The tribune backed off and looked anxiously at the cut as the more knowing members of the crowd murmured their approval of the initial exchange. Marcus had won control of the centre of the makeshift arena, a move that he knew would undermine his opponent’s confidence. Sure enough, there was no mistaking the glimmer of fear in Quintus’s expression as he lowered himself into a crouch again, determined to seize back the initiative.
It was obvious that he would attack even before he began to move, his legs bracing for the explosive charge across the hard ground. Marcus let him come, then ducked to one side as the blade passed harmlessly by his head. The momentum carried Quintus forward, and Marcus lowered his sword to slash it across his thigh as he passed. Both turned to face each other and now there was no hiding the fear in the tribune’s eyes. Marcus forced himself to keep his face like a mask: cold, ruthless and unreadable.
Quintus licked his lips and spoke in a low voice. ‘Marcus, you can’t kill me. Think of Portia ... She considers you her friend. She trusts you. Would you betray her trust, her affection, by striking down her husband? I love her, Marcus. If I am lost she will be alone in the world.’ As he spoke he edged forward, his sword tip lowered, his tone genuine.
Marcus struggled to push the memory of Portia from his mind, but could think only of the words she had spoken to him, and the soft touch of her lips.
With a blur, Quintus charged, his sword sweeping in a clumsy but deadly arc. Marcus backed off as he blocked the blow and sparks flew. Quintus continued his assault with a vicious flurry of strokes as he growled, ‘I will not die! I will win! Win!’
Marcus cleared his mind of everything but the reaction to each attack, and met it with a block or parry, conserving his strength as his opponent wasted energy. Then, as Quintus swung again, Marcus counter-attacked before the tribune could reverse the stroke. Stabbing the blade with all his strength, Marcus went for the hamstring above and behind Quintus’s knee. His aim was true but the cold and exhaustion had left him weak, and instead of a crippling blow the sword cut deep into the flesh and muscle without severing it.
Quintus let out a cry of pain and staggered away, bleeding freely. The advantage won, Marcus pushed ahead, feinting and thrusting to force his opponent backwards. Then Quintus’s boot slipped on the icy ground. He stumbled and fell on to his back, throwing his arms wide. Marcus leapt forward and stamped his foot on the wrist of the tribune’s sword arm, so that his fingers spasmed and the sword fell from his grasp. Marcus kicked it away, then stood over the tribune and touched the point of his blade to Quintus’s throat.
‘No! I beg you, spare me!’ Quintus pleaded. ‘For Portia!’
Marcus hesitated. He had concentrated on winning the fight. Not on its aftermath. He stood still, sword arm trembling slightly with the cold.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Kill him.’
Marcus did not move and Quintus closed his eyes tightly, his head tipped to one side.
‘Kill him,’ Mandracus ordered. ‘Or I will kill you.’
The rasp of a blade sounded and Marcus saw the rebel striding towards him. He willed himself to strike, to thrust his blade into the tribune’s throat, but he could not do it. Mandracus stood to one side and hissed. ‘This is your last chance ...’
When Marcus did not react, he raised his sword.
‘Wait!’ a voice cried from the crowd. Marcus turned to see a commotion near the track leading to the secret entrance to the valley. He heard a horse’s hoofs as the dark figure of a rider emerged into the rosy glow cast by the flames from the fires. Behind him came other figures on foot, some limping and others supported by their comrades. Anxious muttering filtered through the crowd. Mandracus slowly lowered his sword and turned towards the rider.
‘Brixus.’
19
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Brixus demanded as he rode into the open space outside his hut.
The muttering of the crowd rose into a nervous murmur as the men following their leader came into view. Many were wounded and streaked with dried blood, with crudely tied strips of cloth acting as dressings. Marcus stepped back from Quintus and lowered his sword as he turned to watch the new arrivals. The tribune opened his eyes and stared up at the sky, his chest heaving as he gasped at the cold air.
‘These are the prisoners we took after the ambush,’ Mandracus explained.
‘And what are you doing with them?’
‘Putting on some entertainment, to raise our people’s spirits. But what of you?’ Mandracus indicated the straggling column of men following Brixus into the camp. ‘What happened?’
