the pony up the slope to the next ridge. The creature slithered and slid, but it was made for this sort of terrain and eventually they emerged onto a scrub-covered plateau. Having made his way to the end he saw a clear path by a dried-out riverbed winding all the way down into the valley. Gadoric was there, a good league ahead now, a tiny figure with a trail of dust billowing behind him. Aquila looked towards the city, its white walls seeming to move in the haze of heat rising from the coastal plain.
From that height he saw the trap long before his friend: horsemen blocked the route ahead of him where it narrowed into a gorge, the sun glinting on their spears, while the other half of the party, some twenty men, were hidden behind a thick clump of gorse and trees, ready to come round behind the Celt when he passed. Even at this distance he could tell by the uniform colour of their cloaks that they were Roman cavalry. He yelled a futile warning but there was no chance that Gadoric would hear him so he pushed his pony onto the path, forcing it to descend at a frightening speed, not caring whether he or the animal was killed in the process.
Gadoric hauled on the traces as soon as he saw the Romans stretched across the valley floor, over twenty horsemen, completely blocking his way, and the sound of hooves made him spin in the saddle to see that the same number now stood behind him. The steep slopes of the valley might have been possible on a really agile mountain pony, but this horse, sleek, fine-boned and bred to speed, would never make it up the hillside. Two men detached themselves from the party before him and rode forward and it was only when they got close up he realised one of them, regardless of his imposing height and build, was a youth.
‘You are the slave commander named Gadoric?’ said the older Roman, who wore the insignia of a Decurion.
The Celt fixed him with his one good eye, taking in the insignia on his armour, plus the torque on his arm, which was a mark of a man who had proved himself brave in battle. ‘I am Porcius Catus,’ the Decurion continued. ‘I command the cavalry of Titus Cornelius, military legate to the Princeps Senatus, Lucius Falerius Nerva.’ Gadoric glanced at the youth, observing that his armour was finely wrought like his own, but it bore no mark of distinction and the Decurion, noticing Gadoric’s interest, added, ‘This is the senator’s son, Marcellus Falerius. As you can see, Gadoric, your position is hopeless. If you will surrender your arms we will escort you back to our camp.’
‘Then?’ asked Gadoric.
‘That is not for me to decide,’ replied Porcius.
‘I will be a slave again.’
‘Perhaps you will.’
Gadoric shook his head slowly and his hand reached out to take his plumed Greek helmet from the pommel of his saddle. His voice, when he spoke, was without emotion and without fear. In fact his mind was on the words he had so recently said to Aquila. ‘You’re too Roman in your thinking, friend. I’d rather die in battle.’
‘That is stupid,’ said Marcellus, impressed with the man despite the fact that they were enemies.
‘To a Roman it is stupid, boy. To a Celt death is but a beginning.’ He looked at Porcius. ‘I offer single combat. I challenge Titus Cornelius.’
Porcius grinned. ‘Which I must decline on his behalf. Perhaps if you had an army at your back our legate might oblige.’
Gadoric raised his helmet, smiling just before he put it on his head. ‘That is one thing I always wished, to meet you Romans with an army at my back.’
‘Your last chance,’ said Porcius.
‘I am on my way to Agrigentum, Roman. Stand aside.’
Abruptly the helmet was thrown aside. Gadoric loosed his blond hair so that it hung down to his shoulders, and detached his spear and shield from the rear of his saddle, putting the round buckler on his left arm. Porcius hauled his horse around and, followed by Marcellus, made his way back to the line of soldiers that still blocked the valley floor. They turned to face Gadoric, now armed and ready for combat.
‘May I make a suggestion to the men, Porcius Catus?’
The officer looked at him; this was the son of Lucius and he was not stupid. ‘You may issue them with orders if you wish, young man.’
Marcellus raised his voice to address the others. ‘Don’t attack him. Stay still and try and bring his horse down.’
