Текст книги "Son of Spartacus"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

17

The surviving legionaries and Decimus and his men had been joined by a handful of mule drivers as they stood on the track guarded by several of the rebels. There they had been securely bound as Mandracus ordered the rest of his men to strip the bodies of undamaged armour and weapons. Any wounded Romans had their throats cut, while the injured rebels were carefully loaded on to the carts and wagons. The dead were carried into the villa, where a pyre was built using any combustible material left from the morning raid.

By the time the rebels were ready to move out it was dusk and the snow had stopped falling. A pale blue hue hung across the valley, where the dark forms of bodies and pools of blood lay either side of the track. The lurid red flames rising from the stockade added to the sombre scene, and Marcus shivered miserably as he and the others awaited their fate in silence. Mandracus took a last look around and swept his arm along the track.

‘Move out!’

Marcus waited until the man ahead of him lurched forward, and hurriedly marched a few feet to give himself some slack, then concentrated on maintaining the gap. He thought it strange that Mandracus was leading them in the direction of Caesar. With a brief flicker of hope, he wondered if Caesar might send a message back to the baggage train, so the rider would see them and raise the alarm with the main column. Then, no more than a mile along the track, Mandracus turned off, taking a smaller path that meandered through a forest and headed into the heart of the mountain range.

They stopped for the night in an abandoned village, where the prisoners were herded into a small sheep pen and left with-out food or water. Around them the rebels found shelter in what remained of the houses and huts of the silent village. No fires were lit, but as night fell the sky cleared and the stars shone like tiny shards of ice.

Marcus explored the pen and found a corner out of the wind containing the musty remains of a pile of straw. He pulled as much of it over his body as he could with his bound hands and sat hunched over his knees, shivering. One by one the other men settled down to endure the freezing night as best they could.

It was impossible to sleep and, in any case, Marcus knew that sleep was dangerous. Titus had told him that once, recalling a campaign he had fought in the mountains of Macedonia. Pompeius’s army had been forced to spend several nights in the open and there were men who fell asleep never to wake again. Come dawn their comrades discovered them frozen stiff. Marcus was not going to let the same thing happen to him. As soon as he felt his eyelids droop he sat up stiffly and pinched his cheeks hard.

At some point during the night, he heard someone shuffling towards him in the darkness, then a voice rasped.

‘Boy, is that you? In the corner there.’

At first Marcus did not recognize the voice and kept still, holding his breath.

‘I know you can hear me, boy … It’s Marcus, isn’t it? Titus told me about you once, when he came to do business with me.’

Marcus felt a familiar anger flare up in his heart. He drew a slow breath to calm his body so that his voice would not tremble when he spoke. He did not want Decimus to think that he was afraid of him. ‘What do you want?’

‘A word.’

‘Why would I want to talk to you, Decimus? After everything you have done to me and my family. All I ever want to hear is you begging for your life before I kill you.’

‘Kill me?’ Marcus heard a low chuckle, then the man’s voice caught as a bout of shivering seized his body. ‘You? What makes you think you could ever harm me? I have powerful friends. Men who depend on me. You are just one step up from being a common slave. Be realistic, Marcus. There’s nothing you could ever do to harm me.’

‘I won’t have to. Not now. I just hope the rebels get round to killing you before me.’

Decimus was silent for a moment. ‘Fair enough … But there’s a chance that Caesar might find us first.’

So that’s what he wanted to ask Marcus about. He laughed quietly. ‘I doubt it. Caesar has his own problems now that he has lost his baggage train.’

‘You know him better than I do, Marcus. Do you think he will come looking for us?’

‘He might. But it would make sense for him to find fresh supplies and shelter first.’

‘But he can’t afford to let the rebels get away with taking hostages.’

‘Why not? We’re dead, Decimus. Face it.’

‘No. Why would they take us prisoner if they meant to kill us? Perhaps there is a way out. I have money. I can offer them a ransom for my life. But not yours, alas.’

‘And your men? What about them?’

‘I can always hire more men.’

Marcus stared at the dim outline of the man, a short distance away. There was no limit to the callousness of Decimus. If only his hands were free, he could throw himself on the moneylender. Without weapons, he might not win a fight with a fully grown man, but he could do him some injury.

