Marcus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Show?’
‘Of course. The deep voice was probably someone speaking down a large voice trumpet. The doors were opened and closed by servants in the shadows on either side and I liked the touch of the woman in the darkness. All very theatrical, don’t you think?’
Marcus and Lupus glanced at each other before Marcus nodded. ‘I suppose.’
‘Oh, come on, lads! You weren’t taken in by that nonsense. Surely?’
Marcus felt embarrassed. Had he been fooled? Or was there more to it than Festus saw?
‘They’ve been conning visitors to the temple for hundreds of years. Putting on a bit of a show and giving out mumbo-jumbo verses. The trick is to make it all sufficiently vague that the mark can read just about anything into the prophecy they are presented with. I’ve seen enough fortune-tellers on the streets of Rome to know how it works. They prey on the gullible. The big temple, the stage effects and so on may be more impressive here in Delphi, but it’s still the same old game.’
Marcus felt himself flush with shame. What Festus said made sense, and he had seen the same fortune-tellers and knew that his companion spoke the truth. Yet he could not explain how the woman in the temple had known so much about him. And he had not sensed any acting in the dread that gripped her at the end. She had tried to free herself, pulling her hands back powerfully. But for the strength gained from his gladiator training, Marcus could not have restrained her. And the terror in her voice had been real. No, he decided. She had seen something, had a vision of some kind. She had known what he was, the son of the leader of the great slave rebellion. If that much was true, there must also be some truth in her verse.
‘And now we’re poorer by five denarii, thanks to Marcus,’ Festus continued. He reached down and patted his purse. ‘We’ve got less than a hundred left. If we continue to put on our fights we can make it last a few more months. But if we haven’t found your mother in that time, then we’ll have to return to Rome.’
‘No,’ Marcus responded firmly. ‘I will not leave Greece until I have found her. I swear it on my life.’
Festus eased himself down on to his haunches so that his face was level with Marcus. He smiled sadly.
‘Marcus, I will do all I can to help you find her. But you should also prepare yourself for the worst. We may never find her. She may not even be alive. If that’s true then you need to be ready to deal with it.’
‘She’s alive!’
‘That’s what we must believe, for now. But it is wise to prepare yourself if she is not. You will need to make a life of your own.’
‘Then I will deal with that, when I have to. But for now I believe she is alive, and waiting for me to find her. And I will.’
Festus stared at him then stood up again. ‘All right. We’ll do all that we can to save her. First we must find Decimus and that estate of his. Let’s concentrate on that. We’ll reach Athens in a few more days and find some answers there. Now, it’s been an exciting evening. Let’s get to sleep.’
He turned to the bedroll he had made from their spare clothes and his cloak, easing himself down. Lupus and Marcus took off their boots and belts to lie down on each side of the bed, hearing it creak under the burden of their combined weight. Marcus turned his back to Lupus and stared at the wall.
‘Shall I put out the lamp?’ Lupus asked.
‘No,’ Marcus cut in before Festus could respond. After the unnerving experience in the temple he could not bear the thought of darkness again. At least not that night. ‘Leave it burning.’
‘As you wish.’ Lupus turned away and began to breathe easily. Soon a telltale throaty click indicated that the scribe was asleep. Marcus rolled gently on to his back and crossed his arms behind his head. There would be little sleep for him tonight. The words of the Oracle went round and round his mind.
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 …
What did it mean. Whose blood? Why the grief and hate? What was the terrible price he must pay? A sense of foreboding crept over him. Would his single-minded hunt for his mother lead them into danger? Would he be responsible for the death of either, or both, of his companions? Or was his own life the price that must be paid? Or, far worse, would it be his mother’s life?
He heard Festus stir and clear his throat softly.
‘Marcus, you should try to sleep.’
‘I can’t.’
‘That prophecy has really got to you, hasn’t it?’
Marcus did not reply immediately. ‘Are you surprised?’
‘I’m surprised, no — disappointed, that you have let it bother you so much. All that rubbish about blood, fire and your father. I’m sure Titus was a good soldier, but from what you’ve told me, he doesn’t sound like a man of destiny.’
‘No. I suppose he doesn’t. Not Titus.’ Marcus felt a shiver of concern. He should have called Titus father, and not referred to him by name. Praying that Festus had not picked up on it, he raised his head and risked a glimpse at the bodyguard. Festus lay on his side, propped on an elbow to stare straight at him.
‘Marcus, you and I have served Caesar together long enough for us to trust each other. With our lives, but also with the truth.’
Marcus felt the familiar tingle of anxiety at the nape of his neck.
‘Is there a secret you are keeping from me? Maybe there was something in what the Oracle said. Why else would you react so? What is it, Marcus?’
Marcus chewed his lip and tried to think quickly. ‘I trust you with my life, and you are my friend and comrade in arms …’
‘But?’
Marcus swallowed nervously. Now he must lie and make it sound convincing. He had no choice. If he told the truth Caesar’s bodyguard might hand him over to the authorities at the first opportunity.
‘I have told you where I came from, and about my family. You know the truth about me. The whole truth.’
‘And I have your word on that?’
‘Yes.’ Marcus forced the word out.
‘Then there’s nothing more to be said. Now get to sleep, Marcus.’
Festus lowered himself and lay flat on his back, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply until he began to snore. Marcus listened with envy, wishing he could put aside his worries and sleep as easily as his older comrade.
His thoughts returned to the words of the Oracle. She had said that his father, Spartacus, had called out to him, that he was the destroyer, and death had come to Rome. Was this the destiny that Brixus had urged him to embrace? It had been a while since the former gladiator who had fought at his father’s side had entered his mind. Marcus recalled how forcefully Brixus had urged him to become the figurehead of a new slave revolt. This time, Brixus promised, they would succeed where Spartacus had failed. Once word that his son was leading the rebellion spread out, runaway slaves would flock to his banner and create such a host as Rome had never seen. This time the legions would be overwhelmed and crushed by sheer weight of numbers, and the scourge of slavery would be lifted from the world that had languished too long in the shadow of the eagle emblem of Rome.
But Marcus had seen that such promises were mere dreams. Brixus had too few men to start a revolt, and Rome would react swiftly and cruelly to any new attempt by slaves to overthrow their masters. The time was not right. Marcus had refused to cooperate with Brixus and the veteran gladiator had been outraged.
Yet now he had been offered a vision of the future, one depicting the death of Rome. Perhaps Marcus was being offered a second chance to continue the work of his father. But it sounded a fearful prospect and Marcus was not convinced he should expose the world to the terrible images conjured up by the Oracle. He needed someone he could talk to about his dilemma; keeping it all to himself was intolerable. Only his mother would understand and offer him the comfort and advice that he sought — one more reason to devote himself to rescuing her.