The days dragged on into weeks as Cholon travelled between the camp and the city, finalising the arrangements that would return the slaves to their farms, albeit under the less brutal conditions that Lucius intended to force through the Senate. Titus had instigated a regular service from the mainland and legionaries, taken from the various city garrisons in the south, were quietly shipped to his camp. Lucius was most adamant that nothing be done to alert the Senate, but Roman strength grew daily, boosted most importantly by a detachment of cavalry.
Lucius arrived to find his son ashore for once, in the kind of regular encampment he had served in as a soldier all those years ago. Paternal greetings were brief; the senator took over Titus’s tent and, with his health finally and steadily improving, went into deep consultation with Cholon.
They met at the agreed rendezvous again, happy to see each other in good health. The tall Celt, riding a magnificent if slightly skittish horse, now wore elaborate, expensive attire: light wool clothing and a fine decorated leather breastplate and greaves. A plumed Greek helmet was looped over his saddlebow and his shield was embossed with carefully worked gold and silver images. Even his weapons gleamed. Aquila wore the battered armour that had served him for the last two years, carried the same sword with the sweat-stained pommel, so beside Gadoric he looked like a peasant. Ritual greetings exchanged, it was not long before they were discussing the situation of the slave revolt.
‘Are you still planning to fight?’ asked Aquila.
The Celt scowled. ‘Right now we talk. You’ll have seen that Roman camp by the shore to the east.’
Aquila nodded, but did not add how tempted he had been to enter it; the sight of those soldiers dressed in the same manner as his ‘Papa’ Clodius had acted as a powerful draw upon his primary allegiance.
‘We could drive them into the sea in an hour,’ said Gadoric, looking over his shoulder, ‘and leave their bones to bleach in the sun.’
‘They wouldn’t stand and fight, Gadoric. They’ve kept enough ships to get away if they have to.’
‘True, but it would be nice to try, instead of just sitting doing nothing.’
‘How is Hypolitas?’
That produced a wry smile. ‘King Hypolitas, if you please.’
‘A strange title for an ex-slave.’
‘He says that it makes negotiations with the Romans easier, but in truth he loves the name, as well as the trappings of kingship. He’s become quite regal these last few weeks.’
Aquila spoke with genuine concern; he knew, regardless of the risks, that his friend would be better off away from the likes of Hypolitas. ‘The Romans grow stronger every day?’
Gadoric nodded. ‘We are supposed to finally decide on our actions tomorrow, whether to fight or accept the Roman terms.’
‘What are the Roman terms?’
‘Ask me tomorrow. So far only Hypolitas knows them all. He does all the negotiating privately.’ Aquila’s eyebrows showed clearly what he thought of that. ‘He has a point. I shudder to think what might happen if our people even got a hint we were talking. Anyway, he knows where I stand. I’ve told him nothing less than complete freedom is acceptable.’
‘Still determined to fight and die?’
The older man smiled. ‘After all I’ve taught you, Aquila, you’re still too Roman in your thinking.’
Aquila pulled a face. ‘I know. I’ll be happier on the other side. Do you really welcome death, you Celts?’
‘It’s not something I’d lie about,’ said Gadoric sadly.
That sadness indicated the truth: no man likes the idea of leaving life, even if all his days he has been told that death is something to look forward to. Gadoric had as much trouble with his faith as any man, never sure whether those who were supposed to know, the Druid priests of the Celtic faith, could really see the promised Asgard, that paradise for the souls of warriors, or whether their pronouncements were just a ploy to excite bravery in men who might be afraid of death in battle.
‘It makes no difference,’ he continued. ‘Death, when it comes, answers those questions, but the manner of a man’s going is everything.’
He reached out and took Aquila’s Celtic eagle in his hand, grasping it firmly. The youngster bowed his head, grabbed the chain and took it off. ‘Take it, Gadoric.’
That brought a smile to the older man’s face and he examined the charm for a moment, twisting it so that it gleamed in the sun, then looked up at its owner. ‘This was meant to keep you alive, Aquila, not me.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Just by holding it.’
Aquila opened his mouth to respond, but Gadoric stopped him. He slung the charm back over Aquila’s neck, shook his shoulders in a fatherly way, then turned and walked over to his horse to fetch the sack of food and wine he had brought out from Agrigentum. Aquila’s eyes, following him, caught the flash of the sun on metal somewhere far off.
‘Did you bring a bodyguard this time, Gadoric?’
‘No, I came alone.’ He turned, sack in hand, and seeing the look on the youngster’s face, mistook the cause. ‘Come on, enough of this talk of death. Let’s eat.’
Lucius Falerius looked at the scroll Cholon had given him, nodding contentedly as he read it.
‘Hypolitas has sounded out all the other leaders. They will accept our offer of freedom and pension. That is, bar one.’
‘The one-eyed Celt you told me of?’
Cholon nodded. ‘He stands head and shoulders above them all, both figuratively and in life. Hypolitas is a compulsive talker, who’s reached his pre-eminence through overuse of a silver tongue and the odd piece of primitive magic. The others are nobodies, hanging on to his coat-tails, more afraid of losing their skin than anything else. If this Gadoric was the leader, they would never have agreed to talks in the first place.’
‘Yet he hasn’t prevented Hypolitas from talking?’
‘No.’
‘Then he’s a fool for all his nobility.’
The tent flap flew open and Titus stood framed by the daylight behind him. ‘A messenger for you, Cholon Pyliades, from the Temple of Diana.’
Cholon looked quickly at Lucius, who was angry at this interruption. ‘I must see him. It has been arranged.’
‘Very well,’ said the older man sourly. ‘Show him in.’
Despite the heat of the day the man who entered was wrapped in a heavy hooded cloak, which he declined to remove even for the eminent senator. Cholon stood while the man whispered his message in his ear. Once it was delivered he turned and swept out of the tent. In a matter of seconds they heard the sound of his horse’s hooves as he rode swiftly out of the Roman camp.
Good news?’ asked Lucius.
‘I think so,’ he replied.
Yet Cholon did not look as though he had received good tidings, he looked like a man whose favourite dog has just died. Later, as he watched the Decurion lead his cavalry out of the camp, with Marcellus in full uniform by his side, his expression was even more bereft of joy.
Aquila rode steadily along just under the rim of the ridge, with an occasional turn to the top to check on Gadoric’s progress, grateful that the Celt had not allowed his horse its head, given that Aquila’s stunted upland pony was no match for that magnificent animal; he was having trouble keeping up at the moment and the other man was barely even trying. The heat had gone out of the sun now and it was warm at this altitude, without being stifling like the lowland plain. The hills on his left nearly joined the track, leaving him a narrow ledge to ride along, so Aquila cursed when he saw the rock fall that had blocked his way and looked vainly at the steep slope below him and the sheer face of the newly exposed rock to his right.
There would be no tailing Gadoric now, but that flash he had seen earlier, which could only have come from something metal, worried him. He pulled his horse’s head round, retraced his steps and dismounting, started to haul
