Gladiator: Vengeance

by Simon Scarrow

  As Festus growled and reached for his purse Marcus took a step towards the priest, a strange gleam in his eyes. ‘Wait, you said you could see into the future.’

  The priest tutted. ‘That’s what we do here, as I am sure you’re aware. For a small fee.’

  Marcus stared back at him. ‘How much?’

  ‘The great men who have come here to know their destiny paid great sums for the privilege. But for ordinary mortals a lesser sum is acceptable.’

  ‘How much?’ Marcus asked again, impatient with the old priest. ‘To tell me my future. How much?’

  The priest eyed the three visitors shrewdly and tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘You are clearly Romans of modest means. But Apollo takes an interest in all mortals for a small sum. Shall we say … five denarii?’

  ‘What?’ Festus’s eyebrows rose in shock. ‘FIVE denarii! Are you mad?’

  The priest pointed a gnarled finger. ‘I’ve already warned you. Do I call the temple guards to throw you out?’

  ‘Pay him,’ Marcus said firmly.

  Festus turned to look at him in astonishment. ‘It’s too much, Marcus.’

  ‘There’s something I must know,’ Marcus countered. ‘The money was entrusted to me as well by … by our former master. Please, Festus, pay him.’

  Marcus stared at the bodyguard intently for a moment before the latter shook his head and took out five silver coins from his purse. He hesitated a moment before slapping them down on the altar. ‘There. I hope it’s worth it.’

  The priest hastily scraped the coins into his palm, then raised one to bite on it with his remaining teeth. He held it up and squinted before nodding and feeding the coins into the slot on top of his box. Closing his eyes, he raised his face towards the night sky and his lips moved silently.

  ‘Well?’ Festus demanded.

  ‘Shhh!’ The priest’s brow furrowed. ‘I was just beseeching divine Apollo to accept your humble offering. Do not tax his patience any further, Roman, if you want him to look kindly on this boy’s desire to know his fate.’

  Festus glanced at Marcus and raised his eyebrows. Marcus was not put off by his cynicism but watched the priest closely, hoping fervently that the God of the temple would take pity on him and tell him the one thing he needed to know more than anything else: would he succeed in rescuing his mother?

  The priest cocked an ear, as if listening, then nodded and bowed his head before he opened his eyes and turned to Marcus.

  ‘Mighty Apollo deigns to answer your request, my boy. Quite a privilege.’ He shot a quick look of annoyance at Festus. ‘Despite the bad manners of your companion. A word of warning, though. If the Oracle replies, it may be that the answer is not clear at first. But if you think it through, then you will know the meaning of the words. Now, follow me.’

  He turned and started stiffly making his way up the steps with Marcus a few paces behind him.

  ‘Oi!’ Festus called out, indicating himself and Lupus. ‘What about us?’

  The priest glanced back. ‘Yes, yes. You too. Might as well. But keep your mouths shut and show some respect.’

  At the top of the stairs he led them through the columns towards the large doors of the inner sanctum. A brazier stood on either side, casting an eerie glow over the columns that towered up on either side. The priest paused in front of the doors and reached to the side for a brass-capped stick. He solemnly struck the door three times and cleared his throat.

  ‘Oh, mighty Apollo! Is your mouthpiece, the blessed Pythia, prepared to offer guidance to he who would know his destiny?’

  There was a pause and then a voice spoke, loud and deep, as if echoing from the back of a great cave.

  ‘Come!’

  The doors began to move, and there was a rumbling groan from the iron hinges. Marcus felt his pulse quicken as he looked past the priest into the darkness at the heart of the temple. He strained his eyes but could pick out nothing beyond the doors, save the flagstones nearest the entrance. The priest entered, gesturing to Marcus and the others to follow him inside. Their footsteps echoed off the walls rising invisibly around them. Marcus could see no sign of the person who had called on them to enter. The dim form of the priest stopped and struggled down on to his knees. Marcus and the others waited a short distance behind him.

  ‘Philetus, who would speak to me?’ A voice spoke softly from the darkness. A woman’s voice, yet it was dry, and Marcus could not decide if it was an old woman, or young.

