‘Danger, sir?’
‘Of course. You are the only witness to his murder of your father and the kidnapping of you and your mother. If he is ever prosecuted for that crime, then he would face exile or execution. Which means that it would be dangerous for you if he knew you were here. Bear that in mind and stay clear of the man, and his followers. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Caesar looked at Marcus shrewdly. ‘I know you are a freed man now, but you are part of my army in this campaign and that makes you subject to military discipline. An order from your general is just as binding as an order from your master. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’
Caesar nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. Now I need a little time to think about the campaign.’ He waved his hand back towards the staff officers riding a short distance behind. Marcus bowed his head and reined in to allow the proconsul to draw ahead. But he could not heed his warning. Much as he respected Caesar, Marcus had his own ambitions, which he placed above his duty to obey a superior.
The column reached Mutina at the end of the fourth day after marching from Ariminum. The officers and soldiers had already been assigned billets in the town and the horses and mules were led to pens in the livestock market and fed. Marcus remained with Caesar until late evening at the villa of a local magistrate that had been made available to the proconsul and his staff. Waiting for Caesar were numerous reports of the escalating number of raids by the rebels on estates and mines along the entire length of the Apennines. More concerning was the increased boldness and ambition of the rebels’ activities. Armed bands were now striking out some distance from the mountains against targets that had been considered safe. Caesar dictated orders to Marcus for the towns running along the mountains to increase their vigilance, ready to deal with any sudden attack. It was late at night before he finished and gave Marcus permission to return to his billet for some sleep. Marcus had been assigned the humble home of one of the magistrate’s freedmen, a short distance along the same street as the villa.
As he approached the door of the house, squeezed between a bakery and a wine seller, Marcus stopped in the street, deep in thought. He was exhausted and the column would be setting out for the mountains at first light. Caesar was right to advise a good night’s rest. It might be a long time before he got the chance to sleep in a comfortable dry bed again. But there was no shaking the need to find out what Decimus was up to. Caesar had ordered Marcus to avoid the man, but he had made no mention of avoiding Festus. Marcus smiled to himself. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, he strode past the door of his billet and made for the centre of town.
Mutina had once been an important trading centre between Roman dominions and those of the Gauls and other tribes from the north. Now, with the expansion of Roman power towards the Alps, the town had become something of a backwater, relying more on farms and small industries to generate its wealth. But there was no hiding the fact that the town was in decline. Marcus noticed that some of the houses he passed were in a sad state. The paint on many of the public statues had been neglected and was flaking away to reveal the plain stone beneath. The heart of the town still flourished, however, and the sounds of revelry filled the air as Marcus emerged into the forum.
Every inn was filled with soldiers, and those who could not get inside stood in the street, sharing jars of wine as they talked in loud, boisterous tones, or squatted round games of dice, gambling with whatever was left of their pay. Marcus guessed that Decimus would not be amusing himself in the company of common soldiers. He was far more likely to be drinking with the officers, men he might have met socially when visiting Rome — men who could one day be useful to him as they rose up the ranks of the Senate.
Marcus stopped outside the first inn he came to and approached a small group of soldiers in their capes who did not yet look too much the worse for wear.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, pulling back his hood. ‘I’ve been sent from headquarters to find one of Caesar’s officers. Any idea where they might be?’
A tall, burly man with thick stubble on his cheeks turned to look down at Marcus. ‘Officers? Who cares a stuff for them, eh? Bunch of stuck-up wasters.’
‘Oil’ one of his companions called out. ‘Leave it out, Publius. Boy’s only asking a question.’ He pushed his surly comrade aside and stood in front of Marcus with an apologetic expression. ‘Ignore him. He’s just a grumbler.’
‘Too right I am!’ his comrade cut in. ‘Why aren’t we resting up in winter quarters? Ain’t right that we’ve been ordered to get out and fight in the middle of winter. Ain’t going to be in good shape when the real campaign starts in spring.’
‘Ah, shut it!’ his companion said crossly, before turning back to Marcus. ‘So what do you want, young ‘un?’
