Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

The crowd had become quiet, sensing that this bout would be a different, more subtle kind of contest.

Marcus raised his sword and turned so that he presented his side to Quintus, limiting the size of the target the tribune could strike at. Then he steadily advanced. Quintus lowered himself into a crouch and adopted the same stance, but held his ground and waited for Marcus. The tips of their swords touched and Marcus applied a gentle pressure as he slid his point a short distance down his opponent’s blade. Quintus dropped the point, cut under and tapped Marcus’s sword aside. Then he feinted with a little jump forward, straightening his arm. Marcus pretended to parry the blow and correctly anticipated that the tribune would cut under his sword again. He knocked it aside, forcing the other sword back with the length of the blade close to his guard, stepping in to Quintus as he did so. The move forced the young man to back off quickly, to prevent Marcus getting too near, and he swept his sword from side to side to block any attacks to his body. Marcus contented himself with flicking his sword so that it nicked the flesh of his opponents forearm, opening a long shallow gash that looked worse than it was as the blood began to flow. Then he stepped back out of reach and stared at Quintus, trying to gauge his next move.

The tribune backed off and looked anxiously at the cut as the more knowing members of the crowd murmured their approval of the initial exchange. Marcus had won control of the centre of the makeshift arena, a move that he knew would undermine his opponent’s confidence. Sure enough, there was no mistaking the glimmer of fear in Quintus’s expression as he lowered himself into a crouch again, determined to seize back the initiative.

It was obvious that he would attack even before he began to move, his legs bracing for the explosive charge across the hard ground. Marcus let him come, then ducked to one side as the blade passed harmlessly by his head. The momentum carried Quintus forward, and Marcus lowered his sword to slash it across his thigh as he passed. Both turned to face each other and now there was no hiding the fear in the tribune’s eyes. Marcus forced himself to keep his face like a mask: cold, ruthless and unreadable.

Quintus licked his lips and spoke in a low voice. ‘Marcus, you can’t kill me. Think of Portia … She considers you her friend. She trusts you. Would you betray her trust, her affection, by striking down her husband? I love her, Marcus. If I am lost she will be alone in the world.’ As he spoke he edged forward, his sword tip lowered, his tone genuine.

Marcus struggled to push the memory of Portia from his mind, but could think only of the words she had spoken to him, and the soft touch of her lips.

With a blur, Quintus charged, his sword sweeping in a clumsy but deadly arc. Marcus backed off as he blocked the blow and sparks flew. Quintus continued his assault with a vicious flurry of strokes as he growled, ‘I will not die! I will win! Win!’

Marcus cleared his mind of everything but the reaction to each attack, and met it with a block or parry, conserving his strength as his opponent wasted energy. Then, as Quintus swung again, Marcus counter-attacked before the tribune could reverse the stroke. Stabbing the blade with all his strength, Marcus went for the hamstring above and behind Quintus’s knee. His aim was true but the cold and exhaustion had left him weak, and instead of a crippling blow the sword cut deep into the flesh and muscle without severing it.

Quintus let out a cry of pain and staggered away, bleeding freely. The advantage won, Marcus pushed ahead, feinting and thrusting to force his opponent backwards. Then Quintus’s boot slipped on the icy ground. He stumbled and fell on to his back, throwing his arms wide. Marcus leapt forward and stamped his foot on the wrist of the tribune’s sword arm, so that his fingers spasmed and the sword fell from his grasp. Marcus kicked it away, then stood over the tribune and touched the point of his blade to Quintus’s throat.

‘No! I beg you, spare me!’ Quintus pleaded. ‘For Portia!’

Marcus hesitated. He had concentrated on winning the fight. Not on its aftermath. He stood still, sword arm trembling slightly with the cold.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Kill him.’

Marcus did not move and Quintus closed his eyes tightly, his head tipped to one side.

‘Kill him,’ Mandracus ordered. ‘Or I will kill you.’

The rasp of a blade sounded and Marcus saw the rebel striding towards him. He willed himself to strike, to thrust his blade into the tribune’s throat, but he could not do it. Mandracus stood to one side and hissed. ‘This is your last chance …’

When Marcus did not react, he raised his sword.

‘Wait!’ a voice cried from the crowd. Marcus turned to see a commotion near the track leading to the secret entrance to the valley. He heard a horse’s hoofs as the dark figure of a rider emerged into the rosy glow cast by the flames from the fires. Behind him came other figures on foot, some limping and others supported by their comrades. Anxious muttering filtered through the crowd. Mandracus slowly lowered his sword and turned towards the rider.

‘Brixus.’

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Brixus demanded as he rode into the open space outside his hut.

The muttering of the crowd rose into a nervous murmur as the men following their leader came into view. Many were wounded and streaked with dried blood, with crudely tied strips of cloth acting as dressings. Marcus stepped back from Quintus and lowered his sword as he turned to watch the new arrivals. The tribune opened his eyes and stared up at the sky, his chest heaving as he gasped at the cold air.

‘These are the prisoners we took after the ambush,’ Mandracus explained.

‘And what are you doing with them?’

‘Putting on some entertainment, to raise our people’s spirits. But what of you?’ Mandracus indicated the straggling column of men following Brixus into the camp. ‘What happened?’

Brixus reined in and took a weary breath. ‘My ambush did not fare so well. We caught Caesar’s column in the flank as it approached Sedunum. They were strung out along the track as I had expected, but they turned and formed into a battle-line before we could close with them. By the Gods, I’ve never seen men so well handled, not even in the days of Spartacus’s revolt. It was as bloody a battle as I have ever fought. Thousands were cut down on either side. But we had the upper hand. Then both sides pulled apart to lick their wounds and draw breath. When I gave the order to charge again … my men would not obey. They’d had enough. I had no choice but to retreat into the forest and return here.’

Mandracus heard his leader’s report in silence, then glanced past him towards the entrance to the valley. ‘Were you followed?’

‘Do you take me for a fool?’ Brixus snapped. ‘Of course not. Caesar sent his cavalry after us but we lost them in the trees. We headed south for half a day before turning back to the camp. We’re safe, Mandracus.’

‘Safe for now. How many men did you lose?’

Brixus frowned. ‘We’ll speak in my hut. For now, I want my men fed and rested and their wounds seen to. Give the orders.’

Mandracus nodded, then recalled the prisoners. ‘What do you want me to do with the Romans?’

Brixus shrugged as he dismounted. ‘They can serve the camp, like the others.’ He turned towards Marcus. ‘Disarm that one and …’ His words died away and he froze as he stared at the boy.

Marcus was not sure how to react and returned his gaze in silence.

‘By all the Gods, it can’t be … surely?’ Brixus limped closer, his eyes wide in amazement. ‘Marcus. It is you. By all the Gods …’