Gladiator: Son of Spartacus (26 page)

The latter snorted with derision. ‘It’s a lie. The Romans will want to make an example of those who led the rebellion. We’ll go the same way as Spartacus and his comrades: hanging from a cross outside the gates of Rome. Don’t be a fool, Brixus. You knew from the start that only two paths are open to us — liberty or death. Either we hold our ground as long as possible, or we cut our way through the Roman lines to escape. We could find a new camp, raise another army and continue the struggle.’

The rebel leader glanced at the silent body of men filling the gorge. ‘If we defend the camp, we are doomed in the long run. To escape, we must abandon all the others in the camp: the old, the women, the children.’

‘Then that is the price we pay to keep the dream of Spartacus alive.’

Marcus cleared his throat. ‘Spartacus, my father, dreamed of putting an end to the suffering of slaves, not making it worse for them.’

Mandracus rounded on him angrily. ‘Still your tongue, traitor, before I cut it out!’

‘Enough!’ Brixus snapped. His eyes blazed at Mandracus until the man backed off a step. ‘The boy is right. We are trapped. We are dead whether we stay or flee. You and I and many of the others would prefer death to slavery, but we cannot make that choice for everyone in the camp. It is better that they live. Having tasted freedom they will never forget it, and in time there may be a better opportunity to rebel. But if they are butchered now, such a hope will die with them, and in the hearts of all others who are still slaves. We must accept Caesar’s terms.’

Marcus felt a surge of relief wash through his body.

‘You would give in without a fight?’ asked Mandracus.

‘We have fought for as long as we can, my friend. Now we must accept defeat.’

Marcus saw the anguish in Mandracus’s face as he struggled to accept his leader’s decision. ‘This is your will? Your command?’

Brixus nodded slowly. ‘It is.’

Mandracus’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head in utter dejection. Brixus turned to Marcus. ‘Go back to your... master. Tell him we will surrender on condition that no one is to be harmed. I’ll send out the men first, then the rest.’

‘Thank you,’ Marcus said quietly. He wanted to say more, to offer his gratitude for all the lives that had been spared. To explain that he shared the man’s dream, and that of Spartacus, and had things been different then he would have counted it an honour to fight against Rome at the side of Brixus. But he saw the pain and despair etched into the veteran gladiator’s face and knew that such words would only add to his grief. Instead he simply offered his hand. Brixus looked down and did not move for a while. Then he slowly extended his hand and they gently clasped each other by the forearm.

‘Farewell, Marcus. I doubt that I will see you again.’

There was a painful lump in Marcus’s throat as he replied. ‘Farewell.’

Brixus looked deep into his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Never forget who you are. There may come a day …’

‘If it comes, I shall be ready.’

Brixus nodded, then released his grip and looked at the Roman lines. ‘You’d better go.’

Marcus slowly turned and paced across the snow towards Festus and the others, his heart tom by the pain of their parting. He felt a tear at the comer of his eye and blinked it away. Overhead the sky was a sullen, heavy grey and he felt the full weight of the world on his young shoulders.

‘Well?’ Festus asked as Marcus stopped in front of him.

‘He accepts. It’s all over.’

Marcus sat in his saddle beside Festus as they watched the long, silent procession pass between the lines of legionaries either side of the entrance to the gorge. A short distance in front Caesar watched them with a haughty expression. A great pile of swords, spears and other weapons and armour lay to one side of the route where the rebels had dropped them before being marched away under the watchful eyes of the legionaries. The small number of hostages held by the rebels had been released earlier and taken away in a wagon to recover in the nearest town.

There was little conversation among the Romans, and the rebels were silent. Caesar had given orders that Brixus and his closest comrades should be the last to surrender. As the end of the column emerged from the gorge, the Roman commander clicked his tongue and led his entourage forward.

Marcus could see Mandracus and several others waiting there, still carrying their weapons as they eyed the approaching Romans.

‘It is time for you to join the others, gentlemen,’ Caesar said in a tone laced with contempt. ‘Throw down your weapons.’

Mandracus stepped forward and glared defiantly at the Roman general before drawing his sword. Festus took a sharp intake of breath and reached for his blade. But Caesar did not flinch and after a brief pause Mandracus dropped his weapon, unbuckling his breast and back plates to let them fall into the snow before he stood aside. One by one his comrades followed suit. Marcus looked for the rebel leader but there was no sign of him.