‘Don’t take it too hard, boy. That’s just the way life is. These rebels are like any other men. They have their price, and I can afford to pay it.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper that only Marcus would hear. ‘It’s too bad for everyone else. Especially you. A few more years’ training and you would have been one of the heroes of the arena. Another little boost for Caesar’s reputation. He was right to buy you from Porcino’s school. He’s as shrewd a man as ever put on a senator’s toga. He may turn out to be one of the greatest Romans who ever lived.’

‘So why have you been plotting to kill him? You’re a Roman. If Rome needs men like him, then why kill him?’

‘Because I think Caesar believes that Rome needs hin› more than he needs Rome. That makes such men very dangerous. In any case, my political beliefs happen to coincide with an opportunity to do business with Crassus.’

‘Business?’

‘I am a businessman, young Marcus. I do what I do for money. That is why I work for Crassus. He rewards me with tax-collecting contracts. That’s how a man gets rich in this world. In return I provide Crassus with the services of my employees who have the skills needed to remove obstacles in the path of his ambition. Over the years I have recruited a few men who have proved very useful indeed.’

‘Men like Thermon?’ Marcus interrupted bitterly. ‘Murderers.’

‘Murder is such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as providing a special service at a premium price.’

‘I take it that you and your men did not join Caesar’s army to buy slaves then?’

‘Why not? Might as well make a little extra on the side.’

‘But you were sent to kill him, weren’t you?’

‘If the opportunity presented itself. I had thought to blackmail that young tribune over there to help one of my men get close to Caesar, but now I have more pressing concerns. I need to strike a deal with these rebel scum and buy my freedom.’

A gust of wind moaned over the sheep pen. Marcus glanced up at the sky and noticed a band of cloud to the north. There would be more snow before the dawn came. But that was of little concern to him. If he was to die, then there was one thing he had to know. One last comforting thought to cling to.

‘Decimus, there’s something you must tell me.’

‘You want to know if your mother still lives?’

‘Yes.’

The man was silent for a moment before he spoke again. ‘I wonder what would be most merciful to tell you. If I said she was alive, then it would comfort you, until you considered what being alive means to her. You know I sent her to an estate of mine in the Peloponnese. A place where the slaves work until exhaustion or sickness finishes them off. On the other hand, if I told you she was dead, you would know you had nothing to live for. So, my boy, which would you prefer?’

‘I just want the truth,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘Whatever it may be.’

‘The truth …’ Decimus raised his hands and blew into them. ‘The truth is that she still lives. She is too beautiful a creature to kill, and too proud for me not to want to break her.’

Marcus sighed with relief at the news that his mother was alive. Then the rest of the words struck home, a tingle of surprise raising the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘You… You have feelings for her?’

‘Of course. I am only flesh and blood, as your father was. Why would I not be drawn to her as he was? Yet she was his wife. A few years ago, when Titus came to me for a loan, he brought her with him to Stratos. That’s when I first saw her. The next time was at the wretched little farm of yours, when I called in person for the first instalment of the loan repayment. Even then, I knew Titus could never repay it and would sink into debt. That’s when I made my offer to her. Leave him and come with me and I would write off the loan. Otherwise Titus would lose everything. The farm, Livia, and you. Sold into slavery to pay off the debt.’ Decimus chuckled drily. ‘And you know what she did? She spat in my face and told me she would rather die than be mine. What do you think of that, eh? Your mother has courage. Even more than that fool, Titus. Yes, I think there is more of her in you than there ever was of him … Now she will stay on my estate, working the fields, until the day she begs me for forgiveness.’

The surprise that Marcus had felt gave way to disgust as he listened to the man talking about his mother. The thought of this vile, repulsive snake wrapping his coils round her made Marcus feel sick to the very depths of his stomach. He must not let it happen. He must find a way to escape, or to survive. And if Decimus did succeed in buying his way out of captivity, then as soon as Marcus was free, he would hunt him down. He silently swore an oath to all the Gods that he would not rest until Decimus was destroyed.

