Gladiator: Son of Spartacus Page 8

  Portia nodded. ‘As you wish.’

  Rising from his couch, Festus bowed his head curtly and strode out of the room. Portia could not help smiling, and once he had gone she shook her head and muttered, ‘What is it with men and chariots?’

  Marcus shrugged. Despite having lived in the capita! over the last year he had never quite understood the passions evoked by the sight of four teams racing round the Great Circus. He broke off another hunk of bread, dipped it in the fish sauce and began to chew. There was a brief silence as Portia slowly pushed a slice of sausage round her platter with the point of her knife. At length she cleared her throat and spoke without looking up. ‘So, what happened to Lupus?’

  Marcus finished chewing and swallowed. ‘As your uncle said, he was killed in an ambush.’

  ‘I know what he said,’ she replied tersely. ‘I want to know what happened.’

  Marcus paused to recollect the ambush before he responded. ‘We were caught in a narrow pass and hopelessly outnumbered. Caesar decided our only hope was in cutting our way through the brigands. So we charged them and escaped. Lupus was bringing up the rear when the avalanche struck.’

  ‘Avalanche?’

  Marcus nodded. ‘It looked like half the mountain was coming down. It fell into the pass and blocked it, burying everyone in its path.’

  ‘Is here no way Lupus could have escaped?’

  ‘No. I saw it myself. Saw him crushed and buried.’

  Portia shivered as she imagined the scene. ‘I hope it was quick and painless for him.’

  Marcus pursed his lips. He had no way of knowing and was not prepared to put a good face on the tragedy. ‘I have been instructed to cake his place. I hope I can do half as good a job at him.’

  Portia looked up at him and smiled warmly. ‘You will do fine, Marcus. I know you will. Nothing is beyond you. I’ve seen enough of your courage, strength and determination to know that much. Even if your writing skills do not match those of Lupus, they will do very soon. I am sure of it.’

  Marcus felt a flush of pride at her words. ‘Thank you, mistress. I will do my best to serve Caesar well.’

  She smiled, then seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I only hope my new husband is as diligent as you.’

  There it was again, Marcus thought. That sad tone in her voice. He did not know what to say, if anything. Their worlds were so different and Portia might consider it unacceptable for him to address the subject of her married life. Yet she had also been close enough to call a friend. He cared for Portia and wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Yet she clearly was not.

  ‘Mistress...’

  ‘When there is no one else present, I am only Portia to you,’ she said.

  Marcus nodded. ‘Very well... Portia. You don’t seem very content.’

  ‘Why should I be? Lupus is dead.’

  ‘But it’s not Lupus’s fate that upsets you. There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ she said defiantly, glaring at Marcus and daring him to challenge her. ‘I am perfectly happy. Perfectly.’

  He sighed and pretended to turn his attention back to the last few morsels on his plate. He selected a small pastry encrusted with salt. ‘If you say so.’

  There was a silence and then he heard the soft sound of muffled sobbing. Looking up, he saw that Portia had buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved as she cried. At once he slipped off his couch and went to sit by her. He hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand and patted her softly on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Portia. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  She sobbed again, then drew a breath to reply. ‘It’s not you. It’s me ... It’s my fault.’

  ‘What’s your fault?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She raised her head as she sat up, and Marcus’s hand slipped away. As soon as Portia’s eyes were level with his, he felt her take his hand in hers. The thin dark lines of kohl round her eyes had smudged and her lower lip trembled. ‘I try to please Quintus. I try to be the wife he deserves, but he ignores me. I am too young to be his wife, and he is too young to be a husband. I have barely spoken to him this last month. He is out of the house almost all the time, and sometimes does not come home at nights. I’ve heard that he is losing his fortune in dice games. When I asked him about it, he was angry and threatened to hit me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something to your uncle earlier?’

