Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

Marcus swallowed his mouthful of stew and put the spoon down. ‘I did not say that I would not tell you the location. It’s just that I want a deal with you, Caesar. If I give you what you want, there is a price.’

‘A price? What nonsense is this?’ Caesar slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘I will not make any deals. Especially not with a boy. An ex-slave at that.’

‘Then I will say nothing,’ Marcus replied firmly.

Suddenly Festus clenched his hand round the back of Marcus’s neck and shook him hard. ‘How dare you speak to Caesar like that? You will show him the respect he commands, boy!’

Marcus clamped his jaw tightly shut and endured the pain as he kept his eyes fixed on Caesar. At length the proconsul let out a sharp breath,

‘Enough, Festus. Release him!’

Festus pushed Marcus’s head forward, then let go. He kept his position just behind the boy, ready to act again at the slightest sign from Caesar. The latter folded his hands together as he returned Marcus’s stare.

‘What exactly is this price that you would have me pay for the location of the rebels?’

Marcus rubbed his neck tenderly as he carefully ordered his thoughts. ‘I’ll take you to the camp and you can demand their surrender, in return you will spare the lives of the slaves. They are to be returned to their masters unharmed.’

‘What if they don’t surrender?’

‘If you move quickly they will be trapped, sir. They will have to surrender.’

‘What if they choose to resist?’

Marcus thought for a moment. ‘I pray that they will see reason, sir. If you guarantee their lives, then I think they would prefer to live than face death by the sword, or on the cross.’

‘The ringleaders will have to be executed, of course.’

‘No. They will be spared too.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘That would not play well in Rome. The Senate and people will demand the deaths of Brixus and his companions.’

‘You are the commander here, sir. It is your decision, not theirs.’

Caesar leaned back in his chair and drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desk. ‘What is to stop me ordering Festus to take you aside and beat the truth out of you? He has a certain skill for loosening tongues.’

Marcus fought to keep the fear from his expression. ‘You could torture me, sir. But I might endure it for some hours, by which time Brixus and his rebels would have escaped. I know that time is precious to you. The campaign must be finished before you can march against Gaul. This is your chance to put an end to it today. Otherwise it could drag on for months.’

Festus coughed. ‘The boy has a point, sir.’

‘Quiet!’ Caesar snapped. ‘If I ever want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Caesar ignored his bodyguard and kept his attention on the boy sitting before him. Marcus stared back unwaveringly, but inside he was terrified. He felt small and alone in the presence of great danger, yet he knew that he had one powerful weapon on his side: time. Every passing moment increased the risk that Brixus and his followers would slip through Caesar’s fingers. That was what he was counting on. If he had misjudged his former master, then Marcus was certain that he would be dead by the end of the day, and would be swiftly followed by thousands of others before the rebellion was over.

‘Very well,’ Caesar growled through clenched teeth. ‘You have a deal.’

‘I want your word on it.’ Marcus swallowed. ‘I want you to swear to it, here in front of Festus.’

‘And what oath would you bind me to?’ Caesar asked mockingly.

‘One that I know you will keep. I want you to swear on the life of your niece, Portia.’

The blood drained from Caesar’s face and Marcus feared that he had pushed the proconsul too far. Then Caesar nodded slowly.

‘I swear, on the life of my niece, that I will not harm those rebels who choose to surrender.’

Marcus felt a wave of relief sweep through his heart and was about to offer his gratitude when Caesar held up his hand to still the boy’s tongue.

‘I further swear, on Portia’s life, that if you are misleading me, or if the rebels escape, then I will have Festus nail you to a cross planted on top of the nearest mountain so that all might see what happens to those who defy Caesar. Is that clear?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Then there’s no time to waste. You can tell me where to find the rebels while Festus gives the order for my soldiers to assemble.’

Marcus cleared his throat. ‘That’s not quite all, sir. There are two other things I would like your word on.’

Caesar glared at him. ‘Speak.’

‘You are to release Lupus. Set him free. When the rebellion is over, you will give me some men, and a letter of authority to help me find and release my mother.’ Marcus nodded his head. ‘That’s what you agreed with me, months ago.’

‘I agree,’ Caesar said harshly. ‘There. Festus, give the order.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Festus bowed his head and hurried out of the tent to pass on the proconsul’s command. Inside the tent Caesar breathed deeply through his nose as he regarded the boy who had been his slave and one of his most promising gladiators. ‘I’ll thank you for my cloak before you leave. Wait in front of the tent.’

Marcus did as he was told and tried not to show his fear as he walked away. Outside the first dull gleam of light struggled to break through the mist that wreathed the mountains to the east. A handful of snowflakes swirled on the light breeze sweeping over the makeshift shelters that Caesar’s men had erected. Marcus shivered. Not because of the cold, but for fear of what the coming day held.

Dull grey clouds hung low in the sky as Festus turned to Marcus. ‘You ready?’

Marcus stood still for a moment. The dense ranks of legionaries stood formed in their cohorts, plumes of steamy breath rising up amid the dark shafts of their javelins. Behind them Caesar and his officers sat on their horses, waiting. In front of the Romans stretched the open space that led up to the entrance to the rebel camp. Even though he knew where the gap in the rocks was, Marcus could not make it out as he stared at the cliff rising above the forest that stretched away either side of the entrance.

Nothing moved. There was no sign of life, yet Marcus could sense the eyes of the rebels watching them, waiting for the Romans to make their first move. Then, for a chilling moment, Marcus was seized by a terrible fear that Brixus and the others might already have escaped. But there was only one way to find out. He nodded. ‘Ready.’

‘Then let’s go.’

They set off across the snow accompanied by two legionaries carrying brass horns. They had gone a short distance when the air was split by three shrill blasts of the horns, repeated at intervals of twenty paces to give clear warning of their approach. Festus had explained this was the procedure followed when the general of an army wished to open negotiations with his opposite number. It was important that those sent forward to speak on behalf of the general were not taken for scouts, attempting to infiltrate the enemy’s lines. Marcus flinched at the first sound of the horns, but kept his attention fixed on the cliffs ahead. There was still no movement and the only sound beside the flat blasts of the horns was the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots.

‘Where are they?’ Festus muttered. ‘Should have shown themselves by now … If you’re trying to pull the wool over Caesar’s eyes, boy, you know what’ll happen to you.’

Marcus tried not to think about the appalling fate that Caesar had promised him should the camp prove to be abandoned. He swallowed nervously and continued trudging forward across the open ground towards the cliff.