Gladiator: Son of Spartacus (20 page)

‘Thermon? Here?’

‘Oh, yes. I always keep him close. Though he has had to change his appearance, thanks to you.’

Marcus’s mind raced. Thermon had been in Decimus’s party of henchmen all along? He recalled their faces, but at first none reminded him of the man he had only seen clearly on a handful of occasions. Then it hit him. Of course, the bald man with the beard. Biding his time, waiting for the order and the opportunity to strike at Caesar.

Decimus shuffled away, leaving Marcus hunched into his corner, his mind filled with dark thoughts of hatred and revenge.

18

Early the next day, as the sun shone bleakly through a thin mist, one of the rebels came to wake the prisoners. Two men had died during the night. They had shed their armour and cloaks the previous day in an effort to escape and their tunics had not kept them warm enough. In the pale light of dawn they sat hunched up where they had died, their faces frozen into peaceful expressions of slumber.

The rebel kicked them to make sure they were not feigning death, then grunted dismissively before stirring the rest to their feet with further kicks and blows from a thick club in his fist. Marcus and the others rose stiffly, joints cold and painful as they stumbled from the sheep pen to stand waiting in the narrow lane outside. Around them, the rebels emerged from their shelters, stretching and grumbling. Some had already started to eat, chewing on strips of dried meat and the bread they had captured in the wagons. Marcus looked at them, his lips working hungrily. He had not eaten for a day and his belly growled in protest. But no food or drink was offered to the prisoners, and shortly afterwards the Romans were blindfolded as the column began the day’s march.

Several hours later, after winding their way along steep and uneven tracks, the column reached the rebel camp. As the captives were led into Brixus’s camp, the inhabitants emerged from their huts and shelters to watch the spectacle. The defeated Romans were bound together by a length of rope that passed through their arms. Their leader, the once proud Tribune Quintus, had his hands bound behind his back and stumbled to keep up with the rebel leading them through the camp. Marcus was second in line, bruised and cut from the tumbles he had taken during the day’s march.

‘Halt the prisoners!’ a voice commanded from somewhere ahead, and the men behind Marcus shuffled to a stop. There was a pause before he heard boots crunching on the snow beside him, then his blindfold was removed. The morning mist had long since cleared and the sunlight was dazzling. Marcus squinted, his eyes watering. After a moment they adjusted to the light and he looked round in astonishment at the vast camp, hemmed in by the mountains that ringed the valley.

‘No wonder we could never find this place,’ Quintus said. ‘An army could search the Apennines for a hundred years and never guess it was here.’

Marcus looked back the way they had come and saw the path disappear into the cliff a few hundred yards away, as if into solid rock. He recalled the clammy cold of the last stage of the march, and the echo of footsteps and clink and clatter of equipment off solid rock. Quintus was right. The rebel camp was perfectly hidden. The only danger was that a traitor might betray its location. The fact that no one had, only proved that the slaves who flocked to Brixus’s banner shared his fervent belief in the cause for which he fought.

When the last of the blindfolds had been removed the prisoners were led through the heart of the camp towards the largest huts nestling in the centre. The route was lined with people cheering the rebel fighters. Their cheers turned to insults and cries of anger as they caught sight of the prisoners, and some scooped up filth from the ground to hurl at Quintus and the others. Because of his size and the simple cloak he wore, Marcus was spared the worst of the deluge. That was targeted at the tribune, his soldiers and Decimus, conspicuous in his expensively embroidered cloak. They soon emerged from the crowded path into an open space in front of a large hut. A cordon of men armed with spears held the crowd back and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief as the hail of missiles came to an end. He forced himself to compose his expression as he stood up straight and examined his surroundings. The hut was the largest building he had seen in the valley and he guessed it must be where the leader of the rebels lived. If this was the main camp, then there was a chance that Brixus himself was here. Marcus felt a surge of hope. Brixus would be sure to spare him, even though Marcus had marched with Caesar. He would have to explain that he was unwillingly involved in the proconsul’s campaign, and hoped that would be enough for Brixus to forgive him.

Turning towards the nearest of the guards, Marcus cleared his throat. ‘You there. Tell me, is that Brixus’s hut? I must speak to him.’

