Son of Spartacus

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?’

‘Yes, master.’ The leader of his bodyguard bowed his head.

Marcus tucked in, his spirits rising with every mouthful of the richly flavoured meal. After a moment even Lupus got over the fact that he was sharing a table with his master and began to eat. At length Caesar pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned back against the cracked plaster wall behind his stool. He was silent for a moment and then folded his hands together.

‘I’ve just remembered. I’ve seen this town before, years ago. I was only a tribune then, in the early days of my soldiering. I had just been appointed to one of the legions in Crassus’s army and was riding to join him with a cohort of allied cavalry. We stopped at this town for the night. I didn’t stay here. One of the local magistrates put me up for the night.’ He paused. ‘It was as dismal a place then as it is today. Anyway, we rode on the next day and I never thought I'd be staying here again.’

Festus finished his bowl and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Crassus? Then that must have been when he was fighting Spartacus, master.’

‘Indeed it was. That’s what set my mind to it. Thinking about the enemy we face now. Last time I arrived just in time to witness the final great battle, when Crassus crushed the rebel army.’

‘Crassus?’ Marcus could not help being surprised. ‘I was told that it was Pompeius who ended the rebellion, sir.’

‘Pompeius?’ Caesar cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘No, he reached the scene shortly afterwards, just in time to mop up the survivors of the main battle. I had the fortune to be witness to both battles, if you can call Pompeius’s action a battle. Skirmish more like. Not that he described it that way to the Senate. Oh, no. He sent them a report stating that it was he who had put an end to the rebellion and killed Spartacus. As if Crassus had been doing nothing for the previous two years. That’s Pompeius for you. He’ll claim all the credit that he can.’

Marcus leaned forward and stared at his master intently as a peculiar anxiety to know more gnawed at his heart. ‘You said you were at both battles, sir?’

‘That’s right. After the first one, Crassus sent me to find Pompeius and request that he block the survivors’ escape route. He did that right at least.’

Marcus felt his pulse quicken. He had rarely heard Titus, the retired centurion who had raised him, talk of the rebellion. The brutality and hardship of the campaign had scarred Titus for the rest of his life. Now Marcus had a chance to discover more about his true father.

‘What was it like, sir? What happened?’ Marcus swallowed nervously. ‘Did you ever see Spartacus himself?’

‘So many questions.’ Caesar smiled faintly. ‘Well, there’s nothing else to do in this place but talk.’

Lupus discreetly reached for his satchel and pulled out a waxed notebook. Caesar shook his head. 'No need for that. I am not anxious to record my part in the slave revolt for posterity. The sooner the whole episode is forgotten the better.’ Lupus nodded and returned his writing tools to his satchel, while Caesar closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, then began. ‘It was a war like no other I’ve ever seen, or heard of. Neither side took many prisoners and the slaves showed no mercy to any slave traders or overseers who fell into their hands. Of course, most of this I got second hand from the men who had been fighting Spartacus and his rebels during the earlier years of the revolt. By the time I joined Crassus he had closed in on them, trying to force Spartacus to turn and give battle. He was like a wounded animal: never more dangerous than when they are trapped and know they must fight or die. So Spartacus formed his army up on a ridge across our line of march.’

Caesar stared at the table in front of him and Marcus willed him to go on. Caesar cleared his throat and continued, his voice a little lower. ‘Even though we outnumbered them, I could see that our soldiers were nervous at the prospect of a fight. I remember that I did not understand their reaction. They were trained soldiers and well equipped. Many of them were veterans of previous campaigns. When I looked at the rebels I could see that many of them only carried farming tools and wore little or no armour. There were women there too, and even old men and boys. There were several thousand in the centre of the line who were well equipped and were formed up in a disciplined line. Behind them a body of mounted men surrounded Spartacus and his standard.’

‘You saw him, master?’ asked Lupus, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Yes. He rode a white horse and wore black armour and a helmet with a dark crest. Quite a striking figure.’

Marcus felt a surge of pride at the description of his father, accompanied by the regret of never having had a chance to know him.

‘As we deployed in our usual formation of staggered units I heard a murmur from the rebel lines. At first I could not make it out, then I realized it was his name. Spartacus … Spartacus … Spartacus! Rising up until it became a thunderous chant that echoed across the battlefield. Then they charged. Like a wave. I don’t remember hearing any signal. It was as if they shared one thought. One instinct. To kill every Roman that stood before them. I don’t mind telling you that I felt afraid then. It surprised me at the time, but there was no denying they were a terrifying sight as they came at us.

