The giant plucked one of the raiders aside and threw his weight against the door beside his leader. At once it began to move again, steadily closing until the gap was too narrow for anyone to pass through. The pale shaft of light cast from the lamps shrank and then vanished as the door closed on the frame.
‘Hold it shut,’ Brixus ordered and gestured to the nearest of his men to help Taurus, before he drew back and looked around the compound. A short distance away, beside one of the granaries, he saw a heavy cart. Summoning several men, he hurried across the compound and grasped the yoke. Straining against the dead weight of the vehicle, the raiders pulled it across to the barracks where the door shuddered under the impact of bodies and weapons from within. The cart was manoeuvred close to the wall and worked along the door, pinning itin place. The guards could only open it a small way, enough to let out a sliver of light.
‘What now?’ asked Taurus.
‘Take your men and get some dry feed from the stables, then pile it up round the barracks. The rest of you, cover the windows and don’t let any of them out.’
While the barracks was surrounded and bales of hay piled the walls, a handful of the guards guessed the fate that the raiders had in store for them and tried to escape through the small windows set high in the building. Seeing them, the raiders thrust their spears up, forcing the men back inside. Once Brixus was satisfied that preparations were complete, he ordered oil to be poured over the combustible materials and told Pindar to light a torch from the brazier above the gatehouse. When Pindar returned he handed the torch to Brixus, who limped up to the cart blocking the door.
‘You inside, hear me! Throw out your weapons and surrender.’
There was a brief pause before a voice answered. ‘And let ourselves be slaughtered like cattle? No chance. I’ll die like a man.’
‘Then die you will,’ Brixus shouted back. A cold smile flickered across his lips. ‘Let your deaths be a beacon to every Roman and slave alike. For liberty!’
He stepped forward and applied the torch to the straw piled up beneath the cart. The flame caught at once and spread through the dry lengths with a light crackle, then a growing roar, as the flames licked up and burned fiercely. They spread round the edge of the barracks and smoke billowed into the air, the lurid orange clouds lit up by the savage fire.
There were shouts from inside the barracks, and cries of panic as the men appeared at the windows, but were beaten back by the heat. The raiders stood in a loose circle about the burning building, dark figures silhouetted against the brilliant glare of the flames, their long shadows stretching behind them into the darkness. Before long the flames had caught the roof timbers, and sections of tile collapsed inside. There were no more shouts, just piercing shrieks of agony muffled by the occasional sharp reports of timbers bursting. The screams continued for a while and then there was only the roar of the fire.
Brixus climbed up on to the edge of the well and surveyed the small crowd before him, their faces lit up by the slowly dying fire of the barracks. To one side stood the steward who ran the estate for Ids wealthy master, with his wife and two sons barely I in their teens. They looked down at the ground, afraid to meet the eyes of their captors. Brixus turned his attention back to the crowd. Their expressions were mostly fearful, but some looked at him with hope in their eyes. They would be the to his side, Brixus reflected as he gathered his to address the slaves who had just been the long, low shed where they were shut in when not at work in the; fields and groves of the estate. As the locking bar had been withdrawn and the doors opened, the familiar stench of sweat and human waste billowed out from inside and he cursed the Romans for treating these people little better than animals.
Holding his torch aloft, Brixus had entered the building, fighting back his nausea as the slaves cowered away from him. Most of them were chained together by the ankle to prevent any attempt at escape when they were out in the fields. Only a handful - children and older men and women - had their irons removed. They wore little more than rags, soiled and torn, and their filthy skin was covered in bruises and scars from the beatings of their overseers.
‘I am Brixus,’ he announced. ‘A lieutenant of Spartacus. I have come to set you free.’
He turned to his followers. ‘Get the chains off them and lead them out of here. Keep ’em together so I can speak to them when they’re ready.’
Now the slaves stood before him, anxious to learn what would become of them.