‘I need to find the staff officers. Have you seen them?’
‘Hmm?’ The soldier scratched his chin. ‘Best try the Jolly Boar. Over there by the Temple of Jupiter. It’s supposed to be the classiest inn. That’s your best bet.’ He looked at Marcus more closely. ‘Do I know you? I recognize your face.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
The man frowned and then clicked his fingers. ‘Yes! It was in Rome. I was on leave there last year. Saw you fight that Celt boy. You’re Marcus Cornelius, right?’
Again, Marcus shook his head. It was already possible that rumours of his fight with Quintus were spreading through the ranks. Marcus was determined to keep his presence secret from Decimus for as long as possible. It would be better to deny his identity for now...
‘I am just a servant of Caesar,’ Marcus replied flatly. The soldier looked disappointed and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Off you go then, boy!’
Marcus turned away to head across the forum towards the inn that the soldier had indicated. The owner of the Jolly Boar had set up some tables and benches outside the entrance, and these were crowded with the centurions and optios of Caesar’s cohorts. Threading his way through the soldiers, he could not help wondering what shape they would be in come the morning when it was time to march into the mountains.
From inside, Marcus could hear excited chatter and cheering before there was a brief lull, then a crescendo of noise. He squeezed through the door and saw at once that the inn was a lot bigger than it looked from outside, a single open room stretching back a good hundred feet. A counter was set up in the far comer from where a sweaty-looking old man handed jugs and cups to his servants and kept tally on what each table had consumed. The middle of the room had been cleared and a crowd of tribunes, centurions and civilians stood in a ring over a dice game. Marcus knew that if he drew up his hood he would only attract attention, so instead he worked his way round to an alcove and stood in the shadow as he scrutinized the men in the room.
He picked out Quintus easily enough. Portia’s young husband was grinning like a fool as he opened his purse. But his smile faded as he groped around inside and his hand came out clutching a small handful of silver coins. He hesitated briefly, before bending down to place his bet. Marcus’s eyes then fixed on Festus, sitting on the far side of the room, watching proceedings as he sipped from a bronze goblet. Marcus followed his line of sight to a group of men at a table opposite Festus. He spotted Decimus at once, due to the expensive embroidery on his cloak. A squat muscular man sat next to him, and three more perched on the other side of the table with their backs to Marcus. Two had close-cropped hair; the third was shaven-headed, but the dark hair of an unkempt beard bustled out from each cheek so that he probably looked like a barbarian from the front.
Now that he had them in sight, Marcus stared at Decimus for a while. He recalled vividly the cruel expression in the man’s face when the moneylender had told Marcus and his mother of their fate as they lay in a holding cell of the slave market back in Greece. Marcus edged round the room and made his way towards Festus, where he positioned himself with his back to Decimus and the others.
Festu
s’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. He leaned across the table. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled.
‘Caesar’s dismissed me for the evening. I thought I’d have a look around the town.’
‘Pollux! Do you think I’m a fool, Marcus? You’ve come to spy on Decimus.’
‘How was I supposed to know he’d be here?’
‘Where else would he be in a one-mule dump of a town like Mutina? You’d better get out of here before he spots you.’
‘I’ll go in a moment. But first you tell me what he’s been up to. Caesar thinks there’s more to his being here than buying up prisoners.’
Festus shrugged. ‘If that’s true, then there’s been no sign of anything suspicious. He sticks close to his men over there and they travel in the wagon. There’s been no messages delivered to them, and none sent anywhere.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all I’ve seen.’
‘And no sign of Thermon?’
‘No. None of ‘em look like the man who tried to kill Caesar. See for yourself.’
Marcus half turned cautiously, and looked over the rim of his shoulder. From where he sat, he had a side-on view of the table, and in the dim light cast by the inn’s oil lamps he could make out the profiles of Detimus’s companions. None had the neatly styled hair and well-groomed features of the moneylender’s dangerous henchman. As Marcus watched, there was another cry from the men playing dice and he glanced over towards them. He saw Quintus’s face twist into an ashen-faced grimace as he crushed his empty purse in his fist and backed out of the ring of men still watching the game.