‘They smashed into our leading units, charging straight on to our shields and swords and dying in their hundreds. But they were like wild animals, fighting with their bare fists if they lost their weapons. Even the wounded fought on from the ground where they lay, using hands and teeth. Our first line held them for a while, but not even the best soldiers in the world could withstand such demons for long. The second line moved forward to join the fight. That was when Crassus gave the order that tipped the battle in our favour.’ Caesar’s eyes glinted as he recalled the moment. ‘The rebels had driven a wedge deep into the heart of our battle-line, so Crassus had his last line move out to each side and quickly march round to charge the rebels in the flanks. As soon as the trumpets sounded, our men let out a roar and closed in. The rebels held them for a while, then some panicked and broke away. Then more dispersed and soon they were finished. Our cavalry closed the trap and only a few thousand got away. The rest were annihilated.’

‘And Spartacus?’ Marcus interrupted. ‘What of him?’

‘He and his bodyguard covered the retreat of the survivors until our men were too exhausted to pursue them any further. Crassus realized that if Spartacus escaped he would be bound to stir up a fresh rebellion elsewhere. So he sent me to find Pompeius and, ah, advise him to block Spartacus’s route.’

‘Advise?’ Festus frowned.

‘One does not give orders to Pompeius the Great.’ Caesar smiled. ‘Crassus knew that it was too important a matter to risk offending Pompeius and thereby let the enemy slip away. Anyway, I found Pompeius and gave him the message, and remained with him while his men marched on Spartacus. It was all over very quickly. The rebels were exhausted and many were wounded. Yet they formed up round their leader and fought to the end. We only took a handful of prisoners. None matched the description that had been given to us by his old lanista.’

‘Did you see him again?’ Marcus asked excitedly. ‘Spartacus?’

‘I saw him with his closest lieutenants. They were mounted on the last of their horses. Just before the fight began they dismounted and killed their beasts, to show that they would share the fate of their comrades. When the last of them had fallen, I joined Pompeius and his officers as they picked over the battlefield. We found some black armour and a helmet. I suppose that his followers tore it off him when they saw him cut down. Many of the bodies were too mutilated to be identified.’

Marcus shuddered but tried hard not to show his revulsion.

‘Perhaps Spartacus survived,’ Lupus suggested.

‘I can’t see how he could have escaped. He must have fallen in the final battle. I am sure of it.’

‘He would have stayed and died with the others,’ Marcus said at once, then looked round at the others quickly. ‘At least, that’s what I would have done. If I were him.’

Festus laughed and gave Marcus a good-humoured slap on the back. ‘A handful of fights under your belt and already you think you’re another Spartacus!’

Caesar stared at Marcus. ‘I sincerely hope not. The first one nearly destroyed Rome. We would not be able to survive a second Spartacus. Besides, I have grown fond of you, Marcus. It would distress me if we ever became enemies. Then I would be obliged to destroy you.’

He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone but his words chilled Marcus to the core. Not for the first time, he feared that Caesar knew more about him than he realized. But he had to push those thoughts aside, be strong and see this through. He had to be as strong as his father had been. He took a calming breath and addressed his former master.

‘I have served you loyally, sir. There is no reason to think that we should ever become enemies.’

Caesar looked at him, then gave a light laugh. ‘Of course not. Besides I have somewhat larger and more formidable adversaries to worry about.’ He yawned. ‘It’s been a long day. We’re warm and our stomachs are full. We’d better get a good night’s sleep. I want us back on the road at dawn, Festus. See to it that I am roused with the rest of the men in good time.

‘Yes, master.’

Caesar rose from the table and rubbed the base of his spine with a grimace. Then he nodded to his companions and climbed a flight of stairs at the rear of the inn that led to the handful of small rooms that were rented to travellers. Festus turned to the boys.

‘I’ve sorted out a room for you two. The innkeeper has space in his cellar. He’s put two bedrolls down for you, but says to watch out for the rats. Sometimes they bite.’

‘Rats?’ Lupus’s face went pale.

‘He was probably joking, but all the same take care, eh?’ Festus stood up and made for the other men to give them their orders.

‘Rats,’ Lupus repeated. ‘I hate rats.’

‘Then make sure you push them to the side of the plate.’ Marcus joked. ‘Come on, I’ll make sure you’re safe.’

The innkeeper’s wife showed them down to the cellar by the light of an oil lamp, then left it on the bottom of the narrow stairs so they could see enough to prepare to sleep. Lupus glanced warily around the shadows in the cellar before he settled down, but despite his concerns he was soon asleep. Once again, Marcus lay awake for a while, deep in thought.

This time he was thinking about Spartacus. Slowly, his heart filled with pride in his father’s achievements and the example he had set for those who followed him, prepared to fight and die at his side. Something began to stir inside him. A vague inspiration and more: a sense that it was his duty to honour his father. To be worthy of his name and all that had achieved in his short life. After all, the same blood coursed through Marcus’s veins — the same skill at arms, and the same burning desire for freedom.