‘He feels that, as a Roman, he cannot kill his own kind.’
‘We should never have trusted him in the first place,’ growled Pentheus.
Hypolitas threw up his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Well, there’s nothing more to be done. Thank you for being so open, Gadoric. I must say, when Pentheus first mentioned your little trips, I was worried.’
‘You have no need to worry.’
The hands went up again, this time in exasperation. ‘What if anything happened to you? What would I do?’
‘You didn’t forbid him another meeting,’ Pentheus complained, as Gadoric disappeared.
‘No, Pentheus, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘What would you think his reaction would be, if I told him that there is a chance of a settlement with the Romans?’
Pentheus had become practised at being this man’s courtier. He also knew of Cholon’s visit, without having the least idea of its purpose. But he was clever enough to make an immediate connection so he did not bat an eyelid and his voice showed no trace of emotion. ‘What kind of settlement?’
‘One that I could accept. Let us say that our position, as leaders, would be recognised. That we, at least, would be spared a return to servitude.’
‘Gadoric would tell you to jump off the walls.’
Hypolitas smiled grimly. ‘I wonder if that is good advice. I think you hate him.’
‘Do I?’ asked Pentheus guardedly.
‘You are a man who hates easily, Pentheus.’ The Palmyran laughed suddenly. ‘But then so am I. You asked why I didn’t forbid him to go and see his Roman.’
‘Yes.’
‘When I asked him where he went, he told me, right away. Gadoric does not yet know that he was followed. Let us, for the sake of our future, keep it that way.’
‘Nothing would please me more than the sight of Aquila’s body hanging by his feet,’ said Pentheus.
‘Then perhaps we can arrange for you to have it.’ Hypolitas looked at his fingernails, as if the words that followed were of no account. ‘Should that be possible, you would please me greatly by fetching back that gold eagle that hangs round his neck.’
Pentheus emitted that cackle, which made anyone who heard it wonder if he was mad. ‘I shall bring you his head and his neck, with that charm still on it.’
The senior priests from the Temple of Diana entered and Hypolitas acknowledged them, before turning back to Pentheus. ‘Forgive me. I have been invited to worship with these men. It would be impious to decline.’
The other man said nothing, but in light of the meeting with Cholon he could guess what was taking place.
‘There is one of the leaders who Hypolitas says will never agree. The others will do as he tells them.’
‘He is?’ asked Lucius.
‘The man who commands the army, a Celt by the name of Gadoric. Apparently, he’s as venal as the rest but he hates Rome too much to ever agree to a truce.’
‘Then Hypolitas must be rid of him.’
‘He would rather we did that,’ replied Cholon. ‘He cannot be seen killing his own when he is promising them all a better life.’
Lucius nodded. ‘That is fitting. Roman blood has been shed. It will quieten some of those who wish to protest if we take some revenge. The other terms?’
‘A show of force, especially ships.’
‘Titus and my son are arranging that.’
‘He intends to be acclaimed and wishes to be treated with all the honours due to a client king.’
‘The other leaders?’
‘The future King Hypolitas seemed to care little for them. He spent most of his time telling me what kind of villa he required, how many servants and the size of his annual stipend, which is substantial.’
Lucius smiled, his thin face lighting up. ‘The landowners can pay it and they can afford to, especially people like Cassius Barbinus. Perhaps it will still his tongue and make him treat his slaves properly.’
‘They’ll squeal, Lucius Falerius. Their income will be dented already by the reforms you propose to introduce.’
The other man’s face was wreathed in smiles, which made more prominent his already well-defined bones. ‘Let them squeal, Cholon. That is a spectacle I will certainly enjoy.’
Marcellus’s only experience of the sea had been the short crossing from Italy to Sicily on a cargo ship, but this was different. He and Titus, at the head of a makeshift fleet, having received a bare set of instructions from his father, were now sailing south round the island. Most of the ships were merchant galleys commandeered against the wishes of their owners; they were aboard a proper trireme, its three banks of oars manned by fighting men, which had been fetched round from Brindisium, taken from its normal duty of subduing piracy on the eastern trade route.
He loved it; the rise and fall of the waves felled Titus from the first day, but not Marcellus. The smell of the salt water, the feeling of unlimited space, the way that the ship steered when he was given a turn at the great sweep that stuck out from the stern, lifted his heart. He had a turn on an oar, eliciting some admiration from the other rowers for his stamina and for his determination to keep up, though the effort left him an exhausted heap on the deck. Marcellus was back as soon as he recovered, keen to master the art and progress to the peak of efficiency achieved by those who manned the ship.
With the wind dead astern, and the great square sail drawing taut, they sighted Agrigentum just after dawn on the third day. The master, at the request of a slightly green Titus, cleared the ship for battle, taking in the sail and sending all the rowers to their stations. The man at the drum started to beat time causing the sleek trireme to edge forward and as the tempo increased the rowers strained harder, increasing the strokes without ever losing their rhythm. The catwalks above the rowers’ heads were lined with soldiers, the first shock wave in an attack, who would be joined by those below once the need to manoeuvre had passed. The trireme head-reached the accompanying merchant ships with the water flying in a great spray over the prow.
They could see the few vessels in the harbour, grain ships, which the defenders had spread across the mouth, the sides lined with heavily armed men, which would be precious little use against the weightier Roman ships, Quadremes and Quinqueremes, built for close combat rather than ramming. But Titus and Marcellus were in a trireme and the master felt it was his duty to point out some of the limitations inherent in such a vessel. They were aboard a ship built for speed, whose prime method of attack was to ram the enemy, then board, but they were alone, so any conflict would be costly. He pointed instead to another galley, busy laying a wooden boom. The insurgents were using a wide beamed merchant ship to lower great tree trunks into the water, attached to each other by stout chains. Titus, eager for a fight, and dying to assault the enemy’s main strength, nevertheless deferred to the captain, who brought his trireme round a touch, so that the bows were aimed directly at the ship laying the boom.
The men aboard her were not soldiers and the galley, of a type used to transport stone, was slow to manoeuvre. As they realised that they were the intended victim, they abandoned their task and tried to turn for the inner harbour, well aware that they were ill-equipped to withstand an attack. The other rebel galleys, which had already pulled in their anchors, took some of the men off the deck to man their sweeps. Marcellus saw the rows of oars swing back and down, biting into the water, sensing the strain that was being exerted to get these ships into motion. They rose and fell, and the water began to cream down the sides as the ships got under way.
‘We should haul off, sir,’ said the master, who had not foreseen this development. ‘We cannot take on such heavy odds.’
That did not please Titus, who, at the prospect of action, seemed much improved. ‘If we can prevent them laying the boom it will make any future attempts on the port much easier.’