The Gladiator

Then, three days ago, one of our patrols captured a slave. A young lad, no more than twelve or thirteen. He was brought in and questioned, and told us that the leader of the slaves was a great gladiator who had pledged to lead the slaves to freedom or die. Our men scoffed at this, but then the boy claimed to know the gladiator, said that he was one of the gladiator's servants. That was when he realised he'd said too much and clammed up. But it was too late. The decurion in command of the patrol took the boy to Marcellus. At first he refused to talk, then the prefect called in the interrogators.' Micon paused and looked round at the other officers. 'You know how good they are at loosening tongues. Well, it took them the best part of an hour before they broke the boy. They'd beaten him badly and used heated irons, then they brought out the gouges. First sight of those did the trick. Even so, never seen guts like that in a youngster,' Centurion Micon mused.' Or a slave.'

'Please continue,' Sempronius cut in.

'Yes, sir. Anyway, the lad told us that he knew where the rebels were camped, and he would take us there if Marcellus promised that he would be sent back to his master without any further harm.

Naturally, the prefect gave his word. Marcellus sent for his officers.

He gave us wine and said he'd lead us back in triumph, herding thousands of captive slaves, while their leader was dragged behind in chains.

'The next morning he gave orders for all patrols to be called in and the men prepared for an attack on the slave camp the following night. Centurion Albinus suggested that a report be sent back to Gortyna, advising them of the attack, but Marcellus said that it would be better if we simply returned with our captives once the attack was over. Nothing is as eloquent as success — those were his words. So we set off into the hills, guided by the boy, who was tethered to Marcellus's horse. At first the going was easy, along a broad path, and even as dusk settled and it be came dark there was enough moonlight to see our way as the track narrowed and be came steeper. Then, after perhaps two or three hours, we saw a faint glow above a hill a mile off. That was the camp, the boy assured us. We continued forward more carefully and Marcellus sent scouts on ahead. All was well for a while, until we were within half a mile of the camp. Then one of the scouts came back and reported that the track passed through a narrow ravine before rising steeply up towards the top of the hill.

Marcellus was suspicious and ordered the column to halt while he questioned the boy again. The lad was adamant that it was the only way up to the camp without taking a wide detour that would mean we wouldn't reach it before daybreak. Marcellus ordered us forward again.

'The ravine was barely twenty feet across, with steep sides, too steep to climb, and we did our best to advance quietly as the sounds echoed off the rock faces on either side. Just as the head of the column began to emerge into the open, there was a sudden flaring up of light along the crests on either side. They had faggots drenched in oil, which they lit up and threw down on to us.' Micon paused again as he recalled the horror of the previous night. 'There was fire everywhere, and the faggots exploded into blazing fragments all around us. The horses panicked and ran into each other and trampled the infantry. By the light of the flames the enemy — the slaves, I mean — started to roll boulders down on to us. Boulders, and also logs into which they had driven iron spikes and hooks. It was carnage, sir.

Marcellus was one of the first to be struck down, but not before he'd drawn his sword and cut the boy's throat. That was the really terrible thing. The lad just stood there and laughed as it happened. He spat into Marcellus's face before he died. An instant later, the prefect was crushed by one of the logs. Killed outright. There was no one in command, and some men charged forward to get out of the trap.

Others turned back, and some just huddled under whatever shelter they could find.'

'And what did you do?' asked Macro.

'I turned back,' Centurion Micon confessed. 'What else could I do? I called what was left of my men to me and we rode back through the column the way we had come. Only the slaves had closed that off, throwing abatis across the track. Some of our men tried to clear them away, but they had slingers on either flank and our men went down like flies. But they opened a gap, and I charged my men through it.' Micon glanced at the other officers furtively. 'We went after the slingers, to give the others a chance to clear the rest of the barricade away and make good their escape. But that's when the spearmen came up out of the ground. They'd been lying down behind the slingers, and as soon as we charged up, the slingers melted away and we rode straight on to their pikes. I turned away, after the last of my men was cut down, and rode back down the track towards the plain, breaking through a handful of slaves covering the track. I didn't stop until I had put the best part of a mile between us. Then when I did rein in, I looked back and saw the flames glowing in the ravine. I can still hear the cries and screams of our men echoing off the rocks. The slave spearmen formed up at the edge of the ravine, and slaughtered every one of our men caught in their trap.'

Centurion Micon lowered his head.' The column didn't stand a chance, sir. I didn't know what to do… Charge back into the fight, or do my duty and report back to you.'

'So you decided to save your skin,' Macro snorted. 'Instead of going to the aid of your comrades. Typical bloody auxiliary.'

Cato leaned forward. 'There was nothing Centurion Micon could do.'

'He could have died like a soldier, and not run like a bloody whipped cur and abandoned his mates.'

'Then who would have been left to make his report to us?'

Macro sucked a breath in through his teeth. In the legions, it was a dyed-in-the-wool tradition that centurions never gave an inch in battle. Clearly a different standard applied in the auxiliary cohorts.

'Well, surely he could have found some one to ride back and break the news.'

Sempronius rapped his hand on the desk.' Enough! This is not getting us anywhere. The question is what do we do now? This defeat has changed everything at a stroke. Marcellus had the best of our men, and now he's thrown them away. All we have left are a few small detachments on the north of the island, the Tenth Macedonian, and the cohort at Matala. What's that? Six hundred men at most.'

Sempronius shook his head.' How the hell could these wretched slaves have done this to us? How could they have defeated trained soldiers? I underestimated the slaves, and this gladiator who is leading them.'

Cato kept his mouth shut and fought back a surge of anger and indignation. It was the senator's responsibility for not taking the slave threat seriously enough. Cato, and Macro to a lesser extent, had both been aware of the dangers, but their concerns had been dismissed. It was tempting to exact some recognition of who should bear the blame, but now was not the time. Any bitter divisions amongst those left in charge of the province would only make their perilous situation worse.

'So,' Sempronius continued, looking at Macro and Cato, 'you're the ones with military experience. What should we do?'

'What can we do?' Macro answered coldly. 'It seems we're outnumbered, outwitted and we've been given a good kicking. Best thing to do is send for help and hold out here until it arrives.'

Sempronius did not appear to like what he had heard and turned to Cato. 'And what do you think?'

'Macro's right, sir. With so few men, we have no choice. It would be madness to send what's left against the slaves. Gortyna must be defended.'