Son of Spartacus

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.

Marcus stopped outside the first inn he came to and approached a small group of soldiers in their capes who did not yet look too much the worse for wear.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, pulling back his hood. ‘I’ve been sent from headquarters to find one of Caesar’s officers. Any idea where they might be?’

A tall, burly man with thick stubble on his cheeks turned to look down at Marcus. ‘Officers? Who cares a stuff for them, eh? Bunch of stuck-up wasters.’

‘Oil’ one of his companions called out. ‘Leave it out, Publius. Boy’s only asking a question.’ He pushed his surly comrade aside and stood in front of Marcus with an apologetic expression. ‘Ignore him. He’s just a grumbler.’

‘Too right I am!’ his comrade cut in. ‘Why aren’t we resting up in winter quarters? Ain’t right that we’ve been ordered to get out and fight in the middle of winter. Ain’t going to be in good shape when the real campaign starts in spring.’

‘Ah, shut it!’ his companion said crossly, before turning back to Marcus. ‘So what do you want, young ‘un?’

‘I need to find the staff officers. Have you seen them?’

‘Hmm?’ The soldier scratched his chin. ‘Best try the Jolly Boar. Over there by the Temple of Jupiter. It’s supposed to be the classiest inn. That’s your best bet.’ He looked at Marcus more closely. ‘Do I know you? I recognize your face.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

The man frowned and then clicked his fingers. ‘Yes! It was in Rome. I was on leave there last year. Saw you fight that Celt boy. You’re Marcus Cornelius, right?’

Again, Marcus shook his head. It was already possible that rumours of his fight with Quintus were spreading through the ranks. Marcus was determined to keep his presence secret from Decimus for as long as possible. It would be better to deny his identity for now…

‘I am just a servant of Caesar,’ Marcus replied flatly. The soldier looked disappointed and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Off you go then, boy!’

Marcus turned away to head across the forum towards the inn that the soldier had indicated. The owner of the Jolly Boar had set up some tables and benches outside the entrance, and these were crowded with the centurions and optios of Caesar’s cohorts. Threading his way through the soldiers, he could not help wondering what shape they would be in come the morning when it was time to march into the mountains.

From inside, Marcus could hear excited chatter and cheering before there was a brief lull, then a crescendo of noise. He squeezed through the door and saw at once that the inn was a lot bigger than it looked from outside, a single open room stretching back a good hundred feet. A counter was set up in the far comer from where a sweaty-looking old man handed jugs and cups to his servants and kept tally on what each table had consumed. The middle of the room had been cleared and a crowd of tribunes, centurions and civilians stood in a ring over a dice game. Marcus knew that if he drew up his hood he would only attract attention, so instead he worked his way round to an alcove and stood in the shadow as he scrutinized the men in the room.

He picked out Quintus easily enough. Portia’s young husband was grinning like a fool as he opened his purse. But his smile faded as he groped around inside and his hand came out clutching a small handful of silver coins. He hesitated briefly, before bending down to place his bet. Marcus’s eyes then fixed on Festus, sitting on the far side of the room, watching proceedings as he sipped from a bronze goblet. Marcus followed his line of sight to a group of men at a table opposite Festus. He spotted Decimus at once, due to the expensive embroidery on his cloak. A squat muscular man sat next to him, and three more perched on the other side of the table with their backs to Marcus. Two had close-cropped hair; the third was shaven-headed, but the dark hair of an unkempt beard bustled out from each cheek so that he probably looked like a barbarian from the front.

Now that he had them in sight, Marcus stared at Decimus for a while. He recalled vividly the cruel expression in the man’s face when the moneylender had told Marcus and his mother of their fate as they lay in a holding cell of the slave market back in Greece. Marcus edged round the room and made his way towards Festus, where he positioned himself with his back to Decimus and the others.

Festus’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. He leaned across the table. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled.

‘Caesar’s dismissed me for the evening. I thought I’d have a look around the town.’

‘Pollux! Do you think I’m a fool, Marcus? You’ve come to spy on Decimus.’

‘How was I supposed to know he’d be here?’

‘Where else would he be in a one-mule dump of a town like Mutina? You’d better get out of here before he spots you.’

‘I’ll go in a moment. But first you tell me what he’s been up to. Caesar thinks there’s more to his being here than buying up prisoners.’

Festus shrugged. ‘If that’s true, then there’s been no sign of anything suspicious. He sticks close to his men over there and they travel in the wagon. There’s been no messages delivered to them, and none sent anywhere.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all I’ve seen.’

‘And no sign of Thermon?’

‘No. None of ‘em look like the man who tried to kill Caesar. See for yourself.’

Marcus half turned cautiously, and looked over the rim of his shoulder. From where he sat, he had a side-on view of the table, and in the dim light cast by the inn’s oil lamps he could make out the profiles of Detimus’s companions. None had the neatly styled hair and well-groomed features of the moneylender’s dangerous henchman. As Marcus watched, there was another cry from the men playing dice and he glanced over towards them. He saw Quintus’s face twist into an ashen-faced grimace as he crushed his empty purse in his fist and backed out of the ring of men still watching the game.

‘You’d better go,’ said Festus. ‘Before you are seen.’

Marcus nodded and rose from the table. He paused. ‘Keep a close eye on Decimus. He can’t be trusted. And he’s… evil.’

‘Evil?’ Festus cocked an eyebrow and smiled faintly. ‘Well, if he tries to cast a spell on Caesar, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

Marcus scowled at him, furious with Festus for being so dismissive. Then he turned and made his way back through the crowded inn. He paused at the door for one last, hateful glimpse of Decimus and stopped dead. Quintus had approached the moneylender’s table and was leaning down as he spoke earnestly with Decimus. The exchange was brief, and there was no mistaking the pleading expression on the tribune’s face. Decimus was still for a moment, as if thinking, and then podded. He reached down and took out a heavy purse from under his cloak, placing it in Quintus’s spare hand. The tribune looked round nervously before he slipped the purse out of sight under his own cloak. He quickly nodded his thanks to Decimus and hurried back to the dice game.

Marcus remembered Portia’s comment about her husband’s gambling habit. It seemed even more of a problem than she had feared and Marcus felt a stab of pity for his friend. It was a poor match, her marriage. Forced on Portia for political reasons, it had condemned her to being the wife of a wastrel whose only apparent talent was a capacity to lose at dice games. Marcus felt a moment’s sorrow. If Quintus carried on like this, he would only make Portia more unhappy. It was bad enough that he was unlucky, but that weakness was made worse by his lack of judgement.

Only a very desperate or foolish man would ever borrow money from the likes of Decimus. Marcus had learned that lesson only too well. It had cost Titus his life and all that he possessed. Now Decimus had found a new victim, and who knew where that would end.