‘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 also serve notice, once news of the attack spread, that no farm, even one relatively close to a large town and far from the mountains, with armed support readily available, was safe. Finally, after the attack, it would be clear to anyone who knew the country that the runaway slaves had marched past many more tempting opportunities. That, in turn, would induce a feeling of nervousness in the Roman overseers.
It was even easier than Gadoric anticipated. The whole of the province of Sicily, having had Roman rule for a hundred years, had become complacent. The local inhabitants had long since ceased to cause trouble, content to serve their Roman masters as they had served the Carthaginians before them. The few who noticed the party of armed men on the road, in broad daylight, could barely be bothered to afford them close scrutiny and they took over the farmhouse well after midday without a blow being struck, for the Roman overseer and his guards were out in the fields, supervising the slaves. His fat wife fainted clean away at the thought of her fate in the hands of these ruffians but she was roused and told, in the company of the other members of the household, to prepare a proper meal, first for their captors, and after that for the returning slaves.
The overseer’s son, who had originally hidden behind his mother, showed more grit by trying to run away to warn his father. Aquila spotted him and shouted a warning, setting off in pursuit just as he heard Pentheus laugh. It was the first time he had noticed the sound the man made, an odd, high, cackling affair, of the sort that would be produced by a witless fool. He also saw him raise his spear, and, ignoring the cries of alarm that were aimed in his direction, set himself to cast it at the running boy. Aquila changed direction and cannoned into him. The spear had already left his hand when Pentheus was bowled over, Aquila following through with his fist. Pentheus’s nose burst open as the spear thudded into the ground, just in front of the overseer’s son. The boy stopped dead, shaking like a leaf, his nose up against the swaying shaft.
Pentheus was cursing through his hands, covered in the pumping blood from his nose, claiming that he had aimed to miss, but Aquila had seen his eyes as he cast the spear. He knew, if the others did not, that only inexperience had saved the boy. Hypolitas, called upon to adjudicate, was evenhanded; he cursed them both while the men round the farmhouse, arguing amongst themselves, seemed to divide into separate groups. There were those who agreed with Aquila and were content to obey orders but there were others who clearly felt, like Pentheus, that sparing Roman lives was a mistake.
Gadoric, with an angry shout that silenced even Hypolitas, brought everyone’s attention back to the present. The sun was starting to dip in the sky and it was time to get out of sight, because the overseer and his slaves would be coming in from the fields and everything must look normal. Hypolitas, annoyed by the challenge to his authority, seemed set to argue and for a moment the two leaders were locked in a mutual glare, but the Celt’s single eye triumphed in the contest of wills. Hypolitas took station behind the grain store, acceding to Gadoric’s request, the rest going to where he dictated.
They heard the crack of the whips from their hiding places, a sound which held a deadly familiarity, and they could easily imagine the shuffling mass of tethered slaves staggering along, chained together between the lines of guards. Soon they were in sight, tired, covered in dust from the fields, it being impossible to tell the men from the women. Every time one stumbled, the guards fetched them a hearty blow with a vine sapling; a child, falling to his knees, was treated to a mighty kick that sent the poor mite flying. He would have been left to lie there if two others, who looked as if they barely had the strength to lift their own heads, had not bent to help him to his feet. The sound of his sobbing also carried across the flat ground, aided by the rapidly cooling air of the short twilight. They waited until the slaves had been shepherded into their stockade for the night, and as the gate shut, Gadoric’s men appeared from nowhere, rushing in small groups to capture their quarry, outnumbering the guards ten to one. The Roman overseer was the only one who attempted resistance, drawing the sword he wore at his side, but Gadoric and Aquila overpowered him easily.
The guards were quickly disarmed and bundled against the wooden walls of the stockade. Hypolitas, called from behind the grain store, emerged with a hammer, which he waved under the terrified overseer’s nose before he opened the gate and, entering the stockade, indicated that none should follow. He did not have the volcano in the background to help him on this occasion but he had no need of it. Those outside only heard him when he raised his voice, yet all knew the words he used, for the choice for these people, compared to that of the runaways, was even more stark. Should they decline to follow him, the Romans would probably put those who stayed behind to the sword as an example to other slaves tempted to revolt. The oratorical magic he had worked on the slopes of Etna was employed again, bringing forth growls and cries of acclamation, which rose until his final promise, audible to those outside the stockade, that the Gods were on their side, was drowned by a roar of approval.