Текст книги "Son of Spartacus"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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8

Ariminum was a small town on the east coast of Italia, with a modest port where the river entered the sea. On either side a broad beach of brown sand stretched out for several miles. The water was shallow for a good distance out and Marcus could see why wealthy Romans came here to rest and play in the summer months. But in winter the town reverted to being a quiet backwater where occasional cargo ships dropped anchor and the local fishermen sat on the sand in the shelter of their beached boats, carefully examining their nets. A mile to the north lay the camp of the army that Caesar had been appointed to command.

The twenty thousand men of the four legions occupied an area that dwarfed the nearby town. The camp was in the shape of a vast square, with one legion assigned to each quadrant. A low perimeter wall and ditch surrounded the city of tents, with towers at regular intervals and a fortified gate halfway along each side. Two wide thoroughfares intersected at the heart of the camp where the largest tents stood. Around them stretched row after row of goatskin tents, each shared by eight legionaries. Outside the camp, thousands of men were engaged in drilling and weapons practice.

It was a spectacular sight but Marcus could not summon up any excitement. He sat in his saddle beside the other riders, surveying the scene from the last rise in the ground before the road reached Ariminum. Three days had passed since their lucky escape in the mountains. The man injured in the leg had been left at Hispellum, the first town they had reached. A Greek surgeon there said he would recover, but would be left with a crippling limp for the rest of his life. It was the loss of Lupus that had hit Marcus hard. He had encountered few people he considered friends since being enslaved, and to lose another was a cruel reminder of his loneliness.

There had been Brixus during his days at the gladiator school in Capua. Then Brixus had discovered Marcus’s identity before escaping from the school to find his former comrades from the Spartacus revolt. And now they too knew that the son of their hero was alive. When Brixus had revealed the truth, it had shaken Marcus’s world to the ground. Titus, the man he thought was his father, and had admired and loved, had been one of the Romans who crushed the slave revolt and killed his real father. It had been hard to accept at first, but since Marcus had learned more about Spartacus his respect for the father he had never known had steadily increased. Respect, but not the affection he had known for Titus. How could it be otherwise?

Then, when he had been brought to Rome, he’d befriended Portia, Caesar’s niece, after saving her life. A few years older than Marcus, she had been sent to Rome to be raised by her uncle while her father campaigned in Hispania. Her loneliness and her gratitude to Marcus had drawn them closer than was usual for the niece of a consul and one of his slaves. However, Marcus had always felt a sense of reserve in her company. There were limits to what a slave could say openly in such circumstances. Marcus was a little nervous at the prospect of meeting her again in Ariminum. She would surely have changed now she was married to Quintus, and might not like reminding of her closeness to one of her uncle’s servants, even though he had been granted his freedom.

His other friends had been the two boys Marcus had shared a cell with in Caesar’s household: Corvus and Lupus. The former had worked in the kitchen, often bitter about the way life had treated him. But he had courage and in the end had given his life to protect Portia. Then there was Lupus. Lupus was a gentle soul who loved his craft and read books too, and even seemed to enjoy them. Now Lupus was gone, and Marcus felt alone again as he grieved for his friend.

‘We’ll make for the camp first,’ Caesar announced, interrupting Marcus’s dark thoughts, ‘before I arrange for accommodation in Ariminum.’

He waved his hand forward and broke into an easy canter to cover the last few miles. The others spurred their mounts and followed him down the road. A short distance from the town gate they turned on to a side road that led towards a wooden bridge over the river. The autumn and winter rains in the Apennines had swollen the river so that it threatened to breach the banks as it rushed past the pylons supporting the bridge.

As the riders approached the camp, they reached the first group of soldiers exercising at the palus, a wooden stake the size of a man. The legionaries stood crouched before their targets and alternated between thrusting their swords at the posts, and smashing their shields into them. Marcus was familiar with the technique from his days at the gladiator school. The centurion in charge of the soldiers glanced up but did not salute. His new commander was wearing a simple cloak and no sign of the authority granted to him in Rome. Caesar nodded a greeting as they pounded by.

