Gladiator: Son of Spartacus Read online

  The tribune looked at Marcus and puffed his cheeks. ‘Are you sure about this, sir? I’d hate to damage one of your servants.’

  Caesar smiled. ‘Why don’t you just try?’

  Quintus raised his sword and took a quick step forward as he let out a loud shout. ‘Ha!’

  Marcus barely flinched and stood his ground, staring back intently as he balanced on the balls of his feet, weighing up the tribune. The youth was powerfully built, and could move with speed, but his poise was poor, clumsy even.

  Having made his attempt to startle Marcus and failing, Quintus looked towards his cronies and chuckled. ‘There! Too stupid to react.’

  The moment the tribune’s eyes glanced aside, Marcus attacked. He lunged forward, arm and blade outstretched. His opponent caught the movement and swung his blade up to parry the blow. Marcus flicked his wrist, letting the weight of his sword drop and swing under the tribune’s weapon. As he continued forward, he ducked low and struck the youth’s wrist with the flat of his blade. Quintus let out a strangled cry as the shock of the impact caused him to lose his grip and the sword fell from his Angers. Marcus followed through with the heavy bronze hilt of the sword, driving it into the tribune’s stomach with all his strength. Quintus let out an explosive gasp and staggered back, struggling for breath. Marcus calmly stepped forward and, raising the tip of his sword, made a tiny cut on his opponent’s cheek.

  ‘First blood.’ He smiled thinly, then turned to hand the sword back to Caesar.

  The proconsul chuckled as he sheathed the blade and gestured to the astonished-looking tribunes. ‘Help Quintus back to his bench.’

  Once the wheezing youth was seated, Caesar addressed his officers again. ‘If that is what a boy gladiator can do, then you can imagine what an experienced man is capable of. I think we’ve all learned the lesson. Never, ever take your opponent for granted. The briefing is over. Have your men ready to march at first light.’

  He nodded to the camp prefect and the latter shot to his feet and barked. ‘Stand to!’

  Every officer rose and stood stiffly, except Quintus who was forced to bend forward, still struggling to fill his lungs.

  ‘Dismissed!’

  The officers began to file out of the tent, and Quintus angrily shook off one of his friends’ hands as they tried to help him. He glared at Marcus as he dabbed the blood from the small cut on his cheek. ‘Be careful, boy.’ he growled. ‘I will not forget this, nor forgive it.’

  Marcus showed no reaction but felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Quintus hobbled from the tent. Caesar waited until the last of the centurions was leaving before he patted Marcus on the shoulder. ‘Nice work. That one needed to be taught a lesson. More than one lesson perhaps,’ he added bitterly. ‘He takes too much for granted. I think this campaign is just what he needs to grow up a little and be worthy of the name he bears, especially as he now represents my name too.’

  There was a rustle and Marcus and Caesar turned to see the camp prefect holding the tent flap back. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s a man just arrived. Says he comes from Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

  ‘Crassus?’ Caesar raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he say what he wants?’

  ‘Only that he desires to speak with you at once.’

  Caesar shrugged. ‘Very well, show him in. I’ll speak with him briefly. Marcus, gather up your slates and get yourself back to Ariminum. Have Portia’s cook feed you well. Then pack your kit and be ready to leave the house before dawn.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus stuffed his slates into the shoulder bag and pulled up the hood of his cloak to cover his head from the rain.

  During their exchange the camp prefect had ducked his head out of the tent and beckoned to the man waiting outside. A moment later a tall, lean man limped into view. His cloak was flecked with mud and beads of water and what was left of his hair was plastered against his scalp. But as he saw him, Marcus’s heart lurched in his chest and he felt a burning rage sweep through his limbs. He recognized the man at once. There was no mistake about it. Decimus. The man who had made an attempt on Caesar’s life the year before, and the moneylender whose thugs had murdered Titus and dragged Marcus and his mother off into slavery.

  11

  Decimus glanced round the tent, barely registering Marcus’s presence before he turned his attention to Caesar. He bowed his head and held out a small roll of parchment secured with a seal.

