The hammer was employed to strike against the metal of the chains, the Greek keen to be seen as the saviour of each one individually as they went from slavery to freedom, until finally the gates opened and Hypolitas emerged, followed by three gaunt looking men. First he showed them the overseer, tied to the wheel of a wagon. The potency of Rome as an enemy was apparent in the man’s carriage; he fully expected to die, but he would not beg, nor plead with slaves. Instead, he stared at them defiantly and Aquila could not help but admire him. Hypolitas, denied the grovelling he had expected, quickly led his dusty companions over to inspect their guards, now cowering against the walls, unarmed.
‘Some of these men are ex-slaves?’ he asked. Fingers pointed eagerly at three of the guards and one of the slaves summoned up enough saliva to spit at them. Hypolitas greeted this with a grim smile. ‘Nothing is worse than a slave who turns against his own. Go back into your stockade. We will give you these vermin one by one.’
The buzz of excited conversation rising from the enclosure as they re-entered was evidence that, in their eagerness for revenge, they were not alone. Hypolitas called to Pentheus, whose swollen nose was smeared with dried blood. ‘You are eager for vengeance, Pentheus. Strip these men and throw them to their fate.’
Pentheus looked around, seeking those who would gain the honour of helping him. There was no shortage of willing hands and they gathered round the guards, now on their knees, pleading, to no avail, for mercy. Pentheus just laughed at them — that same high-pitched cackle that made him sound insane — then, eagerly assisted by those who shared his bloodlust, he stripped them of their helmets, breastplates and finally their tunics, till they stood, naked and vulnerable, in a tight, terrified group. They grabbed the first one, lifting him bodily to contain his struggles, while others opened the gates to the stockade. Inside the slaves, men, women and children, stood silent, their eyes glassy but fixed on the struggling guard as Pentheus and his helpers threw the victim at their feet. At first they barely moved, shuffling round and cutting him off from the sight of those outside the circle, in which the guard was still pleading for mercy, his voice rising to an imploring scream.
Hypolitas ordered the gates closed as the screams turned from fear to pain and Aquila closed his eyes. He knew that, inside that gate, the fellow was literally being torn apart by bare hands. One of the other potential victims, taking advantage of those around him who were transfixed by the sounds emanating from the stockade, grabbed a sword and fell on it. He screamed as it thrust into his belly and Hypolitas, in a rare show of emotion, rushed over and kicked him repeatedly, then ordered that he be thrown over the wall so that those inside could get to him before he expired. The last victim did not struggle; he was like a limp, naked rag as he was taken to the gate. It opened and the circle of slaves parted to show the mangled corpses on the ground. Their dusty rags as well as their faces were streaked in blood, some of it dripping off their chins. Even Hypolitas blanched at the thought of that but the last victim had to die. Still in a trance he was pushed towards the slaves and the doors were shut again. No shouting or screaming this time, just the steady thud of a human body being reduced to bloody pulp.
‘Gadoric, the yoke,’ called Hypolitas, as he walked towards the overseer. He gave Aquila, who was standing beside the cart, a quick glance, then spoke softly. ‘You deserve the same fate, pig.’ The Roman did not react, even though he too had been able to see through those gates. ‘Perhaps we should throw your fat wife in there?’
Still nothing but a defiant glare. ‘Or your son, perhaps?’
For the first time the face showed a trace of fear, then his shoulders drooped and the voice was hoarse as he spoke. ‘Take me, spare the boy.’
‘And your wife?’ asked Hypolitas with a thin smile.
He squared his shoulders again. ‘She is the boy’s mother and a Roman. If you ask her, she will say the same.’
Hypolitas pushed his face close to that of the overseer. ‘So if I really want to hurt you, to make you suffer as others have suffered, I need only torture your son before your eyes.’
Aquila moved to intervene, to tell Hypolitas to desist. The Greek held up his hand, but the words that followed were addressed to the prisoner. ‘Never fear, pig. We do not make war on children. Nor will you, or your wife, suffer more than the loss of your dignity.’
He pointed to the yoke, now held aloft by two men. ‘You will pass under that, all of you, acknowledging that your slaves have now become your masters, and you will bear a message, pig. Tell all your fellow overseers, and the greedy owners gorging themselves in Rome, that the slaves are no longer prepared to die in their fields.’
He turned slightly, raising his voice so that all could hear, including the blood-spattered slaves, who had finished their sport and emerged from the stockade. ‘Rome can have her grain, as much as Sicily yields now, and more in the future. The people who grow it now will continue to do so, but not as slaves. We will grow it as free men.’
He ordered the overseer untied, his wife and son were fetched from the house. ‘Remember the message, pig. Rome can have her grain.’
They and the remaining guards were paraded beneath the yoke, the eternal sign of servitude, the proof that a power lay vanquished. The food that the household slaves had prepared disappeared quickly down the throats of the starving field workers and everything that could be carried or moved, farming implements, oxen, tools, as well as food and weapons, was stripped out of the farm. Hypolitas, who had been watching this work, sent everyone away from the house and he stood alone, his head back and his arms outstretched, as if seeking power from the heavens for what he was about to do. Then the hands came together suddenly, clapping hard in front of his mouth, and a jet of flame shot up towards the edge of the thatch that covered the farmhouse roof. Dry as tinder, it took light immediately until Hypolitas clapped his hands again and the jet of flame ceased. Then he turned and looked at the frightened prisoners, his bald head and prominent features giving him a demonic appearance.
‘It is not just the slaves you must fear, Romans. The power of the Gods is against you. Now go, and tell of what you have seen.’
All the buildings were burnt out long before the overseer and his family were out of sight. The freed slaves were herded along again, this time by friendly runaways, who cajoled them to hurry without the aid of whips, heading for the hills and freedom. Gadoric, Aquila and the best trained men formed a cordon at the rear, ready to turn and fight if the armed men from the town of Tyndaris should venture out to investigate the column of smoke that rose from the smouldering buildings.
From that day they were rarely still. They had to raid to feed the extra mouths and each raid produced more racked bodies in need of nourishment. Also they were short of weapons and the weather was deteriorating, so the provision of shelter became an acute problem. The original small band had grown substantially as freed slaves and runaways joined them until the worried military commander called a conference to discuss this, and further operations.
‘We can no longer operate as one unit, nor should we,’ said Gadoric.
Hypolitas did not enjoy being told what to do by anyone, but, lacking knowledge, he had always bowed to the Celt in such matters. Yet he was taking a closer interest himself, asking advice from a variety of sources, so that each act of persuasion seemed to take longer and longer. Aquila, though invited to attend this conference, stayed out of the discussion. Others, particularly Pentheus and those who thought like him, were present and any interventions from that source, however sound, would be unwelcome, even if most accepted that, despite his years, Aquila was Gadoric’s second-in-command.