‘You’re joking, of course,’ said Pompeius. ‘Think how it would look to the mob if a consul unleashed packs of gladiators upon them. It would be a scandal. Worse than a scandal, it would be a mistake.’
Caesar reflected a moment and flashed a smile. ‘You are right I am joking. Nevertheless, I will send for some of my best gladiators and have them billeted close to Rome, just in case.’
Pompeius sucked in a quick breath. ‘It’s your funeral, Caesar. Just don’t let it be mine as well, or that of our dear friend Crassus.’
Marcus was reminded of his conversation with Portia in the garden - it definitely appeared that whatever alliance existed between the three powerful aristocrats, it was an uneasy one, founded on mutual suspicion rather than any affection. And yet Caesar had let this man’s nephew marry his only niece - a move that spoke more of his ambition than his love for his own flesh and blood. Caesar may have spared Marcus from any punishment this time, but Marcus mustn’t forget a slave meant nothing to him, and he hardened his feelings.
Caesar was gently stroking his jaw as he considered the situation. ‘If the other side has decided to use gangs to undermine us, then we must meet force with force. The trick of it will be to find an intermediary who has connections with the street gangs of Rome. Someone who can be persuaded to use his influence to serve our ends.’ He looked up and fixed his eyes on Pompeius. ‘There is such a man.’
Pompeius thought briefly, then his eyes widened in alarm. ‘Not him. Not Clodius. Please not Clodius. The man is a thug, little better than a common criminal. We can’t use him.’
‘Why not? He could well be the answer to our difficulties.’
‘Or he could just be adding to them, or making them worse.’
‘Then let’s sound him out. Get him in here and talk to him.’
‘On what pretext?’
Caesar thought for a moment and then smiled. ‘So that he can help us identify the body of the man who attacked my niece. After that, we change the subject and see where he stands. What do you think?’
Pompeius shook his head. ‘I think you are mad. But... you are right - there’s no one better connected with the criminals of Rome than Clodius.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Clodius it is then. He’s at his villa in Baiae at present. I’ll send for him at once.’
In the silence that followed, Portia glanced at Marcus before addressing her uncle. ‘First we must provide for Corvus.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The kitchen boy who saved my life,’ Portia reminded him. ‘I promised I’d see that he was given a proper funeral.’
Caesar waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’s not necessary.’
‘I gave my word, Uncle.’
He frowned at her and Marcus wondered if he would refuse. Then he shrugged, and nodded his assent. ‘Very well, you can use one of the carts. Do it at first light tomorrow and return here as soon as it’s over.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
Caesar clicked his fingers at Festus. ‘And you go with them. Take two of your best men with you.’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Now I need to be alone with General Pompeius. The rest of you, leave us.’
They filed from the room and Marcus glanced back at the two men as they began speaking in low tones. He focused his attention on Pompeius, heavily built, ornately robed in a purple tunic and cloak, and enslaved by his self-regard. Marcus was determined to show Pompeius he was wrong in his accusation that Marcus had failed to protect Portia. He must prove himself and somehow win the man over. Only then could he claim the one reward he would ever want from Pompeius or Caesar - freedom for himself and his mother, and, one day, revenge on Decimus and his henchman, Thermon.
13
The sun had not yet risen as the cart trundled through the quiet, cold streets of the capital. The cockerels kept within the city’s walls had yet to crow and the numberless people crowded into tenement blocks and houses still slumbered. Festus and his men led the small procession of cloaked figures. Led by a mule, a two-wheeled cart came next, carrying a simple bier on which the body of Corvus had been laid, wrapped in a plain white sheet. Marcus held the mule’s bridle, Portia following the cart with Lupus a short distance behind her. The body lay atop the faggots of firewood to be used for the pyre, with an axe to cut down any further lumber required. No one spoke as they made their way to the city gate and were passed through by the sleepy sentries nearing the end of their watch.
