Текст книги "Son of Spartacus"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Simon Scarrow
Son of Spartacus

1

The raiders came shortly after nightfall, emerging stealthily from the belt of cedar trees that stretched along the slopes of the hill above the villa. Over fifty of them, armed with a mixture of swords, spears and clubs. Some had armour: chain– mail or old bronze cuirasses, and helmets and shields in a wide variety of designs. Most of the men were thin and gaunt, used to a life of hard labour and perpetual hunger. Their leaders were different: powerfully built individuals who carried the scars of their profession. In contrast to the other men, their armour was ornately decorated and well cared for. Before they had escaped from their owners these men had once been gladiators – the most deadly fighters in all the lands ruled from Rome.

At the head of the small force rode a broad-shouldered man with tightly curled dark hair. He sat astride a fine black mare, part of the spoils of another villa attacked a month before. A livid white knot of tissue stretched across his brow and nose, the scar of a wound received only a few months earlier from a centurion in command of a patrol that had been ambushed. The patrol had been part of the force sent out from Rome to track down and eliminate the bands of brigands and runaway slaves who were hiding deep amid the Apennine mountains. Many of the fugitives were the survivors of the great rebellion led by the gladiator Spartacus some twelve years earlier, and they still carried his legacy close to their hearts. That revolt had nearly brought Rome to its knees and ever since the Romans had lived in fear of another bloody uprising. Thanks to the wars that they had been fighting outside Italia, it had not been possible to complete the destruction of the surviving rebels and over the years their numbers had swollen by thousands. Escaped slaves, together with those who had been set free by the rebels’ raids on the villas and farming estates owned by the richest men in Rome, now made up the large army of freedom fighters.

Soon, the leader reflected with a thin smile, they would be strong enough to carry out more ambitious attacks on their Roman masters. He had already made his plans. The time would come when once again a gladiator would lead an army of slaves against their oppressors. Until then, the leader was content to carry out small raids, such as the one this night, to unnerve the wealthy men who controlled Rome, and to inspire the oppressed slaves eking out their miserable lives in the houses, fields and mines stretching the length and breadth of Italia.

The leader's keen eyes scrutinized the dark shapes of the buildings and walls lying before them. For two days he and his men had been watching the villa from the shadows of the trees. It was typical of the farming estates owned by wealthy Romans. There was a grand house to one side, built round a courtyard within which neat flower beds and gravel paths ran round pools and fishponds. A wall separated the house from the low, plain buildings where the slaves, overseers, guards and agricultural tools were accommodated along with the granaries and store-houses where the produce of the estate was amassed before it was sent to market. The resulting profit would be added to the fortune of the owner living in Rome, heedless of the sweat, toil and suffering of those who made him rich. Round the whole collection of buildings ran a ten-foot wall, built to keep the slaves in and any threats out.

As they had lain in concealment, the raiders had noted the routines of the villa and the coming and going of the chain-gangs and their guards as they worked the fields and groves that surrounded the complex of buildings. The leader’s rage had burned in his veins as he watched the overseers cracking their whips and using their clubs to beat the slaves who moved too slowly. He would have liked to charge his men down from the trees there and then to cut down the guards and set the slaves free, but he had learned the value of patience. It was a lesson that Spartacus had taught him many years before.

The first thing in any fight was to watch your enemy closely and learn his strengths and weaknesses. Only a fool launched k himself into a fight without such preparation, Spartacus had insisted. So the leader and his men had waited, noting the times when the guards had been changed on the walls and gate of t the villa. They had counted the guards, how they were armed and which building in the compound served as their barracks. They had also discovered a small section of the wall that was cracked and crumbling behind a spruce tree, barely visible from The men on watch rarely passed by that section of the wall, and that was where the raiders would strike.

Now they moved silently across a freshly ploughed field and into a square grove of olive trees close to the outer wall of the villa. Ahead, the leader could see the bright flames of the brazier burning above the gatehouse, providing illumination for the guards, and warmth on this cold January night. Smaller flames flickered in the darkness atop the watchtowers at each comer of the wall, and the figures of the lookouts were visible as they huddled in their cloaks and stamped their booted feet to stay warm, their spears resting against their shoulders.

‘Slowly now.’ the leader murmured over his shoulder. ‘No sound. No quick movements.’