  ‘A letter of introduction from Crassus, sir.’

  Caesar took it, broke the seal and unwound the message before scanning the contents. ‘Publius Decimus?’

  Marcus was watching him closely to see if Caesar recognized the name, but the proconsul’s expression did not waver for an instant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Decimus smiled. ‘At your service.’

  ‘Apparently not. You are here acting for Crassus.’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’

  ‘This letter requests that I permit you to accompany my forces in the fight against the rebels. For sundry commercial purposes ... That’s more than a bit vague.’ Caesar frowned. ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘That would be a pleasure, sir. I am to act as the agent of Crassus in the purchase of any prisoners taken by our soldiers. I am authorized to pay your men directly, and of course you will receive a fifth commission on the value of each purchase, sir. A most generous share, as befits the close ally of my patron.’

  ‘I see.’ Caesar rolled the letter up and tapped the end against his chin as he stared at Decimus. At the side of the tent Marcus struggled against the urge to dash across the tent and hurl himself upon the man who was the cause of all his suffering. It took all his self-control to keep himself still as he resolved to remind Caesar who the man was.

  The proconsul handed the letter back to Decimus. ‘Your patron’s terms are most generous. I accept them. I will make arrangements for you to march with the baggage train. I imagine that you have brought some staff with you to assist with the processing of the prisoners and to escort them to a suitable holding depot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My men arc with the wagons outside.’

  ‘Then you can rejoin them. Have one of my clerks direct you to the baggage train and wait for your instructions there, Decimus. I wish there were time to offer you more hospitality but there is much I have to organize before we leave camp tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I understand.’ Decimus bowed again and turned to leave the tent. The instant that Marcus judged the man was out of earshot he brushed back the hood of his cloak and rushed across to Caesar.

  ‘Sir! I know that man. He’s —’

  ‘I know exactly who he is,’ Caesar interrupted with a frown. ‘I recalled the name at once. The question is, what on earth is Crassus up to this time? I can accept that he would send a man to buy prisoners. There’s a good profit to be made when they are sold on in the slave market in Rome. That’s bound to appeal to Crassus. But why send Decimus? He knows that I suspect him of being behind the attempt on my life last year.’

  ‘Does it matter, sir?’ Marcus asked excitedly. ‘He’s in your hands now. Arrest him. Have him questioned. You can also find out what he knows about that plot against you.’ He paused. ‘And find out where he has hidden my mother ... before he dies.’

  ‘Before he dies?’ Caesar tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘I am not going to kill him, Marcus. First I must find out why he’s here. There’s more to it than buying slaves.’

  ‘What if he’s been sent to attempt to kill you again, sir?’

  Caesar pursed his lips. ‘That’s a possibility. On the other hand, maybe Crassus is just sending me a subtle message. Reminding me that he still has some hold over me. I must ensure that Decimus is closely watched.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘No. He would recognize you at once if you bared your face to him. I’ll tell Festus to do it. You stay clear of him for now, do you understand?’

  ‘Why?’ Marcus growled. ‘This is the man who ruined my life. Now he’s in our hands.
You gave me your word that you would have him hunted down and forced to reveal where he had my mother taken.’

  ‘I know. And I honour my promises, Marcus. But you must not forget your place.’ Caesar drew himself up and stared down with an imperious expression. ‘I am a proconsul of Rome, and you are my servant. I will not have you speak to me like that again. Not if you want my help. Is that clear?’

  For a moment Marcus wanted to shout his defiance into Caesar’s face. Tell him that he did not care who Caesar was. All that mattered was saving his mother. Then he took control of his thoughts again, angry with himself for being weak- minded. He was exhausted, but that was no excuse. He had to be strong and control his feelings. Caesar had the power of life and death over him, and the power to determine whether his mother was found and set free, or left to rot in a chain-gang. He could not save his mother without Caesar’s help. He took a deep breath and replied bitterly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Caesar continued to stare at him for a moment before nodding. ‘That’s better. You must remember your place in this world, Marcus. I will always be in your debt for the services you have rendered me, but there is a limit to what I am prepared to tolerate from you. Overstep the mark again and there will be consequences. Understand?’

