Marcus turned and left, striding along the colonnade that ran round the garden towards the slave quarters. He clenched his jaw, not daring to look back.
10
As the mud-spattered officers began to arrive for the evening briefing, Marcus set out the waxed tablets and an ivory stylus on the small table to the side of the tent. Overhead a light rain pattered on the goatskin, and in the distance thunder rumbled occasionally. Caesar had sent for all the tribunes and senior centurions he had chosen for the campaign. The tribunes were all young men in finely spun tunics and cloaks, whereas the centurions had a far greater age range. The youngest were in their late twenties and the oldest had lined faces, some bearing the scars of many years of campaigning across the Roman Empire. They were the backbone of the legions, tough soldiers who could be counted on to spearhead the attacks, and be the last men to retreat.
Men like Titus, thought Marcus fondly.
‘Don’t I know you?’
Marcus looked round to see a muscular youth in his late teens staring at him. He had fair hair, cropped short and already thinning about the temples. His raw good looks would soon be undermined by premature baldness, Marcus decided. He recognized him at once, even though it had been months since their first and last encounter in Rome. It was Quintus Pompeius, Portia’s husband. Marcus had disliked the look of him even then, a feeling that had intensified with his awareness of Portia’s unhappiness.
‘It’s possible. I am part of Caesar’s household. I serve as his scribe now.’
‘Ah, I suppose that’s it.’ The youth nodded doubtfully. ‘But I think there’s something else about you I can’t quite place. Incidentally, you should refer to me as “master” when you address me, slave.’
‘I am not a slave,’ Marcus replied coldly, fighting back his anger. ‘I have been freed by Caesar.’
‘Have you?’ Quintus looked disappointed. ‘Well, you should not get ideas above your station. I’m a tribune. You should address me as “sir”. Is that understood, scribe?’
Yes … sir,’ Marcus replied with the slightest dip of his head.
‘I’d advise you to show me the proper respect from now on.’ Quintus tucked his thumbs into his belt and stuck his elbows out. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Why, have you forgotten?’ Marcus asked innocently. Quintus frowned, and his eyes widened as he realized that he was being mocked. He drew himself up to his full height, a head above Marcus. ‘I am Quintus Pompeius. That name should mean something even to a common little dolt like you, scribe. I also happen to be related to Caesar by marriage, so I’d watch your step if I were you.’
He glared briefly at Marcus, then strode off to join the other junior tribunes sitting together in the front row of benches set up for the officers. They talked and laughed loudly among themselves, ignoring the disapproving expressions on the faces of the centurions and some of the senior tribunes. Marcus was certain that Titus would have been equally unimpressed by the young men.
There was a short delay after the last of the officers had taken his seat, then a burly figure with tightly curled grey hair entered the tent and called out in a loud, deep voice, ‘Commanding officer present!’
At once all the talking stopped and everyone in the tent quickly rose to their feet as Caesar entered and strode over to a parchment map that hung on a wooden frame. He stood to one side and nodded to the veteran who had announced him. ‘Thank you, Camp Prefect.’
The older man remained on his feet by the entrance to the tent, while Caesar turned to survey his officers and glanced at Marcus with a quick smile. ‘Please sit down, gentlemen.’
The benches creaked and there was a brief shuffling as the officers made themselves comfortable. Marcus sat at his table and picked up his stylus, preparing to take notes. Briefly, Caesar collected his thoughts before drawing a deep breath and beginning in a clear voice that carried to the back of the tent, above the sound of the rain now drumming on the roof.
‘At dawn tomorrow we will leave the camp to march into the Apennines. There we shall hunt down the rebel slaves and destroy their army, and kill or capture their leader, Brixus. You men have been handpicked for this task. Some of you know and there’s a handful have fought alongside in the past, like Centurion Corvus there.’ He gestured to a sinewy officer in the middle row and they exchanged a smile and a nod before Caesar continued.
Marcus, already struggling to keep up, knew that he must confine his notes to only the most important points raised.
‘The rest of you have been recommended by Labienus, and I will expect you to justify his choice. Any man who fails to give me good service will be dismissed from the army and sent home. I will not tolerate cowards, fools or idle hands. Think of this as a chance to test yourselves, and the men you command. There is no better preparation for what is to come when I lead the combined army against the Gauls. I know that some of you think the rebels and brigands of the mountains are only a minor nuisance. You are content to dismiss them as starving wretches, poorly trained and armed, and no doubt the less experienced of you think this will all be over quickly.’ He paused and Marcus hurriedly caught up, then sat ready, stylus hovering over the unbroken wax surface of another tablet.
‘The truth of the matter is that we are in for a hard fight. My bodyguards and I ran into a handful of the rebels on the road from Rome a few days back. They were clever and boxed us in before we were aware that we’d been trapped. Cleverness is not the only advantage they enjoy: they know the mountains. They know all the paths and will use them to outmanoeuvre us. Therefore my plan is simple: we must send out two columns. One to march south to Corfinium …’ He turned and indicated the town on the map. ‘That column will be commanded by Legate Balbus and most of the Ninth legion will go with him. While Balbus goes south, I will lead the main force north to Mutina, here.’ He tapped the map and turned hack to his audience, his hands held out wide until he slowly moved them towards each other. ‘From either end we will push the rebels back until it is their turn to be caught in a trap.’
He paused to let his next words have their full impact. ‘There will be a final battle and this time we must make sure that none of them escapes to keep the legend of Spartacus alive. This time we’ll crush the will of every slave that ever thought of rebelling against his master. But let there be no mistake about it, this will be a hard battle. The rebels will be fighting for more than their lives. They will be fighting for the one thing that is truly worth fighting for: freedom. Even though our enemies are slaves, you must treat them with respect. They will fight like nothing you have ever fought so far, and never will again. There are some men in this tent who fought in the last slave revolt and will know what I am talking about.’
Marcus saw a few of the older centurions nod, grim-faced. He hurriedly made some notes on the tablet to catch up with Caesar. At the same time the proconsul’s words had chilled him to the bone. This was to be a war of extermination. It would not do to just kill Brixus and his supporters. Caesar was out to destroy the very dream that kept hope alive in the count-less thousands of slaves who toiled and suffered across the empire. For the first time Marcus fully grasped what his real father had given his life for. He understood the cause, and why it was worth the price that the followers of Spartacus had paid with their blood. The fact that Marcus would be marching alongside the man who was determined to obliterate even the memory of his father made him suddenly sick to the bottom of his stomach and he had to fight back the bile that rose in his throat.