Authors: Wilbur Smith
Tags: #Archaeologists - Botswana, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Adventure Fiction, #Historical, #Archaeologists, #Men's Adventure, #Terrorism, #General, #Botswana
It began as a reflex of pain, Timon lifted his arms to protect himself and the chains swung. In a sudden orgasm of anger and pain, Timon whirled the heavy links just as the slave-master swung the next whip stroke. The chain wrapped about the slave-master's forearm and the bone snapped with a sharp brittle sound.
He backed away with a startled cry, and his broken arm dangled loosely at his side. Behind him the older man drew his sword. It came out of the scabbard with a harsh rasp. He was fifty paces away down the tunnel.
Two of them now, for the younger man was groping left-handed for his sword. Somewhere beneath the slave dullness, the blankness of the slave animal mind, a spark burned. Huy Ben-Amon's training came back to Timon: of two enemies -separate them and attack the weaker first.
Flailing the chain Timon leapt at the younger slave-master, and the man went down in the mud.
Timon leapt over him, and caught the second man's sword stroke on the iron shackle at his wrist. The blow jarred him to the shoulder, and numbed his arm, but he ran in under the next stroke and threw a twist of the chain about the man's throat. He drew tight and held it.
The older man dropped his sword and clutched desperately at Timon's hands, at the links of iron that were strangling him.
Timon found that he was growling like a dog as he jerked and twisted the chain tighter. Suddenly the slave-master's hands dropped away, his tongue fell out between slack and swollen lips and there was the sharp acrid odour of faeces as his sphincter muscle relaxed. Timon let him down onto the floor, and picked up his sword from the mud.
He turned to the younger slave-master who had crawled to his knees, still stunned. He had lost his helmet, and he was cradling his broken arm against his chest.
Timon stood over him and with the short sword chopped his skull open. The slave-master fell face downwards into the mud.
Timon stood back and looked about the drive quickly. From the first blow to the last only ten seconds had passed, and there had been no outcry.
Timon looked down at the sword in his hand, the blade was dulled with mud and blood, but he felt the despondency of abject slavery fall away. He felt the spark burst into flame, felt himself become a man again.
He looked at the other slaves sitting on the bench. Not one of them had moved. Their eyes were dull, incurious. They were not men. Timon felt a chill as he looked at them. He needed men. He must have men.
There was one of them. His name was Zama. A young man of Timon's age. A wild slave, taken beyond the river. He had not worn his chains for a year yet. Timon stared at him, and saw his eyes come into focus, saw his chin lift and the muscles in his jaw clench.
'Hammer!' Timon commanded. 'Bring a hammer!' Zama stirred. It was an effort of will for him to break the pattern of slavery.
'Hurry,' said Timon. 'There is little time.'
Zama picked up one of the short-handled iron-headed mining adzes, and stood up from the bench.
Timon felt his heart soar within him. He had found a man. He held out his wrists, with the bloody sword in his hand.
'Strike off these chains,' he said.
Lannon Hycanus was pleased, but trying not to make it obvious. He stood by the window, and looked down towards the harbour where five galleys lay against the stone jetty. Lannon twisted a curl of his beard about one finger, and smiled secretly.
In the room behind him Rib-Addi was reading in his prim and precise voice, combing his fingers through his scraggly grey beard.
'Into Opet this day from the southern plains of grass, fifty-eight large tusks of ivory, in all sixty-nine talents.'
Lannon turned quickly, a scowl masking his pleasure.
'You attended the weighing?' he demanded.
'As always, my lord,' Rib-Addi assured him, and his clerks looked up from their writings, saw the Gry-Lion's expression soften and they grinned and bobbed their heads ingratiatingly.
'Ah!' Lannon grunted, and turned back to the window, while Rib-Addi resumed his reading. The voice was monotonous, and Lannon found his attention wandering although his subconscious was alert for a false note in the book-keeper's voice. Rib-Addi had the habit of raising his voice slightly whenever he reached a portion of the accounting which might cause the Gry-Lion's displeasure - a lower return, an estimate unfulfilled - and immediately Lannon pounced on him. This convinced Rib-Addi that the Gry-Lion was a financial genius, and that he could hide nothing from him.
Lannon's mind drifted away, picking idly at stray thoughts, turning over mental stones to see what scurried out from under. He thought of Huy, and felt a cold breeze ruffle the surface of his contentment. There was a flaw in their friendship. Huy had changed towards Lannon, and he searched for the reason. He discarded the thought that it might be the aftermath of their long estrangement. It was something else. Huy was withdrawn, secretive. Seldom would he spend his nights in the palace, sharing the dice and wine and laughter with Lannon. Often when Lannon sent for him in the night, instead of Huy arriving with his lute slung on his shoulder and a new ballad to sing, the slave would return with a message that Huy was sick or sleeping or writing.
Lannon frowned now. and at that moment he heard the telltale rise in Rib-Addi's voice and he swung around and glared at them.
