Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

The rebel leader glanced at the silent body of men filling the gorge. ‘If we defend the camp, we are doomed in the long run. To escape, we must abandon all the others in the camp: the old, the women, the children.’

‘Then that is the price we pay to keep the dream of Spartacus alive.’

Marcus cleared his throat. ‘Spartacus, my father, dreamed of putting an end to the suffering of slaves, not making it worse for them.’

Mandracus rounded on him angrily. ‘Still your tongue, traitor, before I cut it out!’

‘Enough!’ Brixus snapped. His eyes blazed at Mandracus until the man backed off a step. ‘The boy is right. We are trapped. We are dead whether we stay or flee. You and I and many of the others would prefer death to slavery, but we cannot make that choice for everyone in the camp. It is better that they live. Having tasted freedom they will never forget it, and in time there may be a better opportunity to rebel. But if they are butchered now, such a hope will die with them, and in the hearts of all others who are still slaves. We must accept Caesar’s terms.’

Marcus felt a surge of relief wash through his body.

‘You would give in without a fight?’ asked Mandracus.

‘We have fought for as long as we can, my friend. Now we must accept defeat.’

Marcus saw the anguish in Mandracus’s face as he struggled to accept his leader’s decision. ‘This is your will? Your command?’

Brixus nodded slowly. ‘It is.’

Mandracus’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head in utter dejection. Brixus turned to Marcus. ‘Go back to your… master. Tell him we will surrender on condition that no one is to be harmed. I’ll send out the men first, then the rest.’

‘Thank you,’ Marcus said quietly. He wanted to say more, to offer his gratitude for all the lives that had been spared. To explain that he shared the man’s dream, and that of Spartacus, and had things been different then he would have counted it an honour to fight against Rome at the side of Brixus. But he saw the pain and despair etched into the veteran gladiator’s face and knew that such words would only add to his grief. Instead he simply offered his hand. Brixus looked down and did not move for a while. Then he slowly extended his hand and they gently clasped each other by the forearm.

‘Farewell, Marcus. I doubt that I will see you again.’

There was a painful lump in Marcus’s throat as he replied. ‘Farewell.’

Brixus looked deep into his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Never forget who you are. There may come a day …’

‘If it comes, I shall be ready.’

Brixus nodded, then released his grip and looked at the Roman lines. ‘You’d better go.’

Marcus slowly turned and paced across the snow towards Festus and the others, his heart tom by the pain of their parting. He felt a tear at the comer of his eye and blinked it away. Overhead the sky was a sullen, heavy grey and he felt the full weight of the world on his young shoulders.

‘Well?’ Festus asked as Marcus stopped in front of him.

‘He accepts. It’s all over.’

Marcus sat in his saddle beside Festus as they watched the long, silent procession pass between the lines of legionaries either side of the entrance to the gorge. A short distance in front Caesar watched them with a haughty expression. A great pile of swords, spears and other weapons and armour lay to one side of the route where the rebels had dropped them before being marched away under the watchful eyes of the legionaries. The small number of hostages held by the rebels had been released earlier and taken away in a wagon to recover in the nearest town.

There was little conversation among the Romans, and the rebels were silent. Caesar had given orders that Brixus and his closest comrades should be the last to surrender. As the end of the column emerged from the gorge, the Roman commander clicked his tongue and led his entourage forward.

Marcus could see Mandracus and several others waiting there, still carrying their weapons as they eyed the approaching Romans.

‘It is time for you to join the others, gentlemen,’ Caesar said in a tone laced with contempt. ‘Throw down your weapons.’

Mandracus stepped forward and glared defiantly at the Roman general before drawing his sword. Festus took a sharp intake of breath and reached for his blade. But Caesar did not flinch and after a brief pause Mandracus dropped his weapon, unbuckling his breast and back plates to let them fall into the snow before he stood aside. One by one his comrades followed suit. Marcus looked for the rebel leader but there was no sign of him.

‘Which one of you is Brixus?’ Caesar demanded.

There was no reply.

‘Which one of you is that scoundrel who calls himself your leader? Step forward, Brixus.’

Mandracus crossed his arms as he spoke up. ‘Brixus has chosen not to surrender. He has remained in the camp where he awaits you, sword in hand.’

‘Indeed?’ Caesar nodded gravely. Edging his horse closer to the rebel, he raised his proconsular baton and struck Mandracus on the cheek. ‘You will call me master from now on, slave. I gave my word that you would be spared and returned to slavery. And I will treat you like any slave who dares to treat men without due respect! Do you understand?’

Mandracus was bent over, stunned by the blow, as blood dripped from a cut on his cheek. Marcus looked on with a sick feeling in his stomach. Even though he knew that this outcome was the only way to prevent the deaths of many, the guilt over his decision weighed heavily on his heart.

Caesar raised his baton again. ‘I said, do you understand me, slave?’

Mandracus looked up and nodded. ‘Yes … master.’

‘Good. Then join the column.’

As Mandracus was led away, Caesar turned towards the gorge and took up his reins. ‘One last rebel to deal with, it seems. Follow me.’

The secret valley was still and silent. Abandoned huts and shelters stood on either side of the track. Caesar and his party looked about them warily, suspecting an ambush at any moment. As they reached the small rise overlooking the heart of the valley, the large huts of Brixus’s compound came into view. At once Marcus saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the largest building. A red glare showed in the thatch as a tongue of flame burst through and quickly spread.

‘I want him alive!’ Caesar called as he spurred his horse forward, and his men galloped after him. By the time they reached the huts the fire was raging across the thatched roof and the air was filled with red and black cinders floating on the breeze. The heat from the flames was intense and Marcus’s horse shied away with a panicked whinny. Some of the officers jumped down from their saddles to approach the hut, but it was impossible. Then Marcus recalled the entrance that adjoined the rear of the building to a smaller hut, and trotted his horse round the fire until he could see it. The flames had not yet spread to the smaller structure so Marcus slipped down from the saddle, approaching the low entrance with his arm raised to shield his face from the heat. The fresh snow that had fallen around the hut was already melting, but Marcus spotted a set of footprints leading towards the mountains at the end of the valley.

He backed away several paces and looked around, but so far none of the others had joined him on this side of the hut. Quickly Marcus kicked snow over the tracks, concealing any trace of them, before he turned away.

‘Marcus! What are you doing?’ Festus was edging round the blaze towards him.

‘I thought I’d try the rear!’ Marcus called back. ‘But it’s too late.’

Festus nodded. They stood side by side, staring at the awesome spectacle of the fire raging before them, the flames lighting up the valley and painting the clouds above with a pink hue. At length Festus nodded to himself. ‘So Brixus preferred death to surrender … A good death, under the circumstances. But Caesar is going to be furious.’