  ‘How could I? I know how important this marriage is to Uncle Caius. He needs Pompeius as an ally. Besides... perhaps I am just being silly. Maybe this is what marriage is like. If I told my uncle he would be angry with me and tell me to pull myself together, I know it.’

  If Caesar said that, he would be wrong,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘You don’t deserve to be treated like this.’

  ‘How else should I be treated?’ Portia replied miserably. ‘Roman girls of my class are raised to forge alliances between men. Traded between men. Why, we are no better off than slaves when it comes down to it.’

  Marcus could not help being surprised. He had seen how slaves lived, how they were beaten, abused and treated as just another form of property. The conditions in which they lived were a world apart from the pampered lifestyle of Rome’s finest families. Yet there was something in what Portia said. Despite her luxuries, she had no more say in how she wanted to live than the slaves who served her. While other women might choose to marry someone they loved, she had no choice.

  Suddenly she put her arms round him and drew herself into his shoulder, beginning to cry again. He reached a hand up to stroke her hair. ‘It’ll be all right, Portia,’ he mumbled, not sure what to say. What words could make it all right for her? ‘In time, it will get better. You’ll see.’

  She let out a soft whine of despair. ‘I wish I could tell my uncle. But I can’t. All I have now is you.’

  She drew back and looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes, her face streaked with kohl and her lips trembling. Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, and closed her eyes. Marcus nearly recoiled in shock but found that he liked the feeling. A warm gush of affection filled his heart and made his head swim.

  Then, with a shudder of anxiety, his lips froze. What was he doing? What utter foolishness was this? If they were seen, he was as good as dead. Portia would be in danger too. Her husband would beat her; he would be within his rights to. Marcus pulled himself free and hurriedly shuffled away from her. Portia looked at him with a surprised expression, before it turned to hurt.

  ‘Marcus, what is it?’

  ‘This is wrong, Portia! Wrong and dangerous. We must not do it.’

  ‘But you are all I have. You are all that is special to me now. The last link I have with the way things were.’

  ‘I know it’s hard. But I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you.’

  ‘Marcus —’

  He held his hand up. ‘Please don’t! It’s too dangerous for both of us.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Stay. Please.’

  But Marcus knew that he could not. He strode across to the doorway and paused. Looking back, he saw the hurt in her expression and his heart urged a return to her side, but he hardened himself to speak. ‘We must forget this ever happened. For both our sakes. Even our friendship is risk enough. This...’ He shook his head. ‘This is nothing less than suicide, Portia. It must never happen again.’

  Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.

  10

  As the mud-spattered officers began to arrive for the evening briefing, Marcus set out the waxed tablets and an ivory stylus on the small table to the side of the tent. Overhead a light rain pattered on the goatskin, and in the distance thunder rumbled occasionally. Caesar had sent for all the tribunes and senior centurions he had chosen for the campaign. The tribunes were all young men in finely spun tunics and cloaks, whereas
the centurions had a far greater age range. The youngest were in their late twenties and the oldest had lined faces, some bearing the scars of many years of campaigning across the Roman Empire. They were the backbone of the legions, tough soldiers who could be counted on to spearhead the attacks, and be the last men to retreat.

  Men like Titus, thought Marcus fondly.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’

  Marcus looked round to see a muscular youth in his late teens staring at him. He had fair hair, cropped short and already thinning about the temples. His raw good looks would soon be undermined by premature baldness, Marcus decided. He recognized him at once, even though it had been months since their first and last encounter in Rome. It was Quintus Pompeius, Portia’s husband. Marcus had disliked the look of him even then, a feeling that had intensified with his awareness of Portia’s unhappiness.

  ‘It’s possible. I am part of Caesar’s household. I serve as his scribe now.’

  ‘Ah, I suppose that’s it.’ The youth nodded doubtfully. ‘But I think there’s something else about you I can’t quite place. Incidentally, you should refer to me as “master” when you address me, slave.’

  ‘I am not a slave,’ Marcus replied coldly, fighting back his anger. ‘I have been freed by Caesar.’