Brixus drew a deep breath and spoke loudly to be heard over the distant crackle of the flames still consuming what was left of the barracks.
‘Your lives of back-breaking toil are over, my friends. There will be no more whips. No more chains. No more slowly starving on the thin gruel provided by your masters. See how well they lived while you endured so much suffering, exhaustion and hunger?’ He thrust his arm towards the steward and his family.
The slaves glanced towards the man who had controlled every aspect of their lives and there was silence before a voice muttered angrily. Others joined in, waving their fists.
Brixus raised his hands and called out to them. ‘Enough! Enough! You will have your revenge shortly. For now, listen to me.’
When they had fallen silent, he continued. ‘As I said. You are no longer slaves, but free. Now you may choose what to do with your lives. You are masters of your fate.'
‘What happens when news of this attack gets out?’ a voice asked. ‘They will come here and punish any slave they find.’
‘Then come with us,’ Brixus replied.
‘And go where? The Romans will hunt us down like dogs.’
‘No, they won’t. I told you my name. I am Brixus, loyal to what Spartacus died for. When the rebellion ended I survived, along with many others. When I escaped again I made for the hills and mountains of the Apennines and joined those of the slave army who still remained in hiding. Since then we have been adding to our number by raiding the estates of those who call themselves our masters, and setting their slaves free. I lead but one of the bands of rebels who hide in the mountains. The Romans have tried to hunt us down, but we have eluded them. Now we are fighting back, hunting them down in turn and destroying their patrols and burning their outposts to the ground. They are becoming afraid of us. Every Roman soldier we kill, every villa we destroy, every slave we set free adds to their fear.’ Brixus paused to give emphasis to his next words. ‘One day soon we will be strong enough to rekindle the rebellion that Spartacus once led and there will be a new war against those who would keep us as slaves.’
There were excited cries of approval from the crowd, then an old man at the front took a step forward.
‘I too fought for Spartacus. But we were an army. Tens of thousands of us. And the Romans still beat us. You are the leader of a band of runaways and brigands. What chance have we got if we join you? What freedom do you really offer? A few months as fugitives in the hills, in the depth of winter, before we are hunted down, caught and punished. Last time they crucified thousands in order to teach us a lesson. How much greater do you think their anger will be a second time?’ The old man turned to his comrades and raised a hand to draw their attention. ‘I say we’d be better off here. When the soldiers come, we’ll explain that we had no part in tonight’s action.'
‘You old fool!’ Brixus shouted him down. ‘Do you think they will listen to you? No. It will make no difference to their desire for revenge. They will make an example of you just the same. Stay here and you will die.’
‘We all die, Brixus,' the old man replied. ‘One way or another.'
‘Then all that matters is how you die,’ Brixus replied. ‘You can choose to spend the rest of your days living in your own filth, surviving on scraps at the whim of your masters, or you can seize your freedom here and now. Be your own master. Taste the sweet air of freedom. Of course there is a price, as with all things that are worth having. You will have to fight to stay free. Better to fight on your feet than spend your life grovelling on your kne
es to some fat Roman pig. What is your death now but simply an end to suffering? An end to a life that has no value. Together we can stop this. Have freedom instead of slavery. But only if we have the courage to fight for that freedom. Who here will join me?’
‘Me!’ a voice cried out and was instantly echoed by many others. The old man looked over his shoulder and shook his head in dismay.
When the shouting had died down Brixus spoke again. ‘Brothers and sisters, the age of slavery will soon come to an end. The bands of rebels will join together and the dream of Spartacus will become a reality.’
‘Spartacus is dead!’ the old man shouted back.
'Yes, he is dead,’ Brixus acknowledged. 'But his dream lives on. And more than his dream. The bloodline of Spartacus continues. Soon, very soon, the rebels will be united and fighting together under one banner and one leader, and that leader will be one who is fit to assume the mantle of the great Spartacus, for he is none other than his son! He will lead us and fulfil the destiny and dream of his father, the same dream that is shared by every slave in the Roman Empire.’