  The priest turned and waved Marcus forward with a whisper. ‘Go on, boy. Slowly. And stretch your arms out in front of you.’

  ‘Wait,’ Lupus hissed. ‘Is it safe?’

  Marcus smiled briefly at his friend. ‘I’ll know soon enough.’

  He took a calming breath and raised his arms as instructed, then stepped forward cautiously. As he proceeded into the darkness, his eyes and ears strained to pick out any sign of movement. Then he heard it, a soft breathing, like the faint rasp of leaves disturbed by the gentlest of breezes. He slowed down and stopped as he became aware of a dark shape ahead. Then he felt his hands being taken and nearly jumped. But he resisted the impulse to snatch them back. A musty odour filled his nostrils. The hands were cold and the skin leathery. Fingers softly stroked the back of his hands while the other person’s thumbs firmly applied pressure to his palms in order to hold them in place.

  There was a long intake of breath before the voice came again. Louder now and more commanding. ‘I am Pythia. Servant of the Oracle. Ask me your question, and if it pleases him, Apollo will reply through me …’

  Marcus swallowed nervously and tried to sound calm as he spoke, but was conscious that his voice betrayed his age as well as his anxiety. ‘My name is Marcus. I am on a quest to find and rescue my mother. I wish to know if I will succeed.’

  There was a brief silence before Pythia replied in a rasping rhyme:

  ‘A boy of great heart, torn from his home,

  No father, no mother, no hope has he,

  Cursed by the Gods for years to roam.

  At the end of his journey shall he be

  Bathed in blood and grief and hate;

  A terrible price to be paid for such a fate …’

  Marcus frowned. ‘What does that mean? Will I save my mother? Tell me!’

  ‘Poor boy,’ Pythia replied with a hint of pity. ‘It is for you to discern the meaning of the Gods. I only convey their message.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ Marcus said desperately. ‘I need to know! Tell me!’

  He grasped her hands tightly. The woman tried to pull her hands free but Marcus clung on, bracing his boots.

  ‘Let me go,’ the woman hissed. ‘I command you to let me go.’

  ‘Not until you tell me.’

  ‘Sacrilege! Release me, before you anger the Gods!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Marcus pleaded. ‘What does it mean? Bathed in blood?’

  Suddenly she stopped struggling and stood still before him. Then she whispered. ‘Blood … Blood … Blood everywhere. A land bathed in blood and fire. An eagle brought down, broken and maimed. I see … I see a man astride the eagle, sword in hand. Your father … Your true father … He sees you. He sees you! He calls to you …’

  Marcus felt his blood chill in his veins and a terrifying icy sensation rippled up his spine and through his scalp as he listened.

  ‘You …’ she continued, her voice low and husky. Even though he could not see the woman Marcus sensed her eyes boring into him. That, and her terror. Her voice suddenly rose to a high pitch. ‘You are the destroyer! I see death and devastation surrounding you!’

  With a sudden powerful wrench, the woman snatched her hands free and Marcus heard her feet slapping across the floor as she hurried away into the darkness. Her voice wailed one last time. ‘Flee! Death has come to Rome!’

  Marcus felt a hand grab his shoulder and the priest spoke harshly in his ear. ‘Get out! Go! Leave the shrine!’

  Despite his age, the priest swung Marcus round a
nd thrust him towards the open doors of the temple. He could see Lupus and Festus outlined by the glow of the braziers outside as the priest shouted.

  ‘Be gone!’

  Marcus backed away, then turned and hurried towards the door. His companions fell into step beside him as the priest repeated the command. They had barely left the inner sanctum when the doors closed behind them with a grating thud. They dashed down the stairs and did not stop as the servants of the temple and the remaining visitors stared at them. Outside, in the square, Festus led them down the first street they came to and they hurried on in darkness until they were a safe distance from the temple. Only then did Festus allow them to stop. Marcus leaned against a wall, gasping for breath as his shaken nerves began to recover.

