Gladiator: Son of Spartacus (6 page)

‘Yes, master.’ The leader of his bodyguard bowed his head.

Marcus tucked in, his spirits rising with every mouthful of the richly flavoured meal. After a moment even Lupus got over the fact that he was sharing a table with his master and began to eat. At length Caesar pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned back against the cracked plaster wall behind his stool. He was silent for a moment and then folded his hands together.

‘I’ve just remembered. I’ve seen this town before, years ago. I was only a tribune then, in the early days of my soldiering. I had just been appointed to one of the legions in Crassus’s army and was riding to join him with a cohort of allied cavalry. We stopped at this town for the night. I didn’t stay here. One of the local magistrates put me up for the night.’ He paused. ‘It was as dismal a place then as it is today. Anyway, we rode on the next day and I never thought I'd be staying here again.’

Festus finished his bowl and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Crassus? Then that must have been when he was fighting Spartacus, master.’

‘Indeed it was. That’s what set my mind to it. Thinking about the enemy we face now. Last time I arrived just in time to witness the final great battle, when Crassus crushed the rebel army.’

‘Crassus?’ Marcus could not help being surprised. ‘I was told that it was Pompeius who ended the rebellion, sir.’

‘Pompeius?’ Caesar cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘No, he reached the scene shortly afterwards, just in time to mop up the survivors of the main battle. I had the fortune to be witness to both battles, if you can call Pompeius’s action a battle. Skirmish more like. Not that he described it that way to the Senate. Oh, no. He sent them a report stating that it was he who had put an end to the rebellion and killed Spartacus. As if Crassus had been doing nothing for the previous two years. That’s Pompeius for you. He’ll claim all the credit that he can.’

Marcus leaned forward and stared at his master intently as a peculiar anxiety to know more gnawed at his heart. ‘You said you were at both battles, sir?’

‘That’s right. After the first one, Crassus sent me to find Pompeius and request that he block the survivors’ escape route. He did that right at least.’

Marcus felt his pulse quicken. He had rarely heard Titus, the retired centurion who had raised him, talk of the rebellion. The brutality and hardship of the campaign had scarred Titus for the rest of his life. Now Marcus had a chance to discover more about his true father.

‘What was it like, sir? What happened?’ Marcus swallowed nervously. ‘Did you ever see Spartacus himself?’

‘So many questions.’ Caesar smiled faintly. ‘Well, there’s nothing else to do in this place but talk.’

Lupus discreetly reached for his satchel and pulled out a waxed notebook. Caesar shook his head. 'No need for that. I am not anxious to record my part in the slave revolt for posterity. The sooner the whole episode is forgotten the better.’ Lupus nodded and returned his writing tools to his satchel, while Caesar closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, then began. ‘It was a war like no other I’ve ever seen, or heard of. Neither side took many prisoners and the slaves showed no mercy to any slave traders or overseers who fell into their hands. Of course, most of this I got second hand from the men who had been fighting Spartacus and his rebels during the earlier years of the revolt. By the time I joined Crassus he had closed in on them, trying to force Spartacus to turn and give battle. He was like a wounded animal: never more dangerous than when they are trapped and know they must fight or die. So Spartacus formed his army up on a ridge across our line of march.’

Caesar stared at the table in front of him and Marcus willed him to go on. Caesar cleared his throat and continued, his voice a little lower. ‘Even though we outnumbered them, I could see that our soldiers were nervous at the prospect of a fight. I remember that I did not understand their reaction. They were trained soldiers and well equipped. Many of them were veterans of previous campaigns. When I looked at the rebels I could see that many of them only carried farming tools and wore little or no armour. There were women there too, and even old men and boys. There were several thousand in the centre of the line who were well equipped and were formed up in a disciplined line. Behind them a body of mounted men surrounded Spartacus and his standard.’

‘You saw him, master?’ asked Lupus, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Yes. He rode a white horse and wore black armour and a helmet with a dark crest. Quite a striking figure.’

Marcus felt a surge of pride at the description of his father, accompanied by the regret of never having had a chance to know him.