His order was relayed in whisper from man to man as the raiders crept through the trees and approached the damaged section of the wall. The leader held up his hand as they reached the edge of the grove, and his men stood still. Then, beckoning to six of the nearest raiders, the leader dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one of his men. He undid the clasp of his cloak and laid it across the saddle. It would be foolhardy to enter a fight encumbered by the thick woollen folds. Underneath the cloak he was wearing a dark blue tunic with a black leather breastplate inlaid with the silver motif of a wolf’s head. A short sword hung from a baldric across his shoulders and his forearms were protected by studded leather bracers.

He turned to the others. ‘Ready?’

They nodded. ‘Yes, Brixus.’

‘Then let’s go.’

He stepped cautiously out of the treeline into open ground. The spruce tree loomed tall and dark seventy paces away. A small watchtower was the same distance further along the wall and a lookout stood black against the glow from the brazier behind him. Brixus stepped out and crossed the grass towards the wall. He limped as he walked, the result of an injury to his hamstring many years earlier in his last arena fight. The small party of men slipped out from the trees and followed him, stealing across the ground like shadows. Only the faintest rustling of grass accompanied their progress and soon they were beneath the scented boughs of the spruce tree, beside the wall.

‘Taurus, by the wall,’ Brixus whispered, and a huge figure I leaned his back against the plastered surface and braced his boots in the soil as he cupped his hands. At once one of his companions, Pindar, a lithe, tall man, jumped up, and with a Taurus lifted him towards the top of the wall. His companion quickly worked a brick loose and passed it down to one of the men waiting below. The brick was carefully lowered to the ground and then the next was passed down. Soon Pindar had removed all the bricks that had worked loose and had to pull out his dagger to work at the mortar holding the others in place. The work proceeded slowly and the leader limped out a short distance, then knelt down to keep watch on the man at the lookout tower. He still stood there, hands out, warming them over the flames of the brazier. Eventually he took his spear and slowly paced along the wall in the direction of the fugitives.

‘Keep still,’ Brixus whispered as loudly as he dared, and then eased himself down into the grass, pressing his body to the ground while keeping watch on the approaching sentry. His comrades froze and Pindar flattened against the wall. The sentry continued towards them and then, not more than twenty feet from the gap, he stopped and turned to stare out over the wall towards the trees. Brixus prayed that his men were keeping still and out of sight as they waited in the shadows there. There was no sign of alarm from the sentry and after a moment he turned and began to make his way back towards the brazier.

‘All right,’ the leader breathed. ‘Carry on.’

Brick by brick the gap was enlarged until it was only a short distance above Taurus’s head.

‘That’ll do. Up you go.’ Brixus gestured to the small party of men. Taurus hoisted them in turn up towards the gap, and they crept over the wall and dropped down inside the compound. To their right lay the wall of the villa with a small gateway providing access between the house and the working section of the complex. A separate, more impressive gateway led into the villa from a treelined avenue, so that influential visitors to the estate need not pass by the squalid slave quarters. In other directions lay the slave barracks and those of the overseers and guards. Beyond them loomed storehouses and granaries.

Brixus took one last glance at the sentry to ensure nothing was amiss, then turned towards the trees and cupped a hand to his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he let out a low owl hoot, three times. An instant later he saw the rest of the raiding party creep out from the trees. They went down into the grass and bent low as they moved towards the spruce tree.

This was the moment of greatest risk, thought Brixus. If the sentry was alert, he could not help but see so many men swarming out of the darkness. It was up to Pindar to deal with him. Before the men were halfway across the open ground, there was a soft thud and when the leader looked up at the wall had disappeared. Brixus breathed a sigh of relief as he rose up and waved the men on before limping over to Taurus.

‘My turn, old friend.’ He smiled in the darkness and saw the dull gleam of the big man's teeth as he responded. Then, placing his boot in the large paws of Taurus, the leader clambered up and through the gap.

On the sentry walk he looked to his left and saw Pindar dropping from the wall, leaving the body of the guard sprawled behind him. On the ground below, the other men of the advance party knelt in a shallow arc, keeping watch. Brixus lowered himself over the side of the walkway and then dropped the last two feet to the ground. Above him he could hear the first of the second group climbing through the gap, and hurriedly moved aside. One by one the raiders dropped down into the compound and joined the men spread out in an arc. With a strained grunt Taurus pulled himself up and crawled through the gap to join his comrades.

Brixus drew his sword and looked round at his men as he raised the weapon. In response they grasped their weapons and held them up to show that they were ready.

‘To the guards’ barracks.’ He spoke just loudly enough for them all to hear. ‘Go in hard. Show no mercy.’

