It sliced across the fleshy part of his outstretched arm just as Marcellus grasped the wrist that held it. His right hand swung again, a true boxer’s punch, smashing the man’s nose, which sprayed his blood in all directions. His knees buckled and Marcellus hit him again, this time on the ear as the sounds of panic began to impede upon his senses: the senators crying out for protection, the mob shouting and screaming. The assassin had fallen back towards the crowd, too dense to admit him and allow escape. Marcellus, still hanging on to his wrist, hit him again, but, surprisingly, he arched forward, his mouth opening to emit a high-pitched scream. The young Falerii raised his fist to strike again, feeling the wrist, which he had been struggling to hold, go limp; the knife dropped from his opponent’s grasp and stuck upright in the earth. The man’s knees gave way and he fell forward on the boy, eyes and mouth wide open, as if in shock, then, too heavy for Marcellus to hold, he crumpled to the ground. The whole crowd could see the short sword which had been rammed upwards into his back, with such force that only the hilt showed.
Lucius had been lifted onto the rostrum, a platform from which he had spoken many times, and he lay now with his eyes shut tight as the lictors rushed around like disturbed geese, countermanding each other’s orders. Quintus Cornelius, who had been a long way behind, pushed his way through the other senators and jumped up on the platform, shouting for order in a parade ground voice, sending one of the lictors off to fetch a surgeon. Then he organised a guard round Lucius, with his brother Titus, who had been standing on the Forum steps, taking command. They pushed the curious onlookers back so that the wounded man could breathe. Marcellus found himself pushed back too and the feet of many men trampled over the body of the dead assassin before Titus pushed his way through to mount guard over that too.
‘Marcellus,’ he shouted, indicating his whereabouts to the soldiers who had obeyed his instructions. ‘Fetch the senator’s son.’
Swords came out of their sheaths, with that rasping sound familiar to anyone who had ever stood near a soldier, and the crowd seemed to melt away as they pushed through to where Marcellus stood, tears in his eyes.
‘He’s alive!’ Titus called out, praying he was right, because the breath the old senator was drawing looked mighty laboured to him. He took Marcellus by the arm and led him towards the rostrum, helping him up and shouting for those surrounding Lucius to stand aside. Blood soaked the front of his father’s toga, but the eyes were open, brittle, hard and angry.
‘Get me out of here, Marcellus. Am I to be gazed at, in my distress, by the mob?’
Aquila lay on his back, staring at the stars, his fingertips toying with the wings of the eagle charm, as men moved restlessly around him. The fires were low now, merely embers glowing in the dark, but he was too troubled to sleep, going over in his mind the events of the last few weeks and relating them to the dream he had just had, so unusually clear in his mind. He thought back to that day when they had gathered at the base of Mount Etna. He had found Hypolitas’s speech as uplifting as the runaway slaves, been equally stunned by the magic fire he produced from his mouth and that feeling had lasted while they remained south of the volcano, probably because he had been too preoccupied to truly examine that with which he had become engaged. Not that things had eased off after the governor’s men had gone back to their normal lives; the slaves commenced training for action as soon as they returned north, to hills and mountains now clear of the Roman threat.
The young man, so well trained in the profession of arms, had entered into things in good heart, helping Gadoric to sift out those who had soldiered before, so they, in turn, could take small groups to teach, showing them the very basic skills necessary to be a disciplined fighter. He had stayed away from the leaders at night but he knew that as they sat round their fire, Gadoric, Tyrtaeus and Hypolitas had discussed various targets and that was as it should be; too many voices meant confusion. But he had also heard Pentheus’s excited talk of retribution and not thought of the blood that would be spilt, or the mortified flesh that would go to settle these old scores.
Yet his nightmares had reminded him, possibly for the first time since he had agreed to take part in this venture, that he was a Roman. A younger Fulmina had appeared, her hair black instead of grey, and spoken to him of his glorious destiny and so had Clodius, in his legionary uniform, asking if he had died fighting Rome’s enemies so that the boy he had found in the woods could betray him to Greek slaves and help them spill Roman blood. Worst of all, he dreamt of the old crone Drisia, who had told Fulmina his fortune so many years before. In the dream she had the gold eagle in her hand, telling him to beware of angering the Gods, and repeating, over and over again, what she had intoned years before. ‘Go to Rome, go to Rome.’ Was Drisia dead too?