‘As we deployed in our usual formation of staggered units I heard a murmur from the rebel lines. At first I could not make it out, then I realized it was his name. Spartacus ... Spartacus ... Spartacus! Rising up until it became a thunderous chant that echoed across the battlefield. Then they charged. Like a wave. I don’t remember hearing any signal. It was as if they shared one thought. One instinct. To kill every Roman that stood before them. I don’t mind telling you that I felt afraid then. It surprised me at the time, but there was no denying they were a terrifying sight as they came at us.

‘They smashed into our leading units, charging straight on to our shields and swords and dying in their hundreds. But they were like wild animals, fighting with their bare fists if they lost their weapons. Even the wounded fought on from the ground where they lay, using hands and teeth. Our first line held them for a while, but not even the best soldiers in the world could withstand such demons for long. The second line moved forward to join the fight. That was when Crassus gave the order that tipped the battle in our favour.’ Caesar’s eyes glinted as he recalled the moment. ‘The rebels had driven a wedge deep into the heart of our battle-line, so Crassus had his last line move out to each side and quickly march round to charge the rebels in the flanks. As soon as the trumpets sounded, our men let out a roar and closed in. The rebels held them for a while, then some panicked and broke away. Then more dispersed and soon they were finished. Our cavalry closed the trap and only a few thousand got away. The rest were annihilated.’

‘And Spartacus?’ Marcus interrupted. ‘What of him?’

‘He and his bodyguard covered the retreat of the survivors until our men were too exhausted to pursue them any further. Crassus realized that if Spartacus escaped he would be bound to stir up a fresh rebellion elsewhere. So he sent me to find Pompeius and, ah, advise him to block Spartacus’s route.’

‘Advise?’ Festus frowned.

‘One does not give orders to Pompeius the Great.’ Caesar smiled. ‘Crassus knew that it was too important a matter to risk offending Pompeius and thereby let the enemy slip away. Anyway, I found Pompeius and gave him the message, and remained with him while his men marched on Spartacus. It was all over very quickly. The rebels were exhausted and many were wounded. Yet they formed up round their leader and fought to the end. We only took a handful of prisoners. None matched the description that had been given to us by his old lanista.’

‘Did you see him again?’ Marcus asked excitedly. ‘Spartacus?’

‘I saw him with his closest lieutenants. They were mounted on the last of their horses. Just before the fight began they dismounted and killed their beasts, to show that they would share the fate of their comrades. When the last of them had fallen, I joined Pompeius and his officers as they picked over the battlefield. We found some black armour and a helmet. I suppose that his followers tore it off him when they saw him cut down. Many of the bodies were too mutilated to be identified.’

Marcus shuddered but tried hard not to show his revulsion.

‘Perhaps Spartacus survived,’ Lupus suggested.

‘I can’t see how he could have escaped. He must have fallen in the final battle. I am sure of it.’

‘He would have stayed and died with the others,’ Marcus said at once, then looked round at the others quickly. ‘At least, that’s what I would have done. If I were him.’

Festus laughed and gave Marcus a good-humoured slap on the back. ‘A handful of fights under your belt and already you think you’re another Spartacus!’

Caesar stared at Marcus. ‘I sincerely hope not. The first one nearly destroyed Rome. We would not be able to survive a second Spartacus. Besides, I have grown fond of you, Marcus. It would distress me if we ever became enemies. Then I would be obliged to destroy you.’

He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone but his words chilled Marcus to the core. Not for the first time, he feared that Caesar knew more about him than he realized. But he had to push those thoughts aside, be strong and see this through. He had to be as strong as his father had been. He took a calming breath and addressed his former master.

‘I have served you loyally, sir. There is no reason to think that we should ever become enemies.’

Caesar looked at him, then gave a light laugh. ‘Of course not. Besides I have somewhat larger and more formidable adversaries to worry about.’ He yawned. ‘It’s been a long day. We’re warm and our stomachs are full. We’d better get a good night’s sleep. I want us back on the road at dawn, Festus. See to it that I am roused with the rest of the men in good time.

‘Yes, master.’

Caesar rose from the table and rubbed the base of his spine with a grimace. Then he nodded to his companions and climbed a flight of stairs at the rear of the inn that led to the handful of small rooms that were rented to travellers. Festus turned to the boys.

‘I’ve sorted out a room for you two. The innkeeper has space in his cellar. He’s put two bedrolls down for you, but says to watch out for the rats. Sometimes they bite.’