Brixus reined in and took a weary breath. ‘My ambush did not fare so well. We caught Caesar’s column in the flank as it approached Sedunum. They were strung out along the track as I had expected, but they turned and formed into a battle-line before we could close with them. By the Gods, I’ve never seen men so well handled, not even in the days of Spartacus’s revolt. It was as bloody a battle as I have ever fought. Thousands were cut down on either side. But we had the upper hand. Then both sides pulled apart to lick their wounds and draw breath. When I gave the order to charge again ... my men would not obey. They’d had enough. I had no choice but to retreat into the forest and return here.’
Mandracus heard his leader’s report in silence, then glanced past him towards the entrance to the valley. ‘Were you followed?’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Brixus snapped. ‘Of course not. Caesar sent his cavalry after us but we lost them in the trees. We headed south for half a day before turning back to the camp. We’re safe, Mandracus.’
‘Safe for now. How many men did you lose?’
Brixus frowned. ‘We’ll speak in my hut. For now, I want my men fed and rested and their wounds seen to. Give the orders.’
Mandracus nodded, then recalled the prisoners. ‘What do you want me to do with the Romans?’
Brixus shrugged as he dismounted. ‘They can serve the camp, like the others.’ He turned towards Marcus. ‘Disarm that one and ...’ His words died away and he froze as he stared at the boy.
Marcus was not sure how to react and returned his gaze in silence.
‘By all the Gods, it can’t be ... surely?’ Brixus limped closer, his eyes wide in amazement. ‘Marcus. It is you. By all the Gods ...’
‘You know this boy?’ Mandracus stepped in and took the sword from Marcus’s hand.
‘Know him?’ A smile of delight and triumph spread across Brixus’s face. ‘This is Marcus. The Marcus. The one I have often told you about.’
‘Him?’ Mandracus’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘This runt? This is the son of Sp- ?’
Brixus rounded on him angrily. ‘Quiet, you fool! We’ll not speak of this in front of the others. Have the other prisoners taken to one of the huts and placed under guard. No one is to speak to them, is that clear?’
Mandracus nodded and turned to carry out his orders.
‘Marcus.’ Brixus stood in front of him and clasped his shoulders, speaking in an undertone so that his words would not be overheard. ‘I cannot tell you how much good it does my heart to see you again. Come, we must talk. You have arrived at the hour of our greatest need.’
Marcus was aware that the other prisoners were looking at him in astonishment. Then Brixus placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and steered him towards the entrance of the leader’s hut. Behind them, the men of the newly arrived column slumped down on the ground by the fires and began to warm themselves. Marcus could see the weariness in their faces and already there came the sound of wailing as the first casualties were made known, shrill cries of grief that pierced the night sky.
Brixus swept the leather curtain aside and gestured to Marcus to enter. Despite its size and the icy temperature outside, the hut felt warm. A large fire was crackling in the centre, tended by a woman feeding split logs into the blaze. Marcus looked for Decimus and saw him sitting against the wall a short distance from the entrance. He glanced round nervously as Ma
rcus and Brixus entered.
‘Who is that?’ Brixus demanded, following the direction of Marcus’s gaze. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘He’s one of the prisoners,’ Marcus explained. ‘The Roman who destroyed my family and sold my mother and me into slavery.’
Brixus thought a moment before he recalled the details of his last conversations with Marcus over a year ago. ‘Decimus?’
Marcus nodded.
‘The moneylender from Greece? Then what is he doing here?’
‘He is working for Crassus. He was responsible for an attempt on Caesar’s life last year.’
Brixus raised his eyebrows and shook his head in wonder. ‘What’s the matter with these stuck-up Roman nobles? Not satisfied with punishing us slaves, they turn on each other! They’re scum. Utter scum. No better than the meanest street dogs... What do you want me to do with him, Marcus? Shall I have him crucified? Like they crucified those who surrendered at the end of your father’s revolt? Or burned alive, perhaps? The people out there would like that.’
