Gladiator: Son of Spartacus (16 page)

15

‘They made a pretty thorough job of it,’ Festus said quietly as he prodded the blackened stump of a wooden post. He stepped back, placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the surrounding scene as Marcus dismounted. Marcus tethered the reins to an iron ring set in what was left of the villa’s main gate and joined Festus. Before them lay the remains of the buildings and gardens of what had once been the sprawling country home of a wealthy Roman. Now almost nothing stood higher than a man — only heaps of collapsed masonry and tiles and scorched skeletal lengths of timber. Smoke still trailed into the air, wafting up into the haze that obscured the sun. Soldiers were picking their way through the debris, searching for any sign of survivors, or valuables that might be saved from the ruins. Marcus sniffed and wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of burning.

‘I can’t see any bodies,’ he muttered.

‘Not yet. But there will be a few,’ Festus replied grimly. ‘They would have surprised the place, freed all the slaves and taken what loot they could carry, then set fire to it. The steward of the villa and the guards are probably dead. Their bodies will be under that lot somewhere. Not that there will be much left of them after the fire.’

Both of them were silent a moment before Marcus spoke again. ‘We can’t be more than ten miles from Mutina. The rebels who did this were taking quite a risk venturing this far from the mountains.’

‘Or they’re becoming more confident. If so, then Caesar should be worried. Looks like Brixus and his men aren’t afraid of the local garrisons any more. Only the largest towns will be safe from their raids if Caesar’s plan fails.’

Marcus looked back through the remains of the gate. Caesar was delivering a verbal report of the attack to one of his staff officers before sending him to Rome. It would take several days to reach the capital, where a senator would be informed of the destruction of his property. But there would be other consequences. The burning of the villa would provide Caesar’s political enemies with another excuse to attack him in the Senate. Marcus could already imagine the scene with Cato rising to his feet to denounce Caesar. If Caesar couldn’t handle a gang of rebel slaves, what chance had he of taking on the Gauls that threatened Italia’s northern frontier? It would be better to recall an incompetent general and send a more worthy replacement, Cato would argue. Meanwhile, Crassus would sit back smugly and enjoy the damage to his rival’s reputation.

‘What do you think he will do now?’ asked Marcus. ‘Send for more men?’

‘No. He’ll stick to the plan. This changes nothing. If he sends for reinforcements, it would be as good as admitting he had made a mistake. You know what he’s like. He’ll never admit to making a mistake if he can avoid it.’

There was a pounding of hoofs and Marcus turned to see the staff officer galloping back in the direction of the junction where the Via Flamina branched off towards Rome.

Caesar cupped a hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Reform column! We’re moving on!’

Marcus untethered his horse and climbed back into the saddle. He waited for Festus and the two of them walked their mounts into the road that passed the gate. Behind them, the centurions and optios bellowed at the men to abandon their search and rejoin the column. Once every man was back in position, Caesar waved his arm forward and the cavalry led them along the road that climbed into the foothills of the Apennines. A squadron of cavalry rode a short distance ahead to scout the way and guard against ambush. Behind them came the general and his officers and bodyguards and then the infantry, trudging along four abreast, marching yokes resting on the padding they wore across their shoulders. After the infantry came the small baggage train, carrying a few days’ supply of grain and the soldiers’ tents, which would offer them some protection against the freezing temperatures up in the mountains. With them trundled the wagon of Decimus, while he rode beside on a horse. At the tail of the column came the cohort of legionaries assigned to serve as the rearguard.

As the column left the smouldering remains of the villa behind, Marcus’s sense of foreboding increased. He had begun to doubt the wisdom of Caesar’s plan. With little known about the strength of the enemy, it made no sense to start out with a modest force and then proceed to divide it.

The truth about his father’s identity was another matter that troubled him. It seemed as if a quiet voice constantly encouraged him to accept the challenge of living in a manner that would make his father, Spartacus, proud. The same voice constantly reminded him of the evils of slavery and the duty of everyone aware of its injustice to stand up and fight those who enslaved other people. And that meant fighting the Roman Empire itself and all those who served it. Especially men like Caesar.

