Son of Spartacus

16

Tribune Quintus watched the rear of the infantry column marching off into the gloom with an anxious expression. Around him the men of the rearguard were busy picking up the marching yokes of their comrades and heaping them on to the supply carts and wagons. Even the wagon of Decimus had been pressed into service and his men were grumbling as they helped the legionaries. Marcus had raised the hood of his cloak the moment they joined the baggage train and did his best to keep out of sight of Decimus as he followed the tribune.

Quintus was no more than five or six years older than himself, Marcus estimated. His cheeks sported only a faint blur of stubble and he looked no different from the youths hanging around the street corners of Rome. Only he was now in charge of five hundred soldiers and another two hundred mule drivers of the baggage train. As Marcus watched, Quintus raised his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail.

A fresh flurry of snow had blown down from the mountain peaks. Very quickly, the swirling flakes swallowed up the departing column, filling the air with a mournful moan and faint swish as the wind disturbed the tops of the laden fir trees on either side of the track.

‘You were right to warn him,’ Marcus said quietly.

Quintus turned and frowned at him. ‘I don’t need some ex-slave to tell me that.’

Marcus controlled his anger. ‘I apologize if you think I am speaking out of turn. I just thought you should know.’

Quintus glared at him in silence for a moment. ‘Just who in Hades do you think you are? You’re just a boy. I know you’ve trained as a gladiator and even won a fight or two, but that doesn’t make you an expert in anything. Why on earth Caesar keeps you close to his side is beyond me.’

‘I’m not at his side now,’ Marcus pointed out.

‘But he still listened to you, and holds you in some kind of regard. Just like his niece. Anyone would think you were Portia s little brother from the way she goes on about you.’ he said bitterly.

Marcus frowned. So, she spoke about him. Even to the man who had become her husband. He felt a spark of warmth in his heart. That, and the hope for something impossible, then he pushed the thought aside.

‘Sir, the sooner we set off after the main column the better.’

‘I know that!’ Quintus snapped and tugged sharply on the reins as he turned his mount, trotting back down the line to shout at the men. ‘Get those packs loaded on the wagons! Centurions! Get your men moving. I want the wagons sent off as soon as possible!’

Marcus watched him for a moment, then looked up at the sky. Thick flakes of snow swirled down from the dark grey clouds and there was no sign of any break in the weather. The track along which the column had marched was already covered by fresh drifts, and Marcus realized they had little chance of catching up with Caesar and the main column the following day.

Once the men had formed up, two centuries marched in front of the wagons, with two more at the rear. The rest of the legionaries were strung out beside the vehicles, ready to clear drifts from the track or put their shoulders to the wheels to push the carts and wagons forward. Quintus rode at the head of the formation, with the senior centurion of the cohort at his side. Marcus remained a short distance behind, to keep out of the tribune’s way. He had no desire to antagonize Portia’s husband any further.

It took two hours, as far as Marcus could estimate, for the baggage train to reach the rise from where the villa had been sighted earlier that day. Now the blizzard obscured the way ahead and it was impossible to make out any of the buildings. The water at the edge of the lake had frozen and the snow settling on the ice left only the middle of the lake visible.

As they approached the villa, a faint glow through the fall-ing snow revealed that some buildings were still on fire. A short distance further on Marcus could see the dark mass of the mill by the stream and then the wooden stockade surrounding the villa, the outline of the sharpened stakes clearly defined against the glow of the fire within.

‘We should stop here for a moment to rest the men and mules,’ the centurion marching beside Quintus advised. ‘It’s hard going, and they’re exhausted.’

‘If we stop now, they’ll not want to continue,’ Quintus mused. ‘Better we carry on.’

‘If we do that, sir, then we’ll risk losing men and beasts along the way. Any stragglers we leave behind won’t survive the night without shelter.’

‘That’s their lookout. I have orders to bring the baggage up to the main column as soon as I can.’

The centurion sighed in frustration and was about to speak again when Marcus heard a faint sound to his left, from the direction of the trees. It had sounded like a voice calling out. He flicked his hood back to hear more clearly, tilting his head to the side as he strained his ears.

‘Did you hear that?’ he interrupted the two officers.

‘What?’ Quintus rounded on him, the wind fluttering the crest on his helmet. ‘Hear what?’

‘Quiet!’ Marcus snapped. ‘Listen! There it is again.’