It was different at the gate to the camp, though. There a timber bridge extended across the ditch and a section of fully armed men stood guard on the far side. Caesar reined in and walked his horse across the bridge, its hoofs making hollow thuds. The duty optio held up a hand and stood in his way.

‘Halt! What is your business here?’

Caesar tugged lightly on his reins and reached into the bag hanging from one of his saddle horns. ‘Bear with me a moment, I have it here … somewhere.’

The optio puffed his cheeks impatiently. ‘If you’re the grain merchants the quartermaster’s been waiting for, then you’re late and I warn you he won’t be a happy man.’

‘No, not grain merchants,’ Caesar mumbled as he continued rummaging. Then he smiled as he withdrew his hand and held up a baton, gold at each end with a strip of parchment tightly fastened round it by the great seal of the Senate and people of Rome. ‘Here we are! I am Caius Julius Caesar, governor of the province of Gaul and general of this army. I am here to take up my command, under the authority of the Senate.’

Marcus saw the optio s eyes widen as his jaw went slack. Recovering quickly, he stepped smartly to the side, stood to attention and snapped his fist across his chest in salute.

‘My apologies, sir.’

‘At ease.’ Caesar laughed. ‘Well, I’ve never been taken for a grain merchant before!’

‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The optio’s face reddened.

‘No need to apologize. We’ve been on the road for five days. Carry on, Optio.’

Caesar urged his mount forward and led his escort into the camp. Beyond the gate Marcus took in a sharp breath as he saw neat lines of tents stretching out in every direction. Smoke drifted up from scores of campfires and the forges of armourers. The air was filled with the sound of voices, and the shout of orders. Ahead of them stretched a long, wide avenue reaching into the heart of the camp. Some of the soldiers looked up curiously as the riders passed by, but most simply ignored them and continued with their duties, or sat outside their tents tending to their kit or playing dice.

When they reached the large tents at the centre of the camp Caesar was halted by a centurion of the elite unit of soldiers entrusted with guarding the headquarters and the senior officers of the army. As soon as he saw the baton he waved the riders through and they dismounted at the horseline outside the largest of the tents. The eagle standards of the four legions stood on a podium in front of the entrance and were guarded by eight men with bearskins covering their helmets and shoulders.

There was something in the atmosphere that excited Marcus. A heady mixture of sights and sounds, combined with knowledge of the power wielded by Rome through its soldiers. These were the men who had carved out a great empire, defeating other empires in turn. The same men who had worn down and finally crushed Spartacus and his rebels, Marcus reminded himself. His excitement cooled.

At the entrance to the tent Caesar turned. ‘Festus and Marcus, you come with me. The rest, wait here.’

Caesar’s baton had been spotted by one of the guards at the entrance to the tent and, when they entered, the officers and clerks at the desk on either side immediately stood to attention as the three new arrivals strode through. At the far side of the tent was another flap and a figure hurried in, extending a hand as he smiled. ‘Caesar! Good to see you again.’

‘Labienus, my old friend.’ Caesar grasped his forearm and returned his smile.

‘I was expecting to receive you in March. I had no idea you were coming sooner, otherwise I’d have prepared a fitting reception for a proconsul.’

‘I’ve had enough of ceremonies for a while. Time for me to do some honest soldiering, and leave politics behind. Or at least that’s what I had hoped. Now Cicero has manoeuvred me into a nasty little trap.’ Caesar looked round at the other men in the huge tent. ‘Let’s continue this somewhere private.’

Once the flaps were closed behind them Labienus indicated some folding wooden chairs beside the large table that dominated one side of the tent. Caesar gestured at his companions. ‘This is Festus, the leader of my personal bodyguard.’

‘There won’t be much call for you here.’ said Labienus. ‘There is a unit of the army assigned to protect its general.’