‘Which one of you is Brixus?’ Caesar demanded.

There was no reply.

‘Which one of you is that scoundrel who calls himself your leader? Step forward, Brixus.’

Mandracus crossed his arms as he spoke up. ‘Brixus has chosen not to surrender. He has remained in the camp where he awaits you, sword in hand.’

‘Indeed?’ Caesar nodded gravely. Edging his horse closer to the rebel, he raised his proconsular baton and struck Mandracus on the cheek. ‘You will call me master from now on, slave. I gave my word that you would be spared and returned to slavery. And I will treat you like any slave who dares to treat men without due respect! Do you understand?’

Mandracus was bent over, stunned by the blow, as blood dripped from a cut on his cheek. Marcus looked on with a sick feeling in his stomach. Even though he knew that this outcome was the only way to prevent the deaths of many, the guilt over his decision weighed heavily on his heart.

Caesar raised his baton again. ‘I said, do you understand me, slave?’

Mandracus looked up and nodded. ‘Yes ... master.’

‘Good. Then join the column.’

As Mandracus was led away, Caesar turned towards the gorge and took up his reins. ‘One last rebel to deal with, it seems. Follow me.’

The secret valley was still and silent. Abandoned huts and shelters stood on either side of the track. Caesar and his party looked about them warily, suspecting an ambush at any moment. As they reached the small rise overlooking the heart of the valley, the large huts of Brixus’s compound came into view. At once Marcus saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the largest building. A red glare showed in the thatch as a tongue of flame burst through and quickly spread.

‘I want him alive!’ Caesar called as he spurred his horse forward, and his men galloped after him. By the time they reached the huts the fire was raging across the thatched roof and the air was filled with red and black cinders floating on the breeze. The heat from the flames was intense and Marcus’s horse shied away with a panicked whinny. Some of the officers jumped down from their saddles to approach the hut, but it was impossible. Then Marcus recalled the entrance that adjoined the rear of the building to a smaller hut, and trotted his horse round the fire until he could see it. The flames had not yet spread to the smaller structure so Marcus slipped down from the saddle, approaching the low entrance with his arm raised to shield his face from the heat. The fresh snow that had fallen around the hut was already melting, but Marcus spotted a set of footprints leading towards the mountains at the end of the valley.

He backed away several paces and looked around, but so far none of the others had joined him on this side of the hut. Quickly Marcus kicked snow over the tracks, concealing any trace of them, before he turned away.

‘Marcus! What are you doing?’ Festus was edging round the blaze towards him.

‘I thought I’d try the rear!’ Marcus called back. ‘But it’s too late.’

Festus nodded. They stood side by side, staring at the awesome spectacle of the fire raging before them, the flames lighting up the valley and painting the clouds above with a pink hue. At length Festus nodded to himself. ‘So Brixus preferred death to surrender ... A good death, under the circumstances. But Caesar is going to be furious.’

‘Yes.’ Marcus nodded. ‘He will be.’

‘At least he has a victory, of sorts. The rebellion is over. That will annoy his enemies in the Senate and leave him free to deal with Gaul.’

Marcus nodded absent-mindedly as he glanced up at the cliffs round the valley. Then he caught a slight movement in the rocks. He strained his eyes until he saw it again, one last time. Though it might have been a man, it was difficult to tell at such a distance.

‘Marcus?’

He turned back towards Festus.

‘What is it?’ Caesar’s bodyguard looked up at the mountains. ‘Did you see something?’

‘No, nothing. Just a bird. But it’s flown off now.’

24

THE COAST OF GREECE,
THREE MONTHS LATER

‘That’s Lechaeum off the starboard bow there.’ The captain of the merchant ship raised his arm and pointed along the rocky coastline. Marcus followed his direction and saw a sprawl of white buildings with red tiled roofs spilling down the side of the hill towards the sea.

‘We should reach the port before the end of the day with this breeze,’ the captain added. Then, briefly looking up to ensure the broad sail was drawing well, he made his way back towards the stern.

Marcus continued to watch the passing coastline of the Peloponnese as the ship rose and fell on the easy swell of the Gulf of Corinth. A handful of seagulls followed the ship, swooping round the top of the mast against the clear blue sky. It was a good day to be alive, he reflected, as the wind blew in his dark hair and the fresh sea air filled his lungs with its salty tang.

