The man was also smiling. ‘Sounds like someone I used to know ... Well now, young Lupus. Get some sleep, there’s a long march ahead before we reach the camp of Brixus.’
Now they had reached the camp, but Lupus could not see any sign of movement, let alone the rebel army that was growing in strength day by day according to Mandracus. The man laughed at his side, then patted him heavily on the shoulder.
‘Follow me.’
Mandracus led the way along a narrow path running beside the stream and they entered the trees at the foot of the crags. A short distance further on the trees gave way to a narrow strip of rocky open ground. Walls of dark rock, dotted with moss, rose up ahead. A waterfall tumbled down into a small pool where the water churned white and wild before it fed the stream running between the trees. Mandracus paused and cupped a hand to his mouth to call up towards the top of the crags.
‘Approaching the camp!’
Lupus followed the direction of the man’s gaze and saw a figure emerge at the top of the crag, dark against the sky as he looked down at them.
‘Who goes there?’ a voice shouted.
‘Mandracus! Returning from patrol!’
‘Mandracus? Then pass, friend!’
The brigand made his way towards the foot of the waterfall, followed by Lupus and the others. It was then that Lupus saw the spur of rock and realized there was a narrow gap in the cliff, a defile, that stretched away at an angle to the waterfall. It remained quite invisible until you were almost at the foot of the waterfall. Two men stood just inside the defile, armed with spears, shields, armour and helmets of the same design used by the Roman legions. They looked relieved as they caught sight of Mandracus and approached to exchange a clasp of hands at their safe return. Then one of them saw Lupus and paused.
‘Who is this?’
‘Him?’ Mandracus chuckled. ‘New recruit. And he may have some useful information for the general. Is Brixus in camp?’
One of the sentries nodded. ‘He’s summoned the leaders of all the bands in the mountains. They’ve been arriving for several days now. You’re the last one. What’s going on?’
‘Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, you big ox! You’ll find out soon enough.’ Mandracus put a hand on Lupus’s shoulder and steered him into the defile. ‘In the meantime, get back to your duty.’
The sentries stood aside and the small column of rebel fighters entered the defile. The air was cold and moist from the spray churned up by the waterfall. Lupus shivered as he picked his way forward. Although the path had been cleared enough to permit a horse to pass through, the ground was uneven and the route turned one way and then the next as it wound through the chasm. Overhead, the grey sky was a miserable thin strip caught between the rocks and the limbs of stunted shrubs and small trees growing precariously from the ledges. After about a quarter of a mile the cliffs on either side started to grow apart and light shone into the defile. Then, as they rounded a last bend in the path, Lupus had his first sight of the rebel camp and he paused to take in a sharp breath of astonishment.
Ahead, the path led down a gentle slope into a small valley, seemingly walled in on every side by cliffs and crags. A stream coursed down the far side and crossed the valley floor before it passed underground, heading in the direction of the waterfall. But that was the least remarkable sight that greeted his eyes. Before him lay a vast camp of tents and more permanent shelters. In among the tents were pens for animals and several larger buildings, the nearest of which had its doors open, and Lupus saw a man doling out bowls of grain to a queue of people. In the centre of the valley stood a large round hut, surrounded by an open area ringed with a stockade. Smaller round huts were arranged around the compound.
‘There must be thousands living here,’ Lupus said. ‘Tens of thousands!’
Mandracus smiled at the boy’s awed expression. ‘That’s right. An army of us. Waiting for the day when we will rise up and complete the work that Spartacus began.’ He pointed to the largest hut. ‘Come, that’s where we’ll find Brixus.’
He led his men down into the valley. Lupus followed, his eyes switching from side to side as he took in the details of the secret camp of the rebels. Around him the walls of the valley looked impenetrable. There seemed no way in except for the narrow pass they’d come through. A perfect hiding place, he reflected. No wonder the slaves had managed to evade the Roman armies sent to hunt them down. The Romans could be unaware that such a powerful enemy was gathering its strength and preparing to attack.
Lupus felt a pang of concern for Caesar and Marcus. They were expecting to fight scattered bands of ragged brigands. They could have no idea what would face them when they marched into the mountains to do battle.
