‘Who is this?’
‘Him?’ Mandracus chuckled. ‘New recruit. And he may have some useful information for the general. Is Brixus in camp?’
One of the sentries nodded. ‘He’s summoned the leaders of all the bands in the mountains. They’ve been arriving for several days now. You’re the last one. What’s going on?’
‘Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you, you big ox! You’ll find out soon enough.’ Mandracus put a hand on Lupus’s shoulder and steered him into the defile. ‘In the meantime, get back to your duty.’
The sentries stood aside and the small column of rebel fighters entered the defile. The air was cold and moist from the spray churned up by the waterfall. Lupus shivered as he picked his way forward. Although the path had been cleared enough to permit a horse to pass through, the ground was uneven and the route turned one way and then the next as it wound through the chasm. Overhead, the grey sky was a miserable thin strip caught between the rocks and the limbs of stunted shrubs and small trees growing precariously from the ledges. After about a quarter of a mile the cliffs on either side started to grow apart and light shone into the defile. Then, as they rounded a last bend in the path, Lupus had his first sight of the rebel camp and he paused to take in a sharp breath of astonishment.
Ahead, the path led down a gentle slope into a small valley, seemingly walled in on every side by cliffs and crags. A stream coursed down the far side and crossed the valley floor before it passed underground, heading in the direction of the waterfall. But that was the least remarkable sight that greeted his eyes. Before him lay a vast camp of tents and more permanent shelters. In among the tents were pens for animals and several larger buildings, the nearest of which had its doors open, and Lupus saw a man doling out bowls of grain to a queue of people. In the centre of the valley stood a large round hut, surrounded by an open area ringed with a stockade. Smaller round huts were arranged around the compound.
‘There must be thousands living here,’ Lupus said. ‘Tens of thousands!’
Mandracus smiled at the boy’s awed expression. ‘That’s right. An army of us. Waiting for the day when we will rise up and complete the work that Spartacus began.’ He pointed to the largest hut. ‘Come, that’s where we’ll find Brixus.’
He led his men down into the valley. Lupus followed, his eyes switching from side to side as he took in the details of the secret camp of the rebels. Around him the walls of the valley looked impenetrable. There seemed no way in except for the narrow pass they’d come through. A perfect hiding place, he reflected. No wonder the slaves had managed to evade the Roman armies sent to hunt them down. The Romans could be unaware that such a powerful enemy was gathering its strength and preparing to attack.
Lupus felt a pang of concern for Caesar and Marcus. They were expecting to fight scattered bands of ragged brigands. They could have no idea what would face them when they marched into the mountains to do battle.
13
January was drawing to an end and winter closed its icy grip around the mountains. Biting rainstorms lashed the foothills and frequently brought hail with them, battering the men of Caesar’s column as they made for the town of Mutina that would serve as their base. Cavalry patrolled further into the hills along the line of march, trying to gather intelligence on the location and numbers of the rebels. When they returned they told of wild blizzards howling through the mountain passes and thick ice forming on the roads and tracks that wound across the Apennines. Messengers had been sent ahead to the towns along the road with orders for their inhabitants to provide food and shelter for Caesar’s column, while further supplies were stockpiled at Mutina.
Marcus, riding with the headquarters staff, had never before experienced conditions like these. He had been careful to pick a cloak freshly worked with animal fat and as water-proof as possible. Even so, the cold rain, driven on by a freezing wind, soon penetrated to the clothes he wore beneath and soaked him to the skin. He had also collected a pair of leather mittens, and these too soon succumbed to the foul weather as he grimly followed the other riders behind their leader.
Caesar suffered the same discomforts as his men yet seemed oblivious to the cold. Every so often he would let some of his officers draw alongside and engage them in cheerful conversation. Sometimes about affairs back in Rome, but more often about the glorious future that awaited them all in Gaul once the rebels had been crushed. He even spared a few moments for Marcus to discuss his career in the arena.
‘I’ve decided that you shall fight as a retiarius,’ Caesar announced as they rode in a brief spell between rainstorms. Overhead, the sky was clear and bright and the wind had dropped. Fresh clouds were visible above the mountains, waiting to roll down their slopes and engulf the men marching along the road. Marcus had drawn back his hood and was relishing the warmth of the sun on his skin and wet hair.
‘You have the right build for a netman,’ Caesar continued. ‘Slender but strong and you move with speed and grace. I saw as much when you fought Ferax back in Rome. Of course, things might change. Some boys who are thin in their youth pack on the muscle later. If that happens to you, I shall have to reconsider your category. A Thracian or even a Samnite would be more suited to a heavier build. But let’s hope you retain your current build. I’d hate to see you lumbering around the arena when you could be giving the crowd a good show with your turn of speed.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Marcus acknowledged, trying hard to control the fit of shivering that had taken over his body. He was too cold and tired to feel bitter about his former master deciding his destiny. Besides, his mind was fixed on the fact that Decimus was riding with the baggage train. Marcus had caught sight of him on only a handful of occasions since leaving Ariminum and he could not shake the urge to take his revenge. The long days riding had reminded him of all there was to avenge beyond the suffering of his family. Aristides, a slave who had been like a grandfather to Marcus, had also been killed by the moneylender. Even Cerberus, the dog Marcus had rescued from a cruel trader and trained to be his loyal companion, had been clubbed to death by Dedmus’s men when they attacked the farm. A simple death would be too goody Marcus resolved. He must be made to suffer, as his victims had.
‘You’re not really listening to me, are you?’ asked Caesar.
Marcus instantly pushed all thought of Decimus aside and struggled to recall what Caesar had just said. Marcus was vaguely aware of some comment concerning the fortune some famous retiarius had made during the time of Sulla’s dictatorship. He cleared his throat.
‘Yes, sir. It would be nice to make a large sum of money.’
Caesar stared at him indulgently. ‘Marcus, that was a while back, before I began to talk about your training. You’re not paying attention.’
Marcus lowered his gaze. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I am tired. My mind was drifting.’
‘Drifting, eh? You’re considering Decimus again, aren’t you?’
Marcus thought about denying it but dared not risk being seen through by Caesar again, so he nodded. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him. And what he did to my family and friends. I’m sorry, sir, but it is eating me inside to know that he is so close but I can do nothing about it.’
‘All in good time, Marcus. Remember,’ Caesar warned, ‘you need my permission to act. For now it serves my purpose to have him close, but not too close, if you understand me. If Crassus has tasked him with doing me any harm, then Festus and my bodyguards, including you, will make his life difficult.’
‘Difficult, yes, sir,’ Marcus responded. ‘But not impossible. Why take the risk? Why not just have him and his men arrested?’