  ‘Have you?’ Quintus looked disappointed. ‘Well, you should not get ideas above your station. I’m a tribune. You should address me as “sir”. Is that understood, scribe?’

  Yes ... sir,’ Marcus replied with the slightest dip of his head.

  ‘I’d advise you to show me the proper respect from now on.’ Quintus tucked his thumbs into his belt and stuck his elbows out. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Why, have you forgotten?’ Marcus asked innocently. Quintus frowned, and his eyes widened as he realized that he was being mocked. He drew himself up to his full height, a head above Marcus. ‘I am Quintus Pompeius. That name should mean something even to a common little dolt like you, scribe. I also happen to be related to Caesar by marriage, so I’d watch your step if I were you.’

  He glared briefly at Marcus, then strode off to join the other junior tribunes sitting together in the front row of benches set up for the officers. They talked and laughed loudly among themselves, ignoring the disapproving expressions on the faces of the centurions and some of the senior tribunes. Marcus was certain that Titus would have been equally unimpressed by the young men.

  There was a short delay after the last of the officers had taken his seat, then a burly figure with tightly curled grey hair entered the tent and called out in a loud, deep voice, ‘Commanding officer present!’

  At once all the talking stopped and everyone in the tent quickly rose to their feet as Caesar entered and strode over to a parchment map that hung on a wooden frame. He stood to one side and nodded to the veteran who had announced him. ‘Thank you, Camp Prefect.’

  The older man remained on his feet by the entrance to the tent, while Caesar turned to survey his officers and glanced at Marcus with a quick smile. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen.’

  The benches creaked and there was a brief shuffling as the officers made themselves comfortable. Marcus sat at his table and picked up his stylus, preparing to take notes. Briefly, Caesar collected his thoughts before drawing a deep breath and beginning in a clear voice that carried to the back of the tent, above the sound of the rain now drumming on the roof.

  ‘At dawn tomorrow we will leave the camp to march into the Apennines. There we shall hunt down the rebel slaves and destroy their army, and kill or capture their leader, Brixus. You men have been handpicked for this task. Some of you know and there’s a handful have fought alongside in the past, like Centurion Corvus there.’ He gestured to a sinewy officer in the middle row and they exchanged a smile and a nod before Caesar continued.

  Marcus, already struggling to keep up, knew that he must confine his notes to only the most important points raised.

  ‘The rest of you have been recommended by Labienus, and I will expect you to justify his choice. Any man who fails to give me good service will be dismissed from the army and sent home. I will not tolerate cowards, fools or idle hands. Think of this as a chance to test yourselves, and the men you command. There is no better preparation for what is to come when I lead the combined army against the Gauls. I know that some of you think the rebels and brigands of the mountains are only a minor nuisance. You are content to dismiss them as starving wretches, poorly trained and armed, and no doubt the less experienced of you think this will all be over quickly.’ He paused and Marcus hurriedly caught up, then sat ready, stylus hovering over the unbroken wax surface of another tablet.

  ‘The truth of the matter is that we are in for a hard fight. My bodyguards and I ran into a handful of the rebels on the road from Rome a few days back. They were clever and boxed us in before we were aware that we’d been trapped. Cleverness is not the only advantage they enjoy: they know the mountains. They know all the paths and will use them to outmanoeuvre us. Therefore my plan is simple: we must send out two columns. One to march south to Corfinium ...’ He turned and indicated the town on the map. ‘That column will be commanded by Legate Balbus and most of the Ninth legion will go with him. While Balbus goes south, I will lead the main force north to Mutina, here.’ He tapped the map and turned hack to his audience, his hands held out wide until he slowly moved them towards each other. ‘From either end we will push the rebels back until it is their turn to be caught in a trap.’

