Gladiator: Son of Spartacus

by Simon Scarrow

  As the column left the smouldering remains of the villa behind, Marcus’s sense of foreboding increased. He had begun to doubt the wisdom of Caesar’s plan. With little known about the strength of the enemy, it made no sense to start out with a modest force and then proceed to divide it.

  The truth about his father’s identity was another matter that troubled him. It seemed as if a quiet voice constantly encouraged him to accept the challenge of living in a manner that would make his father, Spartacus, proud. The same voice constantly reminded him of the evils of slavery and the duty of everyone aware of its injustice to stand up and fight those who enslaved other people. And that meant fighting the Roman Empire itself and all those who served it. Especially men like Caesar.

  And yet Marcus knew the struggle was not as simple as that. He remembered the tales that Titus had told him when he was a young boy. Titus had fought the Gauls, Parthians and other barbarians, and the vivid descriptions of their atrocities had chilled Marcus’s blood. It had also convinced him there were worse people in this world than those of Rome. There had to be a middle way between the traditions of Rome and those who wanted an end to slavery. Or was that just the wishful thinking of a young boy? Yet here he was, riding beside the men marching to hunt down and kill those who opposed slavery. Part of Marcus thought he was on the wrong side. That he should take his chance and run away to join Brixus and his men. But then he remembered his mother. Her best chance of survival rested on Caesar helping Marcus to track her down and set her free. With a leaden feeling in his heart, Marcus knew he was trapped. He had to remain at Caesar’s side and serve the Roman general until his mother was safe. After that, finally, he could decide his own future.

  The column continued into the mountains, and the road gave way to a narrow track hemmed in on either side by forests of pine trees enveloped in mists and cloud. The grey skies steadily darkened and there were frequent showers of rain. Marcus hunched in his saddle and daydreamed of sitting in front of a fire at Portia’s house in Ariminum when the current campaign was over. There, with Festus and Caesar, he would tell Portia of their experiences, and perhaps she would secretly give Marcus a knowing look.

  As quickly as the thought occurred to him, Marcus thrust it from his mind. He must not let himself even think about her in that way. She could never be more than a friend, and then only in private, hidden from those who would be horrified at the prospect of friendship between them.

  As the rain gave way to sleet and snow, the column passed the remains of a handful of other small villas that had been raided by the rebels. Only ruins remained, and Marcus sensed the anger welling up in the men around him. When the time came for them to fight, they would show little mercy.

  At the end of the first day the column reached a small town perched on a cliff above a stream. While the men set up their tents on the open ground outside the town walls, Caesar and his entourage found accommodation in the house of an affluent mule-breeder. Publius Flavius glumly told his guests about the constant raids on outlying farms and villages in the area. A shepherd had driven his flock into the town the previous day, claiming to have seen a party of rebels - no more than a hundred of them, on foot - making for a villa in a valley not ten miles away. Caesar ordered Marcus to take down the details as he listened patiently, then reassured Flavius that the threat would soon be extinguished.

  The following morning the temperature dropped and snow began to fall, blanketing the tiled roofs of the town and drifting across the track that led further into the mountains. Caesar inspected the path with a frustrated expression before turning to issue orders to his closest followers.

  ‘We’ll take the cavalry and ride on. The rest of the column will follow as best they can. I’m keen to catch up with those slaves seen by the shepherd. If we can capture them, they’ll provide us with useful intelligence about Brixus. With a bit of luck, they might even know where he is.’

  Festus puffed his cheeks out and cleared his throat. ‘Is that wise, sir?’

  ‘Wise?’ Caesar asked tonelessly, but Marcus saw the dangerous glint in his eyes, the prelude to one of his angry outbursts. ‘Why would it not be wise, Festus?’

  ‘Sir, it would mean dividing the force yet again.’

  ‘I have more than enough mounted men to take on a hundred rebels. Besides, the infantry and the wagons are holding us up. If we stay together the enemy will escape. I won’t let that happen. My mind is made up. Give the orders to the cohort commanders. Meanwhile, the cavalry are to set off as soon as they are ready.’

