Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon - Страница 21

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Once again his mind turned back to the matter of Decimus. It was a stroke of fortune that Crassus had sent him to join Caesar’s army. Now that it was no longer necessary to track the man down, Marcus wondered if there was any way he could force the ruthless moneylender to reveal the location of his mother. Despite what Caesar had said, Marcus intended to keep an eye on Decimus and, if the chance came, there would be a confrontation. Once he had the information he needed Marcus resolved to take his revenge.

The rain stopped shortly before dawn, but the sky remained covered by an endless blanket of dull grey clouds that cast a gloom over the flat landscape around Ariminum. The men chosen by Caesar for his campaign had packed their tents into the allotted wagons. Each man’s spare kit was attached to the stout marching yokes, together with his shield. As the order to form up was bellowed across their ranks, the legionaries hefted the yokes and rested them across their right shoulders before taking their place in the column. Marcus heaved his two bags on to the horns of his saddle. One contained his spare clothes and rations and the other his writing implements. His sword hung from his side, and a dagger and throwing knives were in the scabbards attached to his broad leather belt. Swinging up into the saddle, Marcus walked his horse over to join the small group of headquarters staff assigned to accompany Caesar.

When all was ready Caesar gave the order to advance and the long column trudged forward in two sections. The first was commanded by Caesar, the second by Legate Balbus. Cavalry led each of the two forces, followed by the commander and his staff, then their infantry, and the baggage train and its escort came last. Marcus turned in his saddle, hoping to catch sight of Decimus, but it was impossible to make out much detail amid the wagons clustered to the rear of the legionaries.

A small crowd had emerged from Ariminum to line the road along which the army marched. Wives, sweethearts, excited children and some curious idlers stood and watched as the soldiers squelched along the muddy route from the camp towards the road leading north and south. On a warmer day the onlookers might have been cheering but on this cold and miserable f morning they mostly stood and watched, only calling out their farewells as they caught sight of a friend or loved one. A small ^cluster of wealthier spectators stood near the junction where the track joined the road and Marcus picked out Portia, bareheaded, as she watched the cavalry pass by. Her expression lit up as she caught sight of her uncle and waved at him. Marcus saw Caesar acknowledge her with a bow of his head. Quintus was too busy joking with his companions to notice his young wife, and she stared forlornly as he rode past. Her smile only returned as she spotted Marcus and edged to the side of the track.

‘Take care of yourself, Marcus.’

He steered his mount to the side of the track, reining in to look down at her. ‘I will.’

‘Look after my uncle.’

‘Him?’ Marcus smiled. ‘Caesar knows how to look after himself, mistress. Trust me.’

She laughed briefly and then continued in a lower tone. ‘And take care of Quintus if you can …’

Then she turned and paced back to her place among the other officers’ families. Marcus clicked his tongue and flicked his reins, walking his horse quickly to rejoin the rest of the headquarters staff. Ahead, the cavalry of Caesar’s force, some five hundred mounted men, had turned north. The rest of the force followed them, picking up the pace now they could march on a paved surface. As the last of the wagons of Caesar’s column rumbled after them, Balbus and his men turned south.

Marcus glanced back, momentarily impressed by the spectacle of the two neatly ordered columns marching to war. The air was filled with the din of horses’ hoofs, the crunch of nailed boots and the rumble of heavy wagons on the road. Then he recalled the purpose of it — Caesar’s plan to crush the rebels and the dream of Spartacus once and for all. Marcus stared at the back of the proconsul sitting erect in his saddle, looking ahead, his mind no doubt fixed on the quest to win fame and glory, whatever the cost.

Lupus was close to exhaustion. They had been marching for three days before they reached the main rebel camp. Three days of toiling up steep mountain paths, frequently lost amid the low clouds that shrouded the peaks of the Apennines. Lupus could not hope to recall the route they had taken. He had tried at first, in case he got the chance to slip away and find his way back to the road to rejoin Marcus and the others accompanying his master. Despite the clouds and the occasional blizzards that had shrouded the paths, Mandracus and his men never missed their step and unerringly made their way to their destination. The paths were too difficult for his horsemen so they were ordered to continue their patrol, raiding villas and farming estates to liberate more slaves and loot enough food to feed them. Lupus saw few people along the route. A handful of shepherds, some of whom cheered Mandracus and his band and offered them food and shelter if they needed it. Others simply turned and fled.

They passed through a small village perched above a stream. It was too poor for anyone there to own a slave and they simply watched warily as the rebels passed through. There was no attempt to hinder them, not even to close the small gate in the low crumbling wall that had once protected the village. Looking from side to side, Lupus could see that the people were poor and hungry, and probably lived lives every bit as hard as the slaves passing by. It was clear that the rebels’ war was being waged against the rich and powerful. Even though the villagers were freeborn Romans, they had more in common with the rebels than with those who ruled over them.

At last, footsore, hungry and bone-tired, the small column of rebels reached the approaches to the main camp. As the first shadows of dusk settled over the mountains, Mandracus halted his men and called Lupus forward. The boy stood nervously in front of him and Mandracus smiled wolfishly.

‘Now you’ll see why the Romans can never defeat us.’ He waved a muscular arm over the surrounding scenery. They were standing in a shallow valley just above the snow line. Tree-covered slopes curved up on either side and at the end of the valley where the sides curved round to meet, like half a bowl. There were no signs of settlement or life of any sort, other than a small brook that emerged near the base of some crags to the left. The water gushed over the rocks as it wound its way down to the floor of the valley. In places the water had frozen, leaving glistening ice formations over which the water ran, adding yet more ice. The place felt desolate and Lupus shivered.

At first he had longed for the comforts of Caesar’s house back in Rome and silently cursed the day his master had taken him as an escort to Ariminum. But Lupus found there was more to his captors than he had first thought. Initially they had terrified him, and he feared for his life. It took a while before he truly believed they had no intention of harming him. Bach night, Mandracus and his men had sat round a fire, eating whatever rations they had found in recent days and talking good-humouredly before they settled down to sleep. They shared their food with Lupus, and treated him with a rough fondness that surprised him.

‘You’re free now, lad!’ Mandracus grinned as they made camp the first night. ‘No more masters giving you orders. Here we are just comrades. No masters and no slaves. We live off the land, as well as off those who use slaves to make themselves rich. You’ll get used to it soon enough. I imagine you’re still feeling a bit anxious, aren’t you?’

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