Caesar and the others in the room digested Marcus’s words. Marcus tried to remain calm, but his heart was beating hard. How would Caesar react to a mere slave voicing his thoughts like this?
‘And how exactly do you propose that I find out? Milo is hardly going to tell me,’ Caesar said mockingly.
‘Someone has to get inside Milo’s gang to find out their plans, master.’
‘Don’t you imagine I’ve thought of that?’ Clodius sniffed. ‘The street gangs are a close-knit bunch. A man has to prove himself over and again before he is allowed to join, and after that he has to work his way up through the ranks to the inner circle of the gang leaders. It takes a long time - years. We haven’t got that long. Besides, if a man turns up wanting to join during the middle of a gang war, then he’s bound to arouse suspicion. It won’t work.’
Marcus had already thought through this and nodded. ‘That is true, master. But what if we didn’t send a man? What if we sent a boy instead? Someone young enough to be overlooked.’
Clodius and Caesar fixed their attention on Marcus, then Caesar responded, ‘You, you mean.’
‘Yes, master. Why not? I am observant. I am skilled with weapons and I do not carry the mark of any of the gangs. Few people know me in Rome so I will not be recognized. Even when I’ve been out, my head has been covered. If I could get close to Milo and his gang I might overhear their plans, or at least give warning when there is trouble, master.’ He paused as he saw the doubtful look on Caesar’s face.
‘It’s too dangerous, and what makes you think they will be so foolish as to discuss important matters within earshot of you . . .’
Marcus couldn’t help a slight smile. ‘Because that’s exactly what you do, master. You speak openly in front of your slaves. Why should Milo be any different?’
Clodius laughed as Caesar looked uncomfortable. ‘He has a good point there! Many a powerful Roman has come unstuck once his slaves are tortured for evidence to use against him. You’d think we’d have learned by now, but it seems not. Marcus is right, Caesar. He might succeed where a grown man would not. It’s worth a try at least.’
Marcus stared intently at Caesar, trying to guess what was going through the consul’s mind. ‘Master, I know I can do this,’ he said.
Caesar clasped his hands behind his back and paced up and down the study, while Clodius examined the fingernails of his expensively manicured hands. Marcus looked at him, wondering how this could be the same man who had wildly hurled himself into a vicious street fight just hours before.
‘All right,’ Caesar concluded. ‘It’s worth a try. I can’t say I’m happy about putting a valuable slave in danger, but there is no gain without risk, as my good friend and business associate, Crassus, would say.’ He fixed Marcus with a hard stare. ‘Naturally you will expect a reward for this service?’
‘I would be grateful for one,’ Marcus replied, not sure how far he dare push the situation. In his mind’s eye he saw his mother, cold, hungry and imploring him to help her.
‘I’m sure you would.’ Caesar placed his hand on Marcus s shoulder. ‘You may be young, but you know the meaning of honour and have the courage to see it through. Rare qualities. If you stay in my service you will be a formidable gladiator one day, Marcus. And I shall be proud of you.’
‘And what if he doesn’t want to be a gladiator?’ Clodius interrupted. ‘What if he wants to be freed?’
Marcus tensed his muscles nervously. It was as if Clodius had read his mind. It wouldn’t help his cause if Caesar knew how much Marcus hated the idea of being a gladiator. Marcus had learned that Caesar was not a man to accept the views of those who disagreed with him.
‘Then I shall reconsider his situation at the appropriate time,’ Caesar replied dismissively. ‘Until then, Marcus, you will do what you can to save me from my enemies, eh?’
‘Yes, master. When should I begin?’
‘At once. It wouldn’t surprise me if Cato and Bibulus wanted to finish this quickly after the events of today.’ He stared Marcus straight in the eye. ‘You should be aware of the risks. If Milo discovers who you are, then he will show no mercy.’
Marcus stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could. ‘I understand, master. But I have faced danger before, more than once. I am not afraid and I know what I’m doing.’
Caesar suddenly let out a loud laugh. ‘Oh you do, do you? I wish I could say that!’