There was a low growl of assent from Taurus and muttered comments from the others, then the leader led the way along the side of the wall, keeping to its shadow as he limped towards the barracks, a hundred paces away. The muffled sound of voices carried across the compound, light-hearted chatter interspersed with the cries of glee and groans of men playing a game of dice. There was no sound from the slave barracks. They would be too exhausted to do much but sleep after they had eaten their evening ration of barley gruel. Besides, Brixus reflected, most slaves were forbidden from talking in such estates, for fear that it might encourage them to plot against their masters.

They were no more than fifty feet from the entrance to the barracks when the door suddenly opened and a finger of rosy light spilled out across the compound, revealing the men? hurrying along the base of the wall. Two guards stood in the L entrance to the barracks holding empty jars, which they were | taking to the well to refill. They stopped dead and stared at j| the raiders before one of them reacted.

‘Alarm!’ he shouted, then turned towards the door and he repeated the cry. ‘Alarm!’

Brixus turned to his men and thrust his spare hand towards Pindar. ‘Take your men and clear the walls of sentries. The rest of you, follow me!’

He thrust his sword towards the entrance of the barracks and bellowed as loudly as he could into the cold night air. ‘Attack!’

2

A party led by Pindar ran to the steps leading up on to the wall and made for the nearest of the sentries. In the compound, dark figures raced towards the barrack doors, a savage roar tearing from the throat of each man as the raiders surged forward. Brixus did his best to keep up, but was hampered by his old wound and swiftly overtaken by most of his men. The two unarmed guards who stood at the entrance quickly recovered from their surprise and, dropping their jars, they turned and raced back inside.

Roused by the commotion, the first of the defenders had already reached the barrack doors, armed with a short sword and dagger. Barefoot, he was a well-built man with grey hair and lined features. From the swiftness of his reaction and the steady manner in which he planted his feet squarely on the ground, it was clear he had once been an experienced soldier. He glanced at the wave of men converging on him and then shouted back over his shoulder.

‘To arms! Form up on me.’

A handful of men managed to join him before the raiders charged into them. The ex-soldier neatly ducked a swinging club and slammed his sword into the side of the first raider, knocking him off his feet. He collapsed with a groan, clutching his side, and tripping up one of his comrades who sprawled in front of the guard and was despatched with a swift thrust between his shoulder blades.

Despite the courage and example of the ex-soldier, the guards outside the barracks were outnumbered and in moments the raiders had cut down two of the defenders and forced the rest back inside the entrance. Over the shoulders of his men and the flickering gleam of blades, the ex-soldier could see that the rest of the guards had armed themselves to join those at the open door. Only a handful of men on either side could the narrow gap, and as each casualty fell he was quickly replaced with neither side gaining the advantage.

Outside, Brixus hissed a low curse. He had hoped to surprise his enemy quickly enough to burst in upon them and slaughter the guards in their barracks before they could arm themselves and form ranks. It was too late for that now and he had to change his plan before he lost too many men. His fellow gladiators were the only men he knew he could depend on. The rest were escaped slaves who had joined his growing band, keen to wreak their revenge on their former oppressors, but lacking the training and discipline of seasoned fighters. If they saw too many of their comrades fall, then their courage would probably fail them.

Sheathing his sword, he stepped round the men crowding the entrance and grasped the edge of the door.

‘Stand back!’ he ordered those nearest him. ‘You and you, help me close this door.’

With men on either side, Brixus began to push. At first there was no resistance, but as the defenders saw what was happening, the ex-soldier bellowed an order. ‘Hold the door open!’

While the desperate fighting continued in the narrow gap, the raiders braced their boots and shoved the rough wooden surface with all their strength as the defenders resisted from the other side. The door slowed down and then stopped.

‘Taurus!’ Brixus called out through gritted teeth. ‘Over here! Now!’

The giant plucked one of the raiders aside and threw his weight against the door beside his leader. At once it began to move again, steadily closing until the gap was too narrow for anyone to pass through. The pale shaft of light cast from the lamps shrank and then vanished as the door closed on the frame.

‘Hold it shut,’ Brixus ordered and gestured to the nearest of his men to help Taurus, before he drew back and looked around the compound. A short distance away, beside one of the granaries, he saw a heavy cart. Summoning several men, he hurried across the compound and grasped the yoke. Straining against the dead weight of the vehicle, the raiders pulled it across to the barracks where the door shuddered under the impact of bodies and weapons from within. The cart was manoeuvred close to the wall and worked along the door, pinning itin place. The guards could only open it a small way, enough to let out a sliver of light.

‘What now?’ asked Taurus.

‘Take your men and get some dry feed from the stables, then pile it up round the barracks. The rest of you, cover the windows and don’t let any of them out.’