‘The son of Spartacus?’ The old man shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. I was there. He had no son.’
‘The son was born shortly after the end of the rebellion. He bears the secret mark of Spartacus. I have seen it. I have met the boy.'
The crowd had fallen silent, listening to his words with rapt attention, hope burning in almost every face.
‘Where is he?’ some cried out. ‘Where is the boy?’
‘I know where he lives,’ said Brixus. ‘He follows in the footsteps of his father, and already it is clear that he will become as great a gladiator as Spartacus in his time. Greater perhaps. He is still young. But when the time comes he cannot avoid his destiny. He will answer the call, and lead us all to freedom!'
‘Freedom!’ his followers shouted and the cry was echoed by the newly liberated slaves. Even the old man joined in, his eyes sparkling with emotion. Brixus allowed the cheering to continue for a while before he raised his hands and called for silence.
‘There is one last task before we leave this place tonight.’ He turned and pointed to the steward and his family. ‘We must show the Romans what fate lies in store for those who would oppress their fellow man. Bring me the youngest boy.’
One of his men strode over to the family, grabbed the boy’s arm and wrenched him away. He struggled to free himself, reaching out a hand towards his mother as her face wrinkled with grief. The steward held her back as he spoke clearly and defiantly to his son.
‘Show no fear to these scum. No tears. Remember, you are a Roman.’
Brixus laughed, and some in the crowd jeered.
Set in front of Brixus, the boy stood as tall as he could manage and tried to look calm and defiant.
‘Are you afraid of me?’ asked Brixus.
‘You should be. What is your name?’
'Lucius Pollonius Secundus. Though you can call me young master.’
Brixus smiled. ‘Arrogant to a fault. You are a true Roman. The question is, are you a clever Roman, Lucius? Do you think you can remember every detail of what has happened here tonight?’
‘I shall never forget it.’
‘That is true.’ Brixus nodded. Then he turned to Taurus. ‘Crucify the others. This one is to be chained to the foot of his father’s post. He will be the one to tell Rome that a new rebellion is coming, and this time the heir of Spartacus will lead us to victory, and the annihilation of Rome.’
3
‘Do you think Caesar will win the vote?’ asked Marcus as he looked in through the window of the Senate House.
As usual with any important vote, the windows and arches were packed with bystanders who had come to witness the debate and cheer on their heroes or jeer those senators who were unpopular. It had rained hard that morning and the air was cold and clammy. Marcus pulled his cloak tightly about him. He wore the hood down, despite the weather, so that he could follow the noisy proceedings in the Senate House more clearly. His dark curly hair badly needed a cut, but for now was held back by a leather strap about his forehead and tied off at the back. Even though he had recently turned twelve he was tall for his age and well built, as could be expected in a boy who had spent nearly two years of his life training to become a gladiator. There was a hardness about his expression that was unusual for his age, and came with the scars like that he bore above his right knee.
An idyllic childhood on the Greek island of Leucas had been cut short when he and his mother had been kidnapped by the hired muscle of the moneylender Decimus. Shortly after they were separated and while his mother had been taken to spend the rest of her life as a slave on a farm in Greece, Marcus had been bought by a lanista — the owner of a gladiator school — near Capua. His training had been brutal and relentless, until he had been picked to fight in front of Julius Caesar. By chance he had saved the life of Caesar’s niece, Portia, who had fallen into the pit during his fight with two wolves.
Since then he had been brought to Rome to serve in Caesar’s household, and spy on his enemies. For that he had been awarded his freedom. But that was months ago and at first Marcus had assumed that he would be swiftly reunited with his mother. However, it was not to be. Despite Caesar making enquiries to find out where she was being held, there had been no news of her and Marcus was growing restless. His heart ached whenever he thought of his mother, and imagined her chained to other slaves and forced to work in the fields of the villa owned by Decimus. He could not rest while she remained a slave. Nor could he be content until he had taken his revenge on Dedmus for all the suffering inflicted on himself, his mother and Titus, the man who had raised Marcus like a father. Marcus decided that if there was no progress by the end of the month, then he would ask Caesar’s permission to look for her himself.
