With a bloody gurgle of rage the slave flailed at his opponent, spattering the auxiliary with blood before his strength gave out and he slumped to his knees, still pierced through by the spear. The auxiliary backed away, hastily looking round to make sure that he was keeping a loose formation alongside his comrades as they paced along the road, doing their best to stay close to the wagons. The ground on either side was strewn with bodies, and still the slaves came on. Macro struck down a toothless man, old enough to be his father, and the man cursed him as he died.
A hand grasped Macro's shoulder and he spun round, ready to strike, until he saw Atticus and just managed to stay his sword in time.
'Give me a weapon,' Atticus pleaded. 'Before they tear me to pieces!'
Macro looked round and saw a pitchfork lying beside the body of a slave, no more than a boy. 'There! Take it.'
Atticus snatched the pitchfork up and grasped the shaft firmly as he lowered the prongs at a thin man racing towards him with a nailed club. The slave swung the club in a vicious arc, aiming at Atticus's head. The latter ducked the blow and then thrust his prongs into the slave's stomach, and with a grunt of brute strength carried the wiry slave up off the ground. The slave screamed as his weight carried him further down the sharp iron spikes that impaled him. Atticus twisted the shaft to one side and the slave crashed to the ground. Placing a boot on the man's chest he wrenched the prongs free and immediately went into a crouch as he looked round for another threat.
'Good job,' Macro said grudgingly.
The leading wagon rumbled out of the wood on to clear ground and continued towards the ruined villa, the driver cracking his whip over the heads of the horses and mules as he urged them on. Ahead of him, a couple of auxiliaries were forced to scramble to the side of the track before they were run down. Macro ground his teeth furiously as he trotted after the wagon.
'Not so bloody fast, you fool!'
The driver carried on heedlessly, and the others followed his example as the wagons emerged from the wood, leaving the auxiliaries and volunteers scrambling to keep up as they tried to fight off the slaves swarming round the column like angry wasps. One of Macro's men, at the rear of the last wagon, stumbled — and fell, sprawling across the gravelled track. At once several slaves leaped on him with bloodthirsty howls of triumph and hacked and stabbed at him as he struggled on the ground. He let out a piercing shriek, before it was savagely cut off as axe blows rained down on his head.
Macro could see the danger clearly enough. If the men in the column could not stay together then they would be overwhelmed and butchered one by one. He had to slow the leading wagon. With a curse he released his grip of the shield handle and tossed it to one side so that it would not weigh him down. Fortunately there had been no time to find any greaves for his legs, and the scale armour was not heavy enough to stop him breaking into a run. He sheathed his sword and ran as fast as he could to overhaul the leading wagon, passing the heavy rear wheels. As it lurched over a bump, a jar of olive oil tipped over the side, narrowly missing Macro, and shattered on the stony track. He leaped over the shards of pottery, and as he drew level with the driver, grasped the side of the bench and launched himself up on to the foot rail. The driver glanced down in panic, before he saw it was one of his own side, and then cracked his whip again.
Macro did not waste time with any more words and struggled to his feet, driving his fist into the man's stomach so that he doubled over with a grunt, dropping the whip and traces as he slumped across the bench, gasping for breath. Macro snatched the traces up and pulled them sharply, dragging back on the horses' bridles.
'Whoa! Whoa there!'
With frightened whinnies the horses drew up and the slight incline of the track slowed the wagon at once. Macro settled them on a steady pace and then glanced round. He saw Atticus close by, still brandishing his pitchfork as he kept two slaves at bay. Now that the column was in the open, Macro had a far better view of his situation. Scattered across the field on either side were two or three hundred slaves. After witnessing the fall of so many of their comrades in the first moments of the attack, the rest were now more wary, and they hung back from the column, waiting to pounce on any stragglers, or charge into any gaps between the wagons and the men defending them.
'Atticus!' Macro shouted to him. 'Over here!'
Atticus thrust at the slaves nearest to him and trotted warily up along the side of the leading wagon. Macro leaned towards him, clasping the man's hand and hauling him up on to the driver's bench.
'Here, take the traces. Keep the speed down so that the rest of the wagons and the men can keep up. Is that clear?'
Atticus nodded, still breathing raggedly from his exertions. He took the traces in one hand, and kept a tight grip on the shaft of his weapon with the other. Macro waited a moment to be sure that he had the right pace, and then jumped clear of the wagon, landing heavily. At once he straightened up and drew his sword again.
'Twelfth Hispania! Stay with the wagons!'
The auxiliaries and those volunteers who had snatched up weapons from the dead and injured formed a loose cordon around the wagons as the column continued up the track at a measured pace.
The slaves stayed with them, but kept more than a spear's length away, to one side of the wagons. Some had begun to snatch up stones and small rocks from the ground, and hurled them at the Roman soldiers. The uneven rattle and thud of the makeshift missiles accompanied the column all the way to the remains of the villa.
Having cast his shield away, Macro did his best to duck any stones he saw coming, but one still crashed off his shoulder. Some of the unprotected volunteers were not so fortunate, and Macro saw one take a blow to the head. The man cried out, clasping a hand to his temple as he staggered away from the track. At once a slave with a mallet leaped forward and smashed it down on his head, crushing the skull in a welter of blood and brains.
They passed the villa and continued up the track towards the junction with the road to Gortyna. The slaves kept with them, stooping to snatch up stones and rocks to keep hurling at the column. For their part, the auxiliaries kept their shields raised and, when the chance permitted, threw missiles back. The path of Macro's column was marked by dead and injured slaves, with a handful of civilians and soldiers amongst them.
'How long do you think they'll keep this up?' Atticus called out from where he crouched low by the driver's bench.
'Until they get tired of it,' Macro replied tersely as he ducked to pick up a shield from one of his men who had fallen at the head of the column. A large rock had shattered the auxiliary's knee and he gritted his teeth as he sat on the ground. Macro turned to the nearest of his men.
'Get him on to a wagon!'
While they hauled the soldier up and dragged him, crying out in agony, to the rear of the leading wagon, Macro hefted the shield and held it high to cover his body. The rain of missiles eased off and he saw that the slaves were pulling back. Two hundred paces away, standing on a stretch of wall, stood a figure shouting orders to them.
Unlike the others he was wearing leather body armour, with wrist guards, and a leather skullcap. A sword hung from a strap across his shoulder. Behind him stood several other men similarly equipped.
As the slaves gathered in a loose mob in front of him, the man continued to give his instructions. With deliberate gestures he pointed in the direction of the road, and at once a body of his followers ran off in that direction. The rest turned back towards the convoy and continued to bombard it with stones and rocks. But this time they had picked a new target. The ir fire concentrated on the leading wagon.