There was another shout from amid the trees, muffled and impossible to make out, but definitely a voice.

‘Could be a wild animal,’ suggested the centurion. ‘With the wind and all, it’s easy to mistake the sound.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you.’

Quintus chuckled. ‘Your imagination is getting the better of you, boy. You should have stayed in Caesar’s household in Rome where you belong.’

Before Marcus could respond, the sound of a horn cut through the moan of the wind. Three sharp blasts, a pause, then they came again. Along the track the men and vehicles slowed to a halt as faces turned towards the sound with anxious expressions.

‘What’s that?’ Quintus asked.

The horn sounded a third time and a cheer rose up from within the forest. Marcus stared at the shadows along the treeline, no more than two hundred paces away. As the sound of the cheers swelled, he saw movement and the first of the figures burst from cover to charge across the snowy field towards the track.

‘Ambush!’ the centurion exclaimed, then turned to his men and cupped his hand. ‘Form line to the left!’

Quintus stared at the oncoming men open-mouthed, then thrust his jaw out as he drew his sword. He caught Marcus’s eyes and nodded grimly. ‘Looks like we were right about the risk.’

‘Maybe,’ Marcus replied through gritted teeth. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

He reached down for the handle of his sword and drew the blade from its scabbard with a sharp rasp.

‘Stay close!’ Quintus ordered. ‘If you’re half the gladiator they say you are, I want you at my side.’

The tribune wheeled his mount and spurred it into a gallop back along the track, past the men of the first two centuries who had dropped their yokes and were hurriedly checking the straps of their armour before raising their shields to form a line facing the ambushers. Leaning forward in his saddle, Marcus glanced to his right and saw the white expanse in front of the forest was filled with figures. Thousands of them were surging through the ankle-deep blanket of snow.

Quintus reined in when he reached the wagons, shouting at the thin screen of legionaries to step aside and let him through. Some of the mule drivers had already deserted their positions and were running towards the shelter of the stockade, while others ran blindly towards the stream. The water was raging between the banks and Marcus knew that anyone attempting to cross it would be swept away. There was no escape from the trap that had been set for them. They must close up and hold their ground for as long as possible. As Quintus took up his position by the cohort’s standard, close to the wagon where Decimus and his men stood ready with their swords, Marcus edged his horse alongside the tribune. He stared at the wave of men rushing towards them, their mouths open as they let out a deafening roar of triumph. Most were well armed, kitted out with shields, helmets and weapons looted from the farms, villages and small towns that they had attacked. A far cry from the ragged appearance of Polonius, the rebel tortured by Festus.

In that instant Marcus saw it all. The clever trap Brixus had set for Caesar played on the Roman’s contempt for the rebel slaves and his desire for a quick end to the campaign. Polonius had been a plant, deliberately left behind to be captured and give the information that had lured Caesar away from his baggage train. It had cost him his life and Marcus could only marvel at the courage of a man who played such a part, sacrificing himself to give his comrades a victory over the Romans. He wondered if any man in Caesar’s army would have such courage. Then there was no more time to think: the enemy was upon them.

At the front of the charge the men armed with slings and bows stopped to loose their missiles before charging on. Marcus turned at the sound of a dull crack and saw one of the legionaries fall, his face a bloody mask. He thudded into the snow and kicked out for a moment before losing consciousness. More shot and arrows rattled off the heavy oval shields as the legionaries raised them up. There was a shrill braying as the mules fell victim to the barrage and some of the mule teams began to panic and drag their vehicles out of line. Marcus saw one team veer to the side, thrusting through the legionaries. One man was knocked down, his legs crushed as the cart wheel ran over them. The mule team broke into a trot, careering across the snowy field into the rebel ranks.

‘Ready javelins!’ barked the senior centurion.

The gap between the two sides had narrowed to no more than thirty paces. Waiting for the centurion’s order, the legionaries hefted their javelins and drew their arms back. Marcus saw the centurion narrow his eyes as he timed the moment, his sword held high. With a dull gleam, the blade swept down and he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Loose!’

