Son of Spartacus

9

‘Uncle Cams!’ Portia beamed as she saw him enter the atrium. She flew across the tiled floor and hugged him tightly as Caesar laughed. Caesar was wearing a tunic borrowed from one of Ariminum’s magistrates, and a slave had cleaned his boots while he and the others had been through the town’s largest bathhouse. The steam, massage, scrape and cold plunge had left Marcus feeling clean and refreshed, and he and Festus were wearing the spare tunics from their saddlebags.

‘Easy there! You’ll crush my ribs.’

Marcus and Festus stood at the threshold looking on, and Marcus felt a pang of envy that he was denied a family. Until he had tracked down his mother and set her free, there would be none of the simple pleasures of such a homely scene.

Caesar took her shoulders and eased her back as he beamed down at her. ‘How is my favourite niece?’

‘I’m your only niece.’ She punched him lightly on the chest.

‘Well, there you are then. Still my favourite. And how are you adapting to married life? Where is that husband of yours, young Quintus?’

Marcus saw her smile waver for the briefest instant before she replied. ‘Oh, he’s down at the officers’ club. They’ve set themselves up in an inn on the harbour front. They’re very busy at the moment, as you must know. Getting the army ready for the new campaign. I suppose they are entitled to a bit of fun now and again. But we’re happy. Very happy. Although I know that I will not see him for a long time when you take the army north, into Gaul.’ Her smile faded as she took his hand. ‘Please don’t give the order too soon.’

‘My dear, empires are not won by men who stay at home with their wives.’

‘And men who win empires are not born if their fathers are never at the side of their mothers,’ she shot back.

‘Hah! You have a sharper mind than half the men in the Senate, and a sharper tongue than the rest of them. But enough of that. I have a surprise for you, just in case you were missing Rome.’ He stepped aside to reveal his two companions. ‘Here’s Festus, and Marcus.’

‘Marcus!’ Portia smiled and stepped towards him and took his hands, at arm’s length, gave a squeeze and then released them. ‘You look well. Fully recovered from the fight with that awful thug Ferax?’

‘Yes, mistress,’ Marcus replied formally, as was the expected custom between them in front of others. ‘I am well. It is good to see you again.’

‘Then perhaps we can talk a little later on, when you have all been fed?’

Caesar coughed. ‘I’ll eat later. There’s something I need to attend to first. This officers’ dub, where is it exactly?’

‘Must you go already?’ Portia frowned.

‘I have much to do. We are on the march against the rebel slaves the day after tomorrow. I need to look at my officers. See what they’re like and choose those who will accompany me. I won’t be too long, I promise. Meanwhile, you can see that Festus and Marcus are fed, and plague them with questions about events in Rome since you left. I know it’s only been a few months, but they’ve been filled with incident.’

‘I will ask. But tell me, how is Lupus? I thought you’d need your scribe at your side.’

Caesar pursed his Ups. ‘Marcus is my scribe now.’

‘Oh. Why not Lupus? I thought he was good at his job.’

‘He is… was. We lost Lupus on the journey here.’

‘Lost?’

‘We were ambushed by brigands. Lupus was killed.’ He cupped her cheek in his hand. ‘The others can tell you the story. I must go.’

Caesar kissed her on the top of her head and turned away to stride through the door into the street. The doorman closed it behind him and Portia was left with the others. She looked from face to face. ‘Poor Lupus… Come then, to the triclinium. I’ll have food and drink brought for us and you can tell me what happened.’

The triclinium of the slave-dealer’s house overlooked a long colonnaded garden with a water channel running down the middle, crossed by two small wicker bridges. Dusk had fallen over Ariminum and the air was chilly, so a fire had been lit on a brazier in the middle of three dining couches. Small tables had been set in front of each and a woman slave in a plain brown tunic brought small platters of sliced sausage, olives, honeyed bread and delicate pots of fish sauce to drizzle on their food, together with glass goblets and ajar of watered wine.

For a while they talked light-heartedly about affairs in Rome and the latest scandal to emerge from the world of chariot racing where one of the owners of the blue team had been accused of bribing a stable boy from the green team to poison the feed of the best horses. As a result the races had been cancelled for two months until tempers between the teams’ supporters calmed down.

‘It’s an outrage,’ grumbled Festus, an ardent follower of the blue team. ‘Typical of the greens. They lose several races and of course it’s someone else’s fault. Never mind the fact that Barmoris can’t drive a chariot to save his life.’

‘Oh dear.’ Portia made a sympathetic expression. ‘It does seem to have upset you.’

Festus stared at her. ‘Upset? This is not some minor matter, mistress. We’re talking about chariot racing.’

‘Of course, I’m sorry.’ Portia reached for a dish of stuffed olives and held them out as a peace offering.

‘Thank you, but I’ve eaten enough.’ Festus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘If you don’t mind, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. I think I need a good night’s sleep.’

Portia nodded. ‘As you wish.’

Rising from his couch, Festus bowed his head curtly and strode out of the room. Portia could not help smiling, and once he had gone she shook her head and muttered, ‘What is it with men and chariots?’

Marcus shrugged. Despite having lived in the capita! over the last year he had never quite understood the passions evoked by the sight of four teams racing round the Great Circus. He broke off another hunk of bread, dipped it in the fish sauce and began to chew. There was a brief silence as Portia slowly pushed a slice of sausage round her platter with the point of her knife. At length she cleared her throat and spoke without looking up. ‘So, what happened to Lupus?’

Marcus finished chewing and swallowed. ‘As your uncle said, he was killed in an ambush.’

‘I know what he said,’ she replied tersely. ‘I want to know what happened.’