While the barracks was surrounded and bales of hay piled the walls, a handful of the guards guessed the fate that the raiders had in store for them and tried to escape through the small windows set high in the building. Seeing them, the raiders thrust their spears up, forcing the men back inside. Once Brixus was satisfied that preparations were complete, he ordered oil to be poured over the combustible materials and told Pindar to light a torch from the brazier above the gatehouse. When Pindar returned he handed the torch to Brixus, who limped up to the cart blocking the door.

‘You inside, hear me! Throw out your weapons and surrender.’

There was a brief pause before a voice answered. ‘And let ourselves be slaughtered like cattle? No chance. I’ll die like a man.’

‘Then die you will,’ Brixus shouted back. A cold smile flickered across his lips. ‘Let your deaths be a beacon to every Roman and slave alike. For liberty!’

He stepped forward and applied the torch to the straw piled up beneath the cart. The flame caught at once and spread through the dry lengths with a light crackle, then a growing roar, as the flames licked up and burned fiercely. They spread round the edge of the barracks and smoke billowed into the air, the lurid orange clouds lit up by the savage fire.

There were shouts from inside the barracks, and cries of panic as the men appeared at the windows, but were beaten back by the heat. The raiders stood in a loose circle about the burning building, dark figures silhouetted against the brilliant glare of the flames, their long shadows stretching behind them into the darkness. Before long the flames had caught the roof timbers, and sections of tile collapsed inside. There were no more shouts, just piercing shrieks of agony muffled by the occasional sharp reports of timbers bursting. The screams continued for a while and then there was only the roar of the fire.

Brixus climbed up on to the edge of the well and surveyed the small crowd before him, their faces lit up by the slowly dying fire of the barracks. To one side stood the steward who ran the estate for Ids wealthy master, with his wife and two sons barely I in their teens. They looked down at the ground, afraid to meet the eyes of their captors. Brixus turned his attention back to the crowd. Their expressions were mostly fearful, but some looked at him with hope in their eyes. They would be the to his side, Brixus reflected as he gathered his to address the slaves who had just been the long, low shed where they were shut in when not at work in the; fields and groves of the estate. As the locking bar had been withdrawn and the doors opened, the familiar stench of sweat and human waste billowed out from inside and he cursed the Romans for treating these people little better than animals.

Holding his torch aloft, Brixus had entered the building, fighting back his nausea as the slaves cowered away from him. Most of them were chained together by the ankle to prevent any attempt at escape when they were out in the fields. Only a handful – children and older men and women – had their irons removed. They wore little more than rags, soiled and torn, and their filthy skin was covered in bruises and scars from the beatings of their overseers.

‘I am Brixus,’ he announced. ‘A lieutenant of Spartacus. I have come to set you free.’

He turned to his followers. ‘Get the chains off them and lead them out of here. Keep ’em together so I can speak to them when they’re ready.’

Now the slaves stood before him, anxious to learn what would become of them.

Brixus drew a deep breath and spoke loudly to be heard over the distant crackle of the flames still consuming what was left of the barracks.

‘Your lives of back-breaking toil are over, my friends. There will be no more whips. No more chains. No more slowly starving on the thin gruel provided by your masters. See how well they lived while you endured so much suffering, exhaustion and hunger?’ He thrust his arm towards the steward and his family.

The slaves glanced towards the man who had controlled every aspect of their lives and there was silence before a voice muttered angrily. Others joined in, waving their fists.

Brixus raised his hands and called out to them. ‘Enough! Enough! You will have your revenge shortly. For now, listen to me.’

When they had fallen silent, he continued. ‘As I said. You are no longer slaves, but free. Now you may choose what to do with your lives. You are masters of your fate.'

‘What happens when news of this attack gets out?’ a voice asked. ‘They will come here and punish any slave they find.’

‘Then come with us,’ Brixus replied.

‘And go where? The Romans will hunt us down like dogs.’

‘No, they won’t. I told you my name. I am Brixus, loyal to what Spartacus died for. When the rebellion ended I survived, along with many others. When I escaped again I made for the hills and mountains of the Apennines and joined those of the slave army who still remained in hiding. Since then we have been adding to our number by raiding the estates of those who call themselves our masters, and setting their slaves free. I lead but one of the bands of rebels who hide in the mountains. The Romans have tried to hunt us down, but we have eluded them. Now we are fighting back, hunting them down in turn and destroying their patrols and burning their outposts to the ground. They are becoming afraid of us. Every Roman soldier we kill, every villa we destroy, every slave we set free adds to their fear.’ Brixus paused to give emphasis to his next words. ‘One day soon we will be strong enough to rekindle the rebellion that Spartacus once led and there will be a new war against those who would keep us as slaves.’