Festus charged Lupus with the task of preparing Marcus for going undercover. He had found a worn and tattered tunic and some old sandals to give Marcus the appearance of the runaway he would claim to be. The plaque that hung round his neck to mark him as a slave had been removed, and now his skin had to be covered with a mix of soot and ink, to make him suitably grimy for a street urchin, as well as covering the brand from Porcino’s gladiator school.
‘Take off your tunic,’ Lupus said, ready to apply some of the mixture to Marcus’s skin.
Marcus hesitated. No one had seen his scar since Brixus had identified it as the mark of Spartacus. Now here he was, in the house of Spartacus’s most powerful enemy. To reveal it here was horribly dangerous.
‘Come on,’ urged Lupus. ‘Or do you want Milo to work out who you are?’
Marcus realized there was no way to avoid it without causing suspicion. He held his breath and pulled off the tunic.
‘What’s that on your shoulder?’ Lupus asked. He tilted his head for a closer inspection. ‘It looks like . . . a sword thrusting through the head of a wolf.’
Marcus snatched up the ragged tunic and made to pull it over his head until Lupus stopped him. ‘Wait. I’ll have to cover this up too. Hold still.’
He was silent as he worked the mixture in uneven streaks on Marcus’s back so that the dirt looked natural. ‘Where did you get the mark?’
‘I don’t know,’ Marcus lied. He could hardly breathe for fear that his true identity would be exposed. What if Caesar chose this moment to walk in? ‘It’s always been there. Since before I can remember. ’
‘Then you must have been branded as an infant.’ Lupus shook his head. ‘By the gods, who would do such a thing to a baby? I doubt your father would have used such an unpatriotic image - the wolf is a symbol of Rome. What about your mother?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I told you. I don’t know anything about it. Can we hurry this up?’
‘Well, whoever it was, they were no friend of Rome. Now hold still.’
Lupus finished applying the grime and paused to admire his handiwork before he stepped away from Marcus. ‘Put on your tunic.’
Marcus sighed with relief and Lupus looked him over with a grin. ‘You look like the lowest-born scum of the gutters. Perfect.’
That night Lupus and Marcus left the house by a small side gate. Lupus had been ordered to lead Marcus to The Pit on the Aventine Hill, the heart of the district controlled by Milo and his gangs. Festus was too well known to guide Marcus and had decided two young boys stood a better chance of making their way unnoticed through the streets.
They crept round the inside of the Servian wall to avoid the heart of the city, where small groups of rival gang members still prowled and clashed in the darkness. Despite the season there was a chill in the air and Marcus shivered as they made their way through the quiet streets. Above, on the towers along the wall, the glare of braziers provided occasional light to show their way. They climbed the Caelian Hill before descending the far side where rickety tenement blocks were packed together, just as they were in the Subura. Lupus slowed the pace and proceeded more cautiously as they entered the Aventine district. They encountered only a handful of shadowy figures, all of whom gave them a wide berth as they passed by. At length Lupus stopped in a small square, beside an old public fountain. He drew out a small dagger and worked away at the mortar of a large brick at the base of the fountain. When it came free he cut away at the brick until it was half as deep, sweeping away the fragments. Then he carefully replaced the brick so that it matched those on either
side.
‘If you need to send a message, put it behind the brick.’ He paused to look at Marcus in the gloom. ‘You can write?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. I’ll check this as often as I can, by night. If you discover anything we need to know urgently, Festus says you’re to come straight to the house. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
Marcus felt Lupus grasp his arms and saw the outline of his head dimly against the starlight.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Marcus?’
Marcus was silent for a moment. He could not deny he was scared. Yet there was no other way to put Caesar in his debt. How else could Marcus ever ask for the help he needed? He knew he was risking his life, but if he didn’t take the chance he would remain a slave and be sent to one of Caesar’s gladiator schools. Then he would never save his mother. No, he had to see this through. He nodded. ‘I’m ready.’
Lupus gently squeezed Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Good luck then.’ He turned to go.
‘Wait, Lupus - one last thing. Will you tell Mistress Portia I said goodbye?’ Marcus asked.