And yet Marcus knew the struggle was not as simple as that. He remembered the tales that Titus had told him when he was a young boy. Titus had fought the Gauls, Parthians and other barbarians, and the vivid descriptions of their atrocities had chilled Marcus’s blood. It had also convinced him there were worse people in this world than those of Rome. There had to be a middle way between the traditions of Rome and those who wanted an end to slavery. Or was that just the wishful thinking of a young boy? Yet here he was, riding beside the men marching to hunt down and kill those who opposed slavery. Part of Marcus thought he was on the wrong side. That he should take his chance and run away to join Brixus and his men. But then he remembered his mother. Her best chance of survival rested on Caesar helping Marcus to track her down and set her free. With a leaden feeling in his heart, Marcus knew he was trapped. He had to remain at Caesar’s side and serve the Roman general until his mother was safe. After that, finally, he could decide his own future.

The column continued into the mountains, and the road gave way to a narrow track hemmed in on either side by forests of pine trees enveloped in mists and cloud. The grey skies steadily darkened and there were frequent showers of rain. Marcus hunched in his saddle and daydreamed of sitting in front of a fire at Portia’s house in Ariminum when the current campaign was over. There, with Festus and Caesar, he would tell Portia of their experiences, and perhaps she would secretly give Marcus a knowing look.

As quickly as the thought occurred to him, Marcus thrust it from his mind. He must not let himself even think about her in that way. She could never be more than a friend, and then only in private, hidden from those who would be horrified at the prospect of friendship between them.

As the rain gave way to sleet and snow, the column passed the remains of a handful of other small villas that had been raided by the rebels. Only ruins remained, and Marcus sensed the anger welling up in the men around him. When the time came for them to fight, they would show little mercy.

At the end of the first day the column reached a small town perched on a cliff above a stream. While the men set up their tents on the open ground outside the town walls, Caesar and his entourage found accommodation in the house of an affluent mule-breeder. Publius Flavius glumly told his guests about the constant raids on outlying farms and villages in the area. A shepherd had driven his flock into the town the previous day, claiming to have seen a party of rebels - no more than a hundred of them, on foot - making for a villa in a valley not ten miles away. Caesar ordered Marcus to take down the details as he listened patiently, then reassured Flavius that the threat would soon be extinguished.

The following morning the temperature dropped and snow began to fall, blanketing the tiled roofs of the town and drifting across the track that led further into the mountains. Caesar inspected the path with a frustrated expression before turning to issue orders to his closest followers.

‘We’ll take the cavalry and ride on. The rest of the column will follow as best they can. I’m keen to catch up with those slaves seen by the shepherd. If we can capture them, they’ll provide us with useful intelligence about Brixus. With a bit of luck, they might even know where he is.’

Festus puffed his cheeks out and cleared his throat. ‘Is that wise, sir?’

‘Wise?’ Caesar asked tonelessly, but Marcus saw the dangerous glint in his eyes, the prelude to one of his angry outbursts. ‘Why would it not be wise, Festus?’

‘Sir, it would mean dividing the force yet again.’

‘I have more than enough mounted men to take on a hundred rebels. Besides, the infantry and the wagons are holding us up. If we stay together the enemy will escape. I won’t let that happen. My mind is made up. Give the orders to the cohort commanders. Meanwhile, the cavalry are to set off as soon as they are ready.’

Festus bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir.’

As the head of his bodyguard strode off to relay the orders, Caesar caught Marcus’s eye.

‘The chase is on, eh, Marcus?’

Marcus nodded, despite his doubts. He agreed with Festus. Caesar was taking a risk. But clearly there was no changing his mind.

‘If Fortuna favours us,’ Caesar continued, rubbing his hands together to warm them, ‘then we might discover where Brixus is hiding by the end of the day. Think on that. We find and destroy Brixus and his rabble, and so break the spirit of those who would follow him. The slaves will learn their lesson. No one defies Rome. Then I will be free to turn my attention to Gaul.’

‘Yes, sir. And I can seek out my mother.’

Caesar flashed him a look of irritation. ‘Of course. Did you think I had forgotten?’

Marcus did not dare reply, having made his point, and Caesar turned away and called for a groom to bring his horse.

