find a whole army camped on your doorstep.’
‘I don’t think you can yet call us a whole army.’
‘We will be by the time we get here. I intend to march south along the coastal plain, picking up every slave we can on the way.’
Aquila looked at Gadoric with a degree of apprehension; had he also become a victim of his own vision? He made it all sound so simple, as if his potential opponents were people of little account, instead of the formidable legions that had conquered where they marched. It was a tempting dream, which would ease all their difficulties. Unfortunately his pride in Roman military prowess, deeply ingrained, would not allow him to share it.
‘And if the negotiations fail? What happens if you’re stuck outside the walls when the Romans arrive?’
Gadoric fixed him with that solitary eye, his voice dropping again, and the words he used highlighted two facts: first, that the Celt had his feet firmly on the ground, and secondly, even as the closest of friends, they faced very different dilemmas.
‘Then we might as well fight, Aquila. We must go on because we cannot go back. Only you have that choice.’
Pentheus had moved his men back to the main camp, his first act being to get Hypolitas to confirm him as Aquila’s equal. From that position he set out to dominate the men left behind, and this was harder than his other task, which was to become the sole confidant of the leader. This he managed by raising the art of flattering Hypolitas to new heights. The Palmyran was increasingly seen in Pentheus’s company, nodding sagely as his companion outlined some point regarding the future management of the slave army. At every gathering the others would hear Pentheus repeat, to welcome applause, the same message.
‘Remember, Hypolitas, that you alone are our leader. We look to you, and no other, to guide us. You command and we obey.’
Insidiously and assiduously he undermined Gadoric, not by belittling him but by praising him. Hypolitas could not fault the Celt’s military ability but the constant drip of Pentheus’s praise, liberally sprinkled with allusions to his superior, if unclouded genius, rapidly eroded any feelings Hypolitas might have had for the man with whom he had escaped. Pentheus, seemingly ever eager to please, subtly exploited this, gradually feeding the leader’s burgeoning ego.
‘Look at me, Hypolitas. I was no soldier. I was a farmer before I became a slave, yet I took up a spear and went out to fight. I may, modestly, claim some success.’
‘I hinted, to Gadoric, that I should do the same.’
‘And he said no! Perhaps he fears to risk your person?’
The older man frowned at this and Pentheus did not add anything else; it was sufficient to let Hypolitas draw his own conclusions. Instead he seemed to change the subject.
‘I wonder if it is wise to do nothing at all for the whole winter. Will the Romans not see this as a sign of weakness, a sign that the rebellion has burnt itself out?’
Word of their homecoming spread quickly and a sizable crowd gathered before they had dismounted. Hypolitas greeted the returning Gadoric like a long-lost brother, taking his arms with a smile, embracing him, then hauling him into his own hut. Aquila followed slowly, content to allow the two old comrades a moment alone. He looked around the camp, now a well-ordered affair, with scores of new huts replacing the makeshift wicker tents that had been there when they first arrived. A few of the men he had led pushed forward, eager to greet him, but the smile was wiped off his face when they told him what had happened, information that caused him to spin round and rush into the hut.
‘Pentheus!’ The single shouted word made both men turn to face him. Gadoric looked confused, Hypolitas angry. ‘How long has he been gone?’
‘You dare question me!’ snapped Hypolitas.
‘Aquila?’ said Gadoric, shocked at the expression in his young friend’s eyes.
‘He’s gone after Flaccus with eighty men.’
‘Who?’ the Celt enquired, still confused.
‘Pentheus did so with my blessing,’ said Hypolitas, with an airy wave of the hand. ‘We agreed that…’
‘You old fool!’ It was a long time since anyone had even checked Hypolitas, let alone insulted him, and the shock on his face was total, almost like a man who had received a hard slap. ‘He’s wanted to get his revenge on Flaccus ever since we started this revolt. Gadoric kept him well away from the area for that very reason.’
The Celt still looked confused and Hypolitas’s thundering response did nothing to help him. ‘I lead here! Don’t think that bauble round your neck gives you the right to question me.’
Not in the least cowed, he grabbed at his charm, pushing it out towards Hypolitas. ‘I’m not sure of what you trusted, my dreams or this, but the message was clear. No Roman blood, remember? That was the policy and it was supposed to give us some hope.’
For the first time Hypolitas, his eyes fixed fearfully on the eagle, seemed to falter, his voice, for once, devoid of confidence. ‘Pentheus knows that as well as anyone.’
‘He didn’t tell you where he was headed, did he?’
‘We must remind the Romans that we are here.’
‘Hypolitas,’ said Gadoric, sadly.
‘Get out! I will not be addressed like this,’ screamed the Greek. ‘I will be obeyed.’
Gadoric took him by the shoulders and shook him, speaking quietly. ‘We didn’t escape one tyranny, Hypolitas, to endure another.’ They stared at each other for several seconds before Gadoric spoke again. ‘Go after him, Aquila. Stop him if you can.’
His nose informed him that he was too late before his eyes; the smell of burning wafted into his nostrils on the northerly wind. The horse, which he had pushed to the limit of its endurance, was winded, so he could not urge it to greater speed. The black smoke rose into the sky and as he came closer he saw the flames at the base. Then he heard the screams, high pitched, mixed with loud and maniacal laughing. The fire rose above the barracks which had, at one time, been his home. When he saw what Pentheus and his men were doing he jumped off the horse and ran as fast as he could towards the blaze. The screams grew louder, so did the laughing and he barely noticed the row of flayed bodies hanging from the trees. Had he looked closely he would not have recognised any of those he had lived with, men like Dedon and Charro. The skin had literally been stripped from their bodies, leaving a bloody pulped mass dripping into the dark soil and onto the heap of broken staves under their feet.
He saw one of the women break out through the window, her hair on fire so she looked at this distance like a flaming torch, a small child cradled in her arms. One of Pentheus’s men tripped her up, grabbed her as she fell, lifted her and the child bodily, then threw them back into the burning building. Aquila was amongst the raiding party now: some of the men, disgusted as he was, had stood back from this outrage. Pentheus was in the middle of the compound directing operations, his face and arms purple from the blood that had spattered all over him. In the flames, with his wild staring eyes and grey hair, he looked like a madman, laughing in that high-pitched cackle that came upon him in the presence of death. He screamed with crazed delight as his men poked their long spears through the windows to drive back the maddened women who were trying to escape from the all-consuming flames.
Aquila grabbed him and spun him round, slapping his face to try to bring him back to his senses. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Whores!’ spat Pentheus, pointing to the bodies swaying on the trees. ‘They pleasured that vermin. Some of them are with child by the bastards. This fire will cleanse that plague.’
Aquila hit him, knocking him to the ground, then ran towards the inferno screaming Phoebe’s name, but no one was alive in there now, for the flames had started to suck in the surrounding air, and they rose to a flickering peak, carrying the souls of the dead women and children with them in a huge funeral pyre. Some of Pentheus’s men, as bloody and wild-eyed as their leader, had seen him strike the blow, seen their leader knocked to the ground, and they turned on him angrily. Others, mainly men who had served with Gadoric, and who had stood off from this barbarity, rushed forward to protect him, swords and spears at the ready. For a moment the two groups stood facing each other, until one of his rescuers took Aquila’s arm and led him away. Only when he got away from the heat of the fire did Aquila realise that he was crying.
They led him towards a steep-sided pit which had been dug in the ground, surrounded by bulging grain sacks, and Aquila leant on one and looked down. Flaccus was there, as bloody as the men on the trees, but still alive. His