Lupus released his grip and nodded. He glanced at the silent streets and padded away. Marcus eased himself on to his feet. He was on his own now. He took in his surroundings so that he could find his way back to the fountain. Then, taking up his stick - the only item he had besides his worn-out clothes he turned towards the heart of the Aventine district, into Milo’s territory.
18
Marcus jolted awake as the toe of a boot prodded him roughly. Snatching up his stick, he scrambled until his back hit the solid wood of the door he’d been sleeping beside. A stocky figure was outlined against the light filtering down between the tenement blocks.
‘Get out of here, boy! You’re in front of my shop.’
Marcus rose to his feet, groggy with sleep. He was in an arch just off one of the main streets that passed through the Aventine district. He remembered finding the shuttered shop just after the midnight trumpet sounded the changing of the watch on the city wall. He had eased himself into the corner by the door and sat hugging his knees, shivering, until sleep finally crept up on him.
‘Go on, get out of here!’ The man swung his boot and caught Marcus a sharp blow on his thigh. He cried out in pain, then scurried across the arch into the street. Looking back, he saw the man watching to make sure he’d left before unlocking his shop door. Looking at the sky, Marcus judged the sun had risen less than an hour ago. Once he was a safe distance from the arch, he stopped to take stock of his situation. He wasn’t hungry as he had eaten well before setting out with Lupus. He also had twenty sestertii sewn into a fake lining of his belt, so he wouldn’t starve. Aside from that, he would have to survive on his wits.
He knew he wasn’t far from the heart of the Aventine district, the area known as ‘The Pit’, where the cheapest inns and chop houses clustered round a natural fold in the side of the hill. That was where Milo and his gangs gathered when they weren’t extorting money, or hunting down the supporters of Caesar, Crassus and Pompeius. Marcus crossed the top of the hill and followed the road down the other side until he reached a crossroads. A stooped old woman was washing some rags in a public fountain.
‘Could you tell me if I’m near The Pit?’ Marcus asked politely.
The woman turned her head. ‘You don’t want to know, young ’un. Get back to your home.’
‘I have no home,’ Marcus replied.
‘Well, you won’t find one in The Pit.’ She laughed, revealing a handful of crooked teeth. ‘Just a quick beating before you’re kicked on your way. What are you, a runaway?’
‘I just want to know if I’m heading in the right direction,’ Marcus replied.
She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand before gesturing towards an alley opposite the fountain. ‘That’s the quickest way. But it’s your funeral, boy.’
Marcus thanked her as he made for the alley. The entrance was narrow and dark and the passage beyond was squeezed between crumbling tenement blocks, so close that a hand could reach from a window on one side and touch the grime-stained building opposite. Marcus made his way down the slight incline. It was so narrow he had to step aside for people coming the other way. A hard crust of trodden-down rubbish and rotten food formed an uneven walking surface.
Nor was rubbish the only thing deposited in the alley. The body of an old man lay against the wall of a shallow alcove, stripped of everything but a filthy loincloth. His eyes were closed and his jaw hung open as flies buzzed between his lips and across the bare flesh. Marcus hurried past, his hand over his nose. There were dead animals in the alley too - mostly rats and a couple of dogs, stepped over and ignored by people.
After a short distance Marcus heard the sound of cheering. Turning a corner, he saw daylight ahead and the cheering increased in volume. Steeling himself, Marcus walked out of the alley and found himself at The Pit.
An open area, perhaps two hundred feet across, stretched between the tenement buildings that loomed over it. The bare earth of the ground sloped into a natural basin. Apart from trickles of sewage running from the tenements above into a small stinking pool, the soil was parched. Around the edges of the open area were a number of inns. Some of these were set into the basements of the tenements with one side open, others were made up of old boards, posts and discarded or stolen rooftiles, little more than lean-tos. As Marcus emerged, blinking, into the light, he saw the inns were almost empty. Their customers had crowded around the muddy centre of The Pit to watch two huge men bare-knuckle fighting.
Marcus made his way down the slope and stopped to look over the heads of the crowd lower down. He edged towards the fringes of a nearby group of boys, some his own age, but mostly older. One boy a little bigger than him stood slightly apart from the others.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Marcus.