'What?' he bellowed, and their faces were yellow-white with fright. The clerks ducked their heads over their scrolls.
'My lord, there was a heavy fall of rock in the southern end of the mine,' Rib-Addi stuttered. It ceased to amaze him that from a mass of figures Lannon would instantly pounce on a ten per cent decrease of output from one of the dozens of tiny mines of the middle kingdom.
'Who is the overseer?' Lannon demanded, and ordered the man replaced.
'It is carelessness, and I will not have it so,' Lannon told him. 'The yield is affected, valuable slaves wasted. I would rather spend more on shoring timber, it is cheaper so in the end.'
Rib-Addi dictated the order to one of the clerks, and Lannon turned back to the window and his thoughts of Huy. He remembered how it had been before, how Huy's presence had provided the zest that made each triumph more valuable, and each disappointment or disaster easier to surmount. All the good things happened when Huy was there.
In a rare moment of self-honesty Lannon realized that Huy Ben-Amon was the only human being that he could look upon as a friend.
His position had isolated him from all others. He could not approach them for the warmth and comfort that even a king needs. His wives, his children feared him. They were uneasy in his presence, and left it with obvious relief.
In all his kingdom there was only one person with the blend of courage, honesty, and disregard of consequence which allowed him to live in the king's presence without shrivelling.
'I need him,' Lannon thought. 'I need him much more than he needs me. Everybody loves him, but he is the only one who truly loves me.' And he grimaced as he remembered how Huy had defied him, and it was he, Lannon Hycanus the forty-seventh Gry-Lion of Opet, who had suffered most during the estrangement.
'I will not let him go again,' he vowed. 'I will not let him draw away from me like this.' And his self-honesty persisted. He saw that he was jealous of his priest. 'I will destroy anything which comes between us. I need him.'
He thought of this latest journey of Huy Ben-Amon's. Was it truly a matter of such urgency that the High Priest must travel 400 miles, taking with him two cohorts of his legion and the priestess and oracle of Opet, to consecrate some minor shrine to the goddess at a desolate garrison outpost in the northern kingdom? Lannon thought it more likely that Huy was leaving Opet for some devious reason of his own, and the result was that Lannon was bored, lonely and irritable. Huy knew that Lannon had planned a feast for his name-day.
The clash of urgent armoured feet interrupted Lannon's thoughts. He turned from the window as three of his high officers burst into the room. With them was a centurion in dusty cloak and unburnished armour. There was dust in his beard and dust coated his sandals and greaves. He had travelled fast.
'My lord. News of the worst possible kind.'
'What is it?'
'A slave rising.'
'Where?'
'At Hulya.'
'How many?'
'A great many. We are not sure. This man,' indicating the centurion, 'has seen it.'
Lannon turned to the weary officer. 'Speak!' he ordered.
'I was on patrol, Majesty. Fifty men on a sweep to the north. We saw the smoke, but by the time we returned to the mine it was finished. They had opened the compounds, slaughtered the garrison.' He paused, remembering the dead men with their bowels ripped open and the bloody mush of castration between their legs. 'They had gone, all except the sick and the lame. Those they left.'
'How many?'
'About 200.'
'What did you do with them?'
'We put them to the sword.'
Good!' Lannon nodded. 'Continue.'
'We followed after the main party of slaves. There were more than 5,000 when they left Hulya, and they moved northwards.'
'Northwards,' Lannon growled. 'The river, of course.'
'They are moving slowly, very slowly. And they plunder and burn as they go. We could follow them by the smoke and the vultures. The population ahead of them flees, leaving all to them. They devour the land like locusts.'
'How many? How many?' Lannon demanded. 'We must know!'
'They have opened the compounds at Hulya, and Tuye and a dozen other mines - all the field slaves have flocked to join them,' the centurion answered.
One of the officers hazarded. 'There must be 30,000 of them, then?'
'At least, Majesty,' the centurion agreed.
'Thirty thousand, in Baal's holy name,' whispered Lannon. 'Such a multitude!' Then his anger came and he spoke harshly. 'What force have we to oppose their march? How many legions are mobilized.'
'There are two legions at Zeng,' an officer volunteered,
'We could not move them in time,' Lannon answered,
'One legion here at Opet.'
Too far, too far,' Lannon growled.
'And two more along the south bank of the great river.'
'And they are scattered in garrisons spread over a distance of 500 miles. All the others are disbanded?' Lannon asked. 'How long to call them up?'
'Ten days.'
'Too long,' Lannon snapped. 'We must put down this rising with the uttermost ruthlessness. Rebellion is a plague, it spreads like fire in dry papyrus beds. We must isolate it, and quench it. Every spark of it. What other force have we?'
'There is His Holiness,' one of the officers murmured diffidently, and Lannon stared at him. He had forgotten Huy. 'He is at Sinai, directly in the slaves' line of march to the north.'
'Huy!' said Lannon softly, and then was silent while his officers plunged into an animated discussion.