  Festus bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the head of his bodyguard strode off to relay the orders, Caesar caught Marcus’s eye.

  ‘The chase is on, eh, Marcus?’

  Marcus nodded, despite his doubts. He agreed with Festus. Caesar was taking a risk. But clearly there was no changing his mind.

  ‘If Fortuna favours us,’ Caesar continued, rubbing his hands together to warm them, ‘then we might discover where Brixus is hiding by the end of the day. Think on that. We find and destroy Brixus and his rabble, and so break the spirit of those who would follow him. The slaves will learn their lesson. No one defies Rome. Then I will be free to turn my attention to Gaul.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I can seek out my mother.’

  Caesar flashed him a look of irritation. ‘Of course. Did you think I had forgotten?’

  Marcus did not dare reply, having made his point, and Caesar turned away and called for a groom to bring his horse.

  The snow continued to fall through the morning as the horsemen followed the track, often in single file to negotiate the drifts that had formed. On either side the boughs of the pine trees were heavily laden and the dull thrumming of the horses’ hoofs was muffled as they rode on. Then, at noon, shortly after the snow had stopped falling, the track descended into a small valley and there was a cry from one of the men scouting ahead. Marcus and the others looked up expectantly as a rider galloped back along the road. He reined in sharply and snow sprayed into the air as he thrust an arm out.

  ‘There’s a fire ahead, sir!’

  ‘A fire?’ Caesar grasped his reins tightly. ‘Then we may have them! Let’s go!’

  He spurred his horse forward and the rest of the column rippled into motion, horses thundering along the track, their steamy breaths whipped out from flaring nostrils. All thought of the cold disappeared from Marcus’s mind as he urged his mount to keep up with Caesar and Festus. The rest of the bodyguard and staff officers galloped behind, followed by the cavalry.

  Ahead, the other scouts were waiting on a small rise that afforded a view along the valley. As they crested the ridge, Marcus saw that the trees fell away on either side, with open land ahead, nestling between the mountains. Aged walled enclosures showed that the land had been used as pasture for many years. A stream meandered along the valley floor into a small lake and ahead, beside a mill, stood a collection of farm buildings enclosed by a wooden stockade. Bright flames licked up from the windows in the largest building and black smoke billowed into the still winter air. Marcus could see figures moving, stark against the snow, as they carried off their spoils, piling them on to several small carts and a wagon hitched to mules a short distance from the villa.

  Marcus galloped down the far side of the rise to the flat road approaching the farm, not much more than half a mile away. The wind roared in his ears and his heart was beating wildly with excitement. Immediately ahead, the horses of Festus and Caesar were kicking up a spray of snow that made it difficult for him to see beyond them. He urged his mount on, steering it to one side, then saw the distant figures scrambling into activity as they spotted the horsemen charging towards them.

  ‘Don’t let them escape!’ Caesar shouted. ‘I want prisoners!’

  Ahead, the men who had attacked the villa were sprinting across the open ground towards the safety of the treeline, abandoning their loot. Even as they raced across the snow-covered fields, Marcus could see most of them would escape well before
the Roman cavalry reached the scene. Once they disappeared into the depths of the forest where the snow had not penetrated, there would be no tracks to follow and they could escape. Marcus felt relieved by that.

  The last of the rebels had already vanished from sight as Caesar savagely reined in outside the villa. Behind him, the rest of his men caught up and the air was filled with the snorting of horses and chink of bits.

  ‘Decurion!’ Caesar thrust his hand towards the first officer to arrive on the scene. ‘Take your squadron and go after them. On foot if necessary.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The decurion snapped a salute and bellowed to his men to follow him as he galloped across to the line of trees f stretching along the edge of the valley. Briefly, Caesar turned to look at the villa before dismounting and handing his reins to one of the bodyguards. Festus and Marcus followed suit and joined him inside the wall.