There were excited cries of approval from the crowd, then an old man at the front took a step forward.

‘I too fought for Spartacus. But we were an army. Tens of thousands of us. And the Romans still beat us. You are the leader of a band of runaways and brigands. What chance have we got if we join you? What freedom do you really offer? A few months as fugitives in the hills, in the depth of winter, before we are hunted down, caught and punished. Last time they crucified thousands in order to teach us a lesson. How much greater do you think their anger will be a second time?’ The old man turned to his comrades and raised a hand to draw their attention. ‘I say we’d be better off here. When the soldiers come, we’ll explain that we had no part in tonight’s action.'

‘You old fool!’ Brixus shouted him down. ‘Do you think they will listen to you? No. It will make no difference to their desire for revenge. They will make an example of you just the same. Stay here and you will die.’

‘We all die, Brixus,' the old man replied. ‘One way or another.'

‘Then all that matters is how you die,’ Brixus replied. ‘You can choose to spend the rest of your days living in your own filth, surviving on scraps at the whim of your masters, or you can seize your freedom here and now. Be your own master. Taste the sweet air of freedom. Of course there is a price, as with all things that are worth having. You will have to fight to stay free. Better to fight on your feet than spend your life grovelling on your knees to some fat Roman pig. What is your death now but simply an end to suffering? An end to a life that has no value. Together we can stop this. Have freedom instead of slavery. But only if we have the courage to fight for that freedom. Who here will join me?’

‘Me!’ a voice cried out and was instantly echoed by many others. The old man looked over his shoulder and shook his head in dismay.

When the shouting had died down Brixus spoke again. ‘Brothers and sisters, the age of slavery will soon come to an end. The bands of rebels will join together and the dream of Spartacus will become a reality.’

‘Spartacus is dead!’ the old man shouted back.

'Yes, he is dead,’ Brixus acknowledged. 'But his dream lives on. And more than his dream. The bloodline of Spartacus continues. Soon, very soon, the rebels will be united and fighting together under one banner and one leader, and that leader will be one who is fit to assume the mantle of the great Spartacus, for he is none other than his son! He will lead us and fulfil the destiny and dream of his father, the same dream that is shared by every slave in the Roman Empire.’

‘The son of Spartacus?’ The old man shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. I was there. He had no son.’

‘The son was born shortly after the end of the rebellion. He bears the secret mark of Spartacus. I have seen it. I have met the boy.'

The crowd had fallen silent, listening to his words with rapt attention, hope burning in almost every face.

‘Where is he?’ some cried out. ‘Where is the boy?’

‘I know where he lives,’ said Brixus. ‘He follows in the footsteps of his father, and already it is clear that he will become as great a gladiator as Spartacus in his time. Greater perhaps. He is still young. But when the time comes he cannot avoid his destiny. He will answer the call, and lead us all to freedom!'

‘Freedom!’ his followers shouted and the cry was echoed by the newly liberated slaves. Even the old man joined in, his eyes sparkling with emotion. Brixus allowed the cheering to continue for a while before he raised his hands and called for silence.

‘There is one last task before we leave this place tonight.’ He turned and pointed to the steward and his family. ‘We must show the Romans what fate lies in store for those who would oppress their fellow man. Bring me the youngest boy.’

One of his men strode over to the family, grabbed the boy’s arm and wrenched him away. He struggled to free himself, reaching out a hand towards his mother as her face wrinkled with grief. The steward held her back as he spoke clearly and defiantly to his son.

‘Show no fear to these scum. No tears. Remember, you are a Roman.’

Brixus laughed, and some in the crowd jeered.

Set in front of Brixus, the boy stood as tall as he could manage and tried to look calm and defiant.

‘Are you afraid of me?’ asked Brixus.

‘You should be. What is your name?’

'Lucius Pollonius Secundus. Though you can call me young master.’

Brixus smiled. ‘Arrogant to a fault. You are a true Roman. The question is, are you a clever Roman, Lucius? Do you think you can remember every detail of what has happened here tonight?’

‘I shall never forget it.’

‘That is true.’ Brixus nodded. Then he turned to Taurus. ‘Crucify the others. This one is to be chained to the foot of his father’s post. He will be the one to tell Rome that a new rebellion is coming, and this time the heir of Spartacus will lead us to victory, and the annihilation of Rome.’