Caesar nodded. ‘Even so, Festus and his men will stay close to me. After the events of last year in Rome, I have to be careful who I trust.’

Labienus shrugged. ‘It may seem strange to say, but I think you will find you are safer on campaign than on the streets of Rome these days. And who is the boy?’

Caesar turned to Marcus and placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘This is Marcus Cornelius Primus, the gladiator. The toast of Rome.’

There was no denying that it felt good to be singled out by Caesar, one of the three most powerful figures in the entire Roman Empire, but Marcus found that he was embarrassed by the praise. He forced a smile before he glanced down for a moment.

‘You?’ Labienus’s eyebrows rose. ‘You are that boy? I had thought you would be bigger. Given your reputation. They say you slew a Celt giant in that fight in the Forum. But you are so … young.’

‘Don’t be deceived by what you see,’ said Caesar. ‘Marcus has the heart of a lion, the speed of a viper and the quick wits of a cat. In time he will make an even greater name for himself. Perhaps the greatest gladiator who ever lived. There is none like him.’ Caesar hesitated. ‘Well, perhaps there was once. But he is dead now. A great pity. I would like to have seen Spartacus fight in Rome. What a spectacle that would have been.’

‘We shall never see his like again.’ Labienus agreed. ‘For which I can only offer my thanks to the Gods.’

Once again Marcus felt the danger of his situation, and the lure of his father’s legacy. If only these Romans knew the truth…

Labienus continued. ‘I just wish those troublemakers in the mountains realized it and put an end to their rebellion. Anyway, they will be dealt with in due course. What was that you said a moment ago, about Cicero and a trap?’

‘That’s why I have arrived earlier than expected. I am required to put down Brixus’s revolt, and eliminate what remains of Spartacus’s followers. The task must be complete before I am permitted to begin any campaigns in Gaul. It’s not going to be easy. I had a taste of what we’re up against on the road from Rome. We were ambushed in the mountains and lucky to escape with our skins. I lost one of my men, another was wounded, and my scribe was killed as well.’ He paused and turned to Marcus. ‘You know how to read and write?’

Marcus had received a sound basic education and nodded. ‘Well enough, sir.’

‘Then you will take Lupus’s place for now. You can do that alongside being a member of the bodyguard, and my expert on gladiators.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Marcus replied with a flush of pride.

‘Good.’ Caesar patted him. ‘Then see to it that you find what you need for the job from the headquarters staff. If anyone questions you, say that you are acting on my orders.’

‘What are your plans for Brixus?’ Labienus asked.

‘I’ll take the best soldiers you have. You’ll remain in command here with the rest of the men, preparing the recruits for Gaul. I’ll divide my force in two. The commander of the Ninth legion, Balbus, will march his men south to Corfinium, and then work his way north, clearing out each valley as he advances. I’ll start from the other end of the Apennines and work towards him. We’ll roll them up and crush them between us. I expect it will not take much more than a month.’

‘I see,’ Labienus mused. ‘When do you intend to begin?’

‘In two days’ time. I want the two columns equipped and provisioned for a month. They’ll need to march quickly when we enter the mountains so I can’t afford any heavy baggage. Just enough to feed them for a few days at a time. The rest of the supplies will have to be stockpiled in the towns running down the edge of the mountains. You’ll need to see to that.’

‘Two days?’ Labienus puffed his cheeks. ‘Yes, it can be done.’

‘Can be done?’ Caesar frowned. ‘Labienus, it will be done.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you can give the necessary orders at once. Oh, one more thing. You have a new tribune serving in the Ninth by the name of Quintus Pompeius, the nephew of Pompeius.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I take it he’s billeted in the town?’

Labienus nodded. ‘He’s taken over a slave trader’s house for himself and a rather pretty young wife he’s just married. A very nice little filly.’

Marcus felt his anger rise at this disrespectful reference to Portia.

