Marcus frowned angrily. His world had been turned over. All that he had known was false and his heart was filled with a turmoil of emotions. He still loved Titus, the tough, proud veteran of the legions. Yet there was not a drop of Roman blood in Marcus’s veins. His true heritage lay in the ranks of the millions of downtrodden slaves who lived and died chained together in the mines, or on the farms owned by wealthy Romans, as drudges in their fine villas, or as a source of bloody entertainment in their gladiatorial games. That was Marcus’s true identity, what he had always been - nothing but a slave.
The knowledge burned painfully in his heart. He felt bitter about the deception, and couldn’t believe his mother had hidden the truth from him all his life. His anger towards her was immediately followed by intense guilt. She was all he cared about in the world and his one goal in life was to find and set her free.
Marcus’s plan had been to track down General Pompeius, the former commander of Titus, and ask him to help save his mother. It was a favour a Roman general might grant one of his former officers, but it would be a death sentence for both Marcus and his mother if Pompeius discovered Marcus was actually the son of the most hated and dangerous slave in all of the Roman Empire. This would be equally true if his new master, Caesar, discovered the name of his real father. Spartacus was the enemy of all Romans.
Marcus sighed again, this time in frustration at his apparently impossible situation. He had to find a way to help his mother that would not risk revealing his real identity. And quickly . . .
‘Curse Brixus!’ he muttered angrily as he entered the inner atrium of the house, where a colonnade surrounded a small shallow pool. Marcus stared down at the flagstones, deep in thought as he began to make his way round the pool.
‘Brixus? Who is this Brixus that upsets my saviour and personal bodyguard so much?’
Marcus stopped and looked round anxiously - he should not have uttered Brixus’s name aloud - as a slender figure emerged from behind one of the columns. It was Caesar’s niece, Portia - a girl just a few years older than Marcus, with light brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail and the same piercing brown eyes as her uncle. Marcus had been told that Portia’s mother had died in childbirth and her father was serving with the legions in Spain, so she had come to live with her uncle in Rome.
He bowed his head. ‘Good day to you, Mistress Portia.’
A light frown creased her high forehead. ‘Mistress? Must you be so formal?’ She waved a hand around the atrium. ‘We’re alone. You can speak freely to me. There’s no one to overhear us.’
Marcus glanced at the entrances to the atrium and saw she spoke the truth. Even so, he lowered his voice as he responded.
‘I could be flogged for addressing you disrespectfully.’
‘But I don’t consider it disrespectful,’ Portia countered in a gentle tone. ‘I just want you to speak to me as a friend, Marcus. Not as my uncle’s slave.’
He stared at her in silence. Since arriving at the house he had spoken to Portia on just a handful of occasions, always with other household members present. Portia had visited him at the gladiator school when he was recovering from wounds received while saving her from the wolves in the school’s arena. She’d been full of gratitude and Marcus had expected a warm welcome. But since he’d arrived Portia had seemed as indifferent to him as to all the other slaves in the household. The change in her manner, so disdainful after her earlier gratitude, had confused and hurt him at first.
Then, not long after his arrival, he’d been ordered to mop the floor in Portia’s quarters. Struck by the stark contrast between his dismal cell and Portia’s comfortable existence, he’d realized how far apart their two lives were. Even as he marvelled at her soft sleeping couch, covered with ornately patterned woven blankets, he understood the social gulf between them was as wide as any ocean of the world, and just as dangerous. Looking at the fine-quality furniture - the table for her scents, an ebony chest for her jewels and a large rack holding scrolls of poetry, histories and letters from her father - he saw clearly that two utterly different worlds existed side by side in the same household.
Marcus was a slave, and his master was free to do with him as he wished. How could Caesar’s niece ever be considered the friend of a slave boy? And Caesar was not merely a citizen of Rome. His family was one of the most respected in the city, claiming descent from the goddess Venus herself. As such Caesar would not take kindly to discovering that one of his slaves had spoken to his niece on anything like equal terms. A master could have his slave executed for less.
Only now, Portia seemed to be acting as though that gulf didn’t really exist. Marcus opened his mouth as he struggled to reply, then closed it when he couldn’t find a safe way to address her.
She saw his discomfort and let out a light laugh.
‘Very well, if it would make you feel safer we can talk in the garden. There’s a private spot in the far corner. Follow me.’ There was an unmistakable tone of command in her words as she led him through the short passage into the modest garden beyond.
The garden was a neatly kept space no more than a hundred feet across. Past generations of Caesar’s family, the Julii, had taken great pride in it and it was composed of carefully shaped shrubs and roses and other bright flowers trained by wooden frames. These created shaded avenues that crossed the garden and ran down each side and filled the air with a pleasant fragrance. A small fountain tinkled in the centre of the garden. It was hard to believe that something as beautiful and sweet smelling could exist in what he’d seen of this crowded, filthy and stinking city, Marcus thought.
Portia led him down one of the side paths to the corner where the tall plastered walls met. Here there was a small seating area shielded from view by a hedge. She sat down on one of the two wooden benches lining the angled walls. Behind them, the plaster had been painted with a view from an ivy-clad balcony overlooking rolling hills that led to the sea. Tiny ships with bright sails rode the still waves. Getting no closer to their destination, Marcus thought. Going nowhere. Just like me.