The dark shafts of the javelins arced through the snowflakes before striking the figures swarming towards the Roman line. Marcus saw scores of men collapse as the sharp iron heads tore through them. But the attackers did not waver and charged straight into the cohort’s shield wall. Sitting in his saddle, Marcus’s ears filled with the crash of shields and scrape and ringing of clashing blades, and the grunts of men locked in battle. This was unlike any fight he had ever seen. Worse even than the riots he’d witnessed from the street gangs at the Forum in Rome. And more frightening than the gladiator bouts he had been forced to endure. Those had involved a test of skill, each fighter with only one opponent to concentrate on as they duelled to the death. What was happening now seemed a bloody chaos of hacking, slashing and stabbing along the ragged battle-line.

At his side Tribune Quintus held his sword up and out as he shouted encouragement to the men under his command. ‘Hold fast! Drive the slave scum back!’

Then, just in front of the two horses, a rebel burst through the Roman line. An axe in one hand and a buckler in the other, his mouth gaped in a roar behind a wild black beard. He saw the Roman officer and charged forward, swinging the axe above his head and thrusting the heavy blade towards Quintus’s shoulder. Marcus acted instinctively, pulling hard on his reins so his horse crashed into the rebel and knocked him aside. The axe swept down, narrowly missing the tribune’s boot before crunching into the compacted snow on the ground. Quintus twisted in his saddle and swept his sword down, stabbing deep between the rebel’s shoulder blades. The man let out an agonized cry and collapsed face first in the snow as blood spattered the snow around him.

Quintus met Marcus’s eyes and he nodded his thanks before turning back to the fight.

Already the rebels’ superiority in numbers was telling. Both ends of the Roman line were being forced back as the legionaries tried to avoid being outflanked. But Marcus realized they could not prevent the inevitable for much longer. A harsh cry to his side alerted him to a fresh danger and he snapped his head round to see a lithe figure in a gladiator’s cuirass rushing towards him with a spear in both hands, the point aimed directly at Marcus’s chest. There was little time to react and he threw his weight back in the saddle at the same time as he thrust his sword out, catching the wooden shaft just beyond the iron point. He was not strong enough to parry the thrust and only deflected the point into the neck of his horse. It punched through the hide and flesh before the bloodied iron burst out the other side. The horse let out a terrified whinny and reared up, wrenching the shaft from the rebel’s hands. Marcus held the reins in his left hand as tightly as he could, but he was already leaning backwards and felt his legs slipping out of the saddle.

With a cry he tumbled off, letting the reins go before he crashed to the ground, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. There was no time to recover as the horse reared and kicked, spraying snow into Marcus’s face. He rolled away towards the river, then scrambled to his feet, gasping. On either side the legionaries were being driven back through the line of wagons and panicking mules.

‘Protect the standard!’ Quintus shouted. He turned his horse towards the gilded wreath and red drop that rose above the crumbling centre of the Roman line. Then his horse stumbled and Quintus desperately swung a leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground as the horse fell on its side, a broken leg thrashing out.

Marcus ran to his side. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Quintus nodded. ‘We have to save the standard. Stay with me.’

They joined the small group of legionaries formed up round the standard and saw that the senior centurion was among them, fighting the rebels back and shouting to his men in between the blows he struck.

‘Form on the standard! On me!’

Those who could obeyed the order and closed ranks with their comrades. In the centre Quintus took stock of the fight.

‘We’re losing.’

Marcus caught glimpses of the fighting beyond the ring of men around him and saw that the centre of the line had broken. Some legionaries had thrown aside their weapons and were running away, pursued by the rebels, who showed no mercy. On either flank the centuries had closed up into desperate knots as they fought back to back until they were cut down. The men protecting the standard were slowly forced to give ground as they were driven away from the track towards the edge of the small lake.

The centurion forced his way to Quintus’s side. ‘Sir, we cannot let the standard fall into the enemy’s hands.’

Quintus stared back, white-faced, and Marcus saw that his lips were trembling.

The veteran officer took a breath and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘We’ve lost the fight, sir. But we can save our honour. We must not let the standard be taken. If we reach the lake, we can throw it into the depths.’

Quintus blinked and nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what we must do.’ The veteran turned and called to the men surrounding him. ‘We will give ground towards the lake. I’ll call the pace. One!.. Two!..’

The small group backed away from the rebels. All the time Marcus could hear the pounding of weapons on their shields and see the men thrusting back with the short sword of the legions. Every so often an enemy weapon found its way between the shields and a legionary let out a cry as he was wounded. Some fought on, even as their blood flowed on to the disturbed snow at their feet. Others staggered back and collapsed, too wounded to stay in formation, and Marcus saw the look in their eyes as they drew their shields close to their bodies and gripped their swords. He admired their determination to go down fighting while their comrades were forced to leave them behind as they fought to reach the lake.