Outside, a thin mist covered the ground as the cart clattered along the road leading south towards Campania. A short distance from the gate they passed a large open grave where the bodies of the unknown and uncared for were dumped and sprinkled with lime. Low mounds on either side of the road marked the position of earlier mass graves. Further along the road the first of the tombs loomed up. It seemed from a distance to be floating on the slow swirl of the mist. Marcus could not help a nervous tremor at the sight of further tombs stretching far ahead and spilling out on either side.
‘What is this place?’ he asked in awe.
‘The Necropolis - the city of the dead,’ Festus explained in a quiet voice. ‘This is where the remains of generations of Romans have been laid to rest. The laws of the city forbid the cremation or burial of the dead within the city boundary for all but the most honoured of citizens.’
Marcus nodded as he glanced warily at the dim outlines of the tombs on either side. They continued in silence a while longer before Festus halted.
‘Up there.’ Festus pointed to a bare hillock a short distance away. Marcus nodded and steered the mule off the paved surface and on to the uneven ground. The cart jolted as it rumbled between the silent tombs before emerging on to open ground. The route to the hillock was well travelled and two ruts led to the crest, where Festus gave the order to halt. As he tethered the mule to the withered stump of a tree, Marcus saw that the ground was marked with the scorch marks of previous cremations.
Festus gestured to Lupus and Marcus. ‘It’s customary for those closest to the dead to make the pyre, but would you prefer that my men and I did it?’
Marcus glanced at Lupus but saw from his trembling lips that the scribe was not ready to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘Lupus and I can do it.’
‘And me,’ Portia added.
For a moment it seemed as if Festus would protest, but then he nodded. ‘As you wish, mistress.’
While Lupus and Marcus lifted the bier from the cart and carried it a short distance away, Portia, having taken one of the faggots, followed them and laid it beside the body.
‘No, that’s not the way to do it,’ Festus said gently. ‘Let me show you.’
He returned to the wagon and fetched the two trestles he had packed in with the faggots. With the help of his two men, he raised the bier up and supported it at each end, so that it was waist high. ‘The faggots go underneath,’ he explained.
Once the two boys and Portia had packed the last of the faggots and kindling tightly together under the bier, Festus took a tinderbox from his haversack and struck sparks into the fine sheets of charred linen. As soon as he had coaxed a small flame to life he set fire to the bundle of dried moss at the foot of the bier. The flames spread rapidly with a light crackling noise, working their way through the faggots then licking up around the shrouded corpse.
Marcus watched for a moment before his attention was caught by a distant glimmer a mile away, on the other side of the tomb-lined road. He was puzzled briefly by the ghostly flames wavering in the mist before he realized he was watching a second cremation take place. As he stared he noticed yet another flicker, then one more on the far side of the Tiber, beyond the tiled roofs and columned temples of Rome. Marcus realized there were other people out there, mourning the loss of a friend or member of the family, death being the one thing that made everyone equal in the end.
No, he corrected himself. Not everyone. Of all the pyres burning this morning, it was almost certain this was the only one to honour the death of a
slave. He turned his gaze back to the flames consuming the body of Corvus. Death was a tragedy only for those who were free. For the slaves it was a release, Marcus realized.
The flames roared up around Corvus’s corpse, charring the white shroud and burning through its folds until they began to scorch the dead flesh. The aroma of burning meat filled the air and Marcus felt his stomach tighten in disgust and horror. The bier and the trestles eventually burned through and the body crashed down into the heart of the blaze, sending sparks whirling into the dawn. As the sun crested the line of hills to the east, filling the sky with a pink hue, the fire began to die down. The small party stood in silence until the last flames flickered feebly and then faded to nothing but thin trails of smoke rising up from the ashes and charred remains.
Festus brought a spade and a small urn from the wagon, then broke up the larger chunks of blackened material with the edge of the spade before he swept them into the urn. He pressed the stopper back into the wax-lined top and held out the urn.
‘Who will bury this?’
Portia shook her head, then Marcus gestured to Lupus. ‘He was your friend.’