  ‘Well, that was great,’ Festus panted. ‘So much for not drawing attention to ourselves.’

  10

  ‘What do you think it means?’ asked Lupus once they had returned to the safety of their room. ‘All that stuff about blood, and a destroyer.’

  He turned and looked at Marcus strangely as Festus left the room for a taper to light the single oil lamp, fixed in a wall bracket. Lupus lowered his voice. ‘She must have meant Spartacus. Your true father!’

  Marcus nodded, still dazed by the unnerving experience.

  ‘That’s it,’ Lupus continued excitedly. ‘She saw it all. The rebellion, everything … But at the end, when she said you were the destroyer, what was that about?’

  Marcus did not reply. He couldn’t. He did not fully understand it himself. He had already decided not to take up the legacy of his father. Not when it promised more suffering and another defeat by Rome’s legions. Maybe, if there was a real chance of success, then one day Marcus might think about it. Now, he was still trying to puzzle through the meaning of the brief verse the woman had spoken.

  ‘Marcus. If this is a message from the Gods, then it seems you are chosen to take up the cause of Spartacus. You will lead the slaves and crush Rome.’

  Marcus rounded on his friend. ‘Shut your mouth! Do you want everyone to hear you? You know my secret. Only you and a handful of others. That is how it must stay. Understand?’ He grasped Lupus’s tunic and yanked him closer so their faces were almost touching. ‘You will not breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  ‘Wh-whatever you say.’ Lupus tried to shrink back but could not escape Marcus’s grip. Marcus glared at him. In the dim light coming through the open door from the fire in the inn’s dirty courtyard, he could see the fear in his friend’s eyes. Ashamed, he released Lupus and took a step back.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  Lupus patted his rumpled tunic back into place. ‘That’s all right, you don’t have to apologize. I understand the danger you are in. But what about Festus?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He heard what I heard.’

  ‘But he doesn’t know the truth about my father.’

  ‘But what about that mark on your shoulder? The brand of Spartacus. He’s seen that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marcus nodded. ‘But he does not know what it means.’

  ‘No,’ Lupus conceded. ‘But he might be suspicious after what the Oracle said.’

  Marcus pursed his lips. Lupus was right. Festus would try and work out what lay behind her words. If he guessed the truth then Marcus had no idea how he would react. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and shot an urgent look at Lupus.

  ‘Not a word. I can’t afford Festus to know the truth.’

  Lupus nodded as the bodyguard appeared in the door frame, cupping a hand round the small flame at the end of a taper. He ignored the boys and held the flame to the wick of the oil lamp until it was alight. Then he puffed his cheeks and blew on the taper to extinguish it before closing the door.

  ‘There. That’s better.’

  Marcus and Lupus sat on the bed while Festus remained standing, arms crossed as he regarded Marcus. He was silent for a moment and Marcus could feel his heart beating anxiously as Festus cleared his throat.

  ‘That was … unexpected. I knew the Greeks had a passion for drama and theatrical effects, but that was a better show than any you’ll see in Rome.’

  Marcus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Show?’

  ‘Of course. The deep voice was probably someone speaking down a large voice trumpet. The doors were opened and closed by servants in the shadows on either side and I liked the touch of the woman in the darkness. All very theatrical, don’t you think?’

  Marcus and Lupus glanced at each other before Marcus nodded. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, come on, lads! You weren’t taken in by that nonsense. Surely?’

  Marcus felt embarrassed. Had he been fooled? Or was there more to it than Festus saw?

  ‘They’ve been conning visitors to the temple for hundreds of years. Putting on a bit of a show and giving out mumbo-jumbo verses. The trick is to make it all sufficiently vague that the mark can read just about anything into the prophecy they are presented with. I’ve seen enough fortune-tellers on the streets of Rome to know how it works. They prey on the gullible. The big temple, the stage effects and so on may be more impressive here in Delphi, but it’s still the same old game.’