‘The Blades have challenged the Jackals to see who’s top dog,’ the boy said with a quick glance at Marcus before turning back to the fight. ‘Taurus is taking on Heracles and it ain’t pretty!’
Marcus looked down at the fight. The two men were slugging away at each other, exchanging punches that slammed into their flesh like great hammers so that the muscles of their torsos shuddered under the impact. Some blows had already been landed on their faces and blood streamed from open cuts. Marcus looked over the crowd - mostly men apart from a handful of shrieking women who had gathered to watch the contest. Milo, tall and heavily built, was easy to spot, standing in the first rank of the crowd. He punched his fist into a cupped hand as he cheered on the fighters. His lips were curled in a savage smile that caused the scar across his face to crinkle. Marcus shuddered as he remembered the bloody battle in the Forum.
‘Hey, you!’
Marcus turned and saw one of the larger boys pointing at him. He was shorter than some of his companions, but powerfully built. His head seemed to merge into his shoulders and his hair was cut short, like the men of the gangs. He wore a black tunic and studded leather bracers on his arms. Fists resting on his hips, the boy paced over and stood in front of him.
‘I’m talking to you. This is where my gang is standing. You find your own spot. Now get lost.’
‘I didn’t mean any trouble,’ Marcus apologized. ‘Just heard the noise and came to see the fight.’
‘Yeah? Well, clear off and find somewhere else.’ He lunged forward and thrust Marcus back so that he stumbled and fell, the impact winding him. The other boys laughed. Their leader placed the bottom of his boot on Marcus’s chest.
‘Just so you don’t forget. My name’s Kasos and this is my gang - the only youth gang in The Pit. You don’t come up and speak to us again, unless we speak to you first. Clear?’
‘Yes.’ Marcus nodded. ‘I understand. Sorry.’
Kasos ground down his boot briefly before he removed it and delivered a lazy kick into Marcus’s side. ‘Now get out of here.’
Marcus rolled away a safe distance before scrambling to his f
eet and hurrying to the other side of the crowd. It would have been pleasing to wipe that smug expression off Kasos’s face, but there was no point in drawing attention to himself. A loud grunt came from The Pit and one of the boxers stumbled back after a savage blow to the face. He stood there, swaying and shaking his head. His opponent stepped forward, raised his fist with a snarl and delivered the final blow, snapping back the other man’s head. He dropped out of sight and a cheer rose from most of the audience as the rest let out a disappointed groan. Milo stepped forward and grasped the wrist of the winner, lifting it high.
‘Victory to the Blades! The first round of drinks are on the Jackles.’
That brought another cheer as the crowd broke up and hurried towards the bars that ringed The Pit. Marcus watched as Milo patted the winner on the back and then climbed the slope towards the largest of the inns. He sat down at the head of a long table outside the inn and banged his fist on the wooden top.
‘Wine! Now!’
A moment later a thin, grey-haired man in an apron came scurrying out with a large jug in one hand and a tray of silver goblets in the other. He set them down on the table and poured the wine, handing the first cup to Milo with a bow of his head. The spaces along the table were quickly filled by other men, and Marcus was reminded of Clodius and his henchmen at the Dolphin. Same thugs, different sides . . . he thought.
All around The Pit the other gang members were filling the inns and starting to drink, amid cheers, occasional shouts and trading of insults. Most of the people who had watched the fight were dispersing back into the alleys, apart from some who squatted down to talk or play dice. The giant who had lost the fight was left where he had fallen to sleep it off. Marcus walked over to a mule-tethering post opposite the inn where Milo was drinking and leaned against it while he observed the leader of the Aventine gangs.
The young gang that Marcus had encountered earlier sauntered over towards the inn and leaned against the wall beside it as if they were part of Milo’s inner circle. As soon as the first jug of wine was emptied, Kasos went inside for a fresh jug and topped up their drinks, making sure to top up Milo’s cup first. Then he rejoined his companions leaning against the wall. As Marcus watched, a plan began to form in his mind and he eased himself down to sit cross-legged on the ground, while he waited for an opportunity.
Gladiator: Street fighter Page 12