‘Philetus, who would speak to me?’ A voice spoke softly from the darkness. A woman’s voice, yet it was dry, and Marcus could not decide if it was an old woman, or young.
The priest turned and waved Marcus forward with a whisper. ‘Go on, boy. Slowly. And stretch your arms out in front of you.’
‘Wait,’ Lupus hissed. ‘Is it safe?’
Marcus smiled briefly at his friend. ‘I’ll know soon enough.’
He took a calming breath and raised his arms as instructed, then stepped forward cautiously. As he proceeded into the darkness, his eyes and ears strained to pick out any sign of movement. Then he heard it, a soft breathing, like the faint rasp of leaves disturbed by the gentlest of breezes. He slowed down and stopped as he became aware of a dark shape ahead. Then he felt his hands being taken and nearly jumped. But he resisted the impulse to snatch them back. A musty odour filled his nostrils. The hands were cold and the skin leathery. Fingers softly stroked the back of his hands while the other person’s thumbs firmly applied pressure to his palms in order to hold them in place.
There was a long intake of breath before the voice came again. Louder now and more commanding. ‘I am Pythia. Servant of the Oracle. Ask me your question, and if it pleases him, Apollo will reply through me …’
Marcus swallowed nervously and tried to sound calm as he spoke, but was conscious that his voice betrayed his age as well as his anxiety. ‘My name is Marcus. I am on a quest to find and rescue my mother. I wish to know if I will succeed.’
There was a brief silence before Pythia replied in a rasping rhyme:
‘A boy of great heart, torn from his home,
No father, no mother, no hope has he,
Cursed by the Gods for years to roam.
At the end of his journey shall he be
Bathed in blood and grief and hate;
A terrible price to be paid for such a fate …’
Marcus frowned. ‘What does that mean? Will I save my mother? Tell me!’
‘Poor boy,’ Pythia replied with a hint of pity. ‘It is for you to discern the meaning of the Gods. I only convey their message.’
‘That’s not enough,’ Marcus said desperately. ‘I need to know! Tell me!’
He grasped her hands tightly. The woman tried to pull her hands free but Marcus clung on, bracing his boots.
‘Let me go,’ the woman hissed. ‘I command you to let me go.’
‘Not until you tell me.’
‘Sacrilege! Release me, before you anger the Gods!’
‘Tell me,’ Marcus pleaded. ‘What does it mean? Bathed in blood?’
Suddenly she stopped struggling and stood still before him. Then she whispered. ‘Blood … Blood … Blood everywhere. A land bathed in blood and fire. An eagle brought down, broken and maimed. I see … I see a man astride the eagle, sword in hand. Your father … Your true father … He sees you. He sees you! He calls to you …’
Marcus felt his blood chill in his veins and a terrifying icy sensation rippled up his spine and through his scalp as he listened.
‘You …’ she continued, her voice low and husky. Even though he could not see the woman Marcus sensed her eyes boring into him. That, and her terror. Her voice suddenly rose to a high pitch. ‘You are the destroyer! I see death and devastation surrounding you!’
With a sudden powerful wrench, the woman snatched her hands free and Marcus heard her feet slapping across the floor as she hurried away into the darkness. Her voice wailed one last time. ‘Flee! Death has come to Rome!’
Marcus felt a hand grab his shoulder and the priest spoke harshly in his ear. ‘Get out! Go! Leave the shrine!’
Despite his age, the priest swung Marcus round and thrust him towards the open doors of the temple. He could see Lupus and Festus outlined by the glow of the braziers outside as the priest shouted.
‘Be gone!’
Marcus backed away, then turned and hurried towards the door. His companions fell into step beside him as the priest repeated the command. They had barely left the inner sanctum when the doors closed behind them with a grating thud. They dashed down the stairs and did not stop as the servants of the temple and the remaining visitors stared at them. Outside, in the square, Festus led them down the first street they came to and they hurried on in darkness until they were a safe distance from the temple. Only then did Festus allow them to stop. Marcus leaned against a wall, gasping for breath as his shaken nerves began to recover.
‘Well, that was great,’ Festus panted. ‘So much for not drawing attention to ourselves.’
10
‘What do you think it means?’ asked Lupus once they had returned to the safety of their room. ‘All that stuff about blood, and a destroyer.’
He turned and looked at Marcus strangely as Festus left the room for a taper to light the single oil lamp, fixed in a wall bracket. Lupus lowered his voice. ‘She must have meant Spartacus. Your true father!’
Marcus nodded, still dazed by the unnerving experience.
‘That’s it,’ Lupus continued excitedly. ‘She saw it all. The rebellion, everything … But at the end, when she said you were the destroyer, what was that about?’
Marcus did not reply. He couldn’t. He did not fully understand it himself. He had already decided not to take up the legacy of his father. Not when it promised more suffering and another defeat by Rome’s legions. Maybe, if there was a real chance of success, then one day Marcus might think about it. Now, he was still trying to puzzle through the meaning of the brief verse the woman had spoken.
‘Marcus. If this is a message from the Gods, then it seems you are chosen to take up the cause of Spartacus. You will lead the slaves and crush Rome.’
Marcus rounded on his friend. ‘Shut your mouth! Do you want everyone to hear you? You know my secret. Only you and a handful of others. That is how it must stay. Understand?’ He grasped Lupus’s tunic and yanked him closer so their faces were almost touching. ‘You will not breathe a word of this to anyone.’
‘Wh-whatever you say.’ Lupus tried to shrink back but could not escape Marcus’s grip. Marcus glared at him. In the dim light coming through the open door from the fire in the inn’s dirty courtyard, he could see the fear in his friend’s eyes. Ashamed, he released Lupus and took a step back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Lupus patted his rumpled tunic back into place. ‘That’s all right, you don’t have to apologize. I understand the danger you are in. But what about Festus?’
‘What about him?’
‘He heard what I heard.’
‘But he doesn’t know the truth about my father.’
‘But what about that mark on your shoulder? The brand of Spartacus. He’s seen that.’
‘Yes,’ Marcus nodded. ‘But he does not know what it means.’
‘No,’ Lupus conceded. ‘But he might be suspicious after what the Oracle said.’
Marcus pursed his lips. Lupus was right. Festus would try and work out what lay behind her words. If he guessed the truth then Marcus had no idea how he would react. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching and shot an urgent look at Lupus.
‘Not a word. I can’t afford Festus to know the truth.’
Lupus nodded as the bodyguard appeared in the door frame, cupping a hand round the small flame at the end of a taper. He ignored the boys and held the flame to the wick of the oil lamp until it was alight. Then he puffed his cheeks and blew on the taper to extinguish it before closing the door.
‘There. That’s better.’
Marcus and Lupus sat on the bed while Festus remained standing, arms crossed as he regarded Marcus. He was silent for a moment and Marcus could feel his heart beating anxiously as Festus cleared his throat.
‘That was … unexpected. I knew the Greeks had a passion for drama and theatrical effects, but that was a better show than any you’ll see in Rome.’