  The fire had taken hold of the main building and already tongues of flame were stabbing up into the air between the roof tiles. A large section of the roof gave way and crashed into the blaze with an explosion of sparks that swirled high into the air. One of the adjoining buildings was already alight as the fire spread.

  Caesar raised an arm to shield his face from the heat. ‘Look for survivors! I’ll check this side of the villa. Festus, take Marcus and search the other side!’

  Festus pulled Marcus towards the side of the building, where the double doors of a long shed stood open. While Festus strode ahead, Marcus struggled to keep up. As they reached the end of the shed, a wiry man with grey hair lurched into view. A club swung from one arm, and a small chest was tucked under the other. With astonishing speed, he raised his club and slashed at Festus’s head. The glancing blow threw Festus into the snow at his feet with a deep groan. At once the man raised the club again, ready to strike at his head.

  ‘No!’ Marcus yelled, hurling himself forward. He snatched at the man’s bony wrist and both of them tumbled back across the threshold of the shed, sprawling to the earthen floor inside. The impact winded the man but Marcus had rolled to his feet and was ready to strike before the man could rise. Marcus kicked him in the side and smashed a fist on to the back of his head. Raising a hand to protect himself, the man released his club and Marcus snatched it up, then delivered a quick, savage blow across his shoulders. With an explosive grunt the man slumped to the ground, moaning. Marcus stood over him, both hands tightly grasping the club. When he was sure the fight had gone out of the man, he crouched beside Festus and shook his shoulder.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m seeing double and my head feels like a house landed on it,’ Festus growled. ‘Next stupid question?’

  Marcus grinned, then turned his attention back to the other man. Sinewy and tough, the rebel looked in his fifties at least. Marcus regarded him warily. ‘Stay down, if you know what’s good for you.’

  The rebel lay where he had fallen, winded and gasping for breath. Slowly, Festus struggled to his feet and leaned forward, hands resting on his knees as he recovered. Marcus turned at a soft crunch of feet in the snow to see Caesar’s grim smile of satisfaction as he walked towards the rebel.

  ‘You got one of ‘em. Well done!’ Caesar stood over the man and stared down at him. ‘Looks like he’s on his last legs. If this is the best that Brixus can offer, then we have nothing to worry about. The battle, when it comes, is as good as won.’

  Marcus took in the rebel’s ragged cloak and boots that were falling to pieces. His skin was mottled and covered in grime, his breathing laboured as he lay on his back. If Festus hadn’t been caught by surprise, he would have cut the man down in an instant. Why would Brixus even think of sending a man in such poor condition on a raid? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘What if this isn’t the best, sir?’ he asked. ‘The others who were here ran off quickly enough.’

  Caesar waved a hand dismissively. ‘No matter. We have this one to question. Festus, take him behind the shed and question him. I want to know where Brixus is hiding and how many men he has under arms.’

  Festus straightened up and paced over to the rebel. He wrenched the frail man to his feet. Then, drawing his dagger, he dragged him round the corner of the shed and out of sight. By the time the rest of Caesar’s officers arrived the first cries of terror and pain cut through the air, only slightly muffled by the roar of flames that consumed the main building some fifty paces away. Tribune Quintus nodded towards the villa wall beyond the burning building.

  ‘One of the decurions found some bodies over there, sir. Looks like the owner of the villa and his family, and their overseers. Their throats have been cut.’

  Marcus saw the shaken expression on the tribune’s face as Caesar turned to him.

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  Quintus nodded and hesitated a moment before he spoke again. ‘Should I give orders for a funeral or burial, sir?’

  ‘There’s no time for that. Once Festus gets the information I need we’ll be moving out.’

  ‘What if the rebel won’t speak, sir?’ asked Marcus. ‘What if he doesn’t know anything useful?’

  ‘He’ll know something. And trust me, he will speak. Festus has never let me down in that regard.’

  Before Marcus could respond there was a long, piercing shriek from behind the shed, and then another, followed by a terrified gabbling and pleading before a fresh scream sent a shiver down Marcus’s spine.