Portia patted the space beside her. ‘Come. Sit down.’
He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder.
‘Marcus,’ Portia chuckled, ‘no one can see us here. Trust me. Now sit down.’
He sucked in a deep breath and reluctantly lowered himself on to the bench, a good two feet away from Portia and as near to her as he dared sit.
‘This is dangerous,’ he said, turning his head to look at her.
‘You’re safe enough. If anyone comes, you can stand up and I shall pretend to have summoned you to fetch me a drink.’
‘What if they don’t believe you?’
She arched an eyebrow imperiously. ‘I am the niece of a consul of Rome. Who is going to question my word, in my own household?’
‘Your uncle, for one. I doubt that he’d be happy for his noble niece to be caught having a friendly chat with a slave boy.’
‘Pah!’ Portia gestured dismissively. ‘I can run rings round my uncle if I need to - even if he is one of the most powerful men in Rome, next to that old moneybags Crassus and vain General Pompeius - General Pompous more like!’ She laughed at her joke and Marcus saw that her teeth were small and bright.
Overhearing the gossip of the other slaves, Marcus had learned that Caesar’s only child, his beloved Julia, had been married to General Pompeius shortly before Marcus arrived in Rome. Now it seemed that Caesar had come to regard Portia as a replacement for the daughter who had left his household.
‘Anyway,’ Portia continued, ‘it is quite safe for you to talk to me, Marcus.’
He wanted to believe her, but still felt the need for caution. ‘What shall we talk about then?’
Portia looked surprised. ‘Why, it’s several days since you arrived and I want to know how you’re settling in. What do you think of our house?’
‘House?’ Marcus gestured around the garden. ‘I thought this was a palace. Is this how all Roman lords live?’
‘Exciting?’ Marcus was surprised by the question and couldn’t help a bitter smile. ‘I’m as excited as a slave can be.’
‘Come now, you are part of my uncle’s household. You’re no longer at that grim little gladiator school where he found you. I’d have thought you’d be more grateful at the way things have turned out.’
Marcus didn’t like her tone and a burst of indignation flared in his heart. ‘And I would have thought your uncle might be grateful that I saved your life.’
Portia winced, then bowed her head and looked down at her hands resting in her lap. She was silent for a moment before she continued humbly.
‘I am grateful, Marcus. Really I am. And so is my uncle, though he wouldn’t dream of being indebted to a slave. I’m sorry for the way I spoke just then.’ She glanced shyly at him. ‘I don’t want to be your enemy. I want to be your friend. I suppose I’m feeling a bit lonely. I don’t really have many friends. . . Please don’t hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you,’ Marcus replied stiffly, then stabbed his thumb at the brass plaque hanging from his neck on a thick chain. His name and that of his master were neatly engraved on its shiny surface. ‘It’s just this that I hate. I shouldn’t be a slave. I was born free and lived that way until less than a year ago - until my mother and I were kidnapped by a tax collector and my . . . father . . . was killed. One day I will find her and set her free. And I will have my revenge, and kill that tax collector, Decimus. I swear it.’
Portia looked shocked. ‘What happened?’
‘My father got into debt. He borrowed money from Decimus and when he couldn’t repay it, Decimus sent his thugs in. Their leader, a man called Thermon, killed my father, and took my mother and me away to be sold into slavery to cover the debt.’ Marcus’s heart filled with sorrow at the memory and he looked away.
Portia was silent, then spoke softly. ‘Then you will need to win your liberty, Marcus, so you can search for your mother.’
Or I could escape, thought Marcus. Briefly, he considered the possibility. He would not get far with a slave’s collar round his neck. And once caught, he’d be dragged back to Caesar’s house where his master would punish him harshly. It would be expected of him, to make sure an example was given to the other slaves in the household, as well as the slaves in all the households across Rome. Marcus sighed. There was little to be gained from escaping right now. It would be far better to follow his original plan and see if he could plead his case directly to General Pompeius, while keeping the secret of his true identity.
Marcus cleared his throat. ‘If I serve your uncle well, perhaps he will set me free. Until then, I will protect you with my life.’
Portia smiled. ‘Thank you. And, Marcus - maybe I can help you. I’d like to, if I could.’
A brief silence fell between them, then Marcus spoke again. ‘Perhaps. But you must know that I can never be a real friend to you. Not while I am a slave and you’re the niece of a consul.’
Portia paused before she replied. ‘I imagine you think I’m a pampered brat. Just like all those other silly girls riding in litters about the city. Well, perhaps I am in some ways. But my uncle is powerful and that means many men and women want to be counted among his friends. So they toady up to him, and their sons and nieces toady up to me. No one treats me like a normal person. To them I am a means of winning Caesar’s favour. I am thirteen years old. By this time next year I may well be married. My uncle will want to use the wedding to further his political ambitions.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I don’t want your sympathy. I have always known that would be my fate, and I accept it. But before it happens I’d like to have had at least one true friend in my life, Marcus. When I fell into that arena I saw my death in the eyes of those wolves. But you saved me. And that means we share a real bond. Doesn’t it?’