Lupus nodded, tears running down his face as he took the urn and held it to his chest.
Marcus touched his shoulder. ‘I swear by all the gods that we will avenge Corvus. We will find those responsible for his death, and they will pay for it with their lives.’
Marcus had no idea how he would do it, but he made a promise to himself and to Corvus’s memory that he’d do everything in his power to see this through.
14
After the funeral, Caesar decided it was too dangerous for Portia to venture into the streets again while the struggle between the political factions was so bitter. He instructed her to remain within the house. Besides, Portia had told Marcus somewhat bitterly, she had been promised to General Pompeius’s nephew and it was the custom for ladies of the nobility to be removed from temptation’s way during preparations for the marriage - in case they ran off with a new admirer. That left Marcus without a role to play, so Festus had ordered him to continue with his training.
Each morning Marcus made his way into the yard to practise against the post with his sword and club, before moving on to knife-throwing and slingshot. During the morning Festus would emerge from the house to oversee his efforts, snapping sharp rebukes when Marcus failed to perform to the desired standard, and sometimes offering advice or teaching him a new technique for street fighting. At noon Festus allowed Marcus to stop for a break while he went for a drink with his men. Marcus was left with a small jar of heavily diluted wine that Lupus had brought from the kitchen, together with bread and olive oil for them to share.
Six days after the attack, while Marcus sat on the cart during one of these breaks, he asked the question that had been gnawing at him for days. ‘When Mistress Portia marries, she will be leaving the house, I suppose?’
Lupus dunked his bread in the olive oil as he nodded. ‘Of course she will.’ He tore a chunk of bread off and chewed vigorously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because she still needs protecting. That’s my job. It’s my . . .’
‘Not when she’s married it won’t be. Pompeius’s nephew will look after her. I’m sure he has plenty of slaves to protect her.’ Lupus paused as he held the next chunk of bread in midair. ‘It’s funny, the mistress asked exactly the same question the other day. I heard her talking with Caesar. She was adamant that you stayed at her side.’
Marcus felt his hopes rise. He had been dropping hints to Portia to ask that he might go with her to her new home. There might still be a way he could get close enough to Pompeius to ask for his help. He finished his mouthful and cleared his throat before he asked, ‘What did Caesar say to that?’
‘He said you were too valuable to give away.’ Lupus jabbed a finger at Marcus. ‘But don’t let that go to your head.’
‘Valuable? Me?’ Marcus was confused. ‘Why am I valuable?’
‘You may be assigned the job of protecting Mistress Portia at present, but it’s clear you have potential to make a name for yourself in the arena and add to the reputation of your master.’ Lupus stared at Marcus, sizing him up. ‘I heard the master say he has never seen a boy so suited to the life of a gladiator. You have mastered every weapon Festus has introduced to you. Festus reckons you already have a strong body and in time will be as tough as any man who ever set foot in an arena. But there’s more than that, he says. You are quickwitted and decisive.’
‘He said that?’ Marcus felt a surge of pride.
Lupus nodded. ‘He said it’s as if you were born a fighter, that you must have inherited it from your father. A warrior of some kind I imagine, eh?’
Marcus nodded slowly as he prepared his lie. ‘He was a centurion. He served General Pompeius in the east.’
Lupus frowned. ‘Then how did you come to be a slave?’
Marcus told him the tale of Titus’s death at the hands of a tax collector’s henchmen and how he and his mother were taken to be sold as slaves. He deliberately left out the fact he had escaped from his original owner before being seized by Porcino for his gladiator school. He also left out the name of Decimus. He liked Lupus and thought he could trust him, but until he knew why Decimus was in Rome, and how close a friend he was to Crassus, it would be best to say nothing.
‘Quite a tale,’ Lupus responded. ‘The gods have played their games with you. Now I see why you’re keen to join Pompeius’s household.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ Lupus chuckled. ‘You want to get in the general’s good books, then tell him your story and trust he’ll use his influence to help rescue your mother. Am I right?’
