Lupus shuddered at the thought.
‘And it won’t just be the elements to contend with,’ Marcus added. ‘There will be fighting. Caesar thinks that he’ll crush the rebels easily. I’m not so sure. They may lack training, but they’ll be fighting for their lives, for their freedom. That will make them very dangerous.’
Lupus stared at him anxiously. ‘I don’t like the sound of it. Why does Caesar need me to come along? What good would I be in a fight? I wouldn’t know how to use a sword. Probably be more of a danger to our side than theirs.’
‘It’s not your sword Caesar needs, but your pen. He will want a record kept of his exploits. Something he can use to build his reputation later on.’
‘Oh, good,’ Lupus responded with a relieved expression. ‘I suppose I’d better start packing.’
While his companion rummaged through his small chest of stationery Marcus began his own preparations. In addition to his sword, throwing knives and dagger, he took his gladiator cuirass down from its peg on the wall and carefully wrapped it in an old blanket before placing it in his kitbag. He also took a bronze buckler and the reinforced skullcap that Festus had made for him the previous year, leather bracers and a padded tunic to wear under his armour. Once all his fighting kit was packed he moved on to his clothing.
As he worked, his mind was distracted. So far, only his mother and Brixus knew the truth about his father’s identity. And now it seemed that Brixus was spreading the word that Spartacus had a son and that the son would take up his father s cause. No doubt some Romans would refuse to believe it, thinking that Brixus had simply invented the story to win support for his cause. But there would be plenty of others who believed it, making Marcus’s secret that much harder to keep. Caesar had already seen the brand on Marcus’s shoulder but had not been able to place it. There might come a time when Caesar made the link between the brand and the rumour and realized who Marcus was. If that happened, then he would be put to death.
Marcus trembled at the thought. Not just out of fear for himself but also for his mother. Without him, what hope did she have? If Caesar were to find her after discovering Marcus’s identity, then surely she would be killed too in the name of revenge?
There was a further matter that disturbed him. He had no wish to take part in any campaign against rebel slaves. If anything, he would rather fight alongside Brixus, against those who made people into their property. It was a doomed cause. Even if Brixus were to unite the bands of runaways and brig-ands, what hope would they have against the might of Rome? Caesar was desperate to crush them as quickly as possible. Even though he said he would only need five thousand men, the equivalent of one legion, there were three more legions he could use as reinforcements. The slaves’ only hope would lie in finding an inspirational leader who combined the qualities of a great warrior, a wise general and a formidable personality. In short, a man like Spartacus. With such a man to lead them tens of thousands of slaves would escape to swell the ranks of the rebellion, and at last Rome might meet her match. But Marcus was still a boy. If Brixus had plans for him to follow in his father’s footsteps, then he would surely disappoint.
Marcus felt a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. He felt trapped. He was marching to battle at the side of Caesar, to fight slaves whose fate he had once shared. And all the while he would live in fear of Caesar discovering his secret. If Brixus was captured and brought before the victorious Roman general, he’d be sure to recognize Marcus. Would he then betray him, either openly, or under torture?
The more he thought about it, the more anxious Marcus became. Once he had completed his packing, he extinguished the oil lamp and lay down on his bedroll to get some sleep. On the other side of the room Lupus lay on his back, snoring lightly. Marcus folded his arms behind his head and stared up into the darkness. Despite everything that had happened to him since being torn from his home and family, he knew that his greatest challenge lay ahead.
5
The small party of horsemen left Rome by the Flaminian gate at first light. Caesar wore a plain brown cloak as he rode at their head, not wanting to attract attention. He had written a brief note to the Senate, announcing that he had set off to destroy the rebels. By the time it was read out, the riders would be many miles from Rome and it would be too late for his political enemies to summon him to explain his plans. Cato and his allies would have been sure to use every trick in the book to delay Caesar. It surprised Marcus how often politicians put the advantage of their faction above the interests of Rome as a whole.
