The rebel kicked them to make sure they were not feigning death, then grunted dismissively before stirring the rest to their feet with further kicks and blows from a thick club in his fist. Marcus and the others rose stiffly, joints cold and painful as they stumbled from the sheep pen to stand waiting in the narrow lane outside. Around them, the rebels emerged from their shelters, stretching and grumbling. Some had already started to eat, chewing on strips of dried meat and the bread they had captured in the wagons. Marcus looked at them, his lips working hungrily. He had not eaten for a day and his belly growled in protest. But no food or drink was offered to the prisoners, and shortly afterwards the Romans were blindfolded as the column began the day’s march.
Several hours later, after winding their way along steep and uneven tracks, the column reached the rebel camp. As the captives were led into Brixus’s camp, the inhabitants emerged from their huts and shelters to watch the spectacle. The defeated Romans were bound together by a length of rope that passed through their arms. Their leader, the once proud Tribune Quintus, had his hands bound behind his back and stumbled to keep up with the rebel leading them through the camp. Marcus was second in line, bruised and cut from the tumbles he had taken during the day’s march.
‘Halt the prisoners!’ a voice commanded from somewhere ahead, and the men behind Marcus shuffled to a stop. There was a pause before he heard boots crunching on the snow beside him, then his blindfold was removed. The morning mist had long since cleared and the sunlight was dazzling. Marcus squinted, his eyes watering. After a moment they adjusted to the light and he looked round in astonishment at the vast camp, hemmed in by the mountains that ringed the valley.
‘No wonder we could never find this place,’ Quintus said. ‘An army could search the Apennines for a hundred years and never guess it was here.’
Marcus looked back the way they had come and saw the path disappear into the cliff a few hundred yards away, as if into solid rock. He recalled the clammy cold of the last stage of the march, and the echo of footsteps and clink and clatter of equipment off solid rock. Quintus was right. The rebel camp was perfectly hidden. The only danger was that a traitor might betray its location. The fact that no one had, only proved that the slaves who flocked to Brixus’s banner shared his fervent belief in the cause for which he fought.
When the last of the blindfolds had been removed the prisoners were led through the heart of the camp towards the largest huts nestling in the centre. The route was lined with people cheering the rebel fighters. Their cheers turned to insults and cries of anger as they caught sight of the prisoners, and some scooped up filth from the ground to hurl at Quintus and the others. Because of his size and the simple cloak he wore, Marcus was spared the worst of the deluge. That was targeted at the tribune, his soldiers and Decimus, conspicuous in his expensively embroidered cloak. They soon emerged from the crowded path into an open space in front of a large hut. A cordon of men armed with spears held the crowd back and Marcus breathed a sigh of relief as the hail of missiles came to an end. He forced himself to compose his expression as he stood up straight and examined his surroundings. The hut was the largest building he had seen in the valley and he guessed it must be where the leader of the rebels lived. If this was the main camp, then there was a chance that Brixus himself was here. Marcus felt a surge of hope. Brixus would be sure to spare him, even though Marcus had marched with Caesar. He would have to explain that he was unwillingly involved in the proconsul’s campaign, and hoped that would be enough for Brixus to forgive him.
Turning towards the nearest of the guards, Marcus cleared his throat. ‘You there. Tell me, is that Brixus’s hut? I must speak to him.’
The rebel stepped quickly towards him and backhanded Marcus across the cheek. ‘Shut your mouth, Roman! You only speak when spoken to if you want to keep your tongue. Clear?’
Reeling from the blow, Marcus opened his mouth to reply, then closed it at once and nodded, rather than risk more punishment.
Mandracus approached and stopped in front of Quintus, hands on his hips. ‘Well then, not so high and mighty any longer, tribune. You and these other Romans. Look at you. Not much older than this boy, barely a man, and already you have that air of haughty arrogance so typical of you Roman aristocrats. Soon you’ll see what it’s like to be treated as a slave.’ He smiled coldly, then turned and made for the entrance to the hut. As he passed the rebel in charge of the prisoners, he gave his orders.
‘I’m going to eat. Hold them beside the hut. Then pass the word around the camp. The entertainment begins the moment that it’s safe to light the fires.’
‘Yes, Mandracus.’ The rebel bowed his head in acknowledgement.
As Mandracus ducked behind the leather curtain in the doorway, Quintus edged closer to Marcus and whispered, ‘Entertainment? What do you think they’re planning to do to us?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I have no idea. But whatever it is, I don’t think many of us will survive it.’
By the time the circle of fires was lit in the open area by the round hut, a huge crowd had formed round the compound. Their faces illuminated by the red flames, they gazed expectantly at the prisoners. The excited hubbub of conversation reminded Marcus of the atmosphere in the crowd that formed at the Senate House in Rome before the start of an important debate. No, that wasn’t quite it, he reflected. It was more like the mood of the crowd in the Forum before he fought the Celtic boy, Ferax. He shuddered at the memory of the terror that had consumed him before the fight began. Partly the terror of facing someone who wanted to kill him, but also terror at the bloodlust in the faces of the crowd pressing in on all sides.
The prisoners had been forced to sit on the frozen ground until darkness fell, their hands kept bound. They had finally been given water and a bowl of thin, greasy stew that was gulped down greedily. After that they had sat in silence, awaiting their fate and forbidden to make a sound or move on threat of a beating.
A hush settled over the crowd and Marcus looked round to see Mandracus emerging from the hut. Wrapped in a long fur cloak, he stood with a silver goblet in one hand, waiting until he had complete silence. Then he drew a breath and spoke in a loud clear voice that carried to the fringes of the crowd.
‘I would prefer to wait until Brixus returns to share our entertainment, but we shall have to start without him. As you all know, both Brixus and I were once gladiators. Men torn from our homes by the legions of Rome, ripped from the bosom of our families and enslaved. Then sold, like cattle, to a lanista to train in the art of killing other men — for no better reason than it whetted Rome’s appetite for entertainment. Tonight we shall return the favour in kind: these Romans will provide our entertainment.’ He punched his spare hand into the air and the crowd let out an excited roar.
Mandracus indulged them for a moment while Marcus felt his blood freeze in his veins. So that was their fate.
‘Quiet!’ Mandracus boomed, gesturing to the crowd to calm down. ‘Tonight I give you a feast of entertainment,’ he continued. ‘A series of fights to the death. The winners of each bout will then face each other until one is left standing. That man, that champion,’ he spoke the word in a tone laced with irony, ‘will be spared. He will become a slave of the camp, for all of you to use and abuse as you will, until he dies.’