'Sir!'
Macro turned towards the voice and saw one of his men on a slight rise in the track at the front of the column. He was waving his spear to attract Macro's attention.
'What is it?'
The first wagon ground to a halt as it reached the rise, and Atticus stood up on the driver's bench and stared ahead along the track.
Macro trotted forward, past the other wagons.
'What's the bloody hold-up? What the fuck are you stopping for?'
'Look!' Atticus thrust out his arm.
As Macro drew level with the leading wagon, he looked in the direction Atticus indicated. From the higher ground he could see the junction with the Gortyna road barely a hundred paces ahead, where the track had been built up to meet the height of the road. Across the junction stood the slaves who had been sent to cut off the column.
They had torn up some of the stone slabs from the road. With these, and some hurriedly felled trees, they had constructed a crude barricade. Macro estimated that there were over two hundred men waiting for them, with another two hundred behind the wagons. It was a neat trap, he admitted ruefully. The barricade would give little enough protection from Macro's auxiliaries, but it would stop the wagons from making any further progress before the way was cleared. The banked track meant there was no chance of driving the wagons round the barricade. Not without them toppling over on the slope. The choice was simple. Either Macro would have to abandon the wagons and retreat to Matala empty-handed, or he must continue the advance into the teeth of those defending the obstacle and try to cut a path through, while those behind attacked the rear of the column. If the column be came stuck, Macro and his men would be surrounded and cut down one by one.
'What do we do?' asked Atticus. 'Well, Macro?'
'Shit,' Macro muttered under his breath. 'We keep going. We take the barricade and clear it away and fight our way through. The food has to get to Matala. Advance!'
Atticus took a deep breath and flicked the reins. His wagon lurched forward. After a short pause the others followed and the auxiliaries trudged on, shields held close to their sides. As they neared the barricade, Macro could see the slaves grimly preparing to defend it. Rough — hewn spears and pitchforks were lowered, ready to receive the Romans. Some collected more rocks to hurl at the men and horses approaching them. Glancing over his shoulder, Macro saw that the other party of slaves had already quickened their pace to catch up with the convoy. It was going to be a bloody business, he reflected, and the odds were lengthe ning against getting the wagons, the food and his men back to Matala. But there was no helping it, he thought resignedly. The only route to safety was through the barricade. He hunched his neck down a little and tightened his grip on his sword and marched steadily towards the enemy.
Suddenly, the slaves on the left of their line turned away from the approaching wagons and stared down the road towards Matala. An instant later some were backing away, and then the first of them threw down their weapons and ran diagonally across the field away from the road, making for the nearest grove of olive trees. The panic spread along the line, and before the Romans even reached the barricade the last of the slaves had fled.
'What the hell?' Macro turned to look down the road as the wagons halted. Once the rumbling of the wheels and the grinding tramp of boots had stilled, he could hear a new sound, the distant thunder of horse hooves pounding along the road. Around a corner in the road came the first of the horsemen, wearing red tunics and Gallic helmets, urging their mounts on. They carried spears, and shields were slung across their backs, except for the rider at the head of the column. He was dressed in scale armour and wore the helmet of a centurion, his crest swept back as he led his men towards the junction.
'They're ours!' Macro beamed. 'Ours!'
Behind the wagons the second party of slaves was melting away.
Except for their leader and his companions. He stared at the approaching horsemen for a moment and then back at the wagons.
When he saw Macro, he raised his sword in a mock gladiator's salute and then turned to follow the rest of the slaves running for the safety of the olive trees.
Macro turned his attention back to the approaching horsemen as they slowed to a trot and approached the barricade. The leader reined in, and steered his mount round the obstacle to the wagons on the other side.
'Centurion Macro,' a familiar voice called out. 'What on earth have you been up to?'
'Cato!' Macro the gods. What the bloody hell are you doing here?'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
'Sempronius sent me back to fetch you and Julia,' Cato explaineds as he slipped down from the horse's back, wincing as he jarred his injured leg. He strode stiffly towards his friend and clasped Macro's hand.' He needs us in Gortyna.'
Macro had noticed the limp and nodded at Cato's leg. 'You all right, lad?'
'Some bastard stabbed me in the thigh, but I'll live.' Cato glanced past Macro to the wagons, and saw that some of the animals and men had been injured. 'I spotted the slaves as we rode up. Looks like they've been giving you some trouble.'
'That's putting it mildly.' Macro grimaced.' They were throwing themselves at us. I'd never have believed slaves would fight so hard.
Anyway, Gortyna's the other way. You came from the direction of Matala.'
Cato nodded. 'I went there first. Centurion Portillus told me where you had gone. The senator and I passed here a few days ago and saw there was trouble. I thought it would be as well to make sure you were all right.'
'Well, we are now.' Macro pointed towards the cavalry squadron on the other side of the barricade.' Who are that lot?'
'Fourth Batavian, stationed outside Gortyna. They lost half their mounts in the earthquake, as well as over a hundred of their men.
Given the dangers on the road, the senator decided on an escort.'
'Dangers? I take it this isn't the only place the slaves are making trouble, then?'
'No.' Cato lowered his voice. 'There are uprisings all along the southern side of the island. Mostly on the big estates, but many of the slaves have run away from the towns as well. It's only to be expected that they would take advantage of the situation. There have been several reports of them attacking farms and smaller settlements. They even attacked a small detachment Sempronius sent to an outpost to guard the estates along the road from Gortyna.' Cato gestured towards the column behind Macro. 'But this? You must have nearly a hundred men with you.' He glanced towards the trees, where the slaves had taken shelter. Already a handful had reappeared along the fringe and were watching the Romans warily. 'They're getting ambitious. We'd better get your column on the road to Matala as quick as possible.'
While some of the Batavians formed a screen opposite the olive trees, the rest dismounted and helped Macro's men clear the barricade away from the road. A short time later the column was trundling along the road to Matala, the Batavians riding a short distance out on either flank to deter any further attacks. Cato had ordered one of his men to lead his horse as he marched alongside Macro.
'How are things at Gortyna?' asked Macro.
'Not good. The city wasn't as badly damaged as Matala, but just about every senior official and officer was killed or wounded when the governor's banquet hall collapsed.'
'Is the governor still alive?'
Cato shook his head.' He died a few hours after we arrived. Might have been better if he had been killed outright.'