  While the torturing continued, Caesar sent some men to search the buildings for food and wine. When they returned, together with some stools, he and his officers sat down and tucked into the makeshift meal. While Caesar attempted to lighten the mood by talking about the approaching campaign in Gaul, Marcus stood a short distance away and looked on with a growing sense of disgust. He could not block out the pies of the rebel. In the end, he paced away, standing close to the burning building where the roar of flames almost covered up the sounds of torment.

  At length the rebel fell silent and a moment later Festus emerged, wiping the blood from his dagger with a strip of cloth cut from the rebel’s cloak. As he saw him, Marcus turned away from the fire to rejoin Caesar and his officers.

  ‘Well?’ Caesar demanded. ‘What did you get out of the wretch?’

  ‘He didn’t know, or wouldn’t say, where Brixus has his camp, sir. He was part of a separate band that Brixus had ordered to raid this villa.’

  ‘Damn! Is that all?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Festus sheathed his dagger. ‘There’s more. After this raid, Polonius and the others will join Brixus in a gathering of his bands. They are massing to attack the town of Sedunum, at the end of the next valley. Brixus and two thousand of his men will attack at dawn tomorrow.’

  Caesar’s lips parted in a cold smile. ‘How far is it to the town?’

  One of his tribunes coughed. ‘No more than ten miles, sir.’

  Caesar turned to the officer. ‘And how do you know this?’

  ‘I have an uncle there, sir. I’ve visited Sedunum several times.’

  ‘Excellent. How does the land he around the town?’

  The tribune collected his thoughts. ‘It is at the end of the valley, with mountains on three sides, and a river crosses in front of the town. If Brixus plans to attack at dawn, he will probably be concealed in the trees on this side of the river, facing the town.’

  ‘Then we have them!’ Caesar punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘As long as we act at once. We can’t take them with the cavalry alone. I need the infantry. They will have to march through the night if we are to corner Brixus against the river.’ He turned to Quintus. ‘Ride back to the column. Leave one cohort to guard the baggage train. The rest are to drop their packs and march on Sedunum. I’ll be waiting a few miles short of the town. Once the infantry have come, we’ll attack Brixus and his rabble in their camp. It will all be over before the day even begins.’

  ‘You mean to attack under cover of darkness, sir?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘That is the best wa
y to surprise your enemy,’ Caesar replied sharply. ‘Do you question my orders?’

  ‘Of course not, sir. But is one cohort sufficient to protect the baggage train?’

  ‘Protect it from what? You heard Festus. The rebels are gathering ahead of us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus paused. ‘It’s just that all our supplies, the tents and the packs of the rest of the column will be with the baggage train. If anything happens to it the men will be with-out food or shelter.’

  ‘The baggage train will surely catch up with us by the end of the day,’ Caesar responded. ‘I have made up my mind. Now give the orders.’

  Marcus felt a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. There was something wrong about this. It was all too neat. He took a step forward, between the officers, so that he was clearly visible to Caesar.

  ‘Sir, the tribune is right. It would be dangerous to put the baggage train at risk. Besides, why would Brixus let himself be caught in a trap?’

  ‘He doesn’t know it’s a trap,’ Caesar snapped. ‘Besides, he’s just a slave. A brigand. All he’s interested in is looting and revenge. He’s become too confident. Success has made him arrogant and now he is going to pay the price.’

  ‘But, sir —’

  ‘Enough, Marcus! You are only a boy. Still your tongue. Do you dare to defy my will in this?’

  ‘The boy is right, sir,’ Quintus interrupted. ‘We cannot risk leaving our men without shelter and food if anything happens to the baggage train.’

  Caesar’s expression hardened. ‘Since you are so concerned about it, Tribune, then you will take command of the baggage. There will be no place for you in tomorrow’s battle. No share of the victory. I will not have men who fear for their safety at my side in a fight.’ His gaze shifted to Marcus. ‘Nor boys who share such fear. Both of you will return to the column at once. And when you have passed on my orders, stay there.’