Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

‘There, drink it. Helps to keep the cold out.’

‘Thanks.’ Marcus nodded as he took the cup, a plain clay vessel with a chipped rim. He had drunk wine before, heavily watered down by his mother, but the rough flavour of the drink Brixus had poured for him took him by surprise.

‘Not the best stuff.’ Brixus smiled. ‘But wine isn’t so easy to come by in here. I bought this one from the guards.’

‘You have money?’ Marcus said in surprise. Most slaves he knew of were not allowed to keep money.

‘Yes, of course. Porcino allows his most trusted slaves to earn and save money. After all, one day we might have enough to buy our freedom and he’ll make a tidy sum out of it, as well as not having to feed and house us as we grow old. Anyway…’ He took a quick sip and narrowed his eyes a little as he looked across the table at Marcus. ‘You want to know about Spartacus.’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, but first let me put things straight between us. I imagine you haven’t forgotten that day when we were polishing brass for the master at his house.’

‘I remember it.’

‘Yes. And you will also remember that I said I knew Spartacus.’

Marcus nodded. ‘You said that you knew him very well.’

‘So you went away with the impression that I was perhaps a friend of his?’

Marcus did not know what to say and instead took another sip of the fiery liquid as he waited for Brixus to continue.

‘Whatever the truth of it is, young Marcus, I think you must know how dangerous it would be if people got the impression that I was close to Spartacus. Romans have long memories and they are not a forgiving people. I know that you are a Roman, but I also sense that you have a good heart. You are not like some of the boys who pass through the school. Crafty little thieves and bullies, some of them. Especially lads like that Ferax and his thugs. You are not like them. So I trust you, but now I have to know how far I can trust you.’ He stared at Marcus for a moment. ‘You must not breathe a word of what I said to you. Do you promise?’

Marcus nodded solemnly. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Brixus sighed with relief. ‘Now that I have your word, what can I tell you about Spartacus?’

Marcus looked at him eagerly. ‘Were you one of his bodyguards?’

‘No, I was more than that. I was one of his lieutenants. I commanded his scouts.’ Brixus smiled sadly as he gestured to the plain plaster walls surrounding them. ‘This is all that is left to me. I used to be a fine gladiator, then a leader in Spartacus’s army. Now I am just a humble slave.’

‘If my father told me the truth, then you are not humble. You fought well. You won your glory.’

Brixus shook his head. ‘There was no glory in that last battle, Marcus. It was a bloody massacre. We had been on the run for months, always just a few steps ahead of the pursuing legions of Crassus, who defeated us in several battles and skirmishes. Then Pompeius arrived and we were caught between the two armies. We had no choice but to turn and fight. By then we had lost many thousands to sickness and injury and there were barely five thousand men who could still hold a sword or spear. Most of them were cut down in the first charge. But Spartacus and his bodyguards fought their way deep into the Roman lines before they were halted, surrounded and killed. It was all over in less than an hour.’

Marcus stared at him. ‘But that’s not what my father said. That’s not what people say.’

‘Of course not. Too many men had reputations to build for it to be anything other than a great victory against a dangerous enemy. Crassus claimed that he had beaten us, but Pompeius – the Great Pompeius – reported back to Rome that it was really he who had overcome the slave horde. When I was held prisoner in his camp, I heard him making speeches to his men telling them what heroes they were. He was very generous with his awards and praise, and I dare say your father was one of those who did very well out of it. Small wonder he was content to stick with his general’s version of events.’

Marcus felt a sour taste in his mouth. He did not want to believe what Brixus was telling him.

‘Of course, the one thing that Pompeius could not destroy, or corrupt, was the inspiration that Spartacus gave to us. Even though the rebellion was crushed and Spartacus was killed, his example lives on. Ask almost any slave. He is our secret hero. We live for the day when another Spartacus will rise up and shatter our chains. And perhaps the next time it is we who will be victorious and Rome that will be humbled.’

He drained his cup and looked directly at Marcus. ‘There. You wanted to know more and now I have said my piece. What I need to know is that you will keep it secret.’

Marcus nodded slowly. ‘I will. I swear it, on my mother’s life.’

Brixus watched him closely for a moment. ‘That is good enough for me. Give me your hand, young Marcus.’

Leaning across the table, Marcus reached out and felt Brixus’s weathered fingers close round his hand. They shook briefly, then Brixus released his grip.

‘That’s all for tonight. You must be tired.’

‘Very.’ Marcus slid off his stool. ‘Thank you for the wine.’

Brixus smiled and waved a hand towards the door.

Outside, Marcus hunched his head down into his tunic and marched quickly up the short route from the kitchen to the cell block. The guards let him inside and locked the door behind him. When he reached his stall in the gloom, Marcus slipped off his boots and crawled on to his pile of straw, pulling his spare tunic over him to keep him warm. Sleep came easily, despite thoughts about what Brixus had told him swimming around in his head. The sleep was deep and dreamless.

Until he was kicked sharply in the ribs. ‘Get up! Get up, you thief.’

Marcus stirred, his mind drowsy. He squinted up as a torch blazed over him. The man who had woken him now wrenched him up on to his feet. Now Marcus could see that it was Amatus who was holding the torch, and the man who had kicked him painfully was Taurus, the chief instructor of the school.

‘What have you done with it, thief?’

Marcus blinked and shook his head. ‘Done? Done with what, master?’

‘The venison joint you stole from the storeroom.’

‘What?’ Marcus glanced from one to the other. ‘What venison, master? I swear I haven’t taken anything.’

‘Liar!’ Taurus held up a boot. The ties had snapped and the leather uppers flapped as he shook it. ‘This is yours.’

Marcus stared at it and shook his head. ‘My boots are over there, master. At the entrance to the stall.’

‘Three of them are. This one was found, a short while ago, when the watch was changed. Guess you must have abandoned it in your rush to escape before you were seen, eh? It was found in the storeroom used for the festival of Saturnalia. The lock had been smashed. Some wine had been drunk and the venison stolen.’ He frowned and sniffed Marcus suddenly. ‘You smell of wine!’

Marcus felt a ripple of icy terror sweep down his spine. ‘It wasn’t me! That’s not my boot. I swear it.’

‘Shut your mouth, thief!’ Taurus held the sandal up to the torch. ‘LVIII. See it? That’s one of a pair issued to you. So, no more lies, thief. You’ll pay for this. Do you know what we do to thieves?’ He clenched his fist in Marcus’s tunic. ‘Well?’

‘N-no, master.’

‘We get them to run the gauntlet.’ His lips twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Your comrades will form two lines. Each slave has a club and when the word is given the thief has to run down the entire length of the gauntlet, being beaten as they go.’ Taurus chuckled. ‘The thing is, I’ve rarely ever known a slave survive long enough to reach the end.’