Simon Scarrow - Street fighter

Marcus sighed unhappily as he recalled his early childhood, torn between fond memories and the knowledge that he had been lied to. Titus was not his father. That had been revealed to him less than a month ago, when he had left the gladiator school and was on the road to join his new master in Rome. It was Brixus, once a follower of Spartacus, who had followed him and told him the truth. Marcus reached a hand over his shoulder, his fingers slipping under the neckline of his tunic to trace the outline of the mark with which he had been branded when he was only an infant: the head of a wolf impaled on a sword, the same secret brand that had been shared by Spartacus and his closest followers, including the woman he loved and their child — Marcus. Brixus had told him it was his destiny to complete his true father’s work and lead the next slave revolt — the one that would finally overwhelm Rome and free all the slaves who lived under the whip of their cruel Roman masters.

Marcus frowned angrily. His world had been turned over. All that he had known was false and his heart was filled with a turmoil of emotions. He still loved Titus, the tough, proud veteran of the legions. Yet there was not a drop of Roman blood in Marcus’s veins. His true heritage lay in the ranks of the millions of downtrodden slaves who lived and died chained together in the mines, or on the farms owned by wealthy Romans, as drudges in their fine villas, or as a source of bloody entertainment in their gladiatorial games. That was Marcus’s true identity, what he had always been — nothing but a slave.

The knowledge burned painfully in his heart. He felt bitter about the deception, and couldn’t believe his mother had hidden the truth from him all his life. His anger towards her was immediately followed by intense guilt. She was all he cared about in the world and his one goal in life was to find and set her free.

Marcus’s plan had been to track down General Pompeius, the former commander of Titus, and ask him to help save his mother. It was a favour a Roman general might grant one of his former officers, but it would be a death sentence for both Marcus and his mother if Pompeius discovered Marcus was actually the son of the most hated and dangerous slave in all of the Roman Empire. This would be equally true if his new master, Caesar, discovered the name of his real father. Spartacus was the enemy of all Romans.

Marcus sighed again, this time in frustration at his apparently impossible situation. He had to find a way to help his mother that would not risk revealing his real identity. And quickly. .

‘Curse Brixus!’ he muttered angrily as he entered the inner atrium of the house, where a colonnade surrounded a small shallow pool. Marcus stared down at the flagstones, deep in thought as he began to make his way round the pool.

‘Brixus? Who is this Brixus that upsets my saviour and personal bodyguard so much?’

Marcus stopped and looked round anxiously — he should not have uttered Brixus’s name aloud — as a slender figure emerged from behind one of the columns. It was Caesar’s niece, Portia — a girl just a few years older than Marcus, with light brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail and the same piercing brown eyes as her uncle. Marcus had been told that Portia’s mother had died in childbirth and her father was serving with the legions in Spain, so she had come to live with her uncle in Rome.

He bowed his head. ‘Good day to you, Mistress Portia.’

A light frown creased her high forehead. ‘Mistress? Must you be so formal?’ She waved a hand around the atrium. ‘We’re alone. You can speak freely to me. There’s no one to overhear us.’

Marcus glanced at the entrances to the atrium and saw she spoke the truth. Even so, he lowered his voice as he responded.

‘I could be flogged for addressing you disrespectfully.’

‘But I don’t consider it disrespectful,’ Portia countered in a gentle tone. ‘I just want you to speak to me as a friend, Marcus. Not as my uncle’s slave.’

He stared at her in silence. Since arriving at the house he had spoken to Portia on just a handful of occasions, always with other household members present. Portia had visited him at the gladiator school when he was recovering from wounds received while saving her from the wolves in the school’s arena. She’d been full of gratitude and Marcus had expected a warm welcome. But since he’d arrived Portia had seemed as indifferent to him as to all the other slaves in the household. The change in her manner, so disdainful after her earlier gratitude, had confused and hurt him at first.

Then, not long after his arrival, he’d been ordered to mop the floor in Portia’s quarters. Struck by the stark contrast between his dismal cell and Portia’s comfortable existence, he’d realized how far apart their two lives were. Even as he marvelled at her soft sleeping couch, covered with ornately patterned woven blankets, he understood the social gulf between them was as wide as any ocean of the world, and just as dangerous. Looking at the fine-quality furniture — the table for her scents, an ebony chest for her jewels and a large rack holding scrolls of poetry, histories and letters from her father — he saw clearly that two utterly different worlds existed side by side in the same household.

Marcus was a slave, and his master was free to do with him as he wished. How could Caesar’s niece ever be considered the friend of a slave boy? And Caesar was not merely a citizen of Rome. His family was one of the most respected in the city, claiming descent from the goddess Venus herself. As such Caesar would not take kindly to discovering that one of his slaves had spoken to his niece on anything like equal terms. A master could have his slave executed for less.

Only now, Portia seemed to be acting as though that gulf didn’t really exist. Marcus opened his mouth as he struggled to reply, then closed it when he couldn’t find a safe way to address her.

She saw his discomfort and let out a light laugh.

‘Very well, if it would make you feel safer we can talk in the garden. There’s a private spot in the far corner. Follow me.’ There was an unmistakable tone of command in her words as she led him through the short passage into the modest garden beyond.

The garden was a neatly kept space no more than a hundred feet across. Past generations of Caesar’s family, the Julii, had taken great pride in it and it was composed of carefully shaped shrubs and roses and other bright flowers trained by wooden frames. These created shaded avenues that crossed the garden and ran down each side and filled the air with a pleasant fragrance. A small fountain tinkled in the centre of the garden. It was hard to believe that something as beautiful and sweet smelling could exist in what he’d seen of this crowded, filthy and stinking city, Marcus thought.

Portia led him down one of the side paths to the corner where the tall plastered walls met. Here there was a small seating area shielded from view by a hedge. She sat down on one of the two wooden benches lining the angled walls. Behind them, the plaster had been painted with a view from an ivy-clad balcony overlooking rolling hills that led to the sea. Tiny ships with bright sails rode the still waves. Getting no closer to their destination, Marcus thought. Going nowhere. Just like me.

Portia patted the space beside her. ‘Come. Sit down.’

He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder.

‘Marcus,’ Portia chuckled, ‘no one can see us here. Trust me. Now sit down.’

He sucked in a deep breath and reluctantly lowered himself on to the bench, a good two feet away from Portia and as near to her as he dared sit.

‘This is dangerous,’ he said, turning his head to look at her.