The traffic slowed as it reached the gates of Sinuessa and those passing into the town paid their toll to enter. The rest diverted round the town to pick up the road again on the far side. Brutus sat impatiently, clicking his tongue and muttering, ‘Come on, come on. Haven’t got all bloody day …’
At length, the leader of the mule train in front of them paid over his coins and passed through the gate. Then it was the turn of Brutus and Marcus. The toll-collector strode over and glanced at the cart. ‘The cart’s empty. You have no goods apart from the vehicle?’
‘Well spotted,’ Brutus grumbled. ‘Just me, the boy and the cart.’
‘Is the boy yours?’
‘He’s a slave. I’m delivering him to some patrician in Rome.’
‘Ah, well then, you’ll have to pay a toll for him as well as the cart.’
‘What?’ Brutus’s heavy brows knitted together. ‘What nonsense is this? Since when has Sinuessa charged for slaves?’
‘Look there.’ The toll-collector pointed to the placard of rates mounted above the gate. A new entry had been painted at the bottom. ‘New ordinance passed by the town fathers last month. Slaves are now included as goods on which duty is payable. I’m sorry, sir,’ he apologized unconvincingly. ‘But you’ll have to pay for the boy.’
Brutus turned to glare at Marcus. ‘I’d better not end up out of pocket on this. Your new master will have to cover my costs when we reach Rome.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘You’ll have to take it up with him, then. It’s nothing to do with me. I’m just a slave.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ Brutus growled. ‘Any more backchat and I’ll give you a hiding, y’hear?’
Turning to the toll-collector, Brutus took out his purse and counted over the toll. ‘There! And you tell the town fathers from me that they’re a bunch of bloody crooks.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the other man smiled. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on the customer feedback. Now move on.’
Brutus cracked his reins and yelled to the mules. ‘Yah! Forward, you dumb brutes!’
The cart rumbled through the arch and into the town. The smell of rotting vegetables, sewage and a musty dampness filled the air and Marcus’s nose wrinkled. Brutus drove with seemingly little concern for the other people in the wide thoroughfare and they were obliged to hurry out of his way and hurl insults after him. He turned off the main street and entered the yard of an inn, hauling back on his reins to halt the mules.
‘Down you go. Hold the traces while I deal with the cart.’
Marcus climbed down one-handed and then went forward to take the lead mule’s traces. Brutus called over one of the ostlers and the two men unhitched the polearm and then they heaved the cart over against the wall. Once that was done, Brutus took the traces to lead his team off to the stables. He nodded towards the cart.
‘Find yourself some straw for bedding. You sleep in the cart.’
‘What about you?’ Marcus asked.
‘Me? I’ll get myself a bunk in the inn. After I’ve had a drink or two. You stay here. Don’t leave the yard.’
‘What shall I eat?’ Marcus was getting cross with the driver. ‘I’ve not had anything all day. You can’t let me starve.’
‘You’re a slave. I can do what I like.’
‘Yes, but I’m not your slave. You were told to look after me until we reach Rome.’
Brutus sniffed and then cuffed Marcus’s nose. ‘All right,’ he replied sourly. ‘I’ll send some food out to you, if I remember.’
Without another word he strolled away and entered the low door into the inn. Marcus glared after him briefly, then went to help himself to some straw from the stables and carried it to the cart. Once he had covered the floor of the cart he eased himself up and leaned back against the side.
‘Still a slave,’ he muttered to himself.
For a while he just sat and listened to the hubbub of the surrounding streets, pierced by the occasional braying of a mule or a shout or shriek of drunken laughter from the inn. As he was about to close his eyes and rest, he saw a man cautiously enter the yard. He wore a long cloak and held out a bowl. A faint chink of coins carried to Marcus as the man shook the bowl. Marcus remembered the beggar he had seen earlier on the road. He kept quiet as the beggar lowered the bowl once he saw that no one seemed to be about. Creeping into the middle of the yard, the man glanced around. Marcus could see only his chin, since the hood covered the rest of his features. The hidden face turned towards him and the beggar paused briefly before approaching the cart.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Marcus spoke out. ‘I don’t have any money to give you.’
