Gladiator: Son of Spartacus (18 page)

‘Maybe,’ Marcus replied through gritted teeth. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

He reached down for the handle of his sword and drew the blade from its scabbard with a sharp rasp.

‘Stay close!’ Quintus ordered. ‘If you’re half the gladiator they say you are, I want you at my side.’

The tribune wheeled his mount and spurred it into a gallop back along the track, past the men of the first two centuries who had dropped their yokes and were hurriedly checking the straps of their armour before raising their shields to form a line facing the ambushers. Leaning forward in his saddle, Marcus glanced to his right and saw the white expanse in front of the forest was filled with figures. Thousands of them were surging through the ankle-deep blanket of snow.

Quintus reined in when he reached the wagons, shouting at the thin screen of legionaries to step aside and let him through. Some of the mule drivers had already deserted their positions and were running towards the shelter of the stockade, while others ran blindly towards the stream. The water was raging between the banks and Marcus knew that anyone attempting to cross it would be swept away. There was no escape from the trap that had been set for them. They must close up and hold their ground for as long as possible. As Quintus took up his position by the cohort’s standard, close to the wagon where Decimus and his men stood ready with their swords, Marcus edged his horse alongside the tribune. He stared at the wave of men rushing towards them, their mouths open as they let out a deafening roar of triumph. Most were well armed, kitted out with shields, helmets and weapons looted from the farms, villages and small towns that they had attacked. A far cry from the ragged appearance of Polonius, the rebel tortured by Festus.

In that instant Marcus saw it all. The clever trap Brixus had set for Caesar played on the Roman’s contempt for the rebel slaves and his desire for a quick end to the campaign. Polonius had been a plant, deliberately left behind to be captured and give the information that had lured Caesar away from his baggage train. It had cost him his life and Marcus could only marvel at the courage of a man who played such a part, sacrificing himself to give his comrades a victory over the Romans. He wondered if any man in Caesar’s army would have such courage. Then there was no more time to think: the enemy was upon them.

At the front of the charge the men armed with slings and bows stopped to loose their missiles before charging on. Marcus turned at the sound of a dull crack and saw one of the legionaries fall, his face a bloody mask. He thudded into the snow and kicked out for a moment before losing consciousness. More shot and arrows rattled off the heavy oval shields as the legionaries raised them up. There was a shrill braying as the mules fell victim to the barrage and some of the mule teams began to panic and drag their vehicles out of line. Marcus saw one team veer to the side, thrusting through the legionaries. One man was knocked down, his legs crushed as the cart wheel ran over them. The mule team broke into a trot, careering across the snowy field into the rebel ranks.

‘Ready javelins!’ barked the senior centurion.

The gap between the two sides had narrowed to no more than thirty paces. Waiting for the centurion’s order, the legionaries hefted their javelins and drew their arms back. Marcus saw the centurion narrow his eyes as he timed the moment, his sword held high. With a dull gleam, the blade swept down and he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Loose!’

The dark shafts of the javelins arced through the snowflakes before striking the figures swarming towards the Roman line. Marcus saw scores of men collapse as the sharp iron heads tore through them. But the attackers did not waver and charged straight into the cohort’s shield wall. Sitting in his saddle, Marcus’s ears filled with the crash of shields and scrape and ringing of clashing blades, and the grunts of men locked in battle. This was unlike any fight he had ever seen. Worse even than the riots he’d witnessed from the street gangs at the Forum in Rome. And more frightening than the gladiator bouts he had been forced to endure. Those had involved a test of skill, each fighter with only one opponent to concentrate on as they duelled to the death. What was happening now seemed a bloody chaos of hacking, slashing and stabbing along the ragged battle-line.

At his side Tribune Quintus held his sword up and out as he shouted encouragement to the men under his command. ‘Hold fast! Drive the slave scum back!’

Then, just in front of the two horses, a rebel burst through the Roman line. An axe in one hand and a buckler in the other, his mouth gaped in a roar behind a wild black beard. He saw the Roman officer and charged forward, swinging the axe above his head and thrusting the heavy blade towards Quintus’s shoulder. Marcus acted instinctively, pulling hard on his reins so his horse crashed into the rebel and knocked him aside. The axe swept down, narrowly missing the tribune’s boot before crunching into the compacted snow on the ground. Quintus twisted in his saddle and swept his sword down, stabbing deep between the rebel’s shoulder blades. The man let out an agonized cry and collapsed face first in the snow as blood spattered the snow around him.

