Marcus was tempted by the vision that Caesar held out to him. He knew that he fought well, and took a quiet satisfaction in his skill and the knowledge that Titus would have been proud of him. He wondered what Spartacus would have felt. Pride, yes. But also shame at the prospect of Marcus fighting and killing in order to satisfy the bloodlust of the Roman mob. Spartacus and thousands of his followers had died to put an end to slavery, an end to gladiator fights and an end to the danger of Rome continuing to extend its brutal power over the rest of the known world. They had sacrificed everything to prevent men like Caesar winning his imperium, a prize that was bought at the expense of countless others buried in the foundations of their fame. The same fate would befall him, Marcus realized. If he ever did become a hero of the arena, then it would only add to the popularity of his patron, Caesar. With a chilling sense of certainty, he knew that was all the proconsul really cared about. Everyone else was a means to that end.
Marcus swallowed and forced himself to nod. (I can think of no greater honour, sir.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ A faint look of relief flitted across Caesar’s face. ‘Now go and prepare your kit. It’s going to be a tough campaign, even if it will be over quickly. You can use my authority to get whatever you need from the army’s stores. Make sure you have a decent supply of writing materials. I have a feeling there will be some interesting things to note down in the days to come. It’s a shame that Lupus is not here to share them with us, but I am sure you will fulfil his duties well.’
‘I will do my best, sir.’
‘Of course you will. You may go, Marcus.
He bowed his head, and slipped the strap of his satchel over his head as he left the headquarters tent. Outside, night had fallen and the camp was lit by fires and torches that struggled to stay alight in the steady drizzle. A cold breeze was blowing in from the west, towards the Apennines, and Marcus shivered as he pulled his cloak tighter about him. As he made his way towards the quartermaster’s tent, Marcus made a mental note of the supplies he required. Not so much that it would overburden his horse and yet he needed to stay as dry and warm as possible. A spare cloak impregnated with fat and a good tunic should be enough. That and a leather cover for his weapons and writing materials.
Once again his mind turned back to the matter of Decimus. It was a stroke of fortune that Crassus had sent him to join Caesar’s army. Now that it was no longer necessary to track the man down, Marcus wondered if there was any way he could force the ruthless moneylender to reveal the location of his mother. Despite what Caesar had said, Marcus intended to keep an eye on Decimus and, if the chance came, there would be a confrontation. Once he had the information he needed Marcus resolved to take his revenge.
The rain stopped shortly before dawn, but the sky remained covered by an endless blanket of dull grey clouds that cast a gloom over the flat landscape around Ariminum. The men chosen by Caesar for his campaign had packed their tents into the allotted wagons. Each man’s spare kit was attached to the stout marching yokes, together with his shield. As the order to form up was bellowed across their ranks, the legionaries hefted the yokes and rested them across their right shoulders before taking their place in the column. Marcus heaved his two bags on to the horns of his saddle. One contained his spare clothes and rations and the other his writing implements. His sword hung from his side, and a dagger and throwing knives were in the scabbards attached to his broad leather belt. Swinging up into the saddle, Marcus walked his horse over to join the small group of headquarters staff assigned to accompany Caesar.
When all was ready Caesar gave the order to advance and the long column trudged forward in two sections. The first was commanded by Caesar, the second by Legate Balbus. Cavalry led each of the two forces, followed by the commander and his staff, then their infantry, and the baggage train and its escort came last. Marcus turned in his saddle, hoping to catch sight of Decimus, but it was impossible to make out much detail amid the wagons clustered to the rear of the legionaries.
A small crowd had emerged from Ariminum to line the road along which the army marched. Wives, sweethearts, excited children and some curious idlers stood and watched as the soldiers squelched along the muddy route from the camp towards the road leading north and south. On a warmer day the onlookers might have been cheering but on this cold and miserable f morning they mostly stood and watched, only calling out their farewells as they caught sight of a friend or loved one. A small ^cluster of wealthier spectators stood near the junction where the track joined the road and Marcus picked out Portia, bareheaded, as she watched the cavalry pass by. Her expression lit up as she caught sight of her uncle and waved at him. Marcus saw Caesar acknowledge her with a bow of his head. Quintus was too busy joking with his companions to notice his young wife, and she stared forlornly as he rode past. Her smile only returned as she spotted Marcus and edged to the side of the track.
‘Take care of yourself, Marcus.’
He steered his mount to the side of the track, reining in to look down at her. ‘I will.’
‘Look after my uncle.’
‘Him?’ Marcus smiled. ‘Caesar knows how to look after himself, mistress. Trust me.’
She laughed briefly and then continued in a lower tone. ‘And take care of Quintus if you can …’
Then she turned and paced back to her place among the other officers’ families. Marcus clicked his tongue and flicked his reins, walking his horse quickly to rejoin the rest of the headquarters staff. Ahead, the cavalry of Caesar’s force, some five hundred mounted men, had turned north. The rest of the force followed them, picking up the pace now they could march on a paved surface. As the last of the wagons of Caesar’s column rumbled after them, Balbus and his men turned south.
Marcus glanced back, momentarily impressed by the spectacle of the two neatly ordered columns marching to war. The air was filled with the din of horses’ hoofs, the crunch of nailed boots and the rumble of heavy wagons on the road. Then he recalled the purpose of it — Caesar’s plan to crush the rebels and the dream of Spartacus once and for all. Marcus stared at the back of the proconsul sitting erect in his saddle, looking ahead, his mind no doubt fixed on the quest to win fame and glory, whatever the cost.
12
Lupus was close to exhaustion. They had been marching for three days before they reached the main rebel camp. Three days of toiling up steep mountain paths, frequently lost amid the low clouds that shrouded the peaks of the Apennines. Lupus could not hope to recall the route they had taken. He had tried at first, in case he got the chance to slip away and find his way back to the road to rejoin Marcus and the others accompanying his master. Despite the clouds and the occasional blizzards that had shrouded the paths, Mandracus and his men never missed their step and unerringly made their way to their destination. The paths were too difficult for his horsemen so they were ordered to continue their patrol, raiding villas and farming estates to liberate more slaves and loot enough food to feed them. Lupus saw few people along the route. A handful of shepherds, some of whom cheered Mandracus and his band and offered them food and shelter if they needed it. Others simply turned and fled.
They passed through a small village perched above a stream. It was too poor for anyone there to own a slave and they simply watched warily as the rebels passed through. There was no attempt to hinder them, not even to close the small gate in the low crumbling wall that had once protected the village. Looking from side to side, Lupus could see that the people were poor and hungry, and probably lived lives every bit as hard as the slaves passing by. It was clear that the rebels’ war was being waged against the rich and powerful. Even though the villagers were freeborn Romans, they had more in common with the rebels than with those who ruled over them.