‘Money?’ the beggar said quietly. ‘I don’t want money from you, Marcus.’
Marcus started. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘I know you well enough,’ the beggar replied. ‘Perhaps better than you know yourself.’
He approached the end of the cart, limping slightly, and, passing his staff across to his bowl hand, he drew back his hood to reveal his face.
‘Brixus …’ Marcus shook his head in wonder. ‘By the Gods, I hoped you had got away. What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been waiting to speak with you, Marcus. I followed you all the way from Capua.’ Brixus looked round to make sure that they had the yard to themselves, then he climbed in and eased himself down opposite Marcus. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Something very important. I had to speak with some others before I could tell you. Now they know what I know and they agree that I should tell it all to you. It is your right. Your destiny.’
Marcus was still getting over the shock of seeing his friend again and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’
Brixus stared at him with an intense expression. ‘There’s no easy way to tell you what I know, and some of what I have guessed. I must be quick, since I don’t know how much time I have before anyone comes.’
‘Brixus, you must go!’ Marcus replied in alarm. ‘If you are seen and recognized, then you’ll be caught. You won’t escape with that leg.’
Brixus smiled craftily. ‘It’s not as bad as it appears. I’ll be fine. Now, you just listen.’
Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but Brixus held up a hand to silence him and he nodded. Brixus tapped Marcus’s right shoulder.
‘It’s about that brand I saw. I recognized it at once, but it made no sense. Not at first, not until you told me about your mother. You said she was a slave, a follower of Spartacus.’
‘That’s right. Until she was captured and my father bought her.’
‘Marcus, I have to tell you: your mother was not a follower of Spartacus.’
‘Then what?’ Marcus leaned closer to Brixus. ‘Why would she say so? Why lie to me?’
‘It was not a lie. In some ways she was a follower. But she was more than that, far more. She was his lover. His wife, in so far as a slave can have a wife.’
‘Wife?’ Marcus felt his blood chill. ‘My mother … and Spartacus?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know this?’ Marcus asked suspiciously.
‘Because I was one of his chosen band. There were twenty of us, sworn to protect the life of Spartacus. We were marked, as he was, by a special brand. When one of us died, another was chosen and branded. Only we knew about the mark: the wolf of Rome impaled on the sword of a gladiator – no, the gladiator – Spartacus. It was he who designed the brand and had it made, and he who first bore the brand, and who in turn branded us. We were a brotherhood, Marcus. Your father and the rest of us. Only his woman shared in the knowledge of the secret symbol.’
Marcus swallowed nervously. ‘And it’s the same mark as I have on my shoulder?’
‘Yes. And mine. Look here.’
Brixus pulled the shoulder of his cloak and tunic down and twisted towards Marcus. A thin white line of scar tissue depicted the wolf’s head and the sword. He pulled his clothes back into place.
Marcus shook his head. ‘It
can’t be right. It has to be a coincidence.’
‘Well, then you can imagine how surprised I was to see the brand on you. That’s why I had to discover more about it. That’s why I had to spare you from the gauntlet.’ Brixus paused and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. ‘You see, after the final battle, when Spartacus was killed and his army defeated, his woman, Amaratis, disappeared.
‘Amaratis?’ Marcus cut in. ‘But my mother’s name is Livia.’
‘It is now.’ Brixus smiled briefly. ‘Anyway, she was with child and Spartacus had ordered her to escape if the battle was lost. But there was no escape. The armies of Crassus and Pompeius had us trapped. As you know, I was lying injured in the camp during the battle. I saw Amaratis. She told me she was taking all that was valuable to her and would try to find a way home to her people. That was the last time we spoke. I’m guessing now that she took the branding iron with her. She must have still had it when she was captured, and when the centurion became her master. And when her child was born, she branded him.’ Brixus gripped Marcus’s arm gently. ‘She branded you.’
‘But why?’
‘Because she wanted you to carry the sign of the rebellion with you. One day, I imagine, she intended to tell you the truth. The whole truth.’
‘What truth?’ asked Marcus, feeling a growing sense of nausea fill the pit of his stomach. ‘What truth?’