Marcus thought for a moment. There was blood on Decimus’s hands. Not just that of Titus, but countless others he had cruelly exploited and ruined on his path to riches. The offer was tempting.
Decimus had heard every word and now shuffled forward on his knees. ‘I made a deal with Mandracus. He promised to set me free if I paid a ransom. A million sestertii. It could be yours. All yours.’
Brixus regarded him with loathing and disgust before shaking his head. ‘Any deal you made with my subordinate is not binding with me, Roman. I know about you from Marcus. It is for him to decide your fate.’
Marcus looked up in surprise. ‘Me?’
‘Yours is the grievance. You decide.’
‘The boy?’ Decimus shook his head in disbelief. ‘You can’t let a boy decide whether I die or not.’
‘I can decide what I like. Well, Marcus?’
Marcus frowned. There was still something he could get out of this if he played his part well. He curled his lips into a sneer. ‘I would like to see him die, by my own hand. His death is long overdue.’
‘No!’ Decimus protested. ‘Marcus, wait. I’ll give you the million sestertii. Enough to set you up for life. You could buy your farm back. Or buy a bigger one. Have slaves of your own.’
Marcus stabbed his finger into Decimus’s chest and shouted. ‘If you want to live, tell me exactly where my mother is! Which estate did you send her to? Where in the Peloponnese? Speak now! Or I swear I will cut your heart out!’
Decimus flinched in terror at the boy’s violent expression and opened his mouth to reply. Then his eyes narrowed and he shook his head.
‘I will tell you nothing. If you want to see her again, then you must set me free. That is the only deal I will make with you. My life for hers.’
Brixus stepped over the moneylender and grasped him by the collar of his tunic. ‘Say the word, Marcus, and I’ll have Mandracus beat the truth out of him.’
‘He can try.’ Decimus smiled thinly. ‘But how will you know I am telling the truth? You need me alive, Marcus. I will tell you where she is, once I am away from this place, and safe. Only then.’
‘And he’s supposed to trust you?’
‘I give him my word.’
‘Hah? Your word?’ Brixus spat. ‘I’d sooner trust a snake. Marcus, kill him. You can find your mother on your own.’
Marcus glared at the moneylender, his heart welling up with despair and frustration. Decimus had the advantage and there was little he could do about it — unless there was some way to hold Decimus to his side of the bargain. He turned to Brixus. ‘There is another man among the prisoners who I would have you keep safe. A tall, thin man. Bald and with a beard. His name is Thermon.’
He turned back to Decimus. ‘If you fail to keep your word, I will give Thermon to Caesar. He would have some interesting stories to tell about your business interests, as you call them.’
Decimus sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘You learn quickly, my boy. In time you might well be as successful as I am, and a dangerous rival. We have a deal then, and a means to enforce it.’
The leather curtain swished aside as Mandracus ducked into the hut. He saw the others and gestured to Decimus guiltily. ‘I was going to tell you about him as soon as I could.’
‘Never mind,’ Brixus replied. ‘I know all about him. Have your men take him away. He is to be kept apart from the others. Guard him closely. He must not escape. And if he tries to, then I want him taken alive.’
‘Yes, Brixus. As you wish. Come on, you!’ Mandracus hauled Decimus to his feet and pushed him out of the hut.
Brixus turned to Marcus and let out a low whistle.
‘A strange day indeed.’ Then his expression fell and he rested a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘I have bad news for you. There was a boy captured by Mandracus when he ambushed Caesar’s party earlier this month.’
Marcus felt a surge of hope in his breast. ‘Lupus!’
‘Yes, Lupus.’
‘Where is he? You said bad news?’ Marcus felt a stab of anxiety. ‘I’ve not seen him here. Send for him.’
‘I can’t.’ Brixus pursed his lips. ‘He was with me when I marched against Caesar. The last I saw of him was in the battle — just before we charged the Roman line.’
Marcus swallowed. ‘Captured?’
‘I don’t know, Marcus.’
‘Or killed?’
Brixus sighed. ‘A slave taken under arms faces a death sentence. It would be better if he were dead. Better than crucifixion.’