  Marcus felt himself flush with shame. What Festus said made sense, and he had seen the same fortune-tellers and knew that his companion spoke the truth. Yet he could not explain how the woman in the temple had known so much about him. And he had not sensed any acting in the dread that gripped her at the end. She had tried to free herself, pulling her hands back powerfully. But for the strength gained from his gladiator training, Marcus could not have restrained her. And the terror in her voice had been real. No, he decided. She had seen something, had a vision of some kind. She had known what he was, the son of the leader of the great slave rebellion. If that much was true, there must also be some truth in her verse.

  ‘And now we’re poorer by five denarii, thanks to Marcus,’ Festus continued. He reached down and patted his purse. ‘We’ve got less than a hundred left. If we continue to put on our fights we can make it last a few more months. But if we haven’t found your mother in that time, then we’ll have to return to Rome.’

  ‘No,’ Marcus responded firmly. ‘I will not leave Greece until I have found her. I swear it on my life.’

  Festus eased himself down on to his haunches so that his face was level with Marcus. He smiled sadly.

  ‘Marcus, I will do all I can to help you find her. But you should also prepare yourself for the worst. We may never find her. She may not even be alive. If that’s true then you need to be ready to deal with it.’

  ‘She’s alive!’

  ‘That’s what we must believe, for now. But it is wise to prepare yourself if she is not. You will need to make a life of your own.’

  ‘Then I will deal with that, when I have to. But for now I believe she is alive, and waiting for me to find her. And I will.’

  Festus stared at him then stood up again. ‘All right. We’ll do all that we can to save her. First we must find Decimus and that estate of his. Let’s concentrate on that. We’ll reach Athens in a few more days and find some answers there. Now, it’s been an exciting evening. Let’s get to sleep.’

  He turned to the bedroll he had made from their spare clothes and his cloak, easing himself down. Lupus and Marcus took off their boots and belts to lie down on each side of the bed, hearing it creak under the burden of their combined weight. Marcus turned his back to Lupus and stared at the wall.

  ‘Shall I put out the lamp?’ Lupus asked.

  ‘No,’ Marcus cut in before Festus could respond. After the unnerving experience in the temple he could not bear the thought of darkness again. At least not that night. ‘Leave it burning.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Lupus turned away and began to breathe easily. Soon a telltale throaty click indicated that the scribe was asleep. Marcus rolled gently on to his back and crossed his arms behind his head. There would be little sleep for him tonight. The words of the O
racle went round and round his mind.

  At the end of his journey shall he be

  Bathed in blood and grief and hate;

  A terrible price to be paid for such a fate …

  What did it mean. Whose blood? Why the grief and hate? What was the terrible price he must pay? A sense of foreboding crept over him. Would his single-minded hunt for his mother lead them into danger? Would he be responsible for the death of either, or both, of his companions? Or was his own life the price that must be paid? Or, far worse, would it be his mother’s life?

  He heard Festus stir and clear his throat softly.

  ‘Marcus, you should try to sleep.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘That prophecy has really got to you, hasn’t it?’

  Marcus did not reply immediately. ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘I’m surprised, no – disappointed, that you have let it bother you so much. All that rubbish about blood, fire and your father. I’m sure Titus was a good soldier, but from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t sound like a man of destiny.’

  ‘No. I suppose he doesn’t. Not Titus.’ Marcus felt a shiver of concern. He should have called Titus father, and not referred to him by name. Praying that Festus had not picked up on it, he raised his head and risked a glimpse at the bodyguard. Festus lay on his side, propped on an elbow to stare straight at him.

  ‘Marcus, you and I have served Caesar together long enough for us to trust each other. With our lives, but also with the truth.’

  Marcus felt the familiar tingle of anxiety at the nape of his neck.

  ‘Is there a secret you are keeping from me? Maybe there was something in what the Oracle said. Why else would you react so? What is it, Marcus?’

  Marcus chewed his lip and tried to think quickly. ‘I trust you with my life, and you are my friend and comrade in arms …’

  ‘But?’

  Marcus swallowed nervously. Now he must lie and make it sound convincing. He had no choice. If he told the truth Caesar’s bodyguard might hand him over to the authorities at the first opportunity.