Marcus was taken aback. He hadn’t realized his motives were so obvious. There was no point denying it. He nodded warily.
‘Well, even if you stayed with Mistress Portia, I think you’d be disappointed. Pompeius traded in his sword for a seat in the Senate. I doubt he’d be too concerned about the wife of a junior officer who left his service a decade earlier. He probably wouldn’t even remember your father. ’
‘I doubt he will ever forget my father . . .’ Marcus replied, thinking of Spartacus momentarily. But then he remembered he was talking about Titus, the man who had adopted him. ‘Not after he saved the general’s life, I mean.’
‘Perhaps.’ Lupus shrugged. ‘But don’t place too much hope on that. Also, be honest, it’s not as if Pompeius is your biggest fan . . . Anyway, as far as I could tell, Caesar intends keeping you for a career in the arena.’
Marcus’s heart sank. He hated not having control over his own destiny - how could he ever free his mother while he was a slave, his fate always decided by his owner? And the prospect of a life spent fighting other slaves on bloodsoaked sands while his ears filled with the baying cries of a cruel audience made him sick.
‘Marcus!’
They turned to look across the yard and saw Flaccus beckoning. ‘The master wants you in his study at once.’
Lupus and Marcus exchanged a look. Then Marcus lowered his cup and eased himself on to his feet. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Caesar and Festus were in the company of another man when they reached the study. A tall, slim figure in a heavily patterned tunic, he wore rings on every finger and a thick gold chain around his neck, from which hung a large emerald in a gold setting. His hair was light brown and painstakingly arranged in little curls that ran along his hairline. His face was fine-featured, almost feminine, and two sharp eyes regarded Marcus closely as he entered the room.
‘This is the boy?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ Caesar replied. ‘And you will not find a more promising trainee in the whole of Italia, let alone Rome, my dear Clodius.’
The other man leaned forward in his chair and inspected Marcus closely. ‘Hmmm. I’m not so sure. He looks a bit scrawny. Come closer, boy.’
Marcus did as he was told and stopped just beyond arm’s reach of Clodius, recalling the earl
ier conversation between Caesar and Pompeius about the dubious character of the man. Clodius’s brow creased in irritation.
‘Closer.’
Marcus moved nearer, though the sweetness of the man’s scent was so overpowering it made him feel slightly sick.
Clodius turned to Caesar. ‘May I?’
Caesar smiled indulgently. ‘Be my guest.’
Clodius reached out and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder hard. Marcus flinched slightly, but stood still, staring stonily into the man’s eyes.
‘Oh, you don’t like that, do you? You have some spirit then.’ Clodius laughed, and then let his hand slip down to Marcus’s bicep where he squeezed again, gently. ‘He has good muscle tone, Caesar. Sinewy and hard. You may be right. Are you training him with a net and trident as a retiarius perhaps?’
‘That was my first thought. But with the right diet and exercise he could be bulky enough to train as a heavy fighter.’ Caesar took a deep breath. ‘But enough of that. We’re not here to talk about Marcus’s future. We’ve got other fish to fry. As I was telling you, Marcus was the boy who saved my niece’s life, twice now.’
‘I can’t deny that I’m surprised,’ Clodius remarked. ‘I had expected to see someone a bit . . . older.’
‘He’s old enough for our purposes,’ Caesar replied. Then he stood up and gestured towards the door. ‘Come, let’s see what you make of our, er, find. Festus, lead the way.’
‘Yes, master.’ Festus bowed his head and indicated that Marcus should follow him as he turned towards the door. They headed into the corridor and crossed the garden to the slave quarters. Beyond the kitchen, a narrow flight of stairs led down into a cellar where perishable foods were kept. There were two large chambers with a light well in each that pierced the gloom just enough for the contents of the shelves to be clearly seen. As they turned into the narrow archway connecting the two rooms, an appalling smell met them. Marcus wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Gladiator: Street fighter Page 9