Quintus met Marcus’s eyes and he nodded his thanks before turning back to the fight.

Already the rebels’ superiority in numbers was telling. Both ends of the Roman line were being forced back as the legionaries tried to avoid being outflanked. But Marcus realized they could not prevent the inevitable for much longer. A harsh cry to his side alerted him to a fresh danger and he snapped his head round to see a lithe figure in a gladiator’s cuirass rushing towards him with a spear in both hands, the point aimed directly at Marcus’s chest. There was little time to react and he threw his weight back in the saddle at the same time as he thrust his sword out, catching the wooden shaft just beyond the iron point. He was not strong enough to parry the thrust and only deflected the point into the neck of his horse. It punched through the hide and flesh before the bloodied iron burst out the other side. The horse let out a terrified whinny and reared up, wrenching the shaft from the rebel’s hands. Marcus held the reins in his left hand as tightly as he could, but he was already leaning backwards and felt his legs slipping out of the saddle.

With a cry he tumbled off, letting the reins go before he crashed to the ground, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. There was no time to recover as the horse reared and kicked, spraying snow into Marcus’s face. He rolled away towards the river, then scrambled to his feet, gasping. On either side the legionaries were being driven back through the line of wagons and panicking mules.

‘Protect the standard!’ Quintus shouted. He turned his horse towards the gilded wreath and red drop that rose above the crumbling centre of the Roman line. Then his horse stumbled and Quintus desperately swung a leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground as the horse fell on its side, a broken leg thrashing out.

Marcus ran to his side. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Quintus nodded. ‘We have to save the standard. Stay with me.’

They joined the small group of legionaries formed up round the standard and saw that the senior centurion was among them, fighting the rebels back and shouting to his men in between the blows he struck.

‘Form on the standard! On me!’

Those who could obeyed the order and closed ranks with their comrades. In the centre Quintus took stock of the fight.

‘We’re losing.’

Marcus caught glimpses of the fighting beyond the ring of men around him and saw that the centre of the line had broken. Some legionaries had thrown aside their weapons and were running away, pursued by the rebels, who showed no mercy. On either flank the centuries had closed up into desperate knots as they fought back to back until they were cut down. The men protecting the standard were slowly forced to give ground as they were driven away from the track towards the edge of the small lake.

The centurion forced his way to Quintus’s side. ‘Sir, we cannot let the standard fall into the enemy’s hands.’

Quintus stared back, white-faced, and Marcus saw that his lips were trembling.

The veteran officer took a breath and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘We’ve lost the fight, sir. But we can save our honour. We must not let the standard be taken. If we reach the lake, we can throw it into the depths.’

Quintus blinked and nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what we must do.’ The veteran turned and called to the men surrounding him. ‘We will give ground towards the lake. I’ll call the pace. One!... Two!...’

The small group backed away from the rebels. All the time Marcus could hear the pounding of weapons on their shields and see the men thrusting back with the short sword of the legions. Every so often an enemy weapon found its way between the shields and a legionary let out a cry as he was wounded. Some fought on, even as their blood flowed on to the disturbed snow at their feet. Others staggered back and collapsed, too wounded to stay in formation, and Marcus saw the look in their eyes as they drew their shields close to their bodies and gripped their swords. He admired their determination to go down fighting while their comrades were forced to leave them behind as they fought to reach the lake.

Marcus glanced round and saw there were no more than thirty or so men left to protect the standard. Suddenly there was a shout from nearby.

‘Let us through! Let us through!’

He recognized the voice well enough. A moment later Decimus and a handful of his men, breathing hard and holding bloodied swords, stumbled between the shields and stood panting beside Quintus, Marcus and the standard bearer. Behind them the soldiers quickly closed ranks as the rebels continued to harry them. It was impossible to break through the wall of shields and the vicious points of the legionaries’ swords, and most of the rebels moved on, looking for easier prey.

‘We’re almost at the edge of the lake,’ the centurion announced as he craned his neck to peer over the helmets of his comrades. ‘We’ll hold our ground there for as long as possible while I get rid of the standard.’