The snow continued to fall through the morning as the horsemen followed the track, often in single file to negotiate the drifts that had formed. On either side the boughs of the pine trees were heavily laden and the dull thrumming of the horses’ hoofs was muffled as they rode on. Then, at noon, shortly after the snow had stopped falling, the track descended into a small valley and there was a cry from one of the men scouting ahead. Marcus and the others looked up expectantly as a rider galloped back along the road. He reined in sharply and snow sprayed into the air as he thrust an arm out.

‘There’s a fire ahead, sir!’

‘A fire?’ Caesar grasped his reins tightly. ‘Then we may have them! Let’s go!’

He spurred his horse forward and the rest of the column rippled into motion, horses thundering along the track, their steamy breaths whipped out from flaring nostrils. All thought of the cold disappeared from Marcus’s mind as he urged his mount to keep up with Caesar and Festus. The rest of the bodyguard and staff officers galloped behind, followed by the cavalry.

Ahead, the other scouts were waiting on a small rise that afforded a view along the valley. As they crested the ridge, Marcus saw that the trees fell away on either side, with open land ahead, nestling between the mountains. Aged walled enclosures showed that the land had been used as pasture for many years. A stream meandered along the valley floor into a small lake and ahead, beside a mill, stood a collection of farm buildings enclosed by a wooden stockade. Bright flames licked up from the windows in the largest building and black smoke billowed into the still winter air. Marcus could see figures moving, stark against the snow, as they carried off their spoils, piling them on to several small carts and a wagon hitched to mules a short distance from the villa.

Marcus galloped down the far side of the rise to the flat road approaching the farm, not much more than half a mile away. The wind roared in his ears and his heart was beating wildly with excitement. Immediately ahead, the horses of Festus and Caesar were kicking up a spray of snow that made it difficult for him to see beyond them. He urged his mount on, steering it to one side, then saw the distant figures scrambling into activity as they spotted the horsemen charging towards them.

‘Don’t let them escape!’ Caesar shouted. ‘I want prisoners!’

Ahead, the men who had attacked the villa were sprinting across the open ground towards the safety of the treeline, abandoning their loot. Even as they raced across the snow-covered fields, Marcus could see most of them would escape well before the Roman cavalry reached the scene. Once they disappeared into the depths of the forest where the snow had not penetrated, there would be no tracks to follow and they could escape. Marcus felt relieved by that.

The last of the rebels had already vanished from sight as Caesar savagely reined in outside the villa. Behind him, the rest of his men caught up and the air was filled with the snorting of horses and chink of bits.

‘Decurion!’ Caesar thrust his hand towards the first officer to arrive on the scene. ‘Take your squadron and go after them. On foot if necessary.’

‘Yes, sir!’ The decurion snapped a salute and bellowed to his men to follow him as he galloped across to the line of trees f stretching along the edge of the valley. Briefly, Caesar turned to look at the villa before dismounting and handing his reins to one of the bodyguards. Festus and Marcus followed suit and joined him inside the wall.

The fire had taken hold of the main building and already tongues of flame were stabbing up into the air between the roof tiles. A large section of the roof gave way and crashed into the blaze with an explosion of sparks that swirled high into the air. One of the adjoining buildings was already alight as the fire spread.

Caesar raised an arm to shield his face from the heat. ‘Look for survivors! I’ll check this side of the villa. Festus, take Marcus and search the other side!’

Festus pulled Marcus towards the side of the building, where the double doors of a long shed stood open. While Festus strode ahead, Marcus struggled to keep up. As they reached the end of the shed, a wiry man with grey hair lurched into view. A club swung from one arm, and a small chest was tucked under the other. With astonishing speed, he raised his club and slashed at Festus’s head. The glancing blow threw Festus into the snow at his feet with a deep groan. At once the man raised the club again, ready to strike at his head.

‘No!’ Marcus yelled, hurling himself forward. He snatched at the man’s bony wrist and both of them tumbled back across the threshold of the shed, sprawling to the earthen floor inside. The impact winded the man but Marcus had rolled to his feet and was ready to strike before the man could rise. Marcus kicked him in the side and smashed a fist on to the back of his head. Raising a hand to protect himself, the man released his club and Marcus snatched it up, then delivered a quick, savage blow across his shoulders. With an explosive grunt the man slumped to the ground, moaning. Marcus stood over him, both hands tightly grasping the club. When he was sure the fight had gone out of the man, he crouched beside Festus and shook his shoulder.