Simon Scarrow: Son of Spartacus

Cicero drew a breath and continued. ‘These brigands must be dealt with. If Caesar agrees to take responsibility for destroying them, Cato, will you agree not to pursue your attempt to force a trial of Caesar?’

Before Cato could reply, Caesar was on his feet. ‘I object! I already have other duties to attend to. I take up command of my army this spring. I have no time to waste on hunting down a handful of ragged slaves. I have far more important things that concern me.’

‘More important than the security of Italia?’ asked Cicero.

‘No… Of course not,’ Caesar blustered. ‘Nothing is more important than that. Only — ’

‘Then you will surely accept this task?’

Caesar pressed his lips together, struggling to contain his frustration as Cato stood up and addressed the House. If Caesar will accept, then I shall be content to withdraw my motion that he be brought to trial.’

There was a ripple of applause and nodding of heads from the other senators, and Cato bowed his head graciously before stretching out a hand in the direction of Caesar. ‘I have given my ground, Caesar. Will you now do the same?’

‘Oh, the master is not going to like this,’ Festus muttered. ‘Better brace yourself for some shouting once we escort him back to his house.’

Marcus was watching Caesar, hoping that he would refuse to accept Cicero's deal.

Caesar nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I accept. I will take command of a force to track down and destroy these rebels at the earliest opportunity. I swear to you that I will find this slave, Brixus, and bring him before this House to decide his punishment. I will crush the legacy of Spartacus once and for all.'

His words were cheered by the senators, and they were joined by those watching from the windows and doorways. But Marcus was silent. The very last thing he wanted was for Caesar to capture Brixus. What would his former owner do if he found out that Marcus was the son of Spartacus, the bitterest enemy that Rome had ever faced?

Festus was proved right. The moment that Caesar and his entourage entered his house, and the door to the street closed behind them, he flew into a rage. Marcus had never seen him so angry.

‘Damn that man, Cicero! Damn him to the darkest pit in all Hades! Now I shall be forced to undertake some wild goose chase when I should be with my legions in Gaul.’

Clodius shrugged and examined the fingernails of his right hand. ‘Then perhaps you should have refused, or at least given me the nod to intervene with my veto.’

‘No. That is a power that should not be overused. We had to use it to stop the vote. To use it again against Cicero would have been too much for the Senate to stomach. Even my own supporters have a limit to their loyalty.’ Caesar gritted his teeth. ‘Now Cato has me where he wants me: stuck in Italia when I could be starting my campaign to conquer new lands and win glory for Rome.’

‘Not to mention yourself,’ Clodius added.

Caesar glared at him for a moment and then sighed wearily. ‘Whatever you may think of me, I know that Rome is my first and only master. My life is dedicated to extending her power in the world.’

‘Whatever you say, Caesar. Still, that leaves you with the problem of this man, Brixus, and his followers. What do you intend to do about it?’

‘Just as I said. I intend to track them down, as well as every other band of rebels and runaways. Those we don’t kill I will at least be able to sell.’ Caesar pursed his lips. ‘So there might be some benefit to be gained from this damned sideshow.’

Marcus felt his blood surge in his veins. Much as he had come to admire Caesar, the man was still a Roman through and through, which meant that he regarded slavery as a natural part of his world. He paid no attention to the suffering and humility of the slaves he encountered. For Marcus, who had been born free, the loss of his liberty had been the most terrible thing that had happened to him. It had meant the loss of his home, the man who had raised him, his mother, everything that had any value. After that he had become simply one item amid the possessions of his owner, Lucius Porcino, the lanista of the gladiator school.

There he had been brutally treated, had Porcino’s brand burned into his chest and been beaten and bullied by both the trainers and some of the other slaves. The memories of those days still haunted his dreams so that he sometimes woke with a start, bathed in sweat and trembling. One dream particularly troubled him: a recurring claustrophobic nightmare in which he relived his last fight as a slave. Then he had faced another boy from his school, Ferax, a youth from Gaul who was the leader of the boys who had made Marcus’s life a misery.

In reality Marcus had won the fight, and Ferax had been knocked to the ground and forced to admit defeat. But when Marcus’s back was turned the Gaul had leapt to his feet and tried to kill him. Only Marcus’s fast reflexes had saved him and killed Ferax. But in the nightmares it was Ferax who triumphed, thrusting his sword again and again and again into Marcus’s body as his brutal features twisted into a savage, spitting snarl.

Marcus hoped that it was the last such fight he would ever be involved in. But while Caesar had granted him his freedom, his former master still expected Marcus to continue with his training so that he might one day return to the arena and win fame and fortune as a professional gladiator. As the man who had paid for his training, Caesar would win the support of the Roman mob. Meanwhile, Marcus served under Festus in the bodyguard and had been required to swear that he would serve and protect Caesar for as long as he was his servant. It was Marcus’s understanding that as soon as Caesar’s agents had located his mother and arranged for her to be set free, then his obligations to his former master would be fulfilled.

And what then? He had little clear idea of what they would do with their lives after that. Once, he had thought they could return to the small farm on Leucas and continue the life they had lived before their little world was torn apart. Now that he was nearly two years older and more experienced, Marcus knew that could never happen. The farm had been taken by Decimus to cover the family’s debts, so he and his mother would have to build a new life somewhere else. In many ways it would be for the best. It was impossible to have his old life back. The farm would be filled with painful memories, a constant reminder of what had been lost — the idyllic innocence of a childhood protected by two adults who loved him. All of that was gone now, and could never be recovered.

‘The four legions assigned to me are in camp close to Ariminum,’ said Caesar, drawing Marcus’s attention back to the present. ‘They are still preparing for the coming campaign; training recruits to bring their numbers up to full strength. I’ll use the veterans for the job. They're good men. More than a match for the rabble skulking in the mountains. Ten cohorts should be enough to defeat Brixus.’

‘Ten cohorts?’ Clodius cocked an eyebrow. ‘No more than five thousand men? Are you sure that’s sufficient?’

‘Of course.’ Caesar flicked his hand dismissively, as if swat-ting an insect. ‘It will all be over very quickly. The survivors will be taken to Rome, along with Brixus — or his body — and I shall make sure to reap my reward. The mob will cheer me, and Cato will have to swallow that stubborn arrogance of his and join in the applause. I can hardly wait to see his face.’

‘Then let us hope that you will not have to report a defeat when you next face the Senate.’

‘Defeat?’ Caesar looked astonished. ‘That’s unthinkable Impossible.’

‘I hope so. When do you intend to leave for Ariminum?’