Despite being a freed man, Marcus had soon discovered his new status entitled him to less liberty than he first imagined. Those who had been slaves owed a debt to their former masters and were expected to honour any requests for further services, all part of the peculiar customs of the Roman people. It was a far cry from the simple way he had been raised on Leucas.
Time was running out for Marcus. His former master had completed his year serving as one of the two consuls and would shortly be leaving Rome to take command of the armies and province of Cisalpine Gaul. If he was to get any further help from Caesar to find and free his mother, then it would need to happen soon, before the newly appointed general left Rome. But first Caesar had to survive an attempt by his political enemies to have him prosecuted for abusing his powers during his year in office.
Today they would vote on whether Caesar should be put on trial. The arguments for and against the motion had raged all day and Caesar had risen from his bench several times to address his accusers. As ever, Marcus had been impressed by his former master’s public-speaking skills. He had used reason, rhetoric and humour to challenge his opponents and win the support of senators, as well as the majority of the public watching. But was that enough?
The grey-haired man standing beside Marcus tilted his head slightly to one side as he considered the boy’s question. Festus was in charge of Caesar’s private bodyguard, a small force of army veterans, ex-gladiators and street fighters who were tasked with his safety when he passed through the crowded streets of Rome. Marcus was the youngest member of the bodyguard, but had won the respect of the others for his courage and skill with weapons.
‘Hard to decide. The master is popular enough with the people. His land reforms last year have helped many. But they won’t have a say over what happens to him. That’s down to the senators alone.’ He paused and a smile creased his weathered face. ‘But I dare say that most of them will not be willing to risk the anger of the mob by putting Caesar on trial. The only danger is that Cato will manage to sway their opinion.’
Marcus turned his gaze to the surly-looking senator sitting on the front bench opposite Caesar. Cato wore his usual plain brown toga t
o show that he held true to the plain virtues and traditions of the forefathers of the Senate. In the previous year he had bitterly resisted the reforms of Caesar and the two men remained enemies.
One of the new consuls, Calpurnius Piso, was chairing the debate and now stood up to speak. The other senators and the spectators fell silent out of respect for his office as he cleared his throat.
‘My fellow senators. I am mindful that there are barely two hours left before the day is out. We have heard the arguments for and against the motion for the last three days and I move that we now vote on whether Caesar should be put on trial.’
‘Now we’ll find out,’ Marcus muttered.
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said Festus. ‘You haven’t reckoned on our friend Clodius.’
Marcus nodded, recalling the violent young man who had organized the street gangs that had served Caesar’s interests the previous year.
‘I forbid!’ a voice announced loudly.
Everyone’s eyes turned towards one of the men sitting on the tribunes’ bench. The tribunes, elected by the people, had the power to oppose any decisions made in the Senate, but it was a power rarely exercised. Now, Tribune Clodius rose to his feet and held out his hand. ‘I forbid the vote.’
At once Cato was on his feet, pointing his finger accusingly. ‘On what grounds?’
Clodius turned to the senator and smiled. ‘I don’t have to give you reasons, my dear Cato. I simply have the right to forbid a vote. That is all.’
Cato glared across the floor of the Senate House. ‘But you have a moral obligation to explain your decision. You must give your reasons.’
‘Must I?’ Clodius turned to the consul.
Piso sighed and shook his head.
‘Bah!’ Cato fumed. ‘The tribune is abusing his power. If there is no good reason to forbid a vote, and there isn’t, then it is not right that he should do so.’
‘It may not be right,’ Clodius countered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘But, nevertheless, it is my privilege. And there is nothing you can do about it.’
Gladiator: Son of Spartacus Page 2