor’s villa, eating good food and consuming too much wine. He would be overcome with the pleasure of dining with so eminent a figure, almost like the man’s equal, and he would not give Aquila, who had hinted at a visit to the brothel, a second thought until he failed to appear in the morning.

He stood still listening to the sounds of Messana closing up for the night. Few would waste the oil needed to light a lamp, going to bed and rising with the sun. There would be activity around the temple but that was in the very centre of the city. Here at the edge, he had only sleepy and ill-equipped guards to worry about. He watched while the moon rose in the sky, felt the air chill as the heat of the day was sucked up into the clear night sky. The pinprick of light from the guard’s fire threw the three crucifixes into stark relief as the light from the flames flicked across the inert bodies. He felt a chill in his own heart to equal that of the night; if he failed, his fate would be the same as theirs.

With his weapons, plus a small sack of food, Aquila moved silently across the flat, hard-packed earth, keeping close to the walls. He crossed the road, ducking into the well of the city gate so he could not be observed from above. Once clear of that he scurried swiftly to a point past the small exterior camp, moving in a wide arc so that he came back towards the fire from a point behind the three staked men. He moved up, half-crouched, until he was right behind Gadoric and laid down his spear. First he had to make sure the man was alive; no point in going on if Gadoric was dead. He said a few words in the Celtic tongue, his heart leaping as he saw the head jerk upright.

‘You’re alive,’ he whispered.

‘You!’ croaked Gadoric. It took so much effort, just to say that one word, Aquila wondered if his friend had the energy to say anything else. He put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it to reassure him. ‘Don’t talk, just listen. Soon, those two guards are going to go back into the city.’ He squeezed harder to cut off the question. ‘You saw me drinking with them. Before they leave, they’re bound to come and check on you. They may even want to break your legs so you can’t escape.’

Gadoric dropped his head, clearly exhausted as Aquila finished. ‘If they just come to look, they will live. If they fetch the hammer, I shall kill them both.’

He reached inside his sack and produced a fig, holding it up so that the parched and starving Celt could eat it. Gadoric sucked greedily, the juice running out of his mouth and down his chin.

‘Quietly.’ Aquila pressed his mouth close to the other man’s ear as the lips moved, the voice so soft that he had to repeat the words Gadoric said to be sure he had heard right. ‘The others?’ His hand squeezed the shoulder again. ‘When the guards have gone, friend, not before. I don’t want to kill unless I must.’

The fire had died down, though it still glowed enough to cast a circle of light. The two guards got to their feet and the tall one lifted his tunic and pissed against the feet of one of the crucified men,
the stream of water playing up and down the broken legs. He was laughing all the time, making jokes that Aquila could not hear. The small fellow was tidying up their little camp and once he had finished they both picked up torches and started towards Gadoric and his companions.