‘That you are not the centurion’s son. That she was expecting a child when she was taken and the father of that child was Spartacus himself.’
‘No … NO!’ Marcus shook his head. ‘It’s not true. I know who my father was. He was a centurion. A hero. I loved him.’ He felt his throat tighten as all the feelings he had ever felt for the man who had raised him as a son welled up inside. Marcus felt his heart swell with longing and grief.
‘Hush!’ Brixus urged him, glancing round anxiously. ‘Marcus, it’s a hard truth, but it is the truth. Believe me.’
‘No. I shan’t.’ Marcus brushed back the first tears. ‘It’s a lie.’
‘Then how do you explain the mark?’
‘I – I can’t.’
‘Think, Marcus. Think back to your childhood. Surely you must have sensed that your mother and Titus were hiding something from you?’
Marcus tried to clear his mind and remember. Almost unwillingly, he recalled his life on the farm, his mother and Titus, and the oddly formal nature of their relationship at times. And also how his mother had always told him that he would be more than the son of a farmer one day, far more.
‘Marcus, I don’t have much time. Listen to me. I don’t expect you to understand all this at once. You are the son of Spartacus. That means you are an enemy of slavery and that means you are an enemy of Rome. If they ever discovered your true identity, you would be in grave danger. Never tell another soul what I have told you. But there’s more to this than you know. The spirit of Spartacus survived his defeat. He lives on in the hearts of slaves across the Roman Empire. If ever there was another rebellion, there would be thousands who would flock to join the banner of his son. That day may never come. But if it does, then it is your destiny to strive to complete your father’s work. Do you understand?’
‘Destiny?’ Marcus felt his mind reeling. He shook his head. ‘No! My destiny is to win my freedom and save my mother from slavery. That’s all.’
‘For now, perhaps. But it does not change who you are and what you stand for. In time you will accept that.’ Brixus leaned back. ‘I have told others what I know. That is why I escaped, to pass the word on to other slaves who still remember Spartacus. Even now they are whispering that his son lives.’
Marcus glared at him. ‘Then you put my life at risk.’
‘No. All that is known is that you live and that you are a gladiator like your father before you.’
‘That is already too much knowledge,’ Marcus said bitterly. ‘If those who control Rome get to hear of this, then they will stop at nothing to find me.’
‘Then you had better do your best not to arouse suspicion,’ Brixus suggested. ‘Marcus, I know it is a dangerous secret, and I feel sorry that the burden is laid on such young shoulders, but you are your father’s son. If ever there comes a time for the slaves to rise up against their masters again, they will need a figurehead. They will need you.’ Brixus looked round again, shuffled over to the edge of the cart and lowered his legs to the ground. ‘I must leave. I have already seen a wanted sign with my description on it near the inn.’
‘Where will you go?’ Marcus did not want him to leave. Not when one question after another was building up inside.
‘I will remain at liberty for as long as I can. I will travel wherever there are slaves and tell them that the Great Revolt is not finished. Hope lives. Wherever you see a master beating a slave, look for me, Marcus, and I will be there. And so will the spirit of Spartacus, and that of his son.’
He leaned forward and grasped Marcus by the hands. ‘Look after yourself. You are as a son to me.’
He turned and hurried away, through the gateway of the yard and into the street. Marcus was tempted to run after him, but then he recalled his mother and he knew that he must remain in the cart. He must go to Rome and do all that he could to reverse the great wrong that had been done to his family …
He paused and smiled bitterly to himself. His family was a lie. Titus did not share his blood and was not his to avenge.
As he sat and waited for Brutus to bring him some scraps of food, Marcus felt a vague sense of purpose stirring inside him. He had never been a free Roman. Not really. It was slave blood that ran in his veins and always had. His bond was with the slaves, not the free. He had started this quest to right the wrong that had been done to him and his mother. Now there was a far greater injustice looming over him and soon he must decide what he would do about it. He could choose to follow the path Brixus had laid out for him, or he could create his own destiny. Either way, he must go to Rome. He reached over his shoulder, his fingertips brushing along the scar tissue of the brand, and he whispered softly to himself.
‘Father …’
Gladiator Page 21