Marcus nodded, then cleared his throat. ‘How is Ferax?’
‘The other boy? He’ll recover. You knocked him silly, of course, and he’s still a bit dazed. That thick Celtic skull of his saved his head from being caved in. I understand he’s something of a laughing-stock among the rest of his class. He’s even got a new nickname. They’re calling him “Mousebait”. You, on the other hand, are something of a hero.’
‘A hero?’ Marcus shook his head. ‘I’ve never been more scared in my life.’
‘Oh, and what did you expect?’ Apocrites sighed wearily. ‘That’s what it is to be a gladiator. Always. Anyway, that’s all behind you now. You’re off to Rome, I hear.’
‘I’m to be a bodyguard to Caesar’s niece.’
‘Well, that should be safe enough. I doubt you’ll ever have to do anything more dangerous than prevent your charge from choking on some sweet delicacy.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Marcus eased himself into a more comfortable position. ‘When will I be ready to travel?’
Apocrites straightened up and scratched his cheek. ‘Two, maybe three days from now. The master is sending one of his carts to Rome to collect some armour he has ordered. You’re to travel in the cart. Just think, boy – in a few days you’ll be in Rome. That’ll be quite an experience.’ Apocrites’ eyes glittered.
‘Yes. I hope it will,’ Marcus agreed. He was already thinking how he would set about finding General Pompeius.
27
Marcus’s wounded arm was in a sling and he supported it as carefully as he could as the cart lumbered up to a hole in the road and lurched to one side. Ahead lay the small town of Sinuessa, where they were to stop for the night in one of the inns. With winter over and the first days of spring imminent, the roads were busy with traders and other travellers making use of the good weather. There were carts piled with all kinds of goods heading in both directions, and groups of people on foot as well as a handful of loners. As the cart trundled past a chain-gang heading in the opposite direction, Marcus regarded them with pity. Most were in ragged tunics and barefoot, and their sullen downcast expressions told of their inner despair as they dwelt on the prospect of a life of slavery. He turned round to watch them for a moment, angered. To see such abject creatures cut him deeply. Yet, he reminded himself, there had been slaves on his father’s farm. Marcus had accepted the fact as he had grown up alongside them, and had been inclined to see them as family and friends, and assumed that they were content with their lot. Now he knew differently. He had lived as a slave and carried the burden of that condition with him every day. He longed to taste freedom again and to be master of his own destiny.
He watched the chain-gang for a moment longer, as it passed a single figure in a long hooded cloak making for Sinuessa, fifty or so paces behind the wagon. The man had a staff and a begging bowl, and he paused to request a few coins from the guard in charge of the chain-gang. The guard cuffed the man aside and strode on. Perhaps there were worse things than being a slave, Marcus thought as he turned away. But unlike slaves, even beggars could choose their path in life.
The cart driver clicked his tongue and flicked the reins, urging the mule team on. Marcus shot him an irritated look. The bouncing of the cart made his arm hurt badly enough as it was without going any faster. However, he stilled his tongue. Brutus, the driver, was a heavily built freedman who begrudged the fact that he was as poor free as he had been as a slave. They had hardly exchanged a word since leaving the gladiator school and Marcus was not looking forward to spending several more days in the man’s company while they travelled to Rome.
The traffic slowed as it reached the gates of Sinuessa and those passing into the town paid their toll to enter. The rest diverted round the town to pick up the road again on the far side. Brutus sat impatiently, clicking his tongue and muttering, ‘Come on, come on. Haven’t got all bloody day…’
At length, the leader of the mule train in front of them paid over his coins and passed through the gate. Then it was the turn of Brutus and Marcus. The toll-collector strode over and glanced at the cart. ‘The cart’s empty. You have no goods apart from the vehicle?’
‘Well spotted,’ Brutus grumbled. ‘Just me, the boy and the cart.’
‘Is the boy yours?’
‘He’s a slave. I’m delivering him to some patrician in Rome.’
‘Ah, well then, you’ll have to pay a toll for him as well as the cart.’
‘What?’ Brutus’s heavy brows knitted together. ‘What nonsense is this? Since when has Sinuessa charged for slaves?’
‘Look there.’ The toll-collector pointed to the placard of rates mounted above the gate. A new entry had been painted at the bottom. ‘New ordinance passed by the town fathers last month. Slaves are now included as goods on which duty is payable. I’m sorry, sir,’ he apologized unconvincingly. ‘But you’ll have to pay for the boy.’
Brutus turned to glare at Marcus. ‘I’d better not end up out of pocket on this. Your new master will have to cover my costs when we reach Rome.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘You’ll have to take it up with him, then. It’s nothing to do with me. I’m just a slave.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ Brutus growled. ‘Any more backchat and I’ll give you a hiding, y’hear?’
Turning to the toll-collector, Brutus took out his purse and counted over the toll. ‘There! And you tell the town fathers from me that they’re a bunch of bloody crooks.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the other man smiled. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on the customer feedback. Now move on.’
Brutus cracked his reins and yelled to the mules. ‘Yah! Forward, you dumb brutes!’
The cart rumbled through the arch and into the town. The smell of rotting vegetables, sewage and a musty dampness filled the air and Marcus’s nose wrinkled. Brutus drove with seemingly little concern for the other people in the wide thoroughfare and they were obliged to hurry out of his way and hurl insults after him. He turned off the main street and entered the yard of an inn, hauling back on his reins to halt the mules.
‘Down you go. Hold the traces while I deal with the cart.’
Marcus climbed down one-handed and then went forward to take the lead mule’s traces. Brutus called over one of the ostlers and the two men unhitched the polearm and then they heaved the cart over against the wall. Once that was done, Brutus took the traces to lead his team off to the stables. He nodded towards the cart.
‘Find yourself some straw for bedding. You sleep in the cart.’
‘What about you?’ Marcus asked.
‘Me? I’ll get myself a bunk in the inn. After I’ve had a drink or two. You stay here. Don’t leave the yard.’
‘What shall I eat?’ Marcus was getting cross with the driver. ‘I’ve not had anything all day. You can’t let me starve.’
‘You’re a slave. I can do what I like.’
‘Yes, but I’m not your slave. You were told to look after me until we reach Rome.’
Brutus sniffed and then cuffed Marcus’s nose. ‘All right,’ he replied sourly. ‘I’ll send some food out to you, if I remember.’
Without another word he strolled away and entered the low door into the inn. Marcus glared after him briefly, then went to help himself to some straw from the stables and carried it to the cart. Once he had covered the floor of the cart he eased himself up and leaned back against the side.
‘Still a slave,’ he muttered to himself.
For a while he just sat and listened to the hubbub of the surrounding streets, pierced by the occasional braying of a mule or a shout or shriek of drunken laughter from the inn. As he was about to close his eyes and rest, he saw a man cautiously enter the yard. He wore a long cloak and held out a bowl. A faint chink of coins carried to Marcus as the man shook the bowl. Marcus remembered the beggar he had seen earlier on the road. He kept quiet as the beggar lowered the bowl once he saw that no one seemed to be about. Creeping into the middle of the yard, the man glanced around. Marcus could see only his chin, since the hood covered the rest of his features. The hidden face turned towards him and the beggar paused briefly before approaching the cart.