Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon. Страница 35

‘The truth …’ Decimus raised his hands and blew into them. ‘The truth is that she still lives. She is too beautiful a creature to kill, and too proud for me not to want to break her.’

Marcus sighed with relief at the news that his mother was alive. Then the rest of the words struck home, a tingle of surprise raising the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘You… You have feelings for her?’

‘Of course. I am only flesh and blood, as your father was. Why would I not be drawn to her as he was? Yet she was his wife. A few years ago, when Titus came to me for a loan, he brought her with him to Stratos. That’s when I first saw her. The next time was at the wretched little farm of yours, when I called in person for the first instalment of the loan repayment. Even then, I knew Titus could never repay it and would sink into debt. That’s when I made my offer to her. Leave him and come with me and I would write off the loan. Otherwise Titus would lose everything. The farm, Livia, and you. Sold into slavery to pay off the debt.’ Decimus chuckled drily. ‘And you know what she did? She spat in my face and told me she would rather die than be mine. What do you think of that, eh? Your mother has courage. Even more than that fool, Titus. Yes, I think there is more of her in you than there ever was of him … Now she will stay on my estate, working the fields, until the day she begs me for forgiveness.’

The surprise that Marcus had felt gave way to disgust as he listened to the man talking about his mother. The thought of this vile, repulsive snake wrapping his coils round her made Marcus feel sick to the very depths of his stomach. He must not let it happen. He must find a way to escape, or to survive. And if Decimus did succeed in buying his way out of captivity, then as soon as Marcus was free, he would hunt him down. He silently swore an oath to all the Gods that he would not rest until Decimus was destroyed.

The man stirred and struggled to his feet, looming over Marcus in the darkness.

‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat. But something tells me I would be rash indeed to spend the night close enough that you might feel tempted to harm me. Sleep well, young man, if you can. Don’t try to take advantage of me during the night. Thermon will be watching you.’

‘Thermon? Here?’

‘Oh, yes. I always keep him close. Though he has had to change his appearance, thanks to you.’

Marcus’s mind raced. Thermon had been in Decimus’s party of henchmen all along? He recalled their faces, but at first none reminded him of the man he had only seen clearly on a handful of occasions. Then it hit him. Of course, the bald man with the beard. Biding his time, waiting for the order and the opportunity to strike at Caesar.

Decimus shuffled away, leaving Marcus hunched into his corner, his mind filled with dark thoughts of hatred and revenge.

18

Early the next day, as the sun shone bleakly through a thin mist, one of the rebels came to wake the prisoners. Two men had died during the night. They had shed their armour and cloaks the previous day in an effort to escape and their tunics had not kept them warm enough. In the pale light of dawn they sat hunched up where they had died, their faces frozen into peaceful expressions of slumber.

The rebel kicked them to make sure they were not feigning death, then grunted dismissively before stirring the rest to their feet with further kicks and blows from a thick club in his fist. Marcus and the others rose stiffly, joints cold and painful as they stumbled from the sheep pen to stand waiting in the narrow lane outside. Around them, the rebels emerged from their shelters, stretching and grumbling. Some had already started to eat, chewing on strips of dried meat and the bread they had captured in the wagons. Marcus looked at them, his lips working hungrily. He had not eaten for a day and his belly growled in protest. But no food or drink was offered to the prisoners, and shortly afterwards the Romans were blindfolded as the column began the day’s march.

Several hours later, after winding their way along steep and uneven tracks, the column reached the rebel camp. As the captives were led into Brixus’s camp, the inhabitants emerged from their huts and shelters to watch the spectacle. The defeated Romans were bound together by a length of rope that passed through their arms. Their leader, the once proud Tribune Quintus, had his hands bound behind his back and stumbled to keep up with the rebel leading them through the camp. Marcus was second in line, bruised and cut from the tumbles he had taken during the day’s march.

‘Halt the prisoners!’ a voice commanded from somewhere ahead, and the men behind Marcus shuffled to a stop. There was a pause before he heard boots crunching on the snow beside him, then his blindfold was removed. The morning mist had long since cleared and the sunlight was dazzling. Marcus squinted, his eyes watering. After a moment they adjusted to the light and he looked round in astonishment at the vast camp, hemmed in by the mountains that ringed the valley.

‘No wonder we could never find this place,’ Quintus said. ‘An army could search the Apennines for a hundred years and never guess it was here.’

Marcus looked back the way they had come and saw the path disappear into the cliff a few hundred yards away, as if into solid rock. He recalled the clammy cold of the last stage of the march, and the echo of footsteps and clink and clatter of equipment off solid rock. Quintus was right. The rebel camp was perfectly hidden. The only danger was that a traitor might betray its location. The fact that no one had, only proved that the slaves who flocked to Brixus’s banner shared his fervent belief in the cause for which he fought.

When the last of the blindfolds had been removed the prisoners were led through the heart of the camp towards the largest huts nestling in the centre. The route was lined with people cheering the rebel fighters. Their cheers turned to insults and cries of anger as they caught sight of the prisoners, and some scooped up filth from the ground to hurl at Quintus and the others. Because of his size and the simple cloak he wore, Marcus was spared the worst of the deluge. That was targeted at the tribune, his soldiers and Decimus, conspicuous in his expensively embroidered cloak. They soon emerged from the crowded path into an open space in front of a large hut. A cordon of men armed with spears held the crowd back and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief as the hail of missiles came to an end. He forced himself to compose his expression as he stood up straight and examined his surroundings. The hut was the largest building he had seen in the valley and he guessed it must be where the leader of the rebels lived. If this was the main camp, then there was a chance that Brixus himself was here. Marcus felt a surge of hope. Brixus would be sure to spare him, even though Marcus had marched with Caesar. He would have to explain that he was unwillingly involved in the proconsul’s campaign, and hoped that would be enough for Brixus to forgive him.

Turning towards the nearest of the guards, Marcus cleared his throat. ‘You there. Tell me, is that Brixus’s hut? I must speak to him.’

The rebel stepped quickly towards him and backhanded Marcus across the cheek. ‘Shut your mouth, Roman! You only speak when spoken to if you want to keep your tongue. Clear?’

Reeling from the blow, Marcus opened his mouth to reply, then closed it at once and nodded, rather than risk more punishment.

Mandracus approached and stopped in front of Quintus, hands on his hips. ‘Well then, not so high and mighty any longer, tribune. You and these other Romans. Look at you. Not much older than this boy, barely a man, and already you have that air of haughty arrogance so typical of you Roman aristocrats. Soon you’ll see what it’s like to be treated as a slave.’ He smiled coldly, then turned and made for the entrance to the hut. As he passed the rebel in charge of the prisoners, he gave his orders.