He cast a glance at Caesar riding at the front of the column. He was even more ambitious than the rest, keen to crush the new slave rebellion quickly so that he could proceed to win glory for himself in Gaul. Despite his misgivings about his former master, Marcus knew that Caesar always rewarded those who served him well. Marcus’s victory in the fight against Ferax outside the Senate House had added to Caesar’s reputation, enabling him to pass new laws improving the lives of ordinary Romans and removing some of the bitter tensions in Rome that could lead to a new civil war. Marcus had every intention to remind Caesar of his promise to help free Marcus’s mother from slavery in return, and that meant staying at his side.
Marcus was riding with Lupus at the rear of the column. Having been raised on a farm, he had learned from an early age how to mount and ride a pony. By contrast Lupus was a poor horseman. He clung to his reins and leaned forward against his saddle horns as if he might fall from his mount at any moment.
‘Sit up straight,’ Marcus advised. ‘The saddle horns will hold you in place. If we have to break into a trot or gallop, then clamp down on your thighs and heels and hold on.’
Lupus shot him a cross look. 'Easy for you to say.’
‘Surely you’ve ridden before?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve had a few goes on the cook’s mule, and some of the ponies on the master’s country estate last year. But that’s all.’
‘I see.’ Marcus sucked in a breath to cover up his disappointment. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon enough.’
‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ Lupus replied tersely, as he hunched forward again and gripped the reins for dear life.
The road soon left Rome behind and as they crested the brow of a hill Marcus turned in his saddle to look back. Grey clouds were approaching from the west and already the great city was in shadow. The city comprised an ugly sprawl of buildings covering the seven hills, above which hung a filthy pall of woodsmoke. Marcus was glad to be out in the fresh air of the country with its clean scents. He would not miss Rome. Aside from the discomfort of its gloomy alleys, stench and the constant noise, there was the danger of street gangs and the bloodthirsty fickleness of the mob, as well as the endless plots and conspiracies of politicians. With a click of his tongue, he urged his horse forward and caught up with the rear of the column as it continued east, towards the snowcapped slopes of the Apennines.
It had been an unusually cold winter. The open countryside was bleak and the seasonal trees were stripped bare of leaves and stood gaunt and still, like splintering cracks against the leaden sky. The frequent showers of rain and a passing storm had left the fields waterlogged, while puddles gathered in the ruts and dips of the road. At first there were plenty of farms and village along the route, their inhabitants living comfortably off the crops, fruit and meat that they sold at the markets in Rome. But as the day wore on, there were fewer buildings visible and they rode through unspoiled woods interspersed with much smaller farms and the occasional cluster of rural dwellings that could scarcely be called villages. The ruddy-faced inhabitants, who were outside cutting firewood or taking winter feed to their animals, paused with curious, and sometimes suspicious, expressions to watch the riders passing by and then continued with the unchanging routines of country existence.
After a brief rest at noon they set off again. The road entered the foothills of the mountains that ran down the spine of Italia, just as the clouds darkened the skies above, and with them came the first drops of rain. The riders hunched down inside their capes and pulled the hoods up as the rain pattered on the road. Marcus hoped that it might be a passing shower, but the rain continued to fall, and grew heavier. Despite the animal fat that had been worked into the cloaks to help waterproof them, it was not long before the riders were soaked through. The air was already cold and now the gentle breeze made it even colder.
Marcus could not prevent himself from shivering as he gripped the reins and clenched his teeth in concentration. He spared a glance at Lupus and saw that his companion was shaking uncontrollably as his teeth chattered.
Lupus caught his eye. ‘Wh-when is the master going to stop and take sh-sh-shelter?’
‘What shelter?’ Marcus gestured at the landscape on either side of the road. There was nothing but rocks and stunted trees to be seen, and ahead the road entered a dense forest of pine trees. ‘Perhaps up there.’ He pointed at the treeline.
But when they reached the forest Caesar continued riding, and while Lupus muttered curses at his master, Marcus resigned himself to the discomfort and misery of the journey. The road continued through the trees and, as the slope increased, the route began to zigzag up the hill into the grey mist that shrouded the view of the surrounding landscape.