‘You’d better go,’ said Festus. ‘Before you are seen.’
Marcus nodded and rose from the table. He paused. ‘Keep a close eye on Decimus. He can’t be trusted. And he’s... evil.’
‘Evil?’ Festus cocked an eyebrow and smiled faintly. ‘Well, if he tries to cast a spell on Caesar, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
Marcus scowled at him, furious with Festus for being so dismissive. Then he turned and made his way back through the crowded inn. He paused at the door for one last, hateful glimpse of Decimus and stopped dead. Quintus had approached the moneylender’s table and was leaning down as he spoke earnestly with Decimus. The exchange was brief, and there was no mistaking the pleading expression on the tribune’s face. Decimus was still for a moment, as if thinking, and then podded. He reached down and took out a heavy purse from under his cloak, placing it in Quintus’s spare hand. The tribune looked round nervously before he slipped the purse out of sight under his own cloak. He quickly nodded his thanks to Decimus and hurried back to the dice game.
Marcus remembered Portia’s comment about her husband’s gambling habit. It seemed even more of a problem than she had feared and Marcus felt a stab of pity for his friend. It was a poor match, her marriage. Forced on Portia for political reasons, it had condemned her to being the wife of a wastrel whose only apparent talent was a capacity to lose at dice games. Marcus felt a moment’s sorrow. If Quintus carried on like this, he would only make Portia more unhappy. It was bad enough that he was unlucky, but that weakness was made worse by his lack of judgement.
Only a very desperate or foolish man would ever borrow money from the likes of Decimus. Marcus had learned that lesson only too well. It had cost Titus his life and all that he possessed. Now Decimus had found a new victim, and who knew where that would end.
14
Lupus had been ordered to remain in a simply constructed shack close to the main compound in the heart of the rebel camp. With each passing day he grew more fearful. Despite Mandracus’s kindly treatment of him and the promise that he would never be a slave again, Lupus felt he was treated like a prisoner. From the door of his shelter Lupus could see the largest hut in the camp — the one belonging to Brixus, he had discovered. Constructed from crudely cut stone with a manure and mud mixture pressed into the gaps for weatherproofing, and the thatched roof overhanging the walls, it was quite unlike the fine villas of Roman aristocrats, but palatial under the circumstances. A dozen men armed with spears and shields stood guard round the compound, with one assigned to watch over Lupus.
He was eventually summoned by the rebel leader one evening and taken to wait outside Brixus s hut until given permission to enter. The rosy glow of the sun slipped behind the rim of the mountains, and the valley was plunged into shadows as the failing light took on a blue hue. Around Lupus the rebels built up their fires, but none made any attempt to light them as they squatted down, waiting while the sunlight faded.
Lupus began to shiver, and after a moment he addressed the man escorting him. ‘Why don t they ever light the fires during the day?’
The man nodded up at the sky. ‘Smoke. We light a fire and there’s a danger that the smoke is seen and someone gets curious enough to come and investigate. So there are no fires until nightfall. Under strict orders from Brixus. Anyone who disobeys gets flogged publicly.’
‘Oh ...’ Despite Mandracus s early reassurance that no harm would come to him, Lupus felt scared of the people around him. Now it seemed that their leader was a man who, despite proclaiming their freedom, ruled his followers with ferocious discipline. The cold mountain air penetrated Lupus’s cloak and tunic, and he stamped his feet on the ground as he felt his limbs begin to grow numb. He found himself thinking about Marcus and the others, who would probably be sheltering from the night in some comfortable house in Ariminum by now. As he thought of his friend, Lupus felt a stab of sorrow. Marcus would not be as afraid as he was, or at least would not show it. He had strength and courage, and Lupus knew that he could have coped with his present situation far better with Marcus at his side. But Marcus was not here. Nor were Festus or Caesar. Lupus was alone and no doubt his former companions thought him dead, buried beneath the avalanche. For a moment Lupus felt tears of self-pity in his eyes, but cuffed them away quickly, angry with himself for being weak. Marcus would never let himself feel afraid like this, Lupus told himself. He must be more like his friend. Show no fear, and win the respect of the men who had captured him.
