The Gladiator

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.

'They're going for the horses and mules!' Macro called out. 'Cover them!'

The men closed up along the flanks of the leading draught animals, protecting them as best they could. But the targets were too large to miss, and every so often one of the beasts would whinny and leap in its traces as it was struck. Atticus did his best to keep control of them, but the frequent stops slowed the pace of the column to a crawl. Macro gritted his teeth in frustration, well aware that the other group of slaves had raced ahead of them to the main road, no doubt with some plan in mind to renew the attack. Glancing up at the sky, he also realised that it was well past noon. If they did not quicken the pace there was a chance that they would still be on the road to Matala, surrounded by their attackers, as night fell. If that happened, then they could easily be rushed in the darkness.

He looked towards the slave leader again. The man was walking alongside the track, a hundred paces away, pausing now and then to watch the progress of his followers as they kept up their harassment of the wagons.

'You're not going to have things your own way for ever, mate,'

Macro growled, then turned to the men following him.' When I give the word, first three sections follow me. Go in hard and fast with as much noise as you can make. Get ready...'

Macro tensed his muscles as he walked slowly along the track, watching and waiting as the slaves grew more bold in their attack.

Some, grinning with contempt, ran up to within ten feet before throwing their rocks and snarling insults at the auxiliaries. Macro waited until there were several of them close by, hurling missiles and defiance. Then he filled his lungs.

'Charge them!' He sprang to the side, pumping his legs as he threw himself at the slaves. 'Get 'em, lads! Kill ' em all!'

With a throaty roar, his men turned on the slaves and charged after their commander. The nearest attackers turned and fled, some knocking into their comrades in their haste, sending three of them sprawling in the coarse grass. Macro paused briefly to stab his blade down as he passed one of the slaves struggling to rise up on his hands and knees. The sword went in deep between his shoulder blades and the slave fell flat as Macro yanked the blade free and charged on, bellowing at the top of his voice. Even though they were not encumbered by armour, as the auxiliaries were, some of the slaves were aged, and for others the harsh conditions under which they had toiled for years had sapped their strength, and they were run down and killed without mercy as they tried to escape. Macro and his men chased them across the open ground beside the road, slashing at any of their enemies that came within reach.

Ahead of them the leader of the slaves unsheathed his sword and was shouting at his followers to turn and fight. The armed men who had been standing behind him closed up on each side, swords held ready as they made their stand. As the first slaves reached his position, the leader began to rally them. Faced with his ferocious harangue, they turned to confront the Romans, forming up in a crude line as they made ready to fight with their assortment of weapons. Some only carried the rocks they had picked up and others stood with bare hands as they confronted the auxiliaries.

Macro realised that the three sections had achieved all they could with their sudden charge. If they carried on they would be blown by the effort of the pursuit, and now that the slaves were turning on them, the advantage was lost. Macro drew up, panting heavily.

'Twelfth, halt! Form on me, lads!'

The first of his men ceased their pursuit, and hurriedly edged towards Macro. A handful of hotheads carried on a bit further, before they saw the solid body of the enemy waiting for them. Then they stopped and retreated to a safe distance before trotting back to the rest of their comrades, forming a line on either side of the centurion.

'Hurry it up!' Macro yelled at them. 'Quick as you can!'

One of the slaves shouted an insult after the Romans, but the sense of it was lost due to the blood pounding through Macro's head.