13
January was drawing to an end and winter closed its icy grip around the mountains. Biting rainstorms lashed the foothills and frequently brought hail with them, battering the men of Caesar’s column as they made for the town of Mutina that would serve as their base. Cavalry patrolled further into the hills along the line of march, trying to gather intelligence on the location and numbers of the rebels. When they returned they told of wild blizzards howling through the mountain passes and thick ice forming on the roads and tracks that wound across the Apennines. Messengers had been sent ahead to the towns along the road with orders for their inhabitants to provide food and shelter for Caesar’s column, while further supplies were stockpiled at Mutina.
Marcus, riding with the headquarters staff, had never before experienced conditions like these. He had been careful to pick a cloak freshly worked with animal fat and as water-proof as possible. Even so, the cold rain, driven on by a freezing wind, soon penetrated to the clothes he wore beneath and soaked him to the skin. He had also collected a pair of leather mittens, and these too soon succumbed to the foul weather as he grimly followed the other riders behind their leader.
Caesar suffered the same discomforts as his men yet seemed oblivious to the cold. Every so often he would let some of his officers draw alongside and engage them in cheerful conversation. Sometimes about affairs back in Rome, but more often about the glorious future that awaited them all in Gaul once the rebels had been crushed. He even spared a few moments for Marcus to discuss his career in the arena.
‘I’ve decided that you shall fight as a retiarius,’ Caesar announced as they rode in a brief spell between rainstorms. Overhead, the sky was clear and bright and the wind had dropped. Fresh clouds were visible above the mountains, waiting to roll down their slopes and engulf the men marching along the road. Marcus had drawn back his hood and was relishing the warmth of the sun on his skin and wet hair.
‘You have the right build for a netman,’ Caesar continued. ‘Slender but strong and you move with speed and grace. I saw as much when you fought Ferax back in Rome. Of course, things might change. Some boys who are thin in their youth pack on the muscle later. If that happens to you, I shall have to reconsider your category. A Thracian or even a Samnite would be more suited to a heavier build. But let’s hope you retain your current build. I’d hate to see you lumbering around the arena when you could be giving the crowd a good show with your turn of speed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Marcus acknowledged, trying hard to control the fit of shivering that had taken over his body. He was too cold and tired to feel bitter about his former master deciding his destiny. Besides, his mind was fixed on the fact that Decimus was riding with the baggage train. Marcus had caught sight of him on only a handful of occasions since leaving Ariminum and he could not shake the urge to take his revenge. The long days riding had reminded him of all there was to avenge beyond the suffering of his family. Aristides, a slave who had been like a grandfather to Marcus, had also been killed by the moneylender. Even Cerberus, the dog Marcus had rescued from a cruel trader and trained to be his loyal companion, had been clubbed to death by Dedmus’s men when they attacked the farm. A simple death would be too goody Marcus resolved. He must be made to suffer, as his victims had.
‘You’re not really listening to me, are you?’ asked Caesar.
Marcus instantly pushed all thought of Decimus aside and struggled to recall what Caesar had just said. Marcus was vaguely aware of some comment concerning the fortune some famous retiarius had made during the time of Sulla’s dictatorship. He cleared his throat.
‘Yes, sir. It would be nice to make a large sum of money.’
Caesar stared at him indulgently. ‘Marcus, that was a while back, before I began to talk about your training. You’re not paying attention.’
Marcus lowered his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I am tired. My mind was drifting.’
‘Drifting, eh? You’re considering Decimus again, aren’t you?’
Marcus thought about denying it but dared not risk being seen through by Caesar again, so he nodded. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him. And what he did to my family and friends. I’m sorry, sir, but it is eating me inside to know that he is so close but I can do nothing about it.’
‘All in good time, Marcus. Remember,’ Caesar warned, ‘you need my permission to act. For now it serves my purpose to have him close, but not too close, if you understand me. If Crassus has tasked him with doing me any harm, then Festus and my bodyguards, including you, will make his life difficult.’