At length, as the stars pricked out in the cold heavens above, Mandracus emerged from the hut and looked around for a moment before nodding to one of the guards by the nearest fire.
‘It’s dark enough. Start the fire.’ He glanced briefly at Lupus, then went back inside.
The guard immediately took out a tinderbox from the bag hanging on his shoulder and knelt down by the brushwood piled in a rough cone. Dried moss, straw and twigs filled a small gap at the base of the fire. As he huddled over the tinderbox, Lupus could hear the clatter of flints as tiny sparks fell on to the charred linen inside the box. A faint glow illuminated the man’s face as he blew softly, coaxing the tiny flame so that it spread to the other flakes of linen. Then he added some pinches of dry moss and added the contents of the box to the kindling at the base of the fire. It soon caught and spread quickly with a crackle to accompany the hungry orange tongues of the flames. One by one, other fires were lit, dotting the gloom of the valley with rosy glows that illuminated the small figures huddled round for warmth.
‘Can I go over there?’ Lupus nodded to the fire where a handful of guards stood, spears braced against their shoulders as they held their hands out towards the glow.
The guard cast a longing look towards the fire. ‘My orders were to keep you here until I heard otherwise ... But I don’t suppose it can do any harm. Come on. But don’t try anything. I’ll be watching you, lad.’
‘Try anything?’ Lupus chuckled bitterly. ‘And where would I run? There’s only one way out of the valley, and that’s heavily guarded.’
The guard stared at him. ‘All the same. No funny stuff. All right?’
Lupus nodded, and the man gestured towards the fire with his spear. They crossed the compound and joined the other guards. One of them produced a wineskin and passed it round. The man responsible for Lupus took a swallow, then lowered the wineskin with a satisfied sigh.
; ‘Ah! That warms the heart. Here, boy. Have some.’
He held the flask out to Lupus. For a moment the boy hesitated, then he reached out and took the wineskin with a nod of thanks. Taking out the stopper, he sniffed the contents and could not help wrinkling his nose at the sharp, acidic odour. The men chuckled at his reaction and Lupus forced himself to control his expression. Steeling himself, he put the nozzle in his mouth and raised the skin up as he tilted his head back. For a moment there was nothing and then a jet of the wine sloshed into his mouth, sharp and burning on his tongue. He lowered the wineskin and spluttered, to the accompaniment of laughter from the guards round the fire.
‘Rough stuff, eh?’ said the guard. ‘Even for those of us who aren’t used to the wines of the richest households in Rome.’ lie gestured towards Lupus’s plain but well-made cloak. ‘It’s Mir you ain’t ever had to work in the fields. You’re a house slave. No doubt raised on the fine scraps from the master’s table. Never done a real day’s work in your life, I suppose?’
Lupus flushed angrily but dared not reply.
‘Thought so.’ The guard nodded. ‘Well, now you’re no better than the rest of us. We’re all the same here, lad. And you’ll fight alongside the rest of us when the time comes.’
Lupus swallowed anxiously. ‘If I refuse?’
‘Best not to.’ The guard drew a finger across his throat. ‘You’re either with us, or you’re one of the enemy. So which is it?’
Lupus felt a shaft of terror pierce his heart. He saw the other men looking at him closely, many with scarred faces, weathered by years of toil or fighting.
‘Well?’ The man spoke again. ‘Are you with us?’
Lupus hesitated, and was about to reply when a figure emerged from the darkness and joined those by the fire.
‘What’s this? Are you lot teasing our new recruit?’ Mandracus chuckled as he stood beside Lupus and smiled at him. ‘Ignore ‘em, lad. They just like their bit of fun.’
Gladiator: Son of Spartacus Page 11