The man stirred and struggled to his feet, looming over Marcus in the darkness.

‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. But something tells me I would be rash indeed to spend the night close enough that you might feel tempted to harm me. Sleep well, young man, if you can. Don’t try to take advantage of me during the night. Thermon will be watching you.’

‘Thermon? Here?’

‘Oh, yes. I always keep him close. Though he has had to change his appearance, thanks to you.’

Marcus’s mind raced. Thermon had been in Decimus’s party of henchmen all along? He recalled their faces, but at first none reminded him of the man he had only seen clearly on a handful of occasions. Then it hit him. Of course, the bald man with the beard. Biding his time, waiting for the order and the opportunity to strike at Caesar.

Decimus shuffled away, leaving Marcus hunched into his corner, his mind filled with dark thoughts of hatred and revenge.

18

Early the next day, as the sun shone bleakly through a thin mist, one of the rebels came to wake the prisoners. Two men had died during the night. They had shed their armour and cloaks the previous day in an effort to escape and their tunics had not kept them warm enough. In the pale light of dawn they sat hunched up where they had died, their faces frozen into peaceful expressions of slumber.

The rebel kicked them to make sure they were not feigning death, then grunted dismissively before stirring the rest to their feet with further kicks and blows from a thick club in his fist. Marcus and the others rose stiffly, joints cold and painful as they stumbled from the sheep pen to stand waiting in the narrow lane outside. Around them, the rebels emerged from their shelters, stretching and grumbling. Some had already started to eat, chewing on strips of dried meat and the bread they had captured in the wagons. Marcus looked at them, his lips working hungrily. He had not eaten for a day and his belly growled in protest. But no food or drink was offered to the prisoners, and shortly afterwards the Romans were blindfolded as the column began the day’s march.

Several hours later, after winding their way along steep and uneven tracks, the column reached the rebel camp. As the captives were led into Brixus’s camp, the inhabitants emerged from their huts and shelters to watch the spectacle. The defeated Romans were bound together by a length of rope that passed through their arms. Their leader, the once proud Tribune Quintus, had his hands bound behind his back and stumbled to keep up with the rebel leading them through the camp. Marcus was second in line, bruised and cut from the tumbles he had taken during the day’s march.

‘Halt the prisoners!’ a voice commanded from somewhere ahead, and the men behind Marcus shuffled to a stop. There was a pause before he heard boots crunching on the snow beside him, then his blindfold was removed. The morning mist had long since cleared and the sunlight was dazzling. Marcus squinted, his eyes watering. After a moment they adjusted to the light and he looked round in astonishment at the vast camp, hemmed in by the mountains that ringed the valley.

‘No wonder we could never find this place,’ Quintus said. ‘An army could search the Apennines for a hundred years and never guess it was here.’

Marcus looked back the way they had come and saw the path disappear into the cliff a few hundred yards away, as if into solid rock. He recalled the clammy cold of the last stage of the march, and the echo of footsteps and clink and clatter of equipment off solid rock. Quintus was right. The rebel camp was perfectly hidden. The only danger was that a traitor might betray its location. The fact that no one had, only proved that the slaves who flocked to Brixus’s banner shared his fervent belief in the cause for which he fought.

When the last of the blindfolds had been removed the prisoners were led through the heart of the camp towards the largest huts nestling in the centre. The route was lined with people cheering the rebel fighters. Their cheers turned to insults and cries of anger as they caught sight of the prisoners, and some scooped up filth from the ground to hurl at Quintus and the others. Because of his size and the simple cloak he wore, Marcus was spared the worst of the deluge. That was targeted at the tribune, his soldiers and Decimus, conspicuous in his expensively embroidered cloak. They soon emerged from the crowded path into an open space in front of a large hut. A cordon of men armed with spears held the crowd back and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief as the hail of missiles came to an end. He forced himself to compose his expression as he stood up straight and examined his surroundings. The hut was the largest building he had seen in the valley and he guessed it must be where the leader of the rebels lived. If this was the main camp, then there was a chance that Brixus himself was here. Marcus felt a surge of hope. Brixus would be sure to spare him, even though Marcus had marched with Caesar. He would have to explain that he was unwillingly involved in the proconsul’s campaign, and hoped that would be enough for Brixus to forgive him.