Despite the tense aftermath of the rebels’ surrender, Caesar had kept his word. The slaves were returned to their masters unharmed and there had been no repercussions for the ringleaders. The intense heat of the fire had reduced Brixus’s hut to ashes. No bones were found in the smouldering remains, but the blaze had been so fierce that it had consumed everything, even the sturdy timbers holding up the roof. Caesar had proclaimed that Brixus set fire to the hut before taking his own life, and no one dared question his verdict that the matter was closed. As for Decimus and his men, they had disappeared at once, no doubt making for Rome and the safety of the house of Crassus.

Later, back in Ariminum, Caesar had met Marcus for the last time and reunited him with Lupus. Since he was about to march on Gaul, surrounded by an army with a personal bodyguard of five hundred veteran legionaries, he no longer required his household protectors. Accordingly, Festus and two of his men had been instructed to accompany Marcus to Greece. Lastly, Caesar had presented Marcus with a scroll bearing his proconsular seal.

‘That’s a letter of introduction. I’ve asked anyone to whom it is presented to offer you assistance in finding your mother.’

Marcus bowed his head. ‘I am grateful, Caesar.’

‘I should think so. I do not take kindly to being manipulated by anyone, let alone a boy of twelve. My obligations to you are fulfilled, young Marcus. We shall not meet again. If you ever appear at the door of any of my houses I shall have you thrown into the streets.’

‘I understand.’

With that they had parted, and Marcus left the general in his study to complete his plans for the campaign in Gaul. As he approached the door of the house commandeered by Caesar for his headquarters, he had heard footsteps behind him.

‘Marcus, wait!’

He had turned to see Portia, breathless and agitated.

‘I’m told you are leaving.’

‘Banished, more like.’ Marcus smiled. ‘Your uncle never wants to see me again.’

‘Oh … Portia looked crestfallen. ‘Then I shall never see you again.’

Marcus nodded sadly.

‘How is Tribune Quintus?’ be asked.

Disappointed by the question, Portia had shrugged. ‘He suffered dreadfully in the cold. Frostbite, the surgeon says. But he should recover in time to join my uncle.’

‘That’s good.’ Marcus nodded again.

They had stared at each other a moment before she took his hands and squeezed them gently. Marcus felt something pressed into his palm, then she turned and ran, brushing the corner of her eye.

Marcus had stood by the heavy gate to the street as Caesar’s doorman opened it. With a last glance at Portia’s retreating back, he left the house. Outside he had opened his hand and seen a heavy golden ring in his palm. A ruby gleamed brilliantly in its setting, like a tear of blood.

Now, standing on the deck of the ship, Marcus recalled the scene. Through the cloth of his tunic he felt the chain round his neck and the bulk of the ring at the end of it. Though saddened at the prospect of never seeing Portia again, there had never been any question of their friendship being more than a closely guarded secret. It was for the best, he decided reluctantly.

‘What’s the matter, Marcus?’

He turned to see Lupus, standing with feet apart, one hand grasping a rope to steady himself on the heaving deck.

‘It’s nothing.’ Marcus made himself smile back. ‘Just thinking.’

‘You should be rejoicing. You’re back in Greece. We’ll soon find your mother, you’ll see.’

Marcus nodded. Then both of them turned to the other side of the ship as a deep groan sounded across the deck. Festus stood hunched over the rail and his body heaved as he tried to vomit again.

Lupus chuckled. ‘There’s one at least who’ll rejoice at the prospect of reaching shore. Who’d have thought that tough old Festus would have the constitution of a lamb the moment he stepped on board ship?’

Marcus laughed, then looked fondly at his companion. ‘You’re in a fine mood today.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Lupus grinned. ‘I am free. For the first time in my life. It’s the first thought that fills my mind every morning. There is no better thing in this world.’ His expression grew more serious. ‘And I have you to thank for it.’

Marcus felt a warm glow of pleasure. Even though he had prevented a bloody massacre, those he had saved were still slaves. Only Lupus had been freed from bondage. But it was a start, he told himself. One small step along the way to ... what? A greater destiny? Perhaps. But for now only one thing mattered. The single purpose that had carried him through Porcino’s gladiator school, the vicious streets of Rome and the icy perils of the Apennine mountains — his burning desire to rescue his mother. Now that time had come.