  He paused to let his next words have their full impact. ‘There will be a final battle and this time we must make sure that none of them escapes to keep the legend of Spartacus alive. This time we’ll crush the will of every slave that ever thought of rebelling against his master. But let there be no mistake about it, this will be a hard battle. The rebels will be fighting for more than their lives. They will be fighting for the one thing that is truly worth fighting for: freedom. Even though our enemies are slaves, you must treat them with respect. They will fight like nothing you have ever fought so far, and never will again. There are some men in this tent who fought in the last slave revolt and will know what I am talking about.’

  Marcus saw a few of the older centurions nod, grim-faced. He hurriedly made some notes on the tablet to catch up with Caesar. At the same time the proconsul’s words had chilled him to the bone. This was to be a war of extermination. It would not do to just kill Brixus and his supporters. Caesar was out to destroy the very dream that kept hope alive in the count-less thousands of slaves who toiled and suffered across the empire. For the first time Marcus fully grasped what his real father had given his life for. He understood the cause, and why it was worth the price that the followers of Spartacus had paid with their blood. The fact that Marcus would be marching alongside the man who was determined to obliterate even the memory of his father made him suddenly sick to the bottom of his stomach and he had to fight back the bile that rose in his throat.

  ‘Every one of you, and the men you command, will have to march and fight as never before,’ Caesar continued. ‘I want this campaign concluded before spring comes, gentlemen. I will not tolerate anyone who fails to give me every last ounce of effort. Any such man will be dismissed from the army that I will lead into Gaul.’ He stared slowly round the room before his intent expression eased. ‘Any questions?’

  Quintus raised his hand and Caesar fixed his dark eyes on the youth.

  ‘Yes, Quintus?’

  ‘Sir, you’re planning to take half the army to deal with these runaways. Surely the task could be completed with fewer men?’

  ‘And fewer officers too, I suppose?’ Caesar smiled faintly, but his eyes remained as cold as before. ‘I’d rather take too many men and not need them, than need them and not take them with me. Besides, you are forgetting something. These rebels are led by Brixus, a former gladiator. There are bound to be other gladiators with him and those men will be training their followers. If they have done a decent job of it, then we shall face some of the toughest
fighters in the world.’

  ‘Gladiators...’ Quintus mumbled. ‘They’re just mindless brutes, sir. All muscle and no brain. No match for a proper soldier.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Caesar turned to Marcus. ‘Put your stylus down, boy, and come here.’

  Marcus did as he was told and stood at the spot indicated by Caesar, directly in front of the junior tribunes. Caesar pointed to him as he addressed the officers. ‘This boy, until recently, was training to be a gladiator. A few months ago he won a bout in front of the Senate. I am sure some of you witnessed it.’

  There were surprised murmurs from those who had seen the fight but had paid no attention to the scribe at the side of the tent, and now recognized him again.

  This boy is my adviser on gladiators. Even more than that.

  ‘I have trusted him with my life in the past and would do so again if need be.’

  ‘Him?’ Quintus laughed. ‘Why, he’s just a runt.’

  ‘You think so? I’d place money on him long before I’d ever bet on you.’

  Marcus saw the blood drain from the tribune’s face as he glared angrily at his commander. ‘I’d thrash this boy in a fight, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s put it to the test.’ Caesar drew his sword and handed it to Marcus. ‘Draw your blade, Quintus. Let’s see if you are as good with a blade as you think you are. A little fencing bout. Just to first blood.’

  Quintus looked astounded. His comrades muttered encouragement and he nodded and stood up, drawing his sword. He took up position ten feet from Marcus and turned to face him with a contemptuous sneer. ‘Like I said, no brain, and it seems no muscle either.’

  Marcus said nothing but tested the weight and balance of Caesar’s sword. The proconsul stepped closer to him and muttered softly. ‘I just want you to make an example of him. Go easy. I’m not looking to create a vacancy in the tribunes’ ranks or make a widow of my niece. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Caesar stepped back, clear of the short stretch of open ground between Quintus and Marcus. ‘Begin!’