Turning towards the nearest of the guards, Marcus cleared his throat. ‘You there. Tell me, is that Brixus’s hut? I must speak to him.’

The rebel stepped quickly towards him and backhanded Marcus across the cheek. ‘Shut your mouth, Roman! You only speak when spoken to if you want to keep your tongue. Clear?’

Reeling from the blow, Marcus opened his mouth to reply, then closed it at once and nodded, rather than risk more punishment.

Mandracus approached and stopped in front of Quintus, hands on his hips. ‘Well then, not so high and mighty any longer, tribune. You and these other Romans. Look at you. Not much older than this boy, barely a man, and already you have that air of haughty arrogance so typical of you Roman aristocrats. Soon you’ll see what it’s like to be treated as a slave.’ He smiled coldly, then turned and made for the entrance to the hut. As he passed the rebel in charge of the prisoners, he gave his orders.

‘I’m going to eat. Hold them beside the hut. Then pass the word around the camp. The entertainment begins the moment that it’s safe to light the fires.’

‘Yes, Mandracus.’ The rebel bowed his head in acknowledgement.

As Mandracus ducked behind the leather curtain in the doorway, Quintus edged closer to Marcus and whispered, ‘Entertainment? What do you think they’re planning to do to us?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I have no idea. But whatever it is, I don’t think many of us will survive it.’

By the time the circle of fires was lit in the open area by the round hut, a huge crowd had formed round the compound. Their faces illuminated by the red flames, they gazed expectantly at the prisoners. The excited hubbub of conversation reminded Marcus of the atmosphere in the crowd that formed at the Senate House in Rome before the start of an important debate. No, that wasn’t quite it, he reflected. It was more like the mood of the crowd in the Forum before he fought the Celtic boy, Ferax. He shuddered at the memory of the terror that had consumed him before the fight began. Partly the terror of facing someone who wanted to kill him, but also terror at the bloodlust in the faces of the crowd pressing in on all sides.

The prisoners had been forced to sit on the frozen ground until darkness fell, their hands kept bound. They had finally been given water and a bowl of thin, greasy stew that was gulped down greedily. After that they had sat in silence, awaiting their fate and forbidden to make a sound or move on threat of a beating.

A hush settled over the crowd and Marcus looked round to see Mandracus emerging from the hut. Wrapped in a long fur cloak, he stood with a silver goblet in one hand, waiting until he had complete silence. Then he drew a breath and spoke in a loud clear voice that carried to the fringes of the crowd.

‘I would prefer to wait until Brixus returns to share our entertainment, but we shall have to start without him. As you all know, both Brixus and I were once gladiators. Men torn from our homes by the legions of Rome, ripped from the bosom of our families and enslaved. Then sold, like cattle, to a lanista to train in the art of killing other men – for no better reason than it whetted Rome’s appetite for entertainment. Tonight we shall return the favour in kind: these Romans will provide our entertainment.’ He punched his spare hand into the air and the crowd let out an excited roar.

Mandracus indulged them for a moment while Marcus felt his blood freeze in his veins. So that was their fate.

‘Quiet!’ Mandracus boomed, gesturing to the crowd to calm down. ‘Tonight I give you a feast of entertainment,’ he continued. ‘A series of fights to the death. The winners of each bout will then face each other until one is left standing. That man, that champion,’ he spoke the word in a tone laced with irony, ‘will be spared. He will become a slave of the camp, for all of you to use and abuse as you will, until he dies.’

Marcus saw the nearest faces in the crowd nod approval. Some looked at the prisoners and shook their fists, shouting insults, the bitterness of their long years in slavery finding expression in this chance for revenge.

‘Let the entertainment begin!’ Mandracus called out, and strode over to the Romans. All their armour and cloaks had been stripped from them, and they sat in their tunics and boots. Mandracus gazed over them a moment before raising his finger to point. ‘You … and you. Stand!’

The two legionaries were slow to react and the rebels hauled them to their feet, dragging them into position, twenty feet apart, in the middle of the open ground. As their bonds were cut, the men stood rubbing their wrists. A sword was dropped at the feet of each man before the rebels backed away.