The rebel stepped quickly towards him and backhanded Marcus across the cheek. ‘Shut your mouth, Roman! You only speak when spoken to if you want to keep your tongue. Clear?’

Reeling from the blow, Marcus opened his mouth to reply, then closed it at once and nodded, rather than risk more punishment.

Mandracus approached and stopped in front of Quintus, hands on his hips. ‘Well then, not so high and mighty any longer, tribune. You and these other Romans. Look at you. Not much older than this boy, barely a man, and already you have that air of haughty arrogance so typical of you Roman aristocrats. Soon you’ll see what it’s like to be treated as a slave.’ He smiled coldly, then turned and made for the entrance to the hut. As he passed the rebel in charge of the prisoners, he gave his orders.

‘I’m going to eat. Hold them beside the hut. Then pass the word around the camp. The entertainment begins the moment that it’s safe to light the fires.’

‘Yes, Mandracus.’ The rebel bowed his head in acknowledgement.

As Mandracus ducked behind the leather curtain in the doorway, Quintus edged closer to Marcus and whispered, ‘Entertainment? What do you think they’re planning to do to us?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I have no idea. But whatever it is, I don’t think many of us will survive it.’

By the time the circle of fires was lit in the open area by the round hut, a huge crowd had formed round the compound. Their faces illuminated by the red flames, they gazed expectantly at the prisoners. The excited hubbub of conversation reminded Marcus of the atmosphere in the crowd that formed at the Senate House in Rome before the start of an important debate. No, that wasn’t quite it, he reflected. It was more like the mood of the crowd in the Forum before he fought the Celtic boy, Ferax. He shuddered at the memory of the terror that had consumed him before the fight began. Partly the terror of facing someone who wanted to kill him, but also terror at the bloodlust in the faces of the crowd pressing in on all sides.

The prisoners had been forced to sit on the frozen ground until darkness fell, their hands kept bound. They had finally been given water and a bowl of thin, greasy stew that was gulped down greedily. After that they had sat in silence, awaiting their fate and forbidden to make a sound or move on threat of a beating.

A hush settled over the crowd and Marcus looked round to see Mandracus emerging from the hut. Wrapped in a long fur cloak, he stood with a silver goblet in one hand, waiting until he had complete silence. Then he drew a breath and spoke in a loud clear voice that carried to the fringes of the crowd.

‘I would prefer to wait until Brixus returns to share our entertainment, but we shall have to start without him. As you all know, both Brixus and I were once gladiators. Men torn from our homes by the legions of Rome, ripped from the bosom of our families and enslaved. Then sold, like cattle, to a lanista to train in the art of killing other men - for no better reason than it whetted Rome’s appetite for entertainment. Tonight we shall return the favour in kind: these Romans will provide our entertainment.’ He punched his spare hand into the air and the crowd let out an excited roar.

Mandracus indulged them for a moment while Marcus felt his blood freeze in his veins. So that was their fate.

‘Quiet!’ Mandracus boomed, gesturing to the crowd to calm down. ‘Tonight I give you a feast of entertainment,’ he continued. ‘A series of fights to the death. The winners of each bout will then face each other until one is left standing. That man, that champion,’ he spoke the word in a tone laced with irony, ‘will be spared. He will become a slave of the camp, for all of you to use and abuse as you will, until he dies.’

Marcus saw the nearest faces in the crowd nod approval. Some looked at the prisoners and shook their fists, shouting insults, the bitterness of their long years in slavery finding expression in this chance for revenge.

‘Let the entertainment begin!’ Mandracus called out, and strode over to the Romans. All their armour and cloaks had been stripped from them, and they sat in their tunics and boots. Mandracus gazed over them a moment before raising his finger to point. ‘You ... and you. Stand!’

The two legionaries were slow to react and the rebels hauled them to their feet, dragging them into position, twenty feet apart, in the middle of the open ground. As their bonds were cut, the men stood rubbing their wrists. A sword was dropped at the feet of each man before the rebels backed away.

‘The rules are simple,’ Mandracus told them. ‘You fight to the death. If you go down, then don’t bother appealing for mercy. That’s it. Now pick up your swords and wait for the word to begin.’

