The thought that the man was a fool was the first thing that entered his mind: there was nothing of value amongst those maps. It was unlikely he could read, so he had tried the wrong cupboard but that did not alter the fact that Thoas was trying to steal something from his papers and there was only one way to deal with such a thing. The Numidian was tall, muscular and could prove a difficult opponent. This was no time to take a chance.
Thoas started to turn as Quintus stabbed him, which meant the blade took him in the side of his leg rather than the back, and in turning he added effect to the sideways motion that Quintus used, tearing his thigh muscles even more than the senator had intended. Quintus was a soldier, as adept in the martial arts as any of his contemporaries. The left-handed punch hit the slave on his open mouth, removed several teeth, and killed the sound that Thoas had started to make. Quintus kicked his other leg from under him and dropped, with his knees thudding onto the slave’s chest as he hit the floor. Then the knife was at the Numidian’s throat.
‘Make a sound and I’ll take out your gizzard.’
Terror made Thoas’s eyes look white against his dark skin, fear made him gurgle, the knife pressed into his throat made him stop. The slave’s mind was racing, since there seemed no way out of the trouble he was in. Then he had an idea. It would be pointless to plead mercy on the grounds that he was acting on Claudia’s behalf, but what about Lucius Falerius Nerva? Everyone in Rome was afraid of Lucius and gossip in the wine shops had it that this included Quintus Cornelius, so when the question came, he gave the answer that he thought would save him.
They found his body in a street leading to the market-place, the throat sliced open. Rome at night was a lawless enough place for murder to be commonplace and Thoas, who was much given to staying out drinking in places he could not afford, spending money he should not have, on women he could never hope to get, had met a deserved end, probably at the hands of someone jealous of his attentions to his paramour. Claudia, as a favour to help her heartbroken maid, paid for a funeral for the Numidian, even though she did wonder what he was doing out at that hour. Even more mysterious was the way that Quintus, without a word of explanation, handed her the note she had written out for the priests at the Temple of Juno
Moneta. As he did so, her stepson cursed himself again for that moment of blind fury, when he heard the name Lucius Falerius. That had made him slice the man’s throat without asking him what he was looking for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was immediately obvious that the slave army, despite the promises of their leader, had taken over the city. The guard at the gate had been an ex-slave and the entrance to the palace, normally the meeting place of the local oligarchy, was also guarded by runaways, simple questioning establishing that it was now the sole residence of the ‘King of the Slaves’. Cholon waited, in a very privileged spot, as the crowds gathered and watched this paragon emerge into the square before the palace. He was surrounded by his advisers, one of whom, a tall blond fellow with a single eye, towered head and shoulders above his leader. The crowd, now a dense mass of bodies, who had gathered for a mere glimpse of this man, erupted into wild and unrestrained cheering.
Hypolitas was still thin, just as bald with the same wild eyes, but he had shed his simple smock for more elaborate garments, made of finer materials. He wore jewellery on his wrists and neck and the way he carried himself, the gestures he used to acknowledge the cheering, made it easy to imagine him wearing a diadem. The speech, to Cholon’s ears, was less impressive, but he was prepared to admit to himself that bias could play a part in his judgement. The ritual with the fire, shooting out of Hypolitas’s mouth, to form a great ball above his head, certainly stunned the crowd, even those runaways who had seen their leader perform this magic before. Then came another speech full of messages of peace and brotherhood, which ended with six white doves flying out from Hypolitas’s sleeve.
As soon as the assembly was over Cholon composed his request. The leading priests from the Temple of Diana, who would add their voices to his plea for a private audience, would deliver this. Discretion had to be exercised if he was to keep his head on his shoulders, but the relish he took in his new role was undiminished by the danger. His impression of the man he had seen, that morning, contrasted greatly with the little information available to Lucius and the Romans.
That hinted at some person, near God-like in his simplicity, a man beyond avarice, yet he sensed that he was, in his fine clothes and flashing jewels, not like that. The apparent magic with the flames might impress an ignorant crowd, but it did not have the same effect on him, since he was sure he knew how it was done. If anything convinced Cholon that he could talk, profitably, with Hypolitas, it was the way he had accepted the accolade ‘King’, shouted from numerous throats. There was no attempt to curtail this, no modesty, more an apparent welcome in the eyes and an acknowledgement in the gestures that such a title was nothing less than his rightful due.
The message he sent had to be couched in language that hinted, discreetly, at the nature of his mission. If, indeed, this Hypolitas was an upright man his request would meet with a blank refusal. The venal priests, accepting the largesse that he bestowed with ill-concealed greed, listened carefully as, verbally, he outlined his instructions. Nothing that could compromise him, or the recipient, could be committed to paper.
‘Say that Cholon Pyliades, a native of Athens, an ex-slave yet also a citizen of Rome, seeks private audience. I would speak with the King of the Slaves personally and alone. Take care to acknowledge his majesty, since he relishes the title. You may say that I bear an offer from the chosen representative of the Roman Republic, one that will guarantee him and those he leads, peace, life and prosperity. I exert no pressure for this meeting and I am willing to depart without it, sure that the fates have already laid out the future course of events. Perhaps his enterprise will prosper, perhaps every road in Sicily will be lined with crucifixes. As a Greek and an ex-slave, I can sympathise. As a Roman citizen, I am only too aware of the power available to that state.’
He looked around the assembled priests. Well-fed men of few real scruples, they would accede to only two things: power and money. He tossed the purse, full of gold, in his hand.
‘They have a saying about the Romans. When they sack a city, they are very thorough, they even slaughter the animals.’ He raised his head and looked around the rafters of the wooden temple. The way the priests shuddered convinced him it was enough. ‘They will come and they will burn and be assured, the Romans will kill every man, woman and child in Agrigentum if this revolt is allowed to continue. Hypolitas is bound to ask you, as augurs and priests, for a prediction. You will tell him that you see this temple a smoking ruin, the city razed to the ground, the plain before the walls a mass of dead. Do that, and I promise you that this wooden structure will be replaced by a larger one, made of the finest stone.’