Marcus paused to recollect the ambush before he responded. ‘We were caught in a narrow pass and hopelessly outnumbered. Caesar decided our only hope was in cutting our way through the brigands. So we charged them and escaped. Lupus was bringing up the rear when the avalanche struck.’

‘Avalanche?’

Marcus nodded. ‘It looked like half the mountain was coming down. It fell into the pass and blocked it, burying everyone in its path.’

‘Is here no way Lupus could have escaped?’

‘No. I saw it myself. Saw him crushed and buried.’

Portia shivered as she imagined the scene. ‘I hope it was quick and painless for him.’

Marcus pursed his lips. He had no way of knowing and was not prepared to put a good face on the tragedy. ‘I have been instructed to cake his place. I hope I can do half as good a job at him.’

Portia looked up at him and smiled warmly. ‘You will do fine, Marcus. I know you will. Nothing is beyond you. I’ve seen enough of your courage, strength and determination to know that much. Even if your writing skills do not match those of Lupus, they will do very soon. I am sure of it.’

Marcus felt a flush of pride at her words. ‘Thank you, mistress. I will do my best to serve Caesar well.’

She smiled, then seemed lost in thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I only hope my new husband is as diligent as you.’

There it was again, Marcus thought. That sad tone in her voice. He did not know what to say, if anything. Their worlds were so different and Portia might consider it unacceptable for him to address the subject of her married life. Yet she had also been close enough to call a friend. He cared for Portia and wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Yet she clearly was not.

‘Mistress…’

‘When there is no one else present, I am only Portia to you,’ she said.

Marcus nodded. ‘Very well… Portia. You don’t seem very content.’

‘Why should I be? Lupus is dead.’

‘But it’s not Lupus’s fate that upsets you. There’s more to it than that.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ she said defiantly, glaring at Marcus and daring him to challenge her. ‘I am perfectly happy. Perfectly.’

He sighed and pretended to turn his attention back to the last few morsels on his plate. He selected a small pastry encrusted with salt. ‘If you say so.’

There was a silence and then he heard the soft sound of muffled sobbing. Looking up, he saw that Portia had buried her face in her hands and her shoulders heaved as she cried. At once he slipped off his couch and went to sit by her. He hesitated a moment, then reached out a hand and patted her softly on the shoulder.

‘I’m sorry, Portia. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

She sobbed again, then drew a breath to reply. ‘It’s not you. It’s me … It’s my fault.’

‘What’s your fault?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She raised her head as she sat up, and Marcus’s hand slipped away. As soon as Portia’s eyes were level with his, he felt her take his hand in hers. The thin dark lines of kohl round her eyes had smudged and her lower lip trembled. ‘I try to please Quintus. I try to be the wife he deserves, but he ignores me. I am too young to be his wife, and he is too young to be a husband. I have barely spoken to him this last month. He is out of the house almost all the time, and sometimes does not come home at nights. I’ve heard that he is losing his fortune in dice games. When I asked him about it, he was angry and threatened to hit me.’

‘Why didn’t you say something to your uncle earlier?’

‘How could I? I know how important this marriage is to Uncle Caius. He needs Pompeius as an ally. Besides… perhaps I am just being silly. Maybe this is what marriage is like. If I told my uncle he would be angry with me and tell me to pull myself together, I know it.’

If Caesar said that, he would be wrong,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘You don’t deserve to be treated like this.’

‘How else should I be treated?’ Portia replied miserably. ‘Roman girls of my class are raised to forge alliances between men. Traded between men. Why, we are no better off than slaves when it comes down to it.’

Marcus could not help being surprised. He had seen how slaves lived, how they were beaten, abused and treated as just another form of property. The conditions in which they lived were a world apart from the pampered lifestyle of Rome’s finest families. Yet there was something in what Portia said. Despite her luxuries, she had no more say in how she wanted to live than the slaves who served her. While other women might choose to marry someone they loved, she had no choice.

Suddenly she put her arms round him and drew herself into his shoulder, beginning to cry again. He reached a hand up to stroke her hair. ‘It’ll be all right, Portia,’ he mumbled, not sure what to say. What words could make it all right for her? ‘In time, it will get better. You’ll see.’

She let out a soft whine of despair. ‘I wish I could tell my uncle. But I can’t. All I have now is you.’

She drew back and looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes, her face streaked with kohl and her lips trembling. Then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips, and closed her eyes. Marcus nearly recoiled in shock but found that he liked the feeling. A warm gush of affection filled his heart and made his head swim.

Then, with a shudder of anxiety, his lips froze. What was he doing? What utter foolishness was this? If they were seen, he was as good as dead. Portia would be in danger too. Her husband would beat her; he would be within his rights to. Marcus pulled himself free and hurriedly shuffled away from her. Portia looked at him with a surprised expression, before it turned to hurt.

‘Marcus, what is it?’

‘This is wrong, Portia! Wrong and dangerous. We must not do it.’

‘But you are all I have. You are all that is special to me now. The last link I have with the way things were.’

‘I know it’s hard. But I can’t do anything about it. Neither can you.’

‘Marcus — ’

He held his hand up. ‘Please don’t! It’s too dangerous for both of us.’ He stood up. ‘I have to go.’

‘Stay. Please.’

But Marcus knew that he could not. He strode across to the doorway and paused. Looking back, he saw the hurt in her expression and his heart urged a return to her side, but he hardened himself to speak. ‘We must forget this ever happened. For both our sakes. Even our friendship is risk enough. This…’ He shook his head. ‘This is nothing less than suicide, Portia. It must never happen again.’

Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.