Aquila into position. Dedon took hold of his gold charm, pushing it out of the way, as he whispered in Phoebe’s ear.
‘You’ve got two choices, girl. Either you see to the boy, an’ show willing, or I’ll wrap a rope around your neck and string you up from the nearest tree.’
‘No, Dedon,’ Aquila gasped. ‘I don’t want this.’
The mercenary spun his head, to look Aquila in the eye. ‘Nonsense, boy. Don’t be soft.’
‘He ain’t soft, an’ that’s for certain,’ said Charro, with a whoop of glee.
Dedon grinned at him. ‘Only goes to prove, friend, that a standing prick ain’t got no conscience.’
He felt their arms on his back, pushing him. They’d taken hold of her legs, which were now encircling his thighs. Female hands put him inside her. Phoebe, encouraged by Dedon’s threats, started to move against him. That feeling, which he fought to suppress, rose quickly; too quickly. His naked buttocks, accompanied by loud cheers, jerked furiously as he came in a woman for the first time, his head buried in the crook of her neck, and he heard the sob in her throat as he stopped moving.
Dedon’s voice seemed very distant. ‘I say we should leave them alone, lads. Then perhaps young Aquila can give Phoebe a real seeing to.’
There was much giggling as they all filed out of the room. Aquila lifted his head and turned hers so that he could look the girl in the eye. She gave him a sad smile then turned away again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
That made her turn back, searching his eyes to see if he was sincere. Her hand reached out to feel the golden eagle that hung between them. The two youngsters stared at each other for what seemed an age. Then Phoebe’s other hand came up to the back of his neck and she pulled him down, kissing him full on the lips. The way he subsequently took the Macedonian girl as his own personal concubine caused no resentment, nor did she complain again. Aquila was far from sure if she genuinely liked him, or was merely happy to serve the needs of a young and persistent lover, rather than go back to what she had put up with before, but over the days and weeks he came to realise it was more than just acceptance. Phoebe lost the hunted look she had worn before, not that she got much peace. He spent every free moment in her arms, trying to talk to her between bouts of lovemaking, difficult since he had no Greek and she only had enough Latin to serve as a slave. She learnt words from him, but he garnered more from her, starting with her name, which meant ‘bright lights’. In time they could hold stilted conversations enough to explain how they came to be here in Sicily.
The mercenaries, having supervised his initiation, now seemed to adopt him fully. When not riding the farm with Flaccus, or locked in Phoebe’s arms, they took upon themselves the job of teaching him the arts of fighting; how to ride bareback and fight off a horse, saddled or not. Dedon was a trident and net man, Charro a master with the short sword. Spear throwing he knew, but the others taught him to wrestle, to fight with staves, how to kill with the boss of a shield, the way to use a knife or a rope at close quarters and how to fire off an arrow from a proper bow, and they were not gentle, which led to many a bruise and more than one cut. Aquila never complained, never let them see if he was hurt. Phoebe dressed his wounds, and rubbed oil into the tired and burgeoning muscles, never failing to finger his pendant, whispering words in Greek as she praised her eagle.
Over the months Aquila grew in strength and speed so that the contests were no longer wholly one-sided. He fought well and never whined when he was painfully bested and was thus popular amongst the men. Because his manner was less rough than his fellows, and given his single-minded attachment to Phoebe, he was popular with the women as well. Hard-hearted Flaccus, obsessed with his need to increase the yield, even consented to the holding of a ceremony, with special food and some of his own wine, to celebrate the March day following the Feast of Lupercalia, when Aquila donned his manly gown. All the concubines helped in the preparation, weaving as well as cooking. Some of them cried as he stepped forward, in a new smock, his red-gold hair carefully combed and dressed, the eagle flashing on his tanned chest, no longer a boy, but a Roman citizen and a man.
There was never a month without trouble and much as Flaccus hated the waste he was forced to sanction the occasional hanging. Flogging was a daily occurrence as the men were driven at dawn into the fields to work, overseen by other slaves whom the mercenaries had recruited. They themselves acted as a sort of mobile reserve, available to impose an even harsher regime if the trouble became serious. Flaccus spent his time between his two farms, threatening and cajoling, with many a lying promise, all to increase the land under cultivation. It was hardly surprising that any slaves who caught their guards unawares, and who had the strength, did their very best to escape from such a regime but that was happening all over the island. More worrying was the fact that these escapees had only one way to feed themselves, and that was to steal from the likes of Didius Flaccus.