‘Rats?’ Lupus’s face went pale.

‘He was probably joking, but all the same take care, eh?’ Festus stood up and made for the other men to give them their orders.

‘Rats,’ Lupus repeated. ‘I hate rats.’

‘Then make sure you push them to the side of the plate.’ Marcus joked. ‘Come on, I’ll make sure you’re safe.’

The innkeeper’s wife showed them down to the cellar by the light of an oil lamp, then left it on the bottom of the narrow stairs so they could see enough to prepare to sleep. Lupus glanced warily around the shadows in the cellar before he settled down, but despite his concerns he was soon asleep. Once again, Marcus lay awake for a while, deep in thought.

This time he was thinking about Spartacus. Slowly, his heart filled with pride in his father’s achievements and the example he had set for those who followed him, prepared to fight and die at his side. Something began to stir inside him. A vague inspiration and more: a sense that it was his duty to honour his father. To be worthy of his name and all that had achieved in his short life. After all, the same blood coursed through Marcus’s veins - the same skill at arms, and the same burning desire for freedom.

6

The next day the small party of riders left the foothills behind as the road climbed into the mountains. The rain had stopped during the night and a hard frost glinted on the ground as they set off. Before noon they had climbed above the snowline, and the rocks and trees on either side were covered by a gleaming blanket of white. But despite the snow, the route was plain to see as they rode on, up into the hills. The heavily laden boughs of fir trees deadened the sound of their passing and added to the unsettling sensation of stillness. The conversation between the riders died away as they kept a wary eye on their surroundings. They had lived in Rome so long they had grown used to the constant noise of the great city. Now the silence was unnerving them. There was only the soft padding of the horses, the chink of the bits and the occasional snort as the animals expelled warm steamy breath from their wide nostrils.

‘I don’t like this,’ Lupus muttered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Marcus tried to sound more confident than he felt. ‘Fresh air, peace and quiet and fine views. What could there be to dislike? Apart from the cold.’

‘That’s bad enough, but there’s something else.’ Lupus looked from side to side. ‘I don’t know, but I can’t help feeling that we’re being watched.’

‘Who by? We haven’t passed a single dwelling for hours. The last person we saw was that shepherd a few miles back.' Marcus recalled the solitary figure holding a staff who had watched them from the top of a small cliff. ‘And he ran off the moment he saw us.’

‘Yes,’ Lupus pondered. ‘I’ve been wondering about that. Why did he run?’

‘He was just nervous. A party of horsemen appears and he fears that they might be brigands. That’s why.’

‘Perhaps there’s something else to it.’

Marcus looked at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Perhaps he wasn’t a shepherd. Maybe he was a lookout.

‘And who would he be looking out for?’

‘People like us. Travellers. Easy prey for a band of brigands. Or worse, the rebels. Supposing that man was a lookout, and he’s reported us?’

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, down the road to the point where it turned back on itself and was lost in the trees. There was no sign of movement. He shrugged as he faced the front again. ‘If there was anything sinister about him, then I think we’d know about it by now.’

Lupus was silent for a moment. ‘I hope you’re right.’

Both boys fell silent again, but Marcus was starting to share his friend’s anxiety. A mile further on they cleared the treeline and the road climbed towards a narrow pass between two rocky peaks hidden by wreaths of cloud. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief at leaving the confines of the forest. On either side the ground was littered with stones and rocks and afforded little cover for an ambush. Up ahead, the men were talking again and Marcus felt encouraged by their return to the earlier easy conversation and exchange of jokes. Even Lupus seemed more relaxed. The road began to narrow and Marcus allowed his friend to pull a short distance ahead. He needed time to think.

Caesar’s comment the previous night was preying on his mind. Despite the debt that Caesar owed him for saving his niece’s life, it would mean very little if he decided that Marcus represented any threat to him, or to Rome. Marcus felt he was living on a knife-edge. He must be careful about every comment he made and keep the brand on his shoulder out of sight. He could trust no one, not even Lupus. A wave of bitter loneliness washed over him and he felt the first hot tears at the corner of his eyes. Marcus raised his hand and cuffed them away angrily. He could not afford to be weak, he told himself. He had to be strong if he was to survive. And he had to survive if he was to rescue his mother.