  ‘I understand, sir ... I apologize.’

  ‘And I accept your apology.’ Caesar smiled and patted him on the shoulder, as if the tense exchange had been instantly forgotten. ‘Don’t concern yourself over Decimus. When the time is right he will be called to account for the wrongs that he did to you and your family. In the meantime we should consider ourselves fortunate that Crassus has seen fit to place Decimus in my hands. I wish I knew precisely what Crassus was up to. It’s possible that he merely wants to place yet another spy in my camp.’

  ‘Another spy?’ Marcus raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean there are others, sir?’

  ‘Of course there are. I know most of the identities of those who are working for my political rivals, and my political enemies. I make sure that I feed them enough information to keep their masters happy without giving away my real plans. Just as they have uncovered some of my spies and are careful not to reveal too much to them in turn.’ Caesar paused as he saw the shocked expression on Marcus’s face. He laughed heartily. ‘Surely you aren’t really surprised, my boy? Not after all the plots and conspiracies you experienced in Rome last year?’

  Marcus flushed with embarrassment. He did not want to seem foolish in the eyes of this man. He had come to admire Caesar, despite the ruthless streak of ambition that ran through him like a marble pillar. He shook his head. ‘I’m not really surprised, sir. It’s just that I had not realized the full scale of it.’

  Caesar shrugged. ‘That’s politics for you. The greatest game there is. And the stakes are as high as they come. For now, Pompeius and Crassus are prepared to share power with me, but that cannot last forever. There will come a time when the three of us become two, and then one. That will be the best outcome for Rome. A cure for all the petty squabbling that prevents Rome from achieving even greater glory than she already enjoys. All that matters is that I am the last man standing. On that day I will be sure to reward all those who have helped me win power. And you have done far more to deserve my gratitude than most, Marcus.’

  ‘How many years will that take?’ Marcus asked anxiously. ‘My mother may not survive that long, sir. She has to be rescued before then.’

  ‘And she will be. As soon as I have the opportunity. But I have a greater reward in mind for you, Marcus. What is it that all men crave, no matter their age? Fame and power. For me that is achieved by claiming imperium — the authority and respect that is conferred upon Rome’s greatest heroes. For you there is a different route to glory. You have the potential to be a great gladiator, perhaps one of the greatest of all time. For as long as men fight in the arena the name of Marcus Cornelius will be revered. You cannot tell me the prospect does not stir your heart, eh?’ Caesar concluded with a smile.

  Marcus was tempted by the vision that Caesar held out to him. He knew that he fought well, and took a quiet satisfaction in his skill and the knowledge that Titus would have been proud of him. He wondered what Spartacus would have felt. Pride, yes. But also shame at the prospect of Marcus fighting and killing in order to satisfy the bloodlust of the Roman mob. Spartacus and thousands of his followers had died to put an end to slavery, an end to gladiator fights and an end to the danger of Rome continuing to extend its brutal power over the rest of the known world. They had sacrificed everything to prevent men like Caesar winning his imperium, a prize that was bought at the expense of countless others buried in the foundations of their fame. The same fate would befall him, Marcus realized. If he ever did become a hero of the arena, then it would only add to the popularity of his patron, Caesar. With a chilling sense of certainty, he knew that was all the proconsul really cared about. Everyone else was a means to that end.

  Marcus swallowed and forced himself to nod. (I can think of no greater honour, sir.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ A faint look of relief flitted across Caesar’s face. ‘Now go and prepare your kit. It’s going to be a tough campaign, even if it will be over quickly. You can use my authority to get whatever you need from the army’s stores. Make sure you have a decent supply of writing materials. I have a feeling there will be some interesting things to note down in the days to come. It’s a shame that Lupus is not here to share them with us, but I am sure you will fulfil his duties well.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  ‘Of course you will. You may go, Marcus.