Aquila had woken suddenly, with his hand round the charm, which provided immediate reassurance, and free of sleep he felt less alarm, as well as a resurgence of the healthy scepticism he had about the Gods and their interventions, having seen how often they misled their worshippers. All Clodius’s singing and Fulmina’s beseeching had not saved them from a painful, penurious end, but dreams were different; that was when the souls of the dead, who could see so much more than the living, spoke to those they had left behind in order to guide them. Aquila believed it, Gadoric the Celt swore it was the key to all life, and even Hypolitas had used the power of his dreams to sway the crowd of runaway slaves. Aquila lifted the eagle and rubbed it against his lips, then he got to his feet and went to find Gadoric. He would explain to him first, then together they could go and talk to Hypolitas.
‘Remember, no killing the overseer or his family,’ said Hypolitas quietly.
It was not the first time he had said this but that did nothing to lessen the angry looks on the faces of the men around him, some of whom had escaped from this very farm and could not grasp the point. Pentheus, naturally, had been the most vociferous in his objections, citing yet again the litany of crimes from which he had personally suffered, his sallow complexion turning white with passion. Yet Hypolitas would prevail; for all his thin frame he was able to dominate these burly fighting men. It was not Aquila’s dreams that had persuaded the Greek to show caution but the source: as the young man recounted his reasons, he had taken hold of the charm, which swung from the boy’s neck, glinting in the light from the fire. Hypolitas closed his eyes for a second, before opening them suddenly, to fix Aquila with a hypnotic stare.
‘You woke holding this?’ he asked.
Aquila nodded slowly but he could not move his eyes, which seemed held by some exterior force. Hypolitas was talking, his free hand weaving slowly just outside Aquila’s line of vision, but the words made little sense, since the only thing which registered was the droning, soporific quality of his voice. He felt Hypolitas tug at the charm slightly, as if he was trying to pull it off his neck, and that snapped whatever spell he was weaving. Aquila shook his head, then reached out to remove the eagle from the Greek’s grasp. It was impossible to say what he saw in the other man’s eyes, but it looked remarkably like disappointment.
Those eyes were as hypnotic and the hands weaved just as much in the firelight as he explained his reasons to the assembled soldiers, looking like an evil spirit as the rising sun lit his eager face. There was no mention of dreams, nor of the mystical powers of a gold talisman; for once, Hypolitas relied on plain common sense, even if it seemed to emanate from a supernatural source.
‘Nothing will do more to condemn us in the eyes of the Roman Senate than that any of their citizens should be harmed. They will see that as an act of war and respond in kind. Remember our aim, which is freedom.’ He glanced sideways at Aquila, as if to ensure that the younger man would remain silent. ‘I did not see this at first, but I do now. If we spare their people, we can appeal to justice.’
‘Justice!’ snapped Pentheus. ‘From a Roman?’
It was Aquila who replied. ‘If you seek justice it may be forthcoming, if you seek war, Rome will destroy you.’
‘Destroy us,’ he sneered, with a heavy emphasis on the second word. ‘Has the turncoat, Aquila, turned his cloak yet again?’
Gadoric’s hand restrained Aquila’s response but he spoke to Pentheus in the same angry voice the boy would have used. ‘Beware, Greek. If you insult this Roman again, he may kill you.’
‘Are we to leave the Romans to live while we murder each other?’ Hypolitas’s angry words brought them back to the matter at hand: their first attack, which had to be a success. If they failed here, no amount of visions or dreams would keep the hopes of the multitude alive.
They left the mountains in darkness, progressing halfway across the coastal plain before dawn to crouch by the roadway, which led straight to their destination several leagues distant. In his capacity as military commander, Gadoric had chosen a small farm on the north coast near Tyndaris. For this he advanced several sound reasons: first, it was well away from their base and unguarded. It would be an easy way to blood their troops and it would