‘The rules are simple,’ Mandracus told them. ‘You fight to the death. If you go down, then don’t bother appealing for mercy. That’s it. Now pick up your swords and wait for the word to begin.’

Marcus looked at the two men. One was a wiry veteran with dried blood on his left arm where he had been wounded in the ambush. His opponent was a fresh-faced youth, trembling as he stared down at the sword.

‘Pick up your weapons!’ Mandracus bellowed.

At once the youth did as he was told and held the weapon out, its point wavering wildly. The veteran did not move. Then he drew himself up and folded his arms.

‘I don’t take orders from slaves.’

Some in the crowd hooted with derision, but Mandracus simply shrugged and gestured to one of the rebels acting as guards. The man strode behind the veteran and swung a heavy club into the back of his head. The skull gave way with a sharp crack, blood and brains bursting out between the fragments of bone and scalp. The veteran’s jaw sagged open as he stood for a moment before toppling face first to the ground.

Marcus averted his eyes from the gruesome scene. Glancing round the group of prisoners, he wondered who his opponent would be. If only it could be Decimus, or even Thermon.

The rebel tucked the club under his arm and grasped the veteran’s boot to drag the body aside. Mandracus pointed to another prisoner. ‘You. Take his place.’

The legionary scrambled to his feet and as soon as his hands were freed he snatched up the sword and lowered his body into a crouch, prepared to fight for his life.

‘Begin!’

The fight was unlike any Marcus had ever seen during his gladiator training. There was no attempt to size up the other man, decide on tactics and test the opponent’s mettle with a few feints. The two legionaries rushed at each other with grim expressions to hack and parry wildly, and the sharp ringing of their blades filled the air as sparks flew from the clashing metal. With a cry of pain the young recruit staggered back, clutching his spare hand to his thigh where blood seeped out between his fingers. The older man held back, his chest heaving from the exertion. They stared at each other until a voice called out to resume fighting.

The call was taken up and Mandracus gave orders to a group beside one of the fires. ‘Use the heating irons.’

One of the men nodded and leaned down to pick up a metal bar. One end was wrapped in strips of metal; the other led into the heart of the fire. When he raised the bar into the air, it glowed bright yellow, then faded to a lurid red. The man strode behind the wounded young legionary and prodded him with the heated tip. He screamed with pain and lurched forward towards his opponent. Another frenzied exchange of blows followed before the younger man’s leg gave way, forcing him down on his knee as he desperately tried to fend off his former comrade’s attacks. Then his numbed fingers lost their grip and his sword fell to the ground a short distance away. The other man raised his weapon and hesitated.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Finish him! Or you’ll be cut down alongside him.’

The legionary gritted his teeth and shook his head in apology, then thrust the blade into the wounded man’s chest. The young man grunted and flung his head back and arms wide. Then, as the sword was wrenched free, he writhed for a moment on the ground before lying still. The crowd let out a bloodthirsty roar and punched their fists into the chilly air. Two of the rebels approached the winner and one took the sword from his hand while the other steered him to one side of the hut.

Marcus felt sick with worry as Mandracus approached the remaining prisoners and looked over the group. None dared meet his eye to risk being chosen for the next fight.

‘You … Yes, you, and the man next to him. You’re up. Move yourselves!’

There were two more fights and Marcus counted fourteen men left in the group. That meant seven fights, and Decimus was still with them. There was a chance yet to avenge himself. As they dragged the fourth body away, Mandracus scanned his finger across the group and smiled. Then his finger stopped.

‘You … Up!’

Decimus struggled to his feet, shaking his head in mute protest. At once Marcus stood.

‘I’ll fight him! Choose me!’

Mandracus turned. ‘What’s this? A volunteer? The plucky lad wishes to take on a grown man. Looks like we finally found a Roman with the heart to put up a fight. Very well then, boy, he’s all yours.’

‘No!’ Decimus called out. ‘You can’t make me fight!’

‘Oh? Why can’t I?’

