Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon. Страница 10

‘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.

6

The next day the small party of riders left the foothills behind as the road climbed into the mountains. The rain had stopped during the night and a hard frost glinted on the ground as they set off. Before noon they had climbed above the snowline, and the rocks and trees on either side were covered by a gleaming blanket of white. But despite the snow, the route was plain to see as they rode on, up into the hills. The heavily laden boughs of fir trees deadened the sound of their passing and added to the unsettling sensation of stillness. The conversation between the riders died away as they kept a wary eye on their surroundings. They had lived in Rome so long they had grown used to the constant noise of the great city. Now the silence was unnerving them. There was only the soft padding of the horses, the chink of the bits and the occasional snort as the animals expelled warm steamy breath from their wide nostrils.

‘I don’t like this,’ Lupus muttered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Marcus tried to sound more confident than he felt. ‘Fresh air, peace and quiet and fine views. What could there be to dislike? Apart from the cold.’