‘Difficult, yes, sir,’ Marcus responded. ‘But not impossible. Why take the risk? Why not just have him and his men arrested?’
‘Because they pose no risk to me at present. If they did, then I would do as you say. But for now I am content to have Festus watch them. If they attempt anything we shall catch them, and then I will have proof of Crassus’s treachery. Enough to give me a little power over him, since I doubt the Senate would look too kindly on any man conspiring to murder a proconsul.’ Caesar smiled wryly. ‘In any case, I am not yet convinced that is his plan. I think Crassus has simply sent the man to spy on me, report back, and make a small fortune for his master in the process. Now that would be typical of Crassus!’
Marcus was not so sure. ‘If you say so, sir.’
Caesar’s expression became serious again. ‘There’s one thing that might complicate matters, and that’s if Decimus recognizes you. He must already know that you are a member of my household, since that agent of his attempted to poison me.’
‘Thermon.’
Caesar nodded. ‘So far Decimus has not seen you here and let’s hope he assumes that you are still in Rome. If he does find out, then he will know he’s in danger.’
‘Danger, sir?’
‘Of course. You are the only witness to his murder of your father and the kidnapping of you and your mother. If he is ever prosecuted for that crime, then he would face exile or execution. Which means that it would be dangerous for you if he knew you were here. Bear that in mind and stay clear of the man, and his followers. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Caesar looked at Marcus shrewdly. ‘I know you are a freed man now, but you are part of my army in this campaign and that makes you subject to military discipline. An order from your general is just as binding as an order from your master. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’
Caesar nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. Now I need a little time to think about the campaign.’ He waved his hand back towards the staff officers riding a short distance behind. Marcus bowed his head and reined in to allow the proconsul to draw ahead. But he could not heed his warning. Much as he respected Caesar, Marcus had his own ambitions, which he placed above his duty to obey a superior.
The column reached Mutina at the end of the fourth day after marching from Ariminum. The officers and soldiers had already been assigned billets in the town and the horses and mules were led to pens in the livestock market and fed. Marcus remained with Caesar until late evening at the villa of a local magistrate that had been made available to the proconsul and his staff. Waiting for Caesar were numerous reports of the escalating number of raids by the rebels on estates and mines along the entire length of the Apennines. More concerning was the increased boldness and ambition of the rebels’ activities. Armed bands were now striking out some distance from the mountains against targets that had been considered safe. Caesar dictated orders to Marcus for the towns running along the mountains to increase their vigilance, ready to deal with any sudden attack. It was late at night before he finished and gave Marcus permission to return to his billet for some sleep. Marcus had been assigned the humble home of one of the magistrate’s freedmen, a short distance along the same street as the villa.
As he approached the door of the house, squeezed between a bakery and a wine seller, Marcus stopped in the street, deep in thought. He was exhausted and the column would be setting out for the mountains at first light. Caesar was right to advise a good night’s rest. It might be a long time before he got the chance to sleep in a comfortable dry bed again. But there was no shaking the need to find out what Decimus was up to. Caesar had ordered Marcus to avoid the man, but he had made no mention of avoiding Festus. Marcus smiled to himself. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, he strode past the door of his billet and made for the centre of town.
Mutina had once been an important trading centre between Roman dominions and those of the Gauls and other tribes from the north. Now, with the expansion of Roman power towards the Alps, the town had become something of a backwater, relying more on farms and small industries to generate its wealth. But there was no hiding the fact that the town was in decline. Marcus noticed that some of the houses he passed were in a sad state. The paint on many of the public statues had been neglected and was flaking away to reveal the plain stone beneath. The heart of the town still flourished, however, and the sounds of revelry filled the air as Marcus emerged into the forum.
Every inn was filled with soldiers, and those who could not get inside stood in the street, sharing jars of wine as they talked in loud, boisterous tones, or squatted round games of dice, gambling with whatever was left of their pay. Marcus guessed that Decimus would not be amusing himself in the company of common soldiers. He was far more likely to be drinking with the officers, men he might have met socially when visiting Rome — men who could one day be useful to him as they rose up the ranks of the Senate.