Decimus rounded on the officer. ‘And then what? Where do we go?’

‘Go?’ The centurion smiled grimly. ‘Straight to Hades, that’s where.’

‘That’s your plan?’ Decimus laughed. ‘Not me. I’m getting out of here. I’ll swim for it.’

‘In that water? You’d freeze before you reached the far side. You can drown like a rat or die like a man with a sword in your hand.’

Decimus shook his head as he looked round the small formation. ‘You’re mad.’

Then he saw Marcus for the first time and stared at him with a puzzled expression before his eyes widened. ‘I know you! You ... You’re that brat son of Titus.’

For an instant Marcus forgot the battle raging around him. He forgot the imminence of his own death at the hands of the rebels. All he saw was the face of the man who had tormented him and his mother as they stood in a slave pen waiting to be auctioned off. With a feral snarl, he raised his sword and thrust it wildly at Decimus.

‘Watch it, lad!’ the centurion snapped as he thrust his shield between Marcus and Decimus. The blade cracked harmlessly against the edge of the armour. ‘He’s one of ours, you fool!’ he snapped. ‘Watch what you do with that blade!’

Marcus let out a cry of frustration as he saw Decimus move back, two of his men blocking Marcus’s way.

The centurion thrust Marcus towards Quintus. ‘Keep this hothead under control. He’s more danger to our side than theirs.’

But the moment had passed and now an aching despair filled Marcus’s heart. If he and Decimus were to fall here, then all was lost. He would die knowing that his mother was doomed to slavery, worked to death on Decimus’s farming estate in Greece. He’d also die without having avenged Titus and the others murdered by Decimus’s henchmen.

There was a loud crack and then an oath as one of the legionary’s boots went through the ice.

‘Hold your ground!’ ordered the centurion. ‘We make our stand here!’

As his men faced out, the centurion lowered his shield to the snow and reached for the standard. Gritting his teeth, he hacked at the staff with his sword, cutting away at the smooth wood until it was weak enough to snap over his knee. He cast the bottom of the standard aside and moved towards the knot of men clustered at the edge of the lake. With a grunt, the centurion hurled the standard out towards the water. The gold wreath and the red material flew through the air and thudded into the snow-covered ice, sliding a short distance before coming to rest a few paces from the edge of the water.

‘Damn it!’ the centurion growled. He clenched his fists in frustration, then suddenly rounded on Marcus. ‘You can do it! You’re small enough for the ice to bear your weight. Go out there. Push the standard into the water.’

Marcus glanced across the expanse of unbroken snow. It was impossible to know how thick the ice was.

‘There’s no time to think!’ The centurion grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You must go now, before they cut us all down. Go!’

Marcus nodded. If he died then he would do it for a reason. If he could not save his mother, or honour his real father, he would do this in memory of the old soldier he had always loved. He would do it for Titus. He sheathed his sword and slipped through the men standing at the edge of the lake, stepping cautiously on to the ice. The standard was no more than twenty paces away and Marcus paced carefully towards it. On either side he was aware of the fight reaching its bloody conclusion. The Roman cohorts had been shattered by the rebels’ ferocious attack and only a few clusters of men remained, scattered along the shore of the lake as they sold their lives dearly.

Individuals had thrown aside their weapons and tried to surrender but the rebels butchered the Romans where they stood or knelt. A handful of legionaries were trying to escape on to the ice, but it had given way beneath them and they floundered in the icy water until their strength gave out.

There was a dull creak under his boots and Marcus stopped dead. The sound eased and after a pause Marcus took another few steps. There was another creak, louder this time, and then a crack. He stopped again, heart pounding, and slowly lowered himself to his hands and knees before continuing towards the standard, wincing as the ice seared his bare skin. He was no more than ten feet away from the standard when the ice began to crack again and Marcus caught his breath. He lowered himself on to his stomach and edged forward slowly. His fingers groped for the red cloth where the cohort’s number had been stitched in gold thread. As the ice creaked beneath him Marcus clenched his teeth, clasping the material in his fingers and drawing it back towards him. Taking it in both hands, he turned slowly on to his back and took a deep breath. He counted to three, then hurled it over his head with all his strength.