The Gladiator

He could not estimate their strength, but they clearly outnumbered the men in Macro's column. However, the auxiliaries were trained fighters, and well armed. As Macro glanced round, he saw that his men were holding their own, cutting down the slaves as they came on in a disorganised rush. A sudden snarl snapped Macro's attention back to his front as a slave leaped towards him, swinging a me at -

cleaver. He just had time to throw his shield up as the heavy blade slammed into the edge, cutting through the bronze trim and splintering the wood beneath, where it stuck fast.

'My turn!' Macro snarled, slashing at the side of the man's head, and the blade jarred as it bit through skin and skull with a wet crack.

As the man dropped to his knees with a stunned expression, Macro withdrew his sword and knocked the cleaver free with the guard. Just then he felt something grasp his ankle and looked down to see that the first man had dragged himself towards his boot and, having grabbed it, was preparing to sink his teeth into Macro's calf.

'Don't you dare!' Macro kicked the hand free and stamped on the man's wrist with his nailed boot. Then he swung the lower edge of the shield at the slave's head, knocking the stricken man out.' When I put you down, you stay down!'

Macro edged along the track, keeping pace with the leading wagon. He glanced to his left and saw that some of his men were too intent on the fight to realise that the wagons were continuing forward.

'Keep moving!' Macro yelled. 'Protect the bloody wagons!'

Even though they were poorly armed and being hacked down in droves, the slaves continued their ferocious assault, as if they had no fear of death. Macro saw one spitted by a spear as he hurled himself at the auxiliaries. The bloodied tip of the spear exploded through the back of his tunic and the slave heaved himself along the shaft as he clawed at the auxiliary's head. The soldier released his grip on the spear and snatched out his sword, thrusting it into the slave's throat.

With a bloody gurgle of rage the slave flailed at his opponent, spattering the auxiliary with blood before his strength gave out and he slumped to his knees, still pierced through by the spear. The auxiliary backed away, hastily looking round to make sure that he was keeping a loose formation alongside his comrades as they paced along the road, doing their best to stay close to the wagons. The ground on either side was strewn with bodies, and still the slaves came on. Macro struck down a toothless man, old enough to be his father, and the man cursed him as he died.

A hand grasped Macro's shoulder and he spun round, ready to strike, until he saw Atticus and just managed to stay his sword in time.

'Give me a weapon,' Atticus pleaded. 'Before they tear me to pieces!'

Macro looked round and saw a pitchfork lying beside the body of a slave, no more than a boy. 'There! Take it.'

Atticus snatched the pitchfork up and grasped the shaft firmly as he lowered the prongs at a thin man racing towards him with a nailed club. The slave swung the club in a vicious arc, aiming at Atticus's head. The latter ducked the blow and then thrust his prongs into the slave's stomach, and with a grunt of brute strength carried the wiry slave up off the ground. The slave screamed as his weight carried him further down the sharp iron spikes that impaled him. Atticus twisted the shaft to one side and the slave crashed to the ground. Placing a boot on the man's chest he wrenched the prongs free and immediately went into a crouch as he looked round for another threat.

'Good job,' Macro said grudgingly.

The leading wagon rumbled out of the wood on to clear ground and continued towards the ruined villa, the driver cracking his whip over the heads of the horses and mules as he urged them on. Ahead of him, a couple of auxiliaries were forced to scramble to the side of the track before they were run down. Macro ground his teeth furiously as he trotted after the wagon.

'Not so bloody fast, you fool!'

The driver carried on heedlessly, and the others followed his example as the wagons emerged from the wood, leaving the auxiliaries and volunteers scrambling to keep up as they tried to fight off the slaves swarming round the column like angry wasps. One of Macro's men, at the rear of the last wagon, stumbled -and fell, sprawling across the gravelled track. At once several slaves leaped on him with bloodthirsty howls of triumph and hacked and stabbed at him as he struggled on the ground. He let out a piercing shriek, before it was savagely cut off as axe blows rained down on his head.