Decimus held out his hands. ‘Set me free and I’ll make you a rich man. I have a fortune in Rome. Let me live and I will ensure that all of you are handsomely rewarded. I swear it.’

‘How interesting,’ Mandracus mused. ‘And what amount are we talking about for your ransom?’

‘Half a million sestertii,’ Decimus pleaded, but the rebel did not respond. ‘All right then, a million! A million sestertii!’

‘Hmmm, now that is quite a fortune.’ Mandracus thought briefly. ‘We’ll wait to see what Brixus says. Take this one inside the hut.’

‘Thank you,’ Decimus grovelled. ‘You won’t regret it.’

As he was led away he gave Marcus a smug smile. ‘What did I tell you? Goodbye, boy. Give my regards to Titus when you catch up with him in the afterworld. And apologize to Thermon for me. Tell him it was only ever business between us.’

Marcus gritted his teeth and spat out his reply. ‘Coward!’

Decimus shook his head. ‘No, just a survivor.’

Then he was led away and disappeared through the leather flap into the hut. Mandracus approached Marcus and looked down at him curiously. ‘It’s a shame to put an end to such courage. But you will die with these others. The question is who to pick for your opponent. I’ll be fair so you can put up a decent fight.’

His gaze scrutinized the remaining legionaries and Decimus’s servants. All were tough-looking men, except one.

‘You, tribune. You’re the next youngest, and I dare say you have lived a pampered enough life to provide a poor showing with a sword. Think you’ve got it in you to defeat this boy?’

Quintus stood slowly, his lips curling with contempt. ‘I am not gladiator scum, like you. I will show you how a Roman noble fights.’ At the last moment his lips trembled, betraying his true feelings, and Mandracus chuckled.

‘Nice try. Like all you Roman aristocrats, you have no heart for a real fight. You leave that to others. Well, not tonight. Not here.’ He cut Quintus’s bonds and then did the same for Marcus. ‘Take your positions.’

Two of the rebels dragged them into the open and turned them to face each other. Swords were thrown down in front of them. Quintus picked his up quickly without waiting for the instruction. Marcus noted that his opponent seemed even more nervous than he felt. He had no desire to fight Quintus or any other prisoner, now that Decimus was removed from the grim contest. But while he still breathed he would fight. Aiming to survive, his determination was fuelled by the hope that Brixus would set him free. If he protested now he would only share the fate of the man who had refused to fight earlier.

He bent down to pick up the sword, grasping it tightly and instinctively testing its weight and balance as he had been trained. He experimented with a slash and a few cuts in the air before being satisfied he understood how the weapon would handle in a fight.

‘Begin!’ Mandracus bellowed.

Unlike the previous fights, the two combatants remained still. Marcus forced all thoughts from his mind to concentrate on what lay ahead. Quintus was of average height and slightly built, which meant he had the potential to move fast, but his reach was little better than Marcus’s. Like many other young men, he had a fondness for wine and the good life. Even after days on the road, his reactions might be slow compared to those who had trained at a gladiator school. Marcus tried to recall something from their brief fight in Ariminum that would give him the advantage here.

The crowd had become quiet, sensing that this bout would be a different, more subtle kind of contest.

Marcus raised his sword and turned so that he presented his side to Quintus, limiting the size of the target the tribune could strike at. Then he steadily advanced. Quintus lowered himself into a crouch and adopted the same stance, but held his ground and waited for Marcus. The tips of their swords touched and Marcus applied a gentle pressure as he slid his point a short distance down his opponent’s blade. Quintus dropped the point, cut under and tapped Marcus’s sword aside. Then he feinted with a little jump forward, straightening his arm. Marcus pretended to parry the blow and correctly anticipated that the tribune would cut under his sword again. He knocked it aside, forcing the other sword back with the length of the blade close to his guard, stepping in to Quintus as he did so. The move forced the young man to back off quickly, to prevent Marcus getting too near, and he swept his sword from side to side to block any attacks to his body. Marcus contented himself with flicking his sword so that it nicked the flesh of his opponents forearm, opening a long shallow gash that looked worse than it was as the blood began to flow. Then he stepped back out of reach and stared at Quintus, trying to gauge his next move.

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.