Marcus glanced round and saw there were no more than thirty or so men left to protect the standard. Suddenly there was a shout from nearby.

‘Let us through! Let us through!’

He recognized the voice well enough. A moment later Decimus and a handful of his men, breathing hard and holding bloodied swords, stumbled between the shields and stood panting beside Quintus, Marcus and the standard bearer. Behind them the soldiers quickly closed ranks as the rebels continued to harry them. It was impossible to break through the wall of shields and the vicious points of the legionaries’ swords, and most of the rebels moved on, looking for easier prey.

‘We’re almost at the edge of the lake,’ the centurion announced as he craned his neck to peer over the helmets of his comrades. ‘We’ll hold our ground there for as long as possible while I get rid of the standard.’

Decimus rounded on the officer. ‘And then what? Where do we go?’

‘Go?’ The centurion smiled grimly. ‘Straight to Hades, that’s where.’

‘That’s your plan?’ Decimus laughed. ‘Not me. I’m getting out of here. I’ll swim for it.’

‘In that water? You’d freeze before you reached the far side. You can drown like a rat or die like a man with a sword in your hand.’

Decimus shook his head as he looked round the small formation. ‘You’re mad.’

Then he saw Marcus for the first time and stared at him with a puzzled expression before his eyes widened. ‘I know you! You … You’re that brat son of Titus.’

For an instant Marcus forgot the battle raging around him. He forgot the imminence of his own death at the hands of the rebels. All he saw was the face of the man who had tormented him and his mother as they stood in a slave pen waiting to be auctioned off. With a feral snarl, he raised his sword and thrust it wildly at Decimus.

‘Watch it, lad!’ the centurion snapped as he thrust his shield between Marcus and Decimus. The blade cracked harmlessly against the edge of the armour. ‘He’s one of ours, you fool!’ he snapped. ‘Watch what you do with that blade!’

Marcus let out a cry of frustration as he saw Decimus move back, two of his men blocking Marcus’s way.

The centurion thrust Marcus towards Quintus. ‘Keep this hothead under control. He’s more danger to our side than theirs.’

But the moment had passed and now an aching despair filled Marcus’s heart. If he and Decimus were to fall here, then all was lost. He would die knowing that his mother was doomed to slavery, worked to death on Decimus’s farming estate in Greece. He’d also die without having avenged Titus and the others murdered by Decimus’s henchmen.

There was a loud crack and then an oath as one of the legionary’s boots went through the ice.

‘Hold your ground!’ ordered the centurion. ‘We make our stand here!’

As his men faced out, the centurion lowered his shield to the snow and reached for the standard. Gritting his teeth, he hacked at the staff with his sword, cutting away at the smooth wood until it was weak enough to snap over his knee. He cast the bottom of the standard aside and moved towards the knot of men clustered at the edge of the lake. With a grunt, the centurion hurled the standard out towards the water. The gold wreath and the red material flew through the air and thudded into the snow-covered ice, sliding a short distance before coming to rest a few paces from the edge of the water.

‘Damn it!’ the centurion growled. He clenched his fists in frustration, then suddenly rounded on Marcus. ‘You can do it! You’re small enough for the ice to bear your weight. Go out there. Push the standard into the water.’

Marcus glanced across the expanse of unbroken snow. It was impossible to know how thick the ice was.

‘There’s no time to think!’ The centurion grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You must go now, before they cut us all down. Go!’

Marcus nodded. If he died then he would do it for a reason. If he could not save his mother, or honour his real father, he would do this in memory of the old soldier he had always loved. He would do it for Titus. He sheathed his sword and slipped through the men standing at the edge of the lake, stepping cautiously on to the ice. The standard was no more than twenty paces away and Marcus paced carefully towards it. On either side he was aware of the fight reaching its bloody conclusion. The Roman cohorts had been shattered by the rebels’ ferocious attack and only a few clusters of men remained, scattered along the shore of the lake as they sold their lives dearly.

Individuals had thrown aside their weapons and tried to surrender but the rebels butchered the Romans where they stood or knelt. A handful of legionaries were trying to escape on to the ice, but it had given way beneath them and they floundered in the icy water until their strength gave out.

