Brixus paused and stared intently at Marcus. ‘I understand you stepped in to save me. I still can’t remember much about what happened. After the first blow to my head things went a bit hazy. Taurus told me about it.’
‘Taurus?’ Marcus was surprised.
‘Yes. He’s given orders that I’m to be well looked after. Of course he said that he was only doing it to make sure that Porcino didn’t lose a slave and that I needed to recover as soon as possible to resume my duties in the kitchen. But he wasn’t fooling me. I could see that he was impressed by both of us.’
‘Oh?’
‘Surely. Me for taking the blame and you for rushing to defend me. Taurus may be a hardbitten old brute, as so many legionary veterans are, but he’s fair-minded and knows a good quality when he sees it.’
Marcus nodded, but he was not interested in Taurus. Only in the question that had been fixed in his head ever since Brixus had saved him from the gauntlet.
‘Why did you do it? Why did you save me?’
Brixus stared at him for a moment, all trace of humour drained from his face. Then he shrugged faintly. ‘I don’t believe you stole the meat. In all likelihood, it was that thug, Ferax. He saw a way to lay the blame on you and have you disposed of in a way that was sure to increase his hold over the other boys. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen, Marcus. That’s why.’
Marcus was not so sure. He wanted to believe the cook – Brixus had proved to be one of the few people he counted among his friends in the gladiator school. However, it was hard to accept that someone would risk such danger for the sake of a few months’ friendship. Not unless there was some other reason. But what could that be?
‘I thank you for my life, Brixus,’ Marcus said awkwardly. ‘It was not just my life at stake, but my mother’s as well.’
‘I know. You told me all about her. About what had happened to your family.’ Brixus fell silent again, chewing on his lip as he stared intently at Marcus. Then he gestured to the floor beside his mattress. ‘Sit down. I want to talk about something.’
Marcus did as he was told, settling on the flagstones, legs crossed.
‘That’s better,’ said Brixus. ‘I don’t have to strain my neck to look up at you this way. Now, Marcus, I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘About your family… About that mark on your shoulder.’
Marcus raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You mean that scar?’
‘Scar? I suppose it could be called a scar.’
‘How do you know about it?’
‘I saw, when Taurus told you to remove your tunic before the gauntlet,’ Brixus explained. ‘When did you get the scar?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘It’s always been there, as long as I can recall.’
‘I see. Do you know how it happened?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘It must have been when I was an infant. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious.’ Brixus pursed his lips before he continued, ‘Do you mind if I see it again?’
Marcus was puzzled by the request. ‘What’s so special about the scar?’
‘Let me see it.’
There was a strange gleam in the man’s eyes and Marcus felt nervous. He hesitated a moment and then eased the shoulder of the tunic down to expose the puckered flesh of the mark on his skin. It felt strange to him that he had never been able to see it for himself and had only ever been able to trace his fingers over the peculiar shape. He half turned to show his shoulder to Brixus. The cook stared at the mark in silence. Then he coughed. ‘Thank you.’
Marcus pulled his tunic into place and shuffled back to face the man. Brixus was looking at him with an intense expression. ‘Do you know what the mark on your shoulder is?’
‘No. I’ve never been able to see it properly.’
‘It’s not a scar, Marcus, nor any kind of birthmark. You’ve been branded. Just as I thought when I saw it for the first time, two days ago.’
‘Branded?’ Marcus shivered at the idea. ‘Why would anyone brand me when I was a baby? Anyway, what kind of a brand is it?’
‘A wolf’s head, mounted on the tip of a sword.’
Marcus could not help a quick laugh. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I can’t say for sure, not yet,’ Brixus replied quietly, glancing over the boy’s shoulder towards the door of the cell. Then he continued in a low voice, scarcely more than a whisper, ‘Tell me about your family again. You say your father was a centurion.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What about your mother? Where did she come from? How did she meet your father?’
‘She was a slave,’ Marcus replied. ‘She was involved in the revolt led by Spartacus and was bought by my father when the rebels were crushed. He set her free and married her.’
‘And then you were born,’ Brixus mused. ‘Tell me, what does your mother look like? Describe her to me.’
As Marcus concentrated and painfully recalled as much about his mother’s features as he could, Brixus listened closely all the while, nodding from time to time as if to encourage him to continue. When Marcus had finished, Brixus frowned and shook his head as he muttered to himself, ‘She must have taken the branding iron with her…’
Marcus leaned closer. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense. Brixus, tell me what this is about. Tell me!’
‘I – I’m not certain, Marcus. My mind has been greatly troubled ever since I saw that brand of yours. It may mean something, it may not. But I cannot tell you any more until I have proof. Then I can tell you what I know. Until then you must say nothing of this to anyone.’ He suddenly gripped Marcus tightly by the wrist and drew him closer. ‘Not a word to anyone, do you understand?’
‘Why? What’s the secret?’ Marcus asked in frustration. ‘What are you hiding from me?’
‘It is better that you do not know. Not yet.’ Brixus relaxed his grip and slumped back with a grimace, his breathing coming in sharp snatches. He waved a hand towards the door. ‘I am tired now. I need rest. Taurus will be expecting you back in the kitchen, I’ll wager. Best get yourself there if you’re to avoid a thrashing.’
‘No,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Brixus shook his head. ‘It is too early for that and too dangerous. I will tell you all I know when the time is right. Trust me. Now go!’ He reached out and thrust Marcus towards the door, forcing him to scrabble around to keep his balance.
With a dark frown Marcus stood up and angrily balled his hands into fists. Brixus turned his face away and did not speak any more. Marcus left the cell and strode out of the infirmary as he hurriedly made his way back towards the kitchen, filled with frustration.
The Saturnalia was celebrated on a cold, windy day. While the wind and rain lashed across the gladiator school, rattling on the tiles and howling round the walls, the slaves, the drill instructors, the clerks and even Porcino himself were all gathered in the largest of the barrack blocks. This year the lanista had decided to have all his slaves feed at the same time without regard to age. Tables and benches had been carried through from the kitchen and set up down the length of the building. Then, once the slaves had taken their places, Porcino and his freedmen entered carrying trays laden with food and drink. Today, for once, there was no training and the men and boys gazed with unrestrained delight at the food set before them. Fresh loaves of bread, cured joints of meat, cheeses, jars of fish sauce and heavily spiced sausages.
Marcus was sitting beside Pelleneus. Opposite sat Phyrus and the Spartan. Phyrus leaned forward and grasped one of the loaves, tearing out a large mouthful and chewing furiously.
‘Easy there, my friend,’ Pelleneus said, laughing. ‘Or there’ll be none left for the rest of us!’
‘Too right,’ Phyrus mumbled, spitting crumbs. ‘Mmm, it’s got sesame seeds in.’
Beside him the Spartan brushed away some of the crumbs that had fallen on the sleeve of his tunic, then reached for the smallest of the sausages and bit off the end, eating with studied indifference.