Marcus looked at the two men. One was a wiry veteran with dried blood on his left arm where he had been wounded in the ambush. His opponent was a fresh-faced youth, trembling as he stared down at the sword.

‘Pick up your weapons!’ Mandracus bellowed.

At once the youth did as he was told and held the weapon out, its point wavering wildly. The veteran did not move. Then he drew himself up and folded his arms.

‘I don’t take orders from slaves.’

Some in the crowd hooted with derision, but Mandracus simply shrugged and gestured to one of the rebels acting as guards. The man strode behind the veteran and swung a heavy club into the back of his head. The skull gave way with a sharp crack, blood and brains bursting out between the fragments of bone and scalp. The veteran’s jaw sagged open as he stood for a moment before toppling face first to the ground.

Marcus averted his eyes from the gruesome scene. Glancing round the group of prisoners, he wondered who his opponent would be. If only it could be Decimus, or even Thermon.

The rebel tucked the club under his arm and grasped the veteran’s boot to drag the body aside. Mandracus pointed to another prisoner. ‘You. Take his place.’

The legionary scrambled to his feet and as soon as his hands were freed he snatched up the sword and lowered his body into a crouch, prepared to fight for his life.

‘Begin!’

The fight was unlike any Marcus had ever seen during his gladiator training. There was no attempt to size up the other man, decide on tactics and test the opponent’s mettle with a few feints. The two legionaries rushed at each other with grim expressions to hack and parry wildly, and the sharp ringing of their blades filled the air as sparks flew from the clashing metal. With a cry of pain the young recruit staggered back, clutching his spare hand to his thigh where blood seeped out between his fingers. The older man held back, his chest heaving from the exertion. They stared at each other until a voice called out to resume fighting.

The call was taken up and Mandracus gave orders to a group beside one of the fires. ‘Use the heating irons.’

One of the men nodded and leaned down to pick up a metal bar. One end was wrapped in strips of metal; the other led into the heart of the fire. When he raised the bar into the air, it glowed bright yellow, then faded to a lurid red. The man strode behind the wounded young legionary and prodded him with the heated tip. He screamed with pain and lurched forward towards his opponent. Another frenzied exchange of blows followed before the younger man’s leg gave way, forcing him down on his knee as he desperately tried to fend off his former comrade’s attacks. Then his numbed fingers lost their grip and his sword fell to the ground a short distance away. The other man raised his weapon and hesitated.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Finish him! Or you’ll be cut down alongside him.’

The legionary gritted his teeth and shook his head in apology, then thrust the blade into the wounded man’s chest. The young man grunted and flung his head back and arms wide. Then, as the sword was wrenched free, he writhed for a moment on the ground before lying still. The crowd let out a bloodthirsty roar and punched their fists into the chilly air. Two of the rebels approached the winner and one took the sword from his hand while the other steered him to one side of the hut.

Marcus felt sick with worry as Mandracus approached the remaining prisoners and looked over the group. None dared meet his eye to risk being chosen for the next fight.

‘You ... Yes, you, and the man next to him. You’re up. Move yourselves!’

There were two more fights and Marcus counted fourteen men left in the group. That meant seven fights, and Decimus was still with them. There was a chance yet to avenge himself. As they dragged the fourth body away, Mandracus scanned his finger across the group and smiled. Then his finger stopped.

‘You ... Up!’

Decimus struggled to his feet, shaking his head in mute protest. At once Marcus stood.

‘I’ll fight him! Choose me!’

Mandracus turned. ‘What’s this? A volunteer? The plucky lad wishes to take on a grown man. Looks like we finally found a Roman with the heart to put up a fight. Very well then, boy, he’s all yours.’

‘No!’ Decimus called out. ‘You can’t make me fight!’

‘Oh? Why can’t I?’

Decimus held out his hands. ‘Set me free and I’ll make you a rich man. I have a fortune in Rome. Let me live and I will ensure that all of you are handsomely rewarded. I swear it.’

‘How interesting,’ Mandracus mused. ‘And what amount are we talking about for your ransom?’

‘Half a million sestertii,’ Decimus pleaded, but the rebel did not respond. ‘All right then, a million! A million sestertii!’