Free The Rebels' Assault by David Grimstone Page B

again.

    â€œI have a torc! Lower the rope!”
    The guard nearest the grate turned to Hain, who gave a quick nod of permission. Dropping his spear, he hurried over to a length of rope that was secured on an iron ring at the base of the tower wall. Then he heaped it onto his shoulder and, arriving at the grate, lowered the slack into the gloomy darkness below.
    When Gladius finally emerged, puffing, panting, and soaking wet, from the grate, none of the slaves could stop themselves from smiling . . . especially when he flopped over onto the baking sand and lay there like a beached whale, spitting out plumes of water as the guards advanced on him.
    â€œWell?” Hain yelled as the jailer scurried down the ladder and hurried across the courtyard. “Which torc does he have?”
    One of the guards reached down and drew the necklace from the slave’s unresisting grip. However, it was quickly snatched by the jailer, who practically fell over himself in his determined dash to place it in Hain’s gloved hands.
    â€œThis torc is the most finely crafted of those we placed below,” the assassin decreed. “Therefore, Gladius has earned the right to be executed by my OWN hand.”
    Ruma gasped, while Argon and Teo shared a horrified glance.
    On the sand, Gladius raised his head slightly and stared at the distant shape of the man who would end his life. The icy depths of the well would have provided a preferable end.
    Hain beckoned to the jailer and pointed at Argon, who was next in line.
    â€œMy turn, then,” Argon muttered as Gladius was dragged back to the line and dumped unceremoniously onto the hot ground.

CHAPTER II
    THE UPRISING
    T he Caveat rocked back and forth on the rolling ocean. In the depths of the ship, Decimus and Olu were both feeling incredibly sick, but the crew was used to the rhythmic pitching of the deck, and their slaves were so exhausted that any mere sickness would have been a luxury. However, Decimus and Olu weren’t simply sick because of the ocean—they were recovering from shock. A few seconds before, a trapdoor had been flung open and a dead slave had been cast down into their hiding place, thrown aside like a used rag and left to rot.
    However, the slave deck itself didn’t have many better sights to offer.
    A scarred brute of a man stalked between the rowers, barking abuse and stopping occasionally to whip those that he felt weren’t pulling their weight. This amounted to just about anyone who wasn’t already bleeding, and, occasionally, the odd unfortunates who were already bleeding and had stopped rowing briefly to try to staunch the flow of blood from their backs.

    Arriving beside the smallest slave on the deck, the hulking crewman raised his whip and grinned. The victim rowed for all he was worth, throwing what little strength he had into the gesture. Unfortunately, it made no difference: The whip came down upon him, birthing a glistening line of blood on his back as the little man cried out in pain.
    The brute was about to follow his attack with a second strike when another crewman appeared at the entrance to the deck. This one was shorter and had a single eye. The brute was covered by a rough patch of skin. His hair was long and matted, and he walked with a stoop.

    â€œWhat do you want?” the brute boomed, lowering his whip as the second crewman approached.
    â€œKeys,” said the one-eyed slaver. “Captain thinks we’re turning too fast.” He cast a glance around the deck. “And it’s your fault.”
    â€œYeah? How d’you work that out?”

    â€œBecause you’ve put a stronger crew on the port side. We need to swap some of ’em over.”
    The big crewman looked around at the heaving slave lines and nodded.
    â€œBetter get the keys, then,” he said.
    â€œAre you deaf? I came to get them from you. Captain says you took ’em this morning.”
    â€œI didn’t; haven’t