‘The little filly is my niece,’ Caesar said sharply. ‘Very well, my men and I shall stay with her. Once you’ve given the orders I want a full report sent to me in Ariminum. I need to know the names of my officers and the strength of the units chosen for the job. Also, I’m expecting a man to arrive here in a few days’ time. The lanista of the school Brixus ran away from. Clodius is searching for him now. He’ll send the man here as soon as he is found.’

‘Yes, Caesar. I’ll send him to you the moment he arrives.’

‘Good, then that concludes our business.’ Caesar stood up, followed by Festus and Marcus. ‘Now let’s find a decent bathhouse in the town and get ourselves cleaned up before we descend on Portia and her husband.’

9

‘Uncle Cams!’ Portia beamed as she saw him enter the atrium. She flew across the tiled floor and hugged him tightly as Caesar laughed. Caesar was wearing a tunic borrowed from one of Ariminum’s magistrates, and a slave had cleaned his boots while he and the others had been through the town’s largest bathhouse. The steam, massage, scrape and cold plunge had left Marcus feeling clean and refreshed, and he and Festus were wearing the spare tunics from their saddlebags.

‘Easy there! You’ll crush my ribs.’

Marcus and Festus stood at the threshold looking on, and Marcus felt a pang of envy that he was denied a family. Until he had tracked down his mother and set her free, there would be none of the simple pleasures of such a homely scene.

Caesar took her shoulders and eased her back as he beamed down at her. ‘How is my favourite niece?’

‘I’m your only niece.’ She punched him lightly on the chest.

‘Well, there you are then. Still my favourite. And how are you adapting to married life? Where is that husband of yours, young Quintus?’

Marcus saw her smile waver for the briefest instant before she replied. ‘Oh, he’s down at the officers’ club. They’ve set themselves up in an inn on the harbour front. They’re very busy at the moment, as you must know. Getting the army ready for the new campaign. I suppose they are entitled to a bit of fun now and again. But we’re happy. Very happy. Although I know that I will not see him for a long time when you take the army north, into Gaul.’ Her smile faded as she took his hand. ‘Please don’t give the order too soon.’

‘My dear, empires are not won by men who stay at home with their wives.’

‘And men who win empires are not born if their fathers are never at the side of their mothers,’ she shot back.

‘Hah! You have a sharper mind than half the men in the Senate, and a sharper tongue than the rest of them. But enough of that. I have a surprise for you, just in case you were missing Rome.’ He stepped aside to reveal his two companions. ‘Here’s Festus, and Marcus.’

‘Marcus!’ Portia smiled and stepped towards him and took his hands, at arm’s length, gave a squeeze and then released them. ‘You look well. Fully recovered from the fight with that awful thug Ferax?’

‘Yes, mistress,’ Marcus replied formally, as was the expected custom between them in front of others. ‘I am well. It is good to see you again.’

‘Then perhaps we can talk a little later on, when you have all been fed?’

Caesar coughed. ‘I’ll eat later. There’s something I need to attend to first. This officers’ dub, where is it exactly?’

‘Must you go already?’ Portia frowned.

‘I have much to do. We are on the march against the rebel slaves the day after tomorrow. I need to look at my officers. See what they’re like and choose those who will accompany me. I won’t be too long, I promise. Meanwhile, you can see that Festus and Marcus are fed, and plague them with questions about events in Rome since you left. I know it’s only been a few months, but they’ve been filled with incident.’

‘I will ask. But tell me, how is Lupus? I thought you’d need your scribe at your side.’

Caesar pursed his Ups. ‘Marcus is my scribe now.’

‘Oh. Why not Lupus? I thought he was good at his job.’

‘He is… was. We lost Lupus on the journey here.’

‘Lost?’

‘We were ambushed by brigands. Lupus was killed.’ He cupped her cheek in his hand. ‘The others can tell you the story. I must go.’

