‘You know that I have many enemies here in Rome, young Marcus. Enemies who would harm my family as gladly as they would dare to harm me, Gaius Julius Caesar. That is why I need someone I can trust to protect Portia. ’
‘I will do my best, master.’
‘I want more than your best, boy,’ Caesar said firmly. ‘You must live to protect Portia. Every waking moment your eyes and ears must be open to every detail of your surroundings, if you are to detect threats before they can cause harm. And not just your eyes and ears. You must use your brain. I know you have quick wits. You proved that back in Capua.’
Caesar paused for a moment and they both recalled the fight when Marcus had beaten Ferax, a boy almost twice his size, before killing two wolves that were set upon him after Marcus had refused to finish him off. But it was neither of those deeds that had won over Caesar. It was when his niece Portia had fallen into the arena, at the mercy of the ravenous wolves, and Marcus had saved her life. For that, Caesar was indebted to Marcus. At the same time, Caesar shrewdly recognized a chance to invest in a boy who might one day be a gladiator who was popular with the mob, and some of that popularity would rub off on the gladiator’s owner. So Marcus had been bought from the gladiator school, transferred from one master to another like a common beast.
He leaned forward and tapped Marcus lightly on the chest. ‘I may be consul, one of the two most powerful men in Rome, but even I can bleed just as easily as the next man. I have men who protect me, and men who spy for me, yet somehow I sense that you may prove to be one of my most useful servants. For now, you will guard Portia, but I may have other uses for you.’
Caesar’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Marcus. The silence made Marcus edgy and he swallowed nervously. He was not yet sure what to make of his new master. At times Caesar could be generous and charming. On other occasions he appeared ruthless, hard and even cruel. ‘Other uses, master?’
There was a flicker of a smile on Caesar’s lips as he responded. ‘Where men might be suspected a young boy may well be overlooked. That is when I will need you to be my eyes and ears.’ He paused and stroked his chin.
Marcus felt a slight thrill at the implied praise and the confidence that Caesar had in him. Yet this pleasure passed swiftly as he reminded himself of the true meaning of Caesar’s words. Marcus was being used as a minor playing piece in the battle between Caesar and his political enemies. But this was no game, Marcus realized. He recalled what Titus, the man he had once thought his father, had told him about the world of politics in Rome. The stakes were high — literally a matter of life and death and now Marcus would be at the heart of it. It would be dangerous. But if Marcus could make himself valuable and served Caesar well, he could expect to be rewarded. That much he had discovered about the man; he was generous to those who helped him achieve his ambitions. Marcus’s pulse quickened as he stared Caesar directly in the eye and nodded. ‘I am ready.’
Caesar smiled briefly and then looked at Marcus for what felt like a long time before he spoke again. ‘You know, there is something of a mystery about you, my boy. You are no common slave. Anyone can see that. You have courage, determination and toughness beyond your years. Your father would be proud of you, wherever he is.’
Marcus thought quickly. Here was his first chance to put the injustice of his situation to Caesar. ‘My father is dead,’ he said. ‘He was murdered, on the orders of a tax collector named Decimus.’
‘Oh?’ Caesar pursed his lips briefly and then shrugged. ‘That’s too bad. But the gods have their reasons for the way things turn out.’
Marcus’s heart sank at his master’s curt dismissal of his miseries.
‘And what of your mother?’ asked Caesar.
‘A slave, master. Though I don’t know where she is.’ As much as Marcus wanted help to track down his mother, for now he decided it was best to lie. It would be safer if his mother remained hidden from Caesar. If ever his true identity was discovered, then Marcus would be put to death, and so too would anyone who claimed the same blood as him. This man Caesar, for all the gratitude he showed Marcus for saving his niece’s life, would kill him on the spot the instant he discovered that Marcus’s real father was Spartacus, the gladiator general who had commanded the rebel slave army that defied Caesar and his high-born friends. The gladiator who had almost brought about the destruction of Rome and all that it stood for.
2
Once Caesar had dismissed him Marcus left the yard and made for the slave quarters at the rear of the house. On his arrival at the house, Marcus had been taken to Caesar’s steward who explained the rules that would govern his life, and then showed him to the small cell that Marcus would share with two other boys who were also slaves. The younger boy was not far off Marcus’s age, and was named Corvus. He was tall and skinny with a hooked nose, and had a gloomy air of resignation. The other boy, Lupus, was nearer sixteen and had a natural flair for letters and numbers. As well as occasionally helping in the kitchen, he served as Caesar’s scribe. A scribe was responsible for taking down notes for his master, Lupus explained proudly. Most days he accompanied Caesar on his official business. Lupus, short and slight, with neatly trimmed dark hair, was far more cheerful than his younger companion and had warmly welcomed the new arrival to their humble quarters. Their cell was no more than ten feet long by four feet wide, with a slit high up that let in a dim shaft of light from the street outside. The other boys slept on ragged sleeping rolls, side by side at the end furthest from the door. Marcus was given a similarly worn roll and told he would sleep to one side of the narrow entrance.
Since then, he’d been given plenty of small jobs about the household until the morning Festus had summoned him to appraise his skills as a fighter. Now, as he headed back indoors towards his miserable living quarters, the sounds of the Subura — the district surrounding the house — faded into a dull background drone. One of the older slaves had told Marcus that the Subura had been a respectable neighbourhood when Caesar’s ancestors first built their home here, but the area had gone downhill since then. Now ramshackle tenement blocks loomed up all around the houses, filled with dispossessed farming families forced into the city to find work. These had been followed by immigrants from all around the Mediterranean: Greeks, Numidians, Gauls and Jews. All were now crowded into the Subura and the narrow streets were filled with voices crying out in several tongues, while the distinctive wafts of their cooking traditions blended together, powerful enough to overlay the background stench of rotting food and sewage.
Despite being in the capital for nearly ten days, Marcus was still getting used to the stinking streets. The colourful mix of clothing styles and the noise and bustle of the crowded neighbourhood fascinated him. Growing up on an isolated farm on a small Greek island, Marcus had only ever known the limited delights of the local market town where dour farmers met three times a month to trade. The memory tugged at his heart as he recalled walking to the market beside the man he had once believed to be his father. Titus had been tough and often cold — an ex-soldier who had been strict with Marcus for the most part. But once in a while his stern facade had melted and he had playfully wrestled with Marcus in the small yard of the farmhouse, or told him stories of his adventures as a soldier.
Marcus sighed unhappily as he recalled his early childhood, torn between fond memories and the knowledge that he had been lied to. Titus was not his father. That had been revealed to him less than a month ago, when he had left the gladiator school and was on the road to join his new master in Rome. It was Brixus, once a follower of Spartacus, who had followed him and told him the truth. Marcus reached a hand over his shoulder, his fingers slipping under the neckline of his tunic to trace the outline of the mark with which he had been branded when he was only an infant: the head of a wolf impaled on a sword, the same secret brand that had been shared by Spartacus and his closest followers, including the woman he loved and their child — Marcus. Brixus had told him it was his destiny to complete his true father’s work and lead the next slave revolt — the one that would finally overwhelm Rome and free all the slaves who lived under the whip of their cruel Roman masters.