As dusk encroached on the dismally lit world, the horsemen finally reached the gates of a small town. Caesar presented his senator’s ring to the cloaked sentries and they were ushered through the gate and into the street beyond. There were only a handful of travellers’ inns in the town and only one of those large enough to take the entire party and stable their horses. Night had fallen before the needs of the mounts had been seen to and then Marcus, Lupus and the others joined Caesar and Festus inside where they sat at a bench close to the fireplace sipping heated wine. They had already changed into dry clothes, and their riding cloaks, tunics and boots were drying by the fire.
As the drenched figures huddled close to the flames, the landlord of the inn came rushing out from a narrow doorway behind the counter.
‘Ah, gentlemen, you must be chilled to the bone! Get those clothes off and sit you down. My wife and girls will see that they are dried. We’ve more racks in the kitchen. Just hand ’em to me and once you’re dry and changed we’ll bring you some nice hot stew.’
Marcus and the others gratefully peeled off their wet over-clothes and heaped them on the counter before rummaging through their saddlebags for dry garments. The cold had left Marcus with numbed hands and feet and he now rubbed his palms together in front of the fire until feeling returned to his fingers. Lupus simply stood with a vacant expression as he held his hands out towards the flames.
‘Don’t put your hands too close while you can’t feel them, said Marcus, ‘or they’ll start burning before you realize it.
‘I just want to be warm again,’ the other boy muttered. ‘By the Gods, I wish I was back in Rome.’
‘Well, you’re not. And you’d better get used to it. Caesar's on campaign now and where he goes the rest of us will follow.’
‘Then let’s hope that he deals with these rebels quickly and we get this over with.’
‘Over with?’ Marcus could not help smiling. ‘This is just the beginning. When — if— he defeats the rebels, then Caesar aims to make a name for himself in Gaul. There’ll be years of campaigning before he’s done.’
Lupus lowered his hands and turned towards Marcus with a bleak expression. ‘Years?’
The innkeeper returned and gathered up the bundle of wet clothes, taking them back into the kitchen. A squat, heavily built woman with a dark complexion soon emerged, carrying the wooden handle of a heavy cauldron. At once a rich aroma filled the room and Marcus felt his stomach rumbling as his appetite awoke. Behind the woman came a young girl, no more than eight, Marcus guessed, struggling under a large tray piled with wooden bowls and spoons.
The woman set the cauldron down on the counter and her daughter placed the bowls beside it. The first two bowls were filled with a ladle and the girl carried them across to Caesar and Festus. Having grown used to the deference with which Caesar was approached in Rome, Marcus could not help a soft gasp as Festus received the first bowl, and then his master before the girl turned back to serve the others. Festus glanced anxiously at Caesar, but the great man just chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. He leaned forward and sniffed the stew.
‘And what have we got here, innkeeper?'
The owner of the inn ducked out of the kitchen. ‘Sir?’
‘What’s in the stew?’
‘Goat. No shortage of that around the town!’ the man said cheerfully. ‘I do hope it’s to your liking.’
Caesar tested a spoonful and nodded. ‘Indeed it is. Just what a man needs after a day on the road, eh, lads?’
The men voiced their agreement, and as soon as they were served moved to a table on the far side of the room to avoid encroaching on their master. Marcus and Lupus were the last to take their bowls. As they headed towards the table where the bodyguards were bent over their food, Caesar called out.
‘No. Over here. Join us, Marcus. You too, Lupus.’
They turned and crossed towards the table where the two men were seated.
‘What does he want with us?’ Lupus asked in a whisper.
‘No idea,’ Marcus replied softly.
They set their bowls down and each pulled up a stool, sitting nervously under the piercing gaze of Caesar’s dark eyes. He gestured towards their bowls and spoons. ‘Eat up, boys. Tonight we are a happy band of travellers. We’ve left Rome and all those stiff social manners behind for a few days. Life has become a lot less complicated and that is the way I like it. We’ve escaped from those scheming rascals in the Senate and our task is simple and direct: track down and destroy this man Brixus and his rabble. That is all.’ He took another spoonful of stew and chewed quickly on a chunk of meat. ‘Damn fine stew this. Must remember to eat goat more often, right, Festus?’