Caesar kissed her on the top of her head and turned away to stride through the door into the street. The doorman closed it behind him and Portia was left with the others. She looked from face to face. ‘Poor Lupus… Come then, to the triclinium. I’ll have food and drink brought for us and you can tell me what happened.’

The triclinium of the slave-dealer’s house overlooked a long colonnaded garden with a water channel running down the middle, crossed by two small wicker bridges. Dusk had fallen over Ariminum and the air was chilly, so a fire had been lit on a brazier in the middle of three dining couches. Small tables had been set in front of each and a woman slave in a plain brown tunic brought small platters of sliced sausage, olives, honeyed bread and delicate pots of fish sauce to drizzle on their food, together with glass goblets and ajar of watered wine.

For a while they talked light-heartedly about affairs in Rome and the latest scandal to emerge from the world of chariot racing where one of the owners of the blue team had been accused of bribing a stable boy from the green team to poison the feed of the best horses. As a result the races had been cancelled for two months until tempers between the teams’ supporters calmed down.

‘It’s an outrage,’ grumbled Festus, an ardent follower of the blue team. ‘Typical of the greens. They lose several races and of course it’s someone else’s fault. Never mind the fact that Barmoris can’t drive a chariot to save his life.’

‘Oh dear.’ Portia made a sympathetic expression. ‘It does seem to have upset you.’

Festus stared at her. ‘Upset? This is not some minor matter, mistress. We’re talking about chariot racing.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry.’ Portia reached for a dish of stuffed olives and held them out as a peace offering.

‘Thank you, but I’ve eaten enough.’ Festus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘If you don’t mind, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. I think I need a good night’s sleep.’

Portia nodded. ‘As you wish.’

Rising from his couch, Festus bowed his head curtly and strode out of the room. Portia could not help smiling, and once he had gone she shook her head and muttered, ‘What is it with men and chariots?’

Marcus shrugged. Despite having lived in the capita! over the last year he had never quite understood the passions evoked by the sight of four teams racing round the Great Circus. He broke off another hunk of bread, dipped it in the fish sauce and began to chew. There was a brief silence as Portia slowly pushed a slice of sausage round her platter with the point of her knife. At length she cleared her throat and spoke without looking up. ‘So, what happened to Lupus?’

Marcus finished chewing and swallowed. ‘As your uncle said, he was killed in an ambush.’

‘I know what he said,’ she replied tersely. ‘I want to know what happened.’

Marcus paused to recollect the ambush before he responded. ‘We were caught in a narrow pass and hopelessly outnumbered. Caesar decided our only hope was in cutting our way through the brigands. So we charged them and escaped. Lupus was bringing up the rear when the avalanche struck.’

‘Avalanche?’

Marcus nodded. ‘It looked like half the mountain was coming down. It fell into the pass and blocked it, burying everyone in its path.’

‘Is here no way Lupus could have escaped?’

‘No. I saw it myself. Saw him crushed and buried.’

Portia shivered as she imagined the scene. ‘I hope it was quick and painless for him.’

Marcus pursed his lips. He had no way of knowing and was not prepared to put a good face on the tragedy. ‘I have been instructed to cake his place. I hope I can do half as good a job at him.’

Portia looked up at him and smiled warmly. ‘You will do fine, Marcus. I know you will. Nothing is beyond you. I’ve seen enough of your courage, strength and determination to know that much. Even if your writing skills do not match those of Lupus, they will do very soon. I am sure of it.’

Marcus felt a flush of pride at her words. ‘Thank you, mistress. I will do my best to serve Caesar well.’

She smiled, then seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I only hope my new husband is as diligent as you.’

There it was again, Marcus thought. That sad tone in her voice. He did not know what to say, if anything. Their worlds were so different and Portia might consider it unacceptable for him to address the subject of her married life. Yet she had also been close enough to call a friend. He cared for Portia and wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Yet she clearly was not.

‘Mistress…’

‘When there is no one else present, I am only Portia to you,’ she said.

