Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

When the shouting had died down Brixus spoke again. ‘Brothers and sisters, the age of slavery will soon come to an end. The bands of rebels will join together and the dream of Spartacus will become a reality.’

‘Spartacus is dead!’ the old man shouted back.

'Yes, he is dead,’ Brixus acknowledged. 'But his dream lives on. And more than his dream. The bloodline of Spartacus continues. Soon, very soon, the rebels will be united and fighting together under one banner and one leader, and that leader will be one who is fit to assume the mantle of the great Spartacus, for he is none other than his son! He will lead us and fulfil the destiny and dream of his father, the same dream that is shared by every slave in the Roman Empire.’

‘The son of Spartacus?’ The old man shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. I was there. He had no son.’

‘The son was born shortly after the end of the rebellion. He bears the secret mark of Spartacus. I have seen it. I have met the boy.'

The crowd had fallen silent, listening to his words with rapt attention, hope burning in almost every face.

‘Where is he?’ some cried out. ‘Where is the boy?’

‘I know where he lives,’ said Brixus. ‘He follows in the footsteps of his father, and already it is clear that he will become as great a gladiator as Spartacus in his time. Greater perhaps. He is still young. But when the time comes he cannot avoid his destiny. He will answer the call, and lead us all to freedom!'

‘Freedom!’ his followers shouted and the cry was echoed by the newly liberated slaves. Even the old man joined in, his eyes sparkling with emotion. Brixus allowed the cheering to continue for a while before he raised his hands and called for silence.

‘There is one last task before we leave this place tonight.’ He turned and pointed to the steward and his family. ‘We must show the Romans what fate lies in store for those who would oppress their fellow man. Bring me the youngest boy.’

One of his men strode over to the family, grabbed the boy’s arm and wrenched him away. He struggled to free himself, reaching out a hand towards his mother as her face wrinkled with grief. The steward held her back as he spoke clearly and defiantly to his son.

‘Show no fear to these scum. No tears. Remember, you are a Roman.’

Brixus laughed, and some in the crowd jeered.

Set in front of Brixus, the boy stood as tall as he could manage and tried to look calm and defiant.

‘Are you afraid of me?’ asked Brixus.

‘You should be. What is your name?’

'Lucius Pollonius Secundus. Though you can call me young master.’

Brixus smiled. ‘Arrogant to a fault. You are a true Roman. The question is, are you a clever Roman, Lucius? Do you think you can remember every detail of what has happened here tonight?’

‘I shall never forget it.’

‘That is true.’ Brixus nodded. Then he turned to Taurus. ‘Crucify the others. This one is to be chained to the foot of his father’s post. He will be the one to tell Rome that a new rebellion is coming, and this time the heir of Spartacus will lead us to victory, and the annihilation of Rome.’

‘Do you think Caesar will win the vote?’ asked Marcus as he looked in through the window of the Senate House.

As usual with any important vote, the windows and arches were packed with bystanders who had come to witness the debate and cheer on their heroes or jeer those senators who were unpopular. It had rained hard that morning and the air was cold and clammy. Marcus pulled his cloak tightly about him. He wore the hood down, despite the weather, so that he could follow the noisy proceedings in the Senate House more clearly. His dark curly hair badly needed a cut, but for now was held back by a leather strap about his forehead and tied off at the back. Even though he had recently turned twelve he was tall for his age and well built, as could be expected in a boy who had spent nearly two years of his life training to become a gladiator. There was a hardness about his expression that was unusual for his age, and came with the scars like that he bore above his right knee.

An idyllic childhood on the Greek island of Leucas had been cut short when he and his mother had been kidnapped by the hired muscle of the moneylender Decimus. Shortly after they were separated and while his mother had been taken to spend the rest of her life as a slave on a farm in Greece, Marcus had been bought by a lanista — the owner of a gladiator school — near Capua. His training had been brutal and relentless, until he had been picked to fight in front of Julius Caesar. By chance he had saved the life of Caesar’s niece, Portia, who had fallen into the pit during his fight with two wolves.

Since then he had been brought to Rome to serve in Caesar’s household, and spy on his enemies. For that he had been awarded his freedom. But that was months ago and at first Marcus had assumed that he would be swiftly reunited with his mother. However, it was not to be. Despite Caesar making enquiries to find out where she was being held, there had been no news of her and Marcus was growing restless. His heart ached whenever he thought of his mother, and imagined her chained to other slaves and forced to work in the fields of the villa owned by Decimus. He could not rest while she remained a slave. Nor could he be content until he had taken his revenge on Dedmus for all the suffering inflicted on himself, his mother and Titus, the man who had raised Marcus like a father. Marcus decided that if there was no progress by the end of the month, then he would ask Caesar’s permission to look for her himself.

Despite being a freed man, Marcus had soon discovered his new status entitled him to less liberty than he first imagined. Those who had been slaves owed a debt to their former masters and were expected to honour any requests for further services, all part of the peculiar customs of the Roman people. It was a far cry from the simple way he had been raised on Leucas.

Time was running out for Marcus. His former master had completed his year serving as one of the two consuls and would shortly be leaving Rome to take command of the armies and province of Cisalpine Gaul. If he was to get any further help from Caesar to find and free his mother, then it would need to happen soon, before the newly appointed general left Rome. But first Caesar had to survive an attempt by his political enemies to have him prosecuted for abusing his powers during his year in office.

Today they would vote on whether Caesar should be put on trial. The arguments for and against the motion had raged all day and Caesar had risen from his bench several times to address his accusers. As ever, Marcus had been impressed by his former master’s public-speaking skills. He had used reason, rhetoric and humour to challenge his opponents and win the support of senators, as well as the majority of the public watching. But was that enough?

The grey-haired man standing beside Marcus tilted his head slightly to one side as he considered the boy’s question. Festus was in charge of Caesar’s private bodyguard, a small force of army veterans, ex-gladiators and street fighters who were tasked with his safety when he passed through the crowded streets of Rome. Marcus was the youngest member of the bodyguard, but had won the respect of the others for his courage and skill with weapons.

‘Hard to decide. The master is popular enough with the people. His land reforms last year have helped many. But they won’t have a say over what happens to him. That’s down to the senators alone.’ He paused and a smile creased his weathered face. ‘But I dare say that most of them will not be willing to risk the anger of the mob by putting Caesar on trial. The only danger is that Cato will manage to sway their opinion.’