‘Surely the larger our forces, the safer they are,’ replied Hypolitas, looking around the assembled faces as if seeking support for his view.
Gadoric cut in quickly, aware that only those who disagreed with him would speak out. In doing so, he responded in a more dismissive way than normal. ‘We rely on speed more than numbers. When we attack a farm, it makes no sense to use a hundred men where thirty would do.’
The Greek’s black eyes flashed angrily. ‘The governor has patrols out all the time now. What if thirty men run into a hundred of them?’
‘I seem to recall our desire to avoid a war. Even if we outnumbered the governor’s patrol, I would recommend that we avoid a fight.’
Hypolitas frowned and clearly, to him, that sounded very much like cowardice. Gadoric was obviously aware of the impression he had created, both by his manner of speech and the words he had used, so he added quickly, ‘Better to attack three farms at once.’
There was a long silence while Hypolitas weighed up the options but he used the time to fix everyone with an intimidating stare, as if to ensure that they understood that whatever the advice, the final decision was his. ‘Who would lead them?’
‘I would command one, Aquila another and Tyrtaeus the third.’
‘Who will obey a mere boy?’ snapped Pentheus.
Gadoric’s reply was icy. ‘Would you care to fetch your weapons, Greek? I have no objection to you fighting Aquila for the post.’
Pentheus’s sallow face went as grey as his hair and he shook his head quickly. Hypolitas put his fingers to his lips to demonstrate the depth of his thinking, and Aquila, bolstered by his friend’s support, volunteered an opinion.
‘I agree with Gadoric, and I believe in the end we’ll be safer.’ Their leader gave him an enquiring look, so he continued. ‘Smaller groups move faster and I don’t think the Romans are just sitting waiting to be attacked. Staying together offers them a single target, a chance to snuff out this rebellion in one engagement.’
‘Only if they know where we’re going to attack.’ Pentheus, with his usual malice, now underpinned by humiliation, managed to imply, without saying it, that Aquila the Roman was not to be trusted.
‘I’ve had occasion to call you a fool before this, Pentheus, so I won’t bother again. You have made much of my association with Flaccus. What do you think he did before he came to Sicily?’ Pentheus just glared at him; he knew the answer to that as well as anyone. ‘He’s spent half his life soldiering, mostly fighting rebellious provincials. Up till now, if we’ve faced any resistance it’s been from half-trained militia. If they had any real soldiers we’d have been caught months ago but it’s only a matter of time before Roman troops arrive. Then all the knowledge he and the others have acquired will be brought to bear against us. If we stick to the same methods long enough, Flaccus and men like him will catch us and when they do they’ll make sure we are outnumbered. They will annihilate the fighters and crucify the rest. Right now the governor will be working on some plan to thwart us, based on our policy of single raids. If we start to attack in several places at once, that will throw their calculations out.’
‘Well said, boy,’ put in Gadoric.
Pentheus favoured him with the kind of look humans normally reserved for rats. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes!’ snapped Aquila. ‘We need to set up meeting places for incoming slaves. Right now our best equipped fighting men are going all the way to the plains, then returning every time into the mountains. If some of our less able people could be put to use, shepherding them up through the valleys, the fighters could get on with what they’re best at, raiding farms.’
‘We’re going to have a lot of people to look after,’ said Tyrtaeus. ‘Winter is coming. How are we going to feed them?’
‘Don’t imagine the Romans haven’t thought of that,’ replied Gadoric.
Hypolitas, who had remained silent, finally spoke, voicing an opinion that many had thought of but few saw as realistic. ‘We can’t stay in the hills anyway. Sooner or later we must attack and take one of the fortified towns.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
They shifted a dining couch into Lucius’s study, which at least quelled the continual angry shouts that had emanated from his bedchamber, and he lay there, throughout the day, chafing at the bandages that circled his meagre frame. No amount of lectures by his doctor could persuade him to rest, so the man took the unprecedented step of talking to Marcellus behind his father’s back.
‘You must have noticed how drawn he looks,’ said Epidaurianus. Fittingly, Lucius was attended by the most eminent medical practitioner in Rome, who not only worked as a doctor but served as a priest at the temple of Aesculapius, the God of Healing.
Marcellus nodded, not sure that he should say anything.
‘He must rest. Hand the burden over to others. Really it would do him good to get out of Rome.’
The doctor waited for Marcellus to speak and it pleased him that the youngster took his time, giving due consideration to his words rather than gabbling a response, something which would have come from most young men his age. But, of course, he was his father’s son, by all accounts a paragon of all the Roman virtues and destined for great things. He certainly looked the part. Epidaurianus studied him carefully, almost dissecting Marcellus with his acute observations. The dark hair was curled, but in a manly way, in the careless fashion redolent of an earlier age, not barbered as was the modern, Greek custom. The face, though young, showed all the gravitas associated with his family and its responsibilities, both present and future, the brow indicating brain as well as brawn. He seemed to combine a scholarly demeanour with patent physicality, being taller than his father by a good head; broad and muscular, his skin darkened from a life spent in the open, with hands callused through the use of weapons. Yet the fingers were long and elegant, used sparingly, which only added to their effect. The young man fixed his eyes on the doctor’s own. They were dark, unblinking, but the long silken lashes took away any hint of arrogance.
‘You must understand, sir, that my father is engaged in what he considers to be his life’s work.’
‘For which all Rome is grateful,’ said Epidaurianus smoothly. Lucius was a hefty benefactor to the various temples, and wisely included that of Aesculapius.
Marcellus smiled, lighting up his otherwise grave face. ‘We could debate that remark for some time, doctor.’
‘Surely there are others who could deputise for him?’ Now Marcellus laughed, which made Epidaurianus drop his sepulchral tone, in fact he spoke quite sharply. ‘As you said, all Rome may not be grateful. After all, someone, as yet unknown, tried to murder him. If you don’t want that section who do admire him to be dressed in mourning, you must stop him working.’
‘Would that I had the power,’ Marcellus replied.
‘Marcellus Falerius, no one knows how much power they have until they attempt to exercise it. You are born to power, now you must ask yourself this. At what point do you wish to come upon your inheritance?’
Marcellus had done his best to look like a fully grown man but there was no disguising his youth. Quintus Cornelius suppressed a smile, noting the way the lad kept his face set, like a Greek thinker in repose, which was quite amusing.
‘We do not yet know who was responsible, which, apart from all the other cares he has, is driving my father to distraction.’
‘We may never know, for certain,’ said Quintus.