The Gladiator

'I mean, I know where we can find a lot of food. Enough to feed the people for many days.'

'Oh. And where would this food be?'

'The farming estate of a friend of mine.'

'Where?'

'On the coast, not far from here. The estate belongs to Demetrius of Ithaca.'

'We've already tried there. I sent a patrol yesterday. They came back empty-handed. It seems the slaves, or their brigand friends, had got there ahead of us and emptied the grain pits.'

Atticus smiled. 'That's what you think. Demetrius is a cautious man. Being close to the sea, he was always worried about raids from pirates. So he kept his valuables, and nearly all his produce, in a small compound a mile or so from the main estate. The entrance is easily missed, and the compound is protected by a palisade. I dare say that Demetrius will have headed there the moment the earthquake ended.'

'Assuming he survived.'

'I don't doubt that he did. He's a resourceful man.'

'I assume that you could lead us there.'

'In exchange for my freedom... and a reward.'

'Once you give me the directions to this compound,' Macro responded. 'If you're right, then I'll think about letting you out.'

'Nothing doing. You either let me show you where it is and let me go, or you can starve for all I care.' Atticus gestured casually.' Of course you could always torture me to reveal the location and then have me quietly killed.'

Macro nodded slowly.' Not a bad idea, that. A red-hot poker up the arse is usually pretty good at loosening tongues. I could give it a go, if you like.'

Atticus looked hard at Macro, trying to gauge if the other man was joking, but there was a dangerous glint in Macro's eyes and the Greek swallowed quickly. 'I'll show you where it is, and then you can set me free.'

'I'll think about it.'

'I won't co-operate unless you guarantee my release,' Atticus said with as much defiance as he could manage.

'It's too late to strike a deal, my friend. You've already told me you have something I want. I don't suppose for a moment that you want to take that knowledge with you to the grave. So, it's just a question of torturing you until you give it up. And if, by some miracle, you are a much tougher bastard than I take you for, then you might die before spilling your guts. I shan't complain if there is one less mouth to feed... once we've finished pulling you to pieces, a bit at a time.'

Macro sat back and scratched his chin nonchalantly. 'So then, what's it to be? Tell me what you know, or let me prise it out of you?'

Atticus gritted his teeth as he let out a long hiss of breath. 'All right, I'll take you to the compound. Then will you release me?'

'You play fair by me, and I'll do the same for you,' Macro replied.

He stood and turned to climb back up the steps.

'Hey! What about me?' Atticus called after him.

Macro paused and looked back. 'Tyrant you called me. That, I can live with. Pig, on the other hand, takes a little time to get over.

Another night in here will do wonders to help you develop a due sense of deference. Sleep tight.'

CHAPTER NINE

The small column left Matala at daybreak. Macro took forty men armed with spears from his fighting century to escort four wagons, all that could be drawn by the available horses and mules. A handful of civilians had volunteered to drive the wagons and act as porters. Atticus, unshaven and blinking, was taken out of the cistern and chained to the driver's bench of the leading wagon. He scowled at Macro as the latter strode past and took position at the head of the leading section. Centurion Portillus had already provided him with directions to the estate and Atticus would direct them from there to the compound. Macro had left Portillus to command in his absence.

With Centurion Milo, the other five sections of the fighting century, and the men detailed as rescue parties, he should have more than enough strength to deal with any trouble from the refugees in Macro's absence.

Macro took a last look down the column to make sure that everyone was ready, then waved his hand and swept it forward. The leading sections stepped out, their nailed boots grinding the loose chippings on the dried-out surface of the road. Behind them came the steady clop of the horses and mules and then the deep rumble of the wagon wheels. At the tail of the column the remaining two sections paced forward as a few refugees looked on. They watched the convoy for a short while, then returned to the daily struggle to search the ruins for food and anything of value that could be hoarded until after the crisis was over and normal life could begin again.