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.

The road climbed a short distance inland before joining the main route that stretched along the southern coast of Crete. A milestone marked the distance to Gortyna, and Macro led the column in that direction. There had still been no word from Cato and Sempronius, and Macro was beginning to worry. Something might have happened to them on the road to the provincial capital, but short of sending out a search party, or travelling the same route himself, there was no way of knowing for sure. He tried to thrust the concern from his mind as he took in the surrounding countryside. As the road reached the fertile plain that stretched across much of the southern side of the island, a vista of farmland spread out on either side, dotted with the hovels of smallholders, the much larger structures of estates, and here and there a small village. They came to a junction beside a milestone and, following the directions given to him by Portillus, Macro led the column off the main road and down the lane towards the estate of Demetrius. The column tramped along the peaceful lane as insects droned lazily between the flowers that fringed the route.

'Sir.' One of the auxiliaries in the leading section suddenly pointed ahead.

At first Macro saw only an untidy bundle of rags, then quickly realised it was a body. He threw up his arm and called out,'Halt!'

While the men and wagons ground to a stop, Macro cautiously made his way down the stony lane, warily glancing from side to side as he approached the body. It was a man who must have had an imposing physique when he was alive, despite his sparse grey hair and worn features. The body lay curled up on its side in a ball. The skin was livid with bruises and cuts. Beneath the skin, lumps and swellings indicated where bones had been broken, and the once strong jaw had been pulverised so badly that the misshapen face would have been barely recognisable to anyone who had known him in life.

Macro squatted down to examine the body, wrinkling his nose at the ripe odours of decay. The tunic was of a good quality and the belt was decorated with silver fittings. The man wore army boots, old but well looked after, and a tough leather whip was wrapped tightly about his throat. His tongue protruded from his swollen lips and his eyes bulged in their sockets. The brand of Mithras was clearly visible on the forehead, and Macro realised that he was looking at a legionary veteran. Discharged from the army, he had taken a job as an overseer of slaves. The hard life of the legions made such men well suited to the task, and also made them the first target of the wrath of slaves if they rose in rebellion.

Slipping his hands under the body, Macro rolled it off the road and into the grass at the verge. Rising back to his full height, he waved the column on and the men trudged past the corpse, briefly glancing over it as they went by. The more experienced and nervous of the men began to survey the surrounding landscape warily now that they had seen this first sign of danger. A short distance from the body, the lane passed through a grove of olive trees and then emerged before an extensive sprawl of buildings and empty grain pits. Immediately in front of them was an imposing gateway leading into the villa of the estate owner. A quarter of a mile away lay the slave compound. There were large gaps in the wall through which Macro could see the remains of the long barrack blocks in which the slaves were locked up each night. There was no sign of life there now.

The bitter tang of burning wafted through the air, and Macro halted the column once more outside the gate.

'First section, with me!'