The first harvest had shown a drop in yield. Even though Flaccus had anticipated this, since it was caused by his restructuring, he manufactured a towering rage, tongue-lashing his men as layabouts and threatening to cut their pay. The slaves paid for this, of course; they were driven to work even harder by an increase in flogging, plus a couple of exemplary crucifixions. This was not confined to men either; women and children suffered just as much and the young bodyguard was no longer shielded from it. As he rode from place to place, just behind his leader, Aquila could contrast the atmosphere now with that which had existed when they had arrived. Not even a ghost of a smile anywhere, just hardship and pain. Those with some spirit, who had avoided death or serious injury and had not run away to the hills, were worst off, breaking rocks in the unyielding hills. The women dug trenches in the softer ground while their children removed the earth to build embankments on the lower slopes. As he rode by, the children, some of them approaching his own age, would look up, their eyes full of envy for the golden youth with his horse, his weapons, his healthy glowing skin and his full belly.
The spring ploughing was over, the fields planted. For the slaves it was normally a period of comparative rest. Not now. Some were kept to water the fields, the rest put to work increasing the irrigation, working up on the hillsides which had, until then, remained uncultivated. They cursed the earth, which was nearly as hard as their grim and ruthless master. Flaccus rarely slept and never relaxed, refused the services of slave girls and worried constantly, watching the stalks of wheat as they grew. He ranted and raved throughout the harvest, cursing the slightest waste. Only when he began to see some of his labours bearing fruit did he consent to spend some time away from his duties. It was no holiday; Flaccus was called to discuss joint measures against banditry with the other men overseeing the Sicilian farms. There had been an upsurge in attacks as increasing numbers of slaves went missing and coordinated action was needed to root these villains out of their mountain retreats.
If he had been unable to look his fellow-bailiffs in the eye, Flaccus would not have gone even then; now the centurion knew he could, for the summer harvest was up. Not by much, but it pointed in the right direction and he had increased the land under the plough. Next year, always assuming the Gods blessed them with the right amount of rain, he would see, in the number of bushels his farm produced, something to crow about. Determined on a final check in progress, Flaccus insisted on going via the inland farms, increasing the journey time by two-thirds.
Aquila was saddled up before first light, holding the second horse, waiting while his leader repeated his instructions for the tenth time. Dedon’s voice sounded like a nagged husband, as he agreed to each point. Eventually Flaccus mounted up, but not without delivering a last command. ‘Leave half your men here, Dedon, and take the rest back to the main farm. If there’s any trouble, send for me, right away.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Dedon wearily, wishing the man gone so that he could go back to bed.
‘That’s it then!’ But Flaccus didn’t move, as though the act of tugging the horse’s head round was too much to bear. Aquila leant down and pulled the reins for him.
‘Don’t look back, Flaccus,’ he said, as they cantered out of the compound.
Once he had shaken off the dust of his own properties, the old centurion relaxed. They climbed the saddle of a steep hill, with Mount Etna to the south, rumbling and belching smoke. He was in a talkative mood, no doubt buoyed by success, and for the first time he allowed himself to indulge in a little reminiscence, speaking of Clodius and how close the pair of them had come to being rich, even admitting their plan to steal the gubernatorial gold.
‘It was me that spotted the wagon, and I only chose Clodius ’cause he was lying next to me watching what was going on.’ Flaccus was brief regarding what he and Clodius had seen before that, Roman soldiers running the gauntlet and mass rape taking place all around, the women eventually killed and mutilated. In his mind’s eye he could see that wagon parked away from all that, occasionally lit as the fires of the other burning wagons flared. ‘We had it in our hands, near all of it, and we buried it under a thick bush, but in the darkness we left a trail in the grass that stood out like a sore thumb at first light, so when we came back next day the rebels had pinched it. It should have been mine, because it’s prophesied, boy.’