Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon. Страница 33

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.