Marcus watched for a moment before his attention was caught by a distant glimmer a mile away, on the other side of the tomb-lined road. He was puzzled briefly by the ghostly flames wavering in the mist before he realized he was watching a second cremation take place. As he stared he noticed yet another flicker, then one more on the far side of the Tiber, beyond the tiled roofs and columned temples of Rome. Marcus realized there were other people out there, mourning the loss of a friend or member of the family, death being the one thing that made everyone equal in the end.
No, he corrected himself. Not everyone. Of all the pyres burning this morning, it was almost certain this was the only one to honour the death of a slave. He turned his gaze back to the flames consuming the body of Corvus. Death was a tragedy only for those who were free. For the slaves it was a release, Marcus realized.
The flames roared up around Corvus’s corpse, charring the white shroud and burning through its folds until they began to scorch the dead flesh. The aroma of burning meat filled the air and Marcus felt his stomach tighten in disgust and horror. The bier and the trestles eventually burned through and the body crashed down into the heart of the blaze, sending sparks whirling into the dawn. As the sun crested the line of hills to the east, filling the sky with a pink hue, the fire began to die down. The small party stood in silence until the last flames flickered feebly and then faded to nothing but thin trails of smoke rising up from the ashes and charred remains.
Festus brought a spade and a small urn from the wagon, then broke up the larger chunks of blackened material with the edge of the spade before he swept them into the urn. He pressed the stopper back into the wax-lined top and held out the urn.
‘Who will bury this?’
Portia shook her head, then Marcus gestured to Lupus. ‘He was your friend.’
Lupus nodded, tears running down his face as he took the urn and held it to his chest.
Marcus touched his shoulder. ‘I swear by all the gods that we will avenge Corvus. We will find those responsible for his death, and they will pay for it with their lives.’
Marcus had no idea how he would do it, but he made a promise to himself and to Corvus’s memory that he’d do everything in his power to see this through.
14
After the funeral, Caesar decided it was too dangerous for Portia to venture into the streets again while the struggle between the political factions was so bitter. He instructed her to remain within the house. Besides, Portia had told Marcus somewhat bitterly, she had been promised to General Pompeius’s nephew and it was the custom for ladies of the nobility to be removed from temptation’s way during preparations for the marriage — in case they ran off with a new admirer. That left Marcus without a role to play, so Festus had ordered him to continue with his training.
Each morning Marcus made his way into the yard to practise against the post with his sword and club, before moving on to knife-throwing and slingshot. During the morning Festus would emerge from the house to oversee his efforts, snapping sharp rebukes when Marcus failed to perform to the desired standard, and sometimes offering advice or teaching him a new technique for street fighting. At noon Festus allowed Marcus to stop for a break while he went for a drink with his men. Marcus was left with a small jar of heavily diluted wine that Lupus had brought from the kitchen, together with bread and olive oil for them to share.
Six days after the attack, while Marcus sat on the cart during one of these breaks, he asked the question that had been gnawing at him for days. ‘When Mistress Portia marries, she will be leaving the house, I suppose?’
Lupus dunked his bread in the olive oil as he nodded. ‘Of course she will.’ He tore a chunk of bread off and chewed vigorously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because she still needs protecting. That’s my job. It’s my. .’
‘Not when she’s married it won’t be. Pompeius’s nephew will look after her. I’m sure he has plenty of slaves to protect her.’ Lupus paused as he held the next chunk of bread in midair. ‘It’s funny, the mistress asked exactly the same question the other day. I heard her talking with Caesar. She was adamant that you stayed at her side.’
Marcus felt his hopes rise. He had been dropping hints to Portia to ask that he might go with her to her new home. There might still be a way he could get close enough to Pompeius to ask for his help. He finished his mouthful and cleared his throat before he asked, ‘What did Caesar say to that?’
‘He said you were too valuable to give away.’ Lupus jabbed a finger at Marcus. ‘But don’t let that go to your head.’
‘Valuable? Me?’ Marcus was confused. ‘Why am I valuable?’
‘You may be assigned the job of protecting Mistress Portia at present, but it’s clear you have potential to make a name for yourself in the arena and add to the reputation of your master.’ Lupus stared at Marcus, sizing him up. ‘I heard the master say he has never seen a boy so suited to the life of a gladiator. You have mastered every weapon Festus has introduced to you. Festus reckons you already have a strong body and in time will be as tough as any man who ever set foot in an arena. But there’s more than that, he says. You are quickwitted and decisive.’
‘He said that?’ Marcus felt a surge of pride.
Lupus nodded. ‘He said it’s as if you were born a fighter, that you must have inherited it from your father. A warrior of some kind I imagine, eh?’
Marcus nodded slowly as he prepared his lie. ‘He was a centurion. He served General Pompeius in the east.’
Lupus frowned. ‘Then how did you come to be a slave?’
Marcus told him the tale of Titus’s death at the hands of a tax collector’s henchmen and how he and his mother were taken to be sold as slaves. He deliberately left out the fact he had escaped from his original owner before being seized by Porcino for his gladiator school. He also left out the name of Decimus. He liked Lupus and thought he could trust him, but until he knew why Decimus was in Rome, and how close a friend he was to Crassus, it would be best to say nothing.
‘Quite a tale,’ Lupus responded. ‘The gods have played their games with you. Now I see why you’re keen to join Pompeius’s household.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ Lupus chuckled. ‘You want to get in the general’s good books, then tell him your story and trust he’ll use his influence to help rescue your mother. Am I right?’
Marcus was taken aback. He hadn’t realized his motives were so obvious. There was no point denying it. He nodded warily.
‘Well, even if you stayed with Mistress Portia, I think you’d be disappointed. Pompeius traded in his sword for a seat in the Senate. I doubt he’d be too concerned about the wife of a junior officer who left his service a decade earlier. He probably wouldn’t even remember your father. ’
‘I doubt he will ever forget my father. .’ Marcus replied, thinking of Spartacus momentarily. But then he remembered he was talking about Titus, the man who had adopted him. ‘Not after he saved the general’s life, I mean.’
‘Perhaps.’ Lupus shrugged. ‘But don’t place too much hope on that. Also, be honest, it’s not as if Pompeius is your biggest fan. . Anyway, as far as I could tell, Caesar intends keeping you for a career in the arena.’
Marcus’s heart sank. He hated not having control over his own destiny — how could he ever free his mother while he was a slave, his fate always decided by his owner? And the prospect of a life spent fighting other slaves on bloodsoaked sands while his ears filled with the baying cries of a cruel audience made him sick.