There was a dull creak under his boots and Marcus stopped dead. The sound eased and after a pause Marcus took another few steps. There was another creak, louder this time, and then a crack. He stopped again, heart pounding, and slowly lowered himself to his hands and knees before continuing towards the standard, wincing as the ice seared his bare skin. He was no more than ten feet away from the standard when the ice began to crack again and Marcus caught his breath. He lowered himself on to his stomach and edged forward slowly. His fingers groped for the red cloth where the cohort’s number had been stitched in gold thread. As the ice creaked beneath him Marcus clenched his teeth, clasping the material in his fingers and drawing it back towards him. Taking it in both hands, he turned slowly on to his back and took a deep breath. He counted to three, then hurled it over his head with all his strength.

The sudden movement caused the ice to crack, and water seeped through his cloak and tunic as he heard the splash behind him. Dreading that the ice would break at any moment, Marcus wormed his way towards the edge of the lake until he was confident the ice was thick enough to climb to his feet. He looked back to make sure there was no sign of the standard, then hurried towards the survivors of the cohort banded together by the lake. The rebels massed round them, grim-faced and silent.

‘Well done, lad.’ The centurion clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That took guts. Now the cohort can die with its honour intact.’

‘Die?’ Quintus said.

‘What else?’ The centurion gestured towards the rebels. ‘They’ll charge any moment. It’ll all be over very quickly.’

But there was no charge, and the two sides stood their ground, breathing hard from their exertions as they waited.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ Quintus asked, his voice wavering. ‘For pity’s sake, why?’

Then there was movement in the rebel ranks and a tall figure emerged and strode towards the Romans, stopping two sword lengths from their shields. He carried a long heavy sword in one hand and his dark hair was tied back with a thong. Marcus recognized him at once. It was the same man who had led the ambush of Caesar’s party several days earlier. Mandracus glared at the Romans for a moment before he spat to one side and addressed them.

‘The fight is over. You have been defeated. Throw down your weapons and you will live. If not, you will be cut down where you stand.’

There was a brief stillness before Quintus lowered his sword and stepped towards the edge of the ring. The centurion stood in his way.

‘What do you think you are doing … sir?’

‘The fight is over. We did our best and lost. It’s time to surrender.’

‘No!’ the centurion growled. ‘Do you really think they’ll let us live? Better to die like a man than be cut down like a dog. There’ll be no surrender.’

‘Yes, there will.’ Quintus drew himself up. ‘I am in command here, not you. And you will obey my orders, Centurion. Now stand aside.’

Marcus saw the glowering anger in the centurion’s eyes as he stood still for a moment, then did as he was told. Quintus made his way to the edge of the ring and threw his sword out on to the snow, at the rebel leader’s feet. ‘We surrender.’

The man next to him followed suit, and lowered his shield to the ground. Another did the same, then the rest, until the surviving legionaries stood defenceless. All except the centurion and Marcus.

‘Very wise of you,’ said Mandracus. ‘Now back to the track in single file. Move!’

With Quintus leading, the unarmed men began to move away from the lake, through the ranks of the rebels who jeered and jostled them as they passed by.

Marcus gazed around him, his mind a turmoil of struggling impulses. His gladiator training had taught him never to give in, yet if he chose to fight and die there would be no chance to save his mother. While he lived, there was a sliver of hope, no matter how small.

‘Good lad.’ the centurion said. ‘You’ve got more guts than that yellow tribune and the rest of them put together. We’ll go down, side by side, like heroes.’

Marcus glanced at him, then at the sea of rebel faces that glared back with hatred. He lowered his sword and spoke softly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I have to live.’

The centurion stared coldly at him a moment, then nodded. ‘It’s all right. I understand. Better go quickly, before it’s too late.’

Marcus stepped away from him, sword arm hanging loosely. As he approached the rebel leader, he let the handle slip from his fingers and heard the soft thud as it landed in the snow. His heart felt heavy at abandoning the centurion to his fate, but while there was a chance his mother lived, that governed every decision he made. Mandracus glanced at the boy as he passed by, then gave him a shove towards the end of the line of Romans being led into captivity.

Behind him, Marcus heard the centurion shout. ‘For Rome! For Rome!’

Bodies surged past Marcus on either side. There was a clash of blades and the thud of a weapon striking a shield. Then a cry of triumph and a throaty roar from the rebels that was swallowed up by the snow swirling down the length of the small valley.