There was a dissatisfied murmur from the cavalrymen who were obviously looking forward to a kill. Porcius’s voice cracked through the air, stilling the dissent. ‘Do as you’re told, damn you. We want him alive, if possible.’
Behind the line that blocked the Celt’s retreat a single horseman in a heavy cloak rode slowly into the middle of the valley, emerging from the same clump of gorse and trees which had hidden the soldiers who had formed the second part of the trap. He had thrown back the hood and his face was now clearly visible in the evening light. Gadoric, looking behind him to assess the odds, saw him too. Marcellus knew instinctively that the sight enraged him by the way the Celt hauled mighty hard to bring his horse round.
He was charging the line at the other end of the valley before the turn was finished, aiming himself straight at the man in the cloak whose horse, no doubt unnerved by his rider, started to back up, its rear legs bending as it sought to retreat. The soldiers in the other line had received no instructions, so they lowered their spears and charged Gadoric, though they would have no time to get up speed before the Celt was upon them. Porcius kicked his horse hard, riding to intervene, but he must have known it was hopeless; the distance was too great. Marcellus trotted forward, watching the action as it unfolded.
Gadoric ignored the Roman cavalry. He raised himself in the saddle, one hand on the horse’s neck and the rest of his body weight held by his knees. It was stunning horsemanship and he seemed to tower over the men coming at him. Just as they converged he threw his spear, aiming it over their heads at the solitary horseman behind them, but the man was too far away, so it was defiant rather than effective. The Roman spears, cast at close range, took him in the exposed chest, piercing his decorated leather armour, but the weight of his charge carried him on and he burst, still upright, through the line of attackers like a maddened boar. The horse, which had also taken a spear, faltered, but Gadoric hauled on the reins to keep its head up, using his other hand to pull out his sword. Marcellus heard the shout as it filled the valley, not a shout of pain, but a high-pitched war cry, emitted from the throat of a fatally wounded Celtic warrior.
The man he was trying to reach spun his horse awkwardly, attempting to flee as the Celt broke the Roman line. Sheer speed carried Gadoric on and he closed on his quarry, but Marcellus saw the shoulders slip as they came abreast, saw the upraised sword slip from the warrior’s hand. The huge body slid sideways at the same time that his animal’s forelegs gave way and both horse and rider crashed to the ground, the sound of breaking wood quite audible in the evening air as the weight of the falling horseman snapped the spear shafts still embedded in his chest. A great cloud of dust billowed up in the air as both horse and rider slithered along the hard earth, grinding to a halt, the animal twitching wildly, the warrior totally still.
Marcellus kicked his own horse and rode up, like everyone else, eager to examine the body. Porcius was looking down at the corpse unhappily, but the stranger, who had approached cautiously, was smiling, his sallow- complexioned face lined with pleasure. The prematurely grey hair took the dying sun, seeming to shine. He pulled his head back, filled his mouth and with an over-elaborate gesture spat on the corpse of the dead Gadoric.
‘We’ll take the body back to the camp,’ said Porcius.
‘No,’ snapped the stranger. ‘Leave him here. Let the vultures feed on his bones.’
‘He deserves better,’ Porcius replied.
‘Does he, Roman? I say you leave him here.’
Porcius’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘Why should I listen to you?’
The cloak was thrown back, to reveal armour every bit as gorgeous as that of the man who had just died. ‘I can’t see it will help in the negotiations or please your legate, Titus Cornelius, if you choose to insult the new leader of the slave army.’
The man laughed, a high-pitched cackle which echoed off the surrounding hills, then with a mocking air, he bowed low in the saddle.
Aquila’s pony had tried, but eventually he had had to dismount and run, leaving it, legs splayed and chest heaving half a league from the spot where Gadoric had ridden into the trap. He heard the war cry loud and clear, knowing as he did that he was too late to intervene, but he ran on nevertheless. The silence made him stop in the trees, and breathing heavily he walked carefully to the edge. The ring of horsemen was still, looking inwards, so
