Simon Scarrow - Son of Spartacus

But there was no charge, and the two sides stood their ground, breathing hard from their exertions as they waited.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ Quintus asked, his voice wavering. ‘For pity’s sake, why?’

Then there was movement in the rebel ranks and a tall figure emerged and strode towards the Romans, stopping two sword lengths from their shields. He carried a long heavy sword in one hand and his dark hair was tied back with a thong. Marcus recognized him at once. It was the same man who had led the ambush of Caesar’s party several days earlier. Mandracus glared at the Romans for a moment before he spat to one side and addressed them.

‘The fight is over. You have been defeated. Throw down your weapons and you will live. If not, you will be cut down where you stand.’

There was a brief stillness before Quintus lowered his sword and stepped towards the edge of the ring. The centurion stood in his way.

‘What do you think you are doing … sir?’

‘The fight is over. We did our best and lost. It’s time to surrender.’

‘No!’ the centurion growled. ‘Do you really think they’ll let us live? Better to die like a man than be cut down like a dog. There’ll be no surrender.’

‘Yes, there will.’ Quintus drew himself up. ‘I am in command here, not you. And you will obey my orders, Centurion. Now stand aside.’

Marcus saw the glowering anger in the centurion’s eyes as he stood still for a moment, then did as he was told. Quintus made his way to the edge of the ring and threw his sword out on to the snow, at the rebel leader’s feet. ‘We surrender.’

The man next to him followed suit, and lowered his shield to the ground. Another did the same, then the rest, until the surviving legionaries stood defenceless. All except the centurion and Marcus.

‘Very wise of you,’ said Mandracus. ‘Now back to the track in single file. Move!’

With Quintus leading, the unarmed men began to move away from the lake, through the ranks of the rebels who jeered and jostled them as they passed by.

Marcus gazed around him, his mind a turmoil of struggling impulses. His gladiator training had taught him never to give in, yet if he chose to fight and die there would be no chance to save his mother. While he lived, there was a sliver of hope, no matter how small.

‘Good lad.’ the centurion said. ‘You’ve got more guts than that yellow tribune and the rest of them put together. We’ll go down, side by side, like heroes.’

Marcus glanced at him, then at the sea of rebel faces that glared back with hatred. He lowered his sword and spoke softly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I have to live.’

The centurion stared coldly at him a moment, then nodded. ‘It’s all right. I understand. Better go quickly, before it’s too late.’

Marcus stepped away from him, sword arm hanging loosely. As he approached the rebel leader, he let the handle slip from his fingers and heard the soft thud as it landed in the snow. His heart felt heavy at abandoning the centurion to his fate, but while there was a chance his mother lived, that governed every decision he made. Mandracus glanced at the boy as he passed by, then gave him a shove towards the end of the line of Romans being led into captivity.

Behind him, Marcus heard the centurion shout. ‘For Rome! For Rome!’

Bodies surged past Marcus on either side. There was a clash of blades and the thud of a weapon striking a shield. Then a cry of triumph and a throaty roar from the rebels that was swallowed up by the snow swirling down the length of the small valley.

The surviving legionaries and Decimus and his men had been joined by a handful of mule drivers as they stood on the track guarded by several of the rebels. There they had been securely bound as Mandracus ordered the rest of his men to strip the bodies of undamaged armour and weapons. Any wounded Romans had their throats cut, while the injured rebels were carefully loaded on to the carts and wagons. The dead were carried into the villa, where a pyre was built using any combustible material left from the morning raid.

By the time the rebels were ready to move out it was dusk and the snow had stopped falling. A pale blue hue hung across the valley, where the dark forms of bodies and pools of blood lay either side of the track. The lurid red flames rising from the stockade added to the sombre scene, and Marcus shivered miserably as he and the others awaited their fate in silence. Mandracus took a last look around and swept his arm along the track.

‘Move out!’

Marcus waited until the man ahead of him lurched forward, and hurriedly marched a few feet to give himself some slack, then concentrated on maintaining the gap. He thought it strange that Mandracus was leading them in the direction of Caesar. With a brief flicker of hope, he wondered if Caesar might send a message back to the baggage train, so the rider would see them and raise the alarm with the main column. Then, no more than a mile along the track, Mandracus turned off, taking a smaller path that meandered through a forest and headed into the heart of the mountain range.

They stopped for the night in an abandoned village, where the prisoners were herded into a small sheep pen and left with-out food or water. Around them the rebels found shelter in what remained of the houses and huts of the silent village. No fires were lit, but as night fell the sky cleared and the stars shone like tiny shards of ice.

Marcus explored the pen and found a corner out of the wind containing the musty remains of a pile of straw. He pulled as much of it over his body as he could with his bound hands and sat hunched over his knees, shivering. One by one the other men settled down to endure the freezing night as best they could.

It was impossible to sleep and, in any case, Marcus knew that sleep was dangerous. Titus had told him that once, recalling a campaign he had fought in the mountains of Macedonia. Pompeius’s army had been forced to spend several nights in the open and there were men who fell asleep never to wake again. Come dawn their comrades discovered them frozen stiff. Marcus was not going to let the same thing happen to him. As soon as he felt his eyelids droop he sat up stiffly and pinched his cheeks hard.

At some point during the night, he heard someone shuffling towards him in the darkness, then a voice rasped.

‘Boy, is that you? In the corner there.’

At first Marcus did not recognize the voice and kept still, holding his breath.

‘I know you can hear me, boy … It’s Marcus, isn’t it? Titus told me about you once, when he came to do business with me.’

Marcus felt a familiar anger flare up in his heart. He drew a slow breath to calm his body so that his voice would not tremble when he spoke. He did not want Decimus to think that he was afraid of him. ‘What do you want?’

‘A word.’

‘Why would I want to talk to you, Decimus? After everything you have done to me and my family. All I ever want to hear is you begging for your life before I kill you.’

‘Kill me?’ Marcus heard a low chuckle, then the man’s voice caught as a bout of shivering seized his body. ‘You? What makes you think you could ever harm me? I have powerful friends. Men who depend on me. You are just one step up from being a common slave. Be realistic, Marcus. There’s nothing you could ever do to harm me.’

‘I won’t have to. Not now. I just hope the rebels get round to killing you before me.’

Decimus was silent for a moment. ‘Fair enough … But there’s a chance that Caesar might find us first.’

So that’s what he wanted to ask Marcus about. He laughed quietly. ‘I doubt it. Caesar has his own problems now that he has lost his baggage train.’