‘Crucifixion?’ Marcus’s guts turned to ice. ‘No ... Not Lupus. Caesar wouldn’t let that happen. Lupus is his scribe. Or was.’
‘None of that will matter if he has been captured with a sword in his hand.’
Marcus stood silent, remembering his friend. Then he looked at Brixus with a guarded expression. ‘I never took Lupus for the fighting kind. I’m surprised he was prepared to go into battle.’
‘There are many in our camp who have never fought before they joined us. But they soon discover that freedom is a cause worth fighting for, or dying for if need be. That is what your father taught us. Many remember the lesson and honour his legacy.’ He placed a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘When word spreads that a new Spartacus has risen to lead the rebellion, then slaves the length of Italia will flock to join his standard. This time nothing will stand between us and freedom. We will have our victory over Rome.’
Marcus forced himself to smile in response. He felt anxious about the dream that Brixus held out. Though he had come to accept that he was the son of Spartacus, would his blood inheritance be enough to guarantee that Marcus would rise to the same greatness?
20
Brixus released Marcus’s shoulder and smiled wearily. ‘I am a poor host. What am I thinking? You’re cold and hungry, and no doubt exhausted. Come, let’s sit by the fire while I send for food and drink, and we can talk.’
He clapped his hands and called out harshly. ‘Servilia!’
The woman crouching by the fire cringed like a whipped dog, then scrambled to her feet and scurried across the hut, bowing her head as she stood before him. By the glow of the fire Marcus could see bruises amid the grime on her skin, and the locks of her long dark hair were matted with filth.
‘I want meat, bread and watered wine. And dried figs if there are any left.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘At once. Now go.’
She turned and scuttled to an arch that led into a small lean-to at the rear of the hut. As she disappeared, Brixus led Marcus to the fire where he gratefully sank down on the skins arranged at one side of the hearth. The warmth of the flames felt good and Marcus allowed himself to indulge briefly in the comfort, releasing the terror he had faced in front of the crowd. Even though he was out of danger, it took a while for the tension in his muscles and the trembling of his limbs to subside.
Brixus slipped his sword belt over his head and let the scabba
rd drop to the ground beside another pile of animal skins. He unbuckled the straps fastening his cuirass and placed that beside his sword, before slumping down with a sigh of contentment.
‘Your limp has improved,’ Marcus observed. ‘Much better than it was back in Porcino’s ludus.’
‘Well, it was never quite as bad as I made out.’ Brixus grinned. ‘Once I received the wound I vowed I would never again fight in the arena for the pleasure of the Romans. Even though the injury would have slowed me down, I could not trust Porcino not to make me fight again. I played it up enough to fool his surgeon and he pronounced me unfit for the arena. That’s how I was sent to the kitchens.’
‘I see.’ Marcus nodded. ‘But how did you come to be here, in charge of this camp?’
‘After I spoke to you that last time, when you were on the road to Rome, I made my way north into the mountains. It wasn’t long before I encountered one of the rebel bands. They brought me here. Mandracus was their leader and he had fought for Spartacus in the last revolt, even though he was only a boy at the time, not much older than you are now. He recognized me, and when I told him that the son of Spartacus lived and would one day lead a new rebellion against Rome, he was persuaded to let me take command. After that we increased the scale of the attacks on the enemy and recruited more people. They were anxious at first and slow to join us, but when news of our victories spread, and with that the promise of the heir of Spartacus, they flocked to our side.’ His eyes blazed with excitement. ‘Marcus, we have over ten thousand men under arms in camps like this up and down the Apennines. With you as our figurehead, that number will grow even more swiftly. Soon we shall march down from the mountains to face the Roman legions on the battlefield, and this time the victory will be ours.’
The slave woman emerged through the small entrance at the side of the hut, balancing a tray stacked with meat and bread in one hand, and carrying ajar and two silver cups in the other. She scuttled across to the fire and set the meal down between Brixus and Marcus, then backed away nervously, out of reach, and stood with her head bowed, in silence. Brixus ignored her as he piled some meat on a wooden platter and offered it to Marcus.
Gladiator: Son of Spartacus Page 17