Marcus nodded. ‘Very well… Portia. You don’t seem very content.’

‘Why should I be? Lupus is dead.’

‘But it’s not Lupus’s fate that upsets you. There’s more to it than that.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ she said defiantly, glaring at Marcus and daring him to challenge her. ‘I am perfectly happy. Perfectly.’

He sighed and pretended to turn his attention back to the last few morsels on his plate. He selected a small pastry encrusted with salt. ‘If you say so.’

There was a silence and then he heard the soft sound of muffled sobbing. Looking up, he saw that Portia had buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved as she cried. At once he slipped off his couch and went to sit by her. He hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand and patted her softly on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Portia. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She sobbed again, then drew a breath to reply. ‘It’s not you. It’s me … It’s my fault.’

‘What’s your fault?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She raised her head as she sat up, and Marcus’s hand slipped away. As soon as Portia’s eyes were level with his, he felt her take his hand in hers. The thin dark lines of kohl round her eyes had smudged and her lower lip trembled. ‘I try to please Quintus. I try to be the wife he deserves, but he ignores me. I am too young to be his wife, and he is too young to be a husband. I have barely spoken to him this last month. He is out of the house almost all the time, and sometimes does not come home at nights. I’ve heard that he is losing his fortune in dice games. When I asked him about it, he was angry and threatened to hit me.’

‘Why didn’t you say something to your uncle earlier?’

‘How could I? I know how important this marriage is to Uncle Caius. He needs Pompeius as an ally. Besides… perhaps I am just being silly. Maybe this is what marriage is like. If I told my uncle he would be angry with me and tell me to pull myself together, I know it.’

If Caesar said that, he would be wrong,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘You don’t deserve to be treated like this.’

‘How else should I be treated?’ Portia replied miserably. ‘Roman girls of my class are raised to forge alliances between men. Traded between men. Why, we are no better off than slaves when it comes down to it.’

Marcus could not help being surprised. He had seen how slaves lived, how they were beaten, abused and treated as just another form of property. The conditions in which they lived were a world apart from the pampered lifestyle of Rome’s finest families. Yet there was something in what Portia said. Despite her luxuries, she had no more say in how she wanted to live than the slaves who served her. While other women might choose to marry someone they loved, she had no choice.

Suddenly she put her arms round him and drew herself into his shoulder, beginning to cry again. He reached a hand up to stroke her hair. ‘It’ll be all right, Portia,’ he mumbled, not sure what to say. What words could make it all right for her? ‘In time, it will get better. You’ll see.’

She let out a soft whine of despair. ‘I wish I could tell my uncle. But I can’t. All I have now is you.’

She drew back and looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes, her face streaked with kohl and her lips trembling. Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, and closed her eyes. Marcus nearly recoiled in shock but found that he liked the feeling. A warm gush of affection filled his heart and made his head swim.

Then, with a shudder of anxiety, his lips froze. What was he doing? What utter foolishness was this? If they were seen, he was as good as dead. Portia would be in danger too. Her husband would beat her; he would be within his rights to. Marcus pulled himself free and hurriedly shuffled away from her. Portia looked at him with a surprised expression, before it turned to hurt.

‘Marcus, what is it?’

‘This is wrong, Portia! Wrong and dangerous. We must not do it.’

‘But you are all I have. You are all that is special to me now. The last link I have with the way things were.’

‘I know it’s hard. But I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you.’

‘Marcus – ’

He held his hand up. ‘Please don’t! It’s too dangerous for both of us.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go.’

‘Stay. Please.’

But Marcus knew that he could not. He strode across to the doorway and paused. Looking back, he saw the hurt in her expression and his heart urged a return to her side, but he hardened himself to speak. ‘We must forget this ever happened. For both our sakes. Even our friendship is risk enough. This…’ He shook his head. ‘This is nothing less than suicide, Portia. It must never happen again.’

Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.