The Gladiator - Scarrow Simon (бесплатная регистрация книга txt) 📗

As soon as the auxiliaries reached the last of the wagons, Macro turned and presented his shield. The others fell in on either side, forming a tight shield wall as they braced themselves for the impact of the charge. The first of the slaves struck at Macro's shield, ham me ring at the surface with a crude club. An instant later all his men were engaged, blocking blows and stabbing back as they gave ground, staying close to the wagon. Macro glimpsed the slave leader to his right, duelling with a thickset auxiliary. The slave sought for a gap between the shields to strike with his weapon, a finely decorated gladiator's sword that glittered in the afternoon sunshine. The auxiliary struck out, and the slave nimbly leaned to one side, before thrusting his point back at the auxiliary, narrowly missing his face as the tip glanced off a cheek guard. The slave looked up and caught Macro's eyes for an instant.

There was a flicker of recognition there, Macro was certain of it.

Then the slave launched into a furious series of blows that battered his auxiliary opponent against the side of the wagon. Too late the auxiliary saw the danger, and the solid timber disc of the wheel knocked him down and rolled over him, crushing his hips and snapping his spine, leaving him looking startled. As his mouth opened and shut and his arms flailed uselessly, he began to die in agony.

The one-sided nature of the melee told once again as the ground behind the wagon was littered with fallen slaves and only three of the auxiliaries. The leader of the slaves called his men off, and they ended their pursuit of the Romans and stood, chests heaving, glaring after the column as it rumbled its way up the track towards the Gortyna road. Macro waited until the gap had opened up to a hundred paces before he sheathed his sword and strode along the column to check on his men and the condition of the horses and mules. The rocks and stones had caused numerous minor injuries to man and beast alike, but they still continued steadily along the track.

'Not far to the road now, lads!' Macro called out cheerily.' Those bastards have learned their lesson. They won't be bothering the Twelfth Hispania for much longer.'

He spoke too soon. Once a safe gap had opened up between the wagons and the slaves, their leader led his men forward again, keeping level with the Roman column. Macro regarded them warily, but when they made no attempt to close the gap, he took satisfaction in the knowledge that every step along the track was taking them closer to the safety of Matala. Now that he thought about it, he felt there was a good chance his column might get through after all, and the people of Matala would be fed for a few more days at least from the stocks piled on the wagons.

'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.'