Marcus recalled that Titus had once told him that when one soldier saved the life of another, they were as brothers. But his feelings for Portia were more than that, though he hardly dared admit it, even to himself. Despite his knowledge of their different lives, he desperately wanted her words to be true. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Then you can be my secret friend, and I will be yours. I can talk freely to you and you to me. In time, I may even be able to help you win your freedom. ’
More than anything, Marcus wanted someone with whom he could speak freely, but there was no question of even hinting at his true identity to Portia. For her, her uncle, and for every Roman, the spectre of Spartacus haunted their dreams. He meant an end to their way of life.
Still, he forced himself to smile. ‘Thank you, Mistress Portia.’
She looked hurt. ‘Just Portia when we are alone. Please.’
‘As you wish, Portia.’
She smiled. ‘There! It’s settled. We are friends, and we will talk like this whenever we can. I want you to tell me how Festus trains you, what you think about Rome, and I’ll tell you all that goes on in the finest houses of the city.’
Marcus forced a smile.
Portia was about to speak again when a shout carried across the garden.
‘Marcus! Marcus! Where are you, boy?’
Marcus recognized the harsh tone of Flaccus, the household’s steward, and turned to Portia as he rose from the bench.
‘I have to go.’
‘Yes.’ She took his hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘We’ll talk again soon, I hope.’
Marcus nodded as Flaccus bellowed his name again and he hurried from the sheltered corner along the path at the side of the garden. Emerging into the shaded colonnade that ran across the end of the house, he caught sight of the steward - a short, overweight man in a green tunic. Flaccus was bald, except for a heavily oiled fringe that ran around his head, and his heavy cheeks wobbled as he turned towards the sound of Marcus’s light footsteps.
‘Where in Hades have you been?’ he scowled.
‘Here in the garden, sir,’ Marcus replied as he stopped in front of the man.
‘Well, don’t let me catch you at it again. When you’re not needed you stay in the slave quarters until you’re called for. Understand?’ He shot out a hand and cuffed Marcus’s ear.
The blow knocked Marcus’s head to one side and his ears filled with a dull ringing. He blinked and glared back at the steward. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘See that you do, or next time I’ll give you a hiding you won’t forget.’ The steward rested his fat fingers on his hips and stared coldly down at Marcus.
‘I know what you did at that gladiator school, and I know the master favours you, but don’t think that makes you special. You’re no better than the rest of us slaves. I’m the steward here. You answer to me. And if you cross me, you’ll regret it. I’ll treat you no differently from the kitchen boys. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Flaccus stabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Now then. The master is heading to the Senate. He’s given instructions you’re to join his retinue. You’re to take a cape from the slop chest and wait for him at the main entrance. Well, what are you waiting for, lad - get moving!’
3
Marcus stood with a party of other slaves and servants in the entrance hall while they waited for their master to appear. The cloak Marcus had chosen from those heaped in the kitchen slop chest was the least rancid one he could find. Even so, it stank of sweat and
he’d taken care to push the hood well back, deciding he would only wear that if he absolutely had to. The other men wore a mixture of tunics and cloaks that indicated their status. The slaves were dressed as drably as Marcus, while Festus, a freedman, wore a clean red tunic and brown cape, as did the men he had hired to act as Caesar’s personal bodyguards. Marcus noted their hard expressions, weathered faces and thick muscled arms and guessed that they must be gladiators or former legionaries, like his father.
But he wasn’t my father, Marcus reminded himself. He thrust memories of Titus aside, together with the grief in his heart. He must be strong. He must not give in to feelings. He could not be weak if he wanted to save his mother. Only the ruthless training he’d received at Porcino’s gladiator school mattered now.
‘Here, boy, take this.’
Marcus looked up to see Festus holding out a thick stave. The wooden shaft was tapered from its heavy end and bound with strips of leather to provide a firm grip. Marcus took the club and hefted it experimentally to test its weight. He took a step away from Festus and swung it to and fro, sensing that it was well balanced and would be a useful weapon. Festus looked on approvingly.
‘Good to see that you’re familiar with the tools of the trade.’
Marcus looked round and noticed the other men had either stuck the clubs in their belts, or were carrying them by the thick end, as if they were walking sticks. He turned back to Festus.
‘Why aren’t they carrying swords?’
Festus raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, yes. You’re a newcomer to Rome. Well, lad, the law says no one is allowed to carry a sword within the city limits. No one pays too much attention to that, but it doesn’t look good for anyone in the public eye to break the law. That’s why we carry the clubs, and a few other things besides. You used a club before?’
‘In training,’ said Marcus. ‘In the first month before we were allowed to use a real weapon.’
‘This is a real weapon,’ Festus growled as he hefted his own club. ‘Almost as good as any sword if it comes to a fight. And not quite so messy. Last thing Caesar and the other great men of Rome want is for blood to flow in the streets. Mind you, break a man’s skull open with a club and there’s a mess all right.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at Marcus. ‘One last thing. You call me “sir” when you speak to me. Got it?’
Gladiator: Street fighter Page 2