Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

‘Don’t let the spy escape!’ a voice ordered. ‘Kill him if you have to!’

Marcus stayed low and ran on, swerving round the tree trunks, barely able to make out the way ahead. He had no idea which direction to head in but kept running, steering away from the sounds of his pursuers. But he knew he was close to exhaustion. Perhaps it would be better to stop, press himself against a tree trunk and keep still while the men passed by. Then he could double back to escape in a different direction. Even as the thought raced through his mind, he knew he dare not risk being caught and killed on the spot, or taken back to Brixus. The veteran gladiator would not forgive his escape attempt. Though Brixus had been a close companion of Spartacus, his first loyalty was clearly to his fanatical hatred of Rome. There would be no mercy shown to anyone who betrayed that cause, not even the son of Spartacus.

That thought gave him an extra burst of energy and Marcus forced himself on, stumbling through the dark forest as the ground beneath his boots began to slope gently down. Behind him, the rebels called to each other as they kept up the chase.

After about a mile the trees abruptly began to thin out and he was suddenly in the open, on the edge of an expanse of uneven ground. A large stone enclosure stood at the bottom of the slope where the trees began again, a few hundred paces away, and Marcus guessed that must be a summer pasture for goats or sheep. If he continued down the slope, his dark cloak would stand out against the snow and he would be spotted the instant the rebels emerged from the forest. With a rising sense of panic, he turned back to re-enter the trees when a voice called out close at hand.

‘Over here! Some tracks … He’s been this way!’

A cold wave of terror raced down his spine. There was only one direction now and Marcus spun round and ran for his life. He had covered no more than thirty paces across the smooth sweep of snowy field when the first of the pursuers burst out of the forest.

‘There he is! Just a kid!’

‘Get him!’ another voice called. ‘He mustn’t get away!’

Marcus risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw several dark figures converging on him from the treeline, kicking up sprays of snow as they raced down the slope. He sprinted on, heart pounding, fear causing his stomach and chest to tighten so that he panted raggedly. When he looked back again they were much closer, their longer stride gaining on him. They were halfway across the field before Marcus realized he could not reach the shelter of the trees before they caught up. He felt the energy draining from his legs and there was nothing he could do.

In front of him lay the stone wall of the pen and he saw the sudden movement of a dark shape rising above it. Then another, and another.

‘Heads up, lads! We’ve got company.’

Marcus slowed momentarily, unsure if these were more of Brixus’s men. Then the shouts behind caused him to grit his teeth and run on.

‘Kill him!’ a voice cried out. ‘He mustn’t give us away! Kill him!’

Something dark flew close by Marcus’s head and exploded into the snow. He saw the shaft of a spear as he ran by and any moment expected to feel the piercing blow as the next missile punched through his back and tore through his body. A short distance ahead, one of the men inside the stone wall reared up and drew his arm back.

‘Get down, lad!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Down!’

With no time to think, Marcus hurled himself forward into the biting cold of the snow, rolling over towards the wall. He did not see what happened next, only heard the thud and deep grunt from close behind him. Scrambling on hands and knees, he glanced back and saw one of the rebels collapse to the ground, a spear shaft protruding from his stomach.

‘Get stuck in!’ a voice roared from behind the stone wall and dark shapes clambered over, short swords in hand. Some carried large oval shields as they charged towards the rebels, shouting their battle cry. Swords clattered all around Marcus. With nothing to protect himself, he crouched low as he ran to the wall and clambered over the rough stones before dropping inside.

He landed heavily, forcing the breath from his lungs, and it was a moment before he took in his surroundings. The interior of the pen was filled with legionary marching yokes, and bundles of javelins leaned against the wall. A handful of men were still there, too late to take part in the skirmish outside. Marcus rose to his feet, gasping, and peered over the wall. The fight was already over. Most of the rebels had turned to flee, racing back up the slope towards the cover of the distant trees. Several bodies lay in the snow, some of them writhing and groaning with pain. The soldiers stood jeering, waving their fists and swords after the rebels.

‘Right!’ a voice called out over the shouts. ‘You’ve had your fun, lads. Get the wounded into the pen. Now then, where’s that boy? I want a word with him.’

A tall, powerfully built man climbed over the wall and looked to either side before he caught sight of Marcus’s slight form and strode over. He stood, hands on hips, and stared down at him.

‘Mind telling me who you are and what that was all about?’

‘Take me to Caesar,’ Marcus replied, still breathless. ‘I have to speak to him. At once.’

‘You want to speak to the general?’ the centurion asked in an amused tone. ‘I doubt he’d thank me for waking him in the middle of the night.’

‘He might just do that…’ Marcus took a deep breath to calm his nerves and speak clearly. ‘Once you tell him that Marcus Cornelius has escaped, and can show him where the rebel camp is hidden.’

‘Marcus!’ Caesar grinned as he looked up from his campaign desk. ‘I’d given you up for dead. Where did you find him, Festus? The lad looks all but done in.’

‘He was picked up by one of the forward patrols, sir. They were all for throwing him in with the slaves we’ve captured, but he said he had important information for you. So they brought him to headquarters. I was there when they arrived at dawn and recognized Marcus at once. I brought him straight here.’

Caesar gestured to Marcus. ‘You’re shivering. Come, sit by the fire and warm yourself. Festus, give him my cloak, then send for some food, something hot.’

While Marcus eased himself down on a stool in front of the brazier that warmed and lit the tent, Festus crossed to a chest and picked up the heavy woollen cloak. The thought of food made Marcus’s stomach rumble and the need to satisfy his hunger was just enough to put off the need to sleep. A moment later Festus gently placed the cloak over his shoulders and Marcus began to feel comfortable for the first time in many days.

Once Festus had left the tent Caesar turned to Marcus. There was a brief silence before he spoke again. ‘You might be interested to know that this isn’t the first reunion of former comrades. It seems that Lupus survived the avalanche. He was dug out by the rebels.’

‘Lupus is alive?’ Marcus couldn’t help grinning with pleas-ure at the news. ‘Where is he?’

‘With the rest of the prisoners. He was captured following our clash with the rebels.’ Caesar shook his head sadly. ‘I misjudged him. He was not the loyal slave he seemed. Of course, he will be punished in due course, before I send him to work on a chain-gang. Some hard labour on a farm or in a mine might teach him the price of treachery.

At first Marcus did not know what to say. He could hardly believe that Lupus would willingly join the rebellion, but then again, why not? For all the comforts he enjoyed as Caesar s scribe, he was still no more than a piece of property when all was said and done. Perhaps Lupus had grasped that and decided he wanted a taste of the freedom his master took for granted. Marcus was determined to save his friend. ‘Sir, Lupus had no choice. He had to join the rebels or be killed.’