Simon Scarrow - Son of Spartacus

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.’

Quintus opened his mouth to protest, then clamped his jaw shut and bowed his head before turning towards the horses held ready by one of the troopers. Marcus stood his ground, burning with shame at the accusation of cowardice that Caesar had thrown at him.

‘What are you waiting for, boy?’ Caesar waved his hand. ‘Get out of my sight.’

Marcus nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glanced towards Festus who gave the slightest of shrugs, then turned to stride stiffly through the snow to catch up with Quintus, his heart filled with a sense of foreboding.

Tribune Quintus watched the rear of the infantry column marching off into the gloom with an anxious expression. Around him the men of the rearguard were busy picking up the marching yokes of their comrades and heaping them on to the supply carts and wagons. Even the wagon of Decimus had been pressed into service and his men were grumbling as they helped the legionaries. Marcus had raised the hood of his cloak the moment they joined the baggage train and did his best to keep out of sight of Decimus as he followed the tribune.

Quintus was no more than five or six years older than himself, Marcus estimated. His cheeks sported only a faint blur of stubble and he looked no different from the youths hanging around the street corners of Rome. Only he was now in charge of five hundred soldiers and another two hundred mule drivers of the baggage train. As Marcus watched, Quintus raised his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail.

A fresh flurry of snow had blown down from the mountain peaks. Very quickly, the swirling flakes swallowed up the departing column, filling the air with a mournful moan and faint swish as the wind disturbed the tops of the laden fir trees on either side of the track.

‘You were right to warn him,’ Marcus said quietly.

Quintus turned and frowned at him. ‘I don’t need some ex-slave to tell me that.’

Marcus controlled his anger. ‘I apologize if you think I am speaking out of turn. I just thought you should know.’

Quintus glared at him in silence for a moment. ‘Just who in Hades do you think you are? You’re just a boy. I know you’ve trained as a gladiator and even won a fight or two, but that doesn’t make you an expert in anything. Why on earth Caesar keeps you close to his side is beyond me.’

‘I’m not at his side now,’ Marcus pointed out.

‘But he still listened to you, and holds you in some kind of regard. Just like his niece. Anyone would think you were Portia s little brother from the way she goes on about you.’ he said bitterly.

Marcus frowned. So, she spoke about him. Even to the man who had become her husband. He felt a spark of warmth in his heart. That, and the hope for something impossible, then he pushed the thought aside.

‘Sir, the sooner we set off after the main column the better.’

‘I know that!’ Quintus snapped and tugged sharply on the reins as he turned his mount, trotting back down the line to shout at the men. ‘Get those packs loaded on the wagons! Centurions! Get your men moving. I want the wagons sent off as soon as possible!’

Marcus watched him for a moment, then looked up at the sky. Thick flakes of snow swirled down from the dark grey clouds and there was no sign of any break in the weather. The track along which the column had marched was already covered by fresh drifts, and Marcus realized they had little chance of catching up with Caesar and the main column the following day.

Once the men had formed up, two centuries marched in front of the wagons, with two more at the rear. The rest of the legionaries were strung out beside the vehicles, ready to clear drifts from the track or put their shoulders to the wheels to push the carts and wagons forward. Quintus rode at the head of the formation, with the senior centurion of the cohort at his side. Marcus remained a short distance behind, to keep out of the tribune’s way. He had no desire to antagonize Portia’s husband any further.

It took two hours, as far as Marcus could estimate, for the baggage train to reach the rise from where the villa had been sighted earlier that day. Now the blizzard obscured the way ahead and it was impossible to make out any of the buildings. The water at the edge of the lake had frozen and the snow settling on the ice left only the middle of the lake visible.

As they approached the villa, a faint glow through the fall-ing snow revealed that some buildings were still on fire. A short distance further on Marcus could see the dark mass of the mill by the stream and then the wooden stockade surrounding the villa, the outline of the sharpened stakes clearly defined against the glow of the fire within.

‘We should stop here for a moment to rest the men and mules,’ the centurion marching beside Quintus advised. ‘It’s hard going, and they’re exhausted.’

‘If we stop now, they’ll not want to continue,’ Quintus mused. ‘Better we carry on.’

‘If we do that, sir, then we’ll risk losing men and beasts along the way. Any stragglers we leave behind won’t survive the night without shelter.’

‘That’s their lookout. I have orders to bring the baggage up to the main column as soon as I can.’

The centurion sighed in frustration and was about to speak again when Marcus heard a faint sound to his left, from the direction of the trees. It had sounded like a voice calling out. He flicked his hood back to hear more clearly, tilting his head to the side as he strained his ears.

‘Did you hear that?’ he interrupted the two officers.

‘What?’ Quintus rounded on him, the wind fluttering the crest on his helmet. ‘Hear what?’

‘Quiet!’ Marcus snapped. ‘Listen! There it is again.’

There was another shout from amid the trees, muffled and impossible to make out, but definitely a voice.

‘Could be a wild animal,’ suggested the centurion. ‘With the wind and all, it’s easy to mistake the sound.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you.’

Quintus chuckled. ‘Your imagination is getting the better of you, boy. You should have stayed in Caesar’s household in Rome where you belong.’

Before Marcus could respond, the sound of a horn cut through the moan of the wind. Three sharp blasts, a pause, then they came again. Along the track the men and vehicles slowed to a halt as faces turned towards the sound with anxious expressions.

‘What’s that?’ Quintus asked.

The horn sounded a third time and a cheer rose up from within the forest. Marcus stared at the shadows along the treeline, no more than two hundred paces away. As the sound of the cheers swelled, he saw movement and the first of the figures burst from cover to charge across the snowy field towards the track.

‘Ambush!’ the centurion exclaimed, then turned to his men and cupped his hand. ‘Form line to the left!’

Quintus stared at the oncoming men open-mouthed, then thrust his jaw out as he drew his sword. He caught Marcus’s eyes and nodded grimly. ‘Looks like we were right about the risk.’

‘Maybe,’ Marcus replied through gritted teeth. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

He reached down for the handle of his sword and drew the blade from its scabbard with a sharp rasp.

‘Stay close!’ Quintus ordered. ‘If you’re half the gladiator they say you are, I want you at my side.’