Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon. Страница 27

‘I want to be free. Really.’

Brixus stared at him a moment and then glanced at Mandracus. ‘What do you think?’

‘He says he wants to be free. I believe him. But he’s still getting used to the idea.’ Mandracus paused. ‘Besides, Caesar keeps his thoughts close. We know that about him at least. So the boy might be telling the truth.’

Brixus stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We shall just have Co order our scouts to keep a close watch on Caesar and his army.’ He paused and folded his fingers together. ‘There is still that other matter.’

Lupus saw Mandracus nod and felt a new wave of anxiety ripple through his guts. What other matter could there be? Then he remembered the earlier comment by Brixus, the one that had caused the rebel leader to send the lanista’s wife out of the hut.

‘You mentioned a sign. You said there would be a sign that would unite the rebel bands and cause them to rise up against Rome.’

‘That’s right.’ Brixus smiled thinly. ‘Clever boy. If we are to stand any chance against Rome we will need a figurehead. Someone to inspire the hearts of every slave in Italia. Someone they would follow to the ends of the earth.’

Lupus swallowed nervously. ‘You?’

Brixus shook his head. ‘No. Not a lame old gladiator like me. I might command those who live in this valley, and a handful of the other bands of rebels and brigands hiding in the mountains. But my name and my reputation are not enough on their own. We need a more famous name. More than a name, we need a legend. Someone like Achilles, or Heracles, who would inspire people.’

‘I see.’ Lupus pursed his lips. ‘You mean Spartacus?’

Brixus nodded.

‘Then it’s a shame he was killed.’

‘More than a shame, Lupus. It was a tragedy. If you had known the man, then you would understand. He was a great fighter, it’s true. But he was more than that. Far more than that. He was a friend to all who met him. He understood their suffering, their desires, and he shared their hatred of slavery.’

‘You met him?’ Lupus edged forward. ‘You knew Spartacus?’

Brixus smiled and nodded towards the other man. ‘We both did. We fought at his side. We were part of the small band of companions who acted as his bodyguard from the early days of the rebellion. We stayed with him almost to the end.’

‘You were at the final battle?’

‘I was there, but I had been wounded and could not fight. I watched from the baggage train. That’s where I was captured. Mandracus had been sent to scout for provisions and missed the battle. When he heard that we had been beaten he took his men into the mountains to hide, and found this valley.’

‘I remained in charge until Brixus arrived,’ Mandracus added. ‘Brixus had been my leader in the old days and I was happy for him to take command again. Together we have been building a new army of runaway slaves, arming and training them so we could renew the rebellion when the time was right. The time has come, even though Caesar has forced it on us sooner than we would like. That is why we need to find the figurehead we were talking about. He would be the sign. The one who would cause the slaves of Italia to flock to his standard.’

Brixus and Mandracus exchanged a brief glance before Brixus continued. ‘The son of Spartacus.’

Though Lupus had heard the rumours across Rome, he didn’t think anyone was foolish enough to raise a rebellion on such a notion. But he was careful not to show his true feelings in front of the two men.

‘Then where is he?’ Lupus asked. ‘Who is he?’ He was still confused about his own role in this discussion.

‘Before I tell you, Lupus, there are a few details you must know so that you believe me when I tell you his name. I met the boy at a gladiator school near Capua, less than two years ago. He thought himself the son of a retired Roman army officer and the slave woman that the officer had bought, freed and married. Except this woman had been the wife of Spartacus and she was carrying his child in her womb when she was taken by the officer. After his birth she branded the child with the mark of Spartacus, a secret mark that only Spartacus and those closest to him carried. A mark like this.’

Brixus stood up and pulled the cloak and tunic from his arm to reveal the muscle of his shoulder. There at the top of his shoulder blade was a scar, a brand in the shape of a wolf’s head pierced by a gladiator’s sword. Brixus let him see it for a moment, then shrugged the cloak back over his skin and sat down.

‘Mandracus has the same mark, and the heating iron that made it was kept by Spartacus’s wife — the same one she used on her child.’

Lupus winced as he imagined the mother branding her own baby. ‘Why would she do such a thing?’

Brixus pursed his lips. ‘My guess is she loved Spartacus, and all that he stood for, and intended that his son would continue his work one day. The brand served to remind her of this, and would prove his identity to others who had followed Spartacus.’

Lupus frowned. He suddenly realized that he had encountered the brand before, recently. ‘I know that mark! I’ve seen it myself.’

‘If reports are to be believed, then I imagine that you have.’ Brixus smiled. ‘And now that I have explained about the boy who bears the mark, you will know who he is.’

Lupus felt a little dizzy as the realization hit home like a hammer blow. He let out a gasp and whispered, ‘Marcus..

‘Yes. Marcus. I know that he is with Caesar. We must find him, and bring him here to fulfil his destiny. Once we have Marcus, there will be a rebellion like none the world has ever seen. Roman blood will flow like a river and slaves will be free.’

There was a sudden waft of cold air as the leather curtain was brushed aside by a tall figure entering the hut. In the wavering glow of the flames they could see the man’s chest was heaving and his boots, leggings and cloak were spattered with mud. He strode across the hut and bowed his head in greeting to Brixus.

‘What is it, Commius?’ Brixus asked. ‘You weren’t supposed to return from your raids until the end of the month.’

‘I know, but I have news of Caesar and his army.’

Mandracus leaned forward with an excited expression. ‘Out with it!’

Commius nodded and drew a deep, calming breath before he continued. ‘We had burned a villa near Mutina and were moving on when we saw a large column of soldiers approaching along the road from Ariminum. We followed them to the town and that night captured a prisoner outside the gates, who we took back to our camp. It didn’t take long to get the truth out of him. Caesar has left most of his men in winter quarters. He has taken barely ten thousand men to hunt us down.’

‘Ten thousand.’ Mandracus sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘That’s still too many for us to take on head-to-head.’

‘Wait,’ Commius intervened. ‘He has split his force in half. Caesar and barely five thousand are at Mutina. They are marching into the mountains even now, searching for us.’

‘Five thousand?’ Brixus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘By the Gods, what a chance he has presented to us! His arrogance is typical of his kind. He considers us a rabble, fit meat for a small force of his prized legionaries. Well, we shall punish his mistake, Mandracus. It is time to put our own plan into action. Let Caesar march into our trap. Within a few days we shall have Marcus leading us into battle, and Caesar will be crushed and taken prisoner. Or better still, dead.’

15

‘They made a pretty thorough job of it,’ Festus said quietly as he prodded the blackened stump of a wooden post. He stepped back, placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the surrounding scene as Marcus dismounted. Marcus tethered the reins to an iron ring set in what was left of the villa’s main gate and joined Festus. Before them lay the remains of the buildings and gardens of what had once been the sprawling country home of a wealthy Roman. Now almost nothing stood higher than a man — only heaps of collapsed masonry and tiles and scorched skeletal lengths of timber. Smoke still trailed into the air, wafting up into the haze that obscured the sun. Soldiers were picking their way through the debris, searching for any sign of survivors, or valuables that might be saved from the ruins. Marcus sniffed and wrinkled his nose at the acrid stench of burning.