  He bowed his head, and slipped the strap of his satchel over his head as he left the headquarters tent. Outside, night had fallen and the camp was lit by fires and torches that struggled to stay alight in the steady drizzle. A cold breeze was blowing in from the west, towards the Apennines, and Marcus shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter about him. As he made his way towards the quartermaster’s tent, Marcus made a mental note of the supplies he required. Not so much that it would overburden his horse and yet he needed to stay as dry and warm as possible. A spare cloak impregnated with fat and a good tunic should be enough. That and a leather cover for his weapons and writing materials.

  Once again his mind turned back to the matter of Decimus. It was a stroke of fortune that Crassus had sent him to join Caesar’s army. Now that it was no longer necessary to track the man down, Marcus wondered if there was any way he could force the ruthless moneylender to reveal the location of his mother. Despite what Caesar had said, Marcus intended to keep an eye on Decimus and, if the chance came, there would be a confrontation. Once he had the information he needed Marcus resolved to take his revenge.

  The rain stopped shortly before dawn, but the sky remained covered by an endless blanket of dull grey clouds that cast a gloom over the flat landscape around Ariminum. The men chosen by Caesar for his campaign had packed their tents into the allotted wagons. Each man’s spare kit was attached to the stout marching yokes, together with his shield. As the order to form up was bellowed across their ranks, the legionaries hefted the yokes and rested them across their right shoulders before taking their place in the column. Marcus heaved his two bags on to the horns of his saddle. One contained his spare clothes and rations and the other his writing implements. His sword hung from his side, and a dagger and throwing knives were in the scabbards attached to his broad leather belt. Swinging up into the saddle, Marcus walked his horse over to join the small group of headquarters staff assigned to accompany Caesar.

  When all was ready Caesar gave the order to advance and the long column trudged forward in two sections. The first was commanded by Caesar, the second by Legate Balbus. Cavalry led each of the two forces, followed by the commander and his staff, then their infantry, and the baggage train and its escort came last. Marcus turned in his saddle, hoping to catch sight of Decimus, but it was impossible to make out much detail amid the wagons clu
stered to the rear of the legionaries.

  A small crowd had emerged from Ariminum to line the road along which the army marched. Wives, sweethearts, excited children and some curious idlers stood and watched as the soldiers squelched along the muddy route from the camp towards the road leading north and south. On a warmer day the onlookers might have been cheering but on this cold and miserable f morning they mostly stood and watched, only calling out their farewells as they caught sight of a friend or loved one. A small ^cluster of wealthier spectators stood near the junction where the track joined the road and Marcus picked out Portia, bareheaded, as she watched the cavalry pass by. Her expression lit up as she caught sight of her uncle and waved at him. Marcus saw Caesar acknowledge her with a bow of his head. Quintus was too busy joking with his companions to notice his young wife, and she stared forlornly as he rode past. Her smile only returned as she spotted Marcus and edged to the side of the track.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Marcus.’

  He steered his mount to the side of the track, reining in to look down at her. ‘I will.’

  ‘Look after my uncle.’

  ‘Him?’ Marcus smiled. ‘Caesar knows how to look after himself, mistress. Trust me.’

  She laughed briefly and then continued in a lower tone. ‘And take care of Quintus if you can …’

  Then she turned and paced back to her place among the other officers’ families. Marcus clicked his tongue and flicked his reins, walking his horse quickly to rejoin the rest of the headquarters staff. Ahead, the cavalry of Caesar’s force, some five hundred mounted men, had turned north. The rest of the force followed them, picking up the pace now they could march on a paved surface. As the last of the wagons of Caesar’s column rumbled after them, Balbus and his men turned south.

  Marcus glanced back, momentarily impressed by the spectacle of the two neatly ordered columns marching to war. The air was filled with the din of horses’ hoofs, the crunch of nailed boots and the rumble of heavy wagons on the road. Then he recalled the purpose of it — Caesar’s plan to crush the rebels and the dream of Spartacus once and for all. Marcus stared at the back of the proconsul sitting erect in his saddle, looking ahead, his mind no doubt fixed on the quest to win fame and glory, whatever the cost.