Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon - Страница 24

As he approached the door of the house, squeezed between a bakery and a wine seller, Marcus stopped in the street, deep in thought. He was exhausted and the column would be setting out for the mountains at first light. Caesar was right to advise a good night’s rest. It might be a long time before he got the chance to sleep in a comfortable dry bed again. But there was no shaking the need to find out what Decimus was up to. Caesar had ordered Marcus to avoid the man, but he had made no mention of avoiding Festus. Marcus smiled to himself. Pulling up the hood of his cloak, he strode past the door of his billet and made for the centre of town.

Mutina had once been an important trading centre between Roman dominions and those of the Gauls and other tribes from the north. Now, with the expansion of Roman power towards the Alps, the town had become something of a backwater, relying more on farms and small industries to generate its wealth. But there was no hiding the fact that the town was in decline. Marcus noticed that some of the houses he passed were in a sad state. The paint on many of the public statues had been neglected and was flaking away to reveal the plain stone beneath. The heart of the town still flourished, however, and the sounds of revelry filled the air as Marcus emerged into the forum.

Every inn was filled with soldiers, and those who could not get inside stood in the street, sharing jars of wine as they talked in loud, boisterous tones, or squatted round games of dice, gambling with whatever was left of their pay. Marcus guessed that Decimus would not be amusing himself in the company of common soldiers. He was far more likely to be drinking with the officers, men he might have met socially when visiting Rome — men who could one day be useful to him as they rose up the ranks of the Senate.

Marcus stopped outside the first inn he came to and approached a small group of soldiers in their capes who did not yet look too much the worse for wear.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, pulling back his hood. ‘I’ve been sent from headquarters to find one of Caesar’s officers. Any idea where they might be?’

A tall, burly man with thick stubble on his cheeks turned to look down at Marcus. ‘Officers? Who cares a stuff for them, eh? Bunch of stuck-up wasters.’

‘Oil’ one of his companions called out. ‘Leave it out, Publius. Boy’s only asking a question.’ He pushed his surly comrade aside and stood in front of Marcus with an apologetic expression. ‘Ignore him. He’s just a grumbler.’

‘Too right I am!’ his comrade cut in. ‘Why aren’t we resting up in winter quarters? Ain’t right that we’ve been ordered to get out and fight in the middle of winter. Ain’t going to be in good shape when the real campaign starts in spring.’

‘Ah, shut it!’ his companion said crossly, before turning back to Marcus. ‘So what do you want, young ‘un?’

‘I need to find the staff officers. Have you seen them?’

‘Hmm?’ The soldier scratched his chin. ‘Best try the Jolly Boar. Over there by the Temple of Jupiter. It’s supposed to be the classiest inn. That’s your best bet.’ He looked at Marcus more closely. ‘Do I know you? I recognize your face.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

The man frowned and then clicked his fingers. ‘Yes! It was in Rome. I was on leave there last year. Saw you fight that Celt boy. You’re Marcus Cornelius, right?’

Again, Marcus shook his head. It was already possible that rumours of his fight with Quintus were spreading through the ranks. Marcus was determined to keep his presence secret from Decimus for as long as possible. It would be better to deny his identity for now…

‘I am just a servant of Caesar,’ Marcus replied flatly. The soldier looked disappointed and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Off you go then, boy!’

Marcus turned away to head across the forum towards the inn that the soldier had indicated. The owner of the Jolly Boar had set up some tables and benches outside the entrance, and these were crowded with the centurions and optios of Caesar’s cohorts. Threading his way through the soldiers, he could not help wondering what shape they would be in come the morning when it was time to march into the mountains.

From inside, Marcus could hear excited chatter and cheering before there was a brief lull, then a crescendo of noise. He squeezed through the door and saw at once that the inn was a lot bigger than it looked from outside, a single open room stretching back a good hundred feet. A counter was set up in the far comer from where a sweaty-looking old man handed jugs and cups to his servants and kept tally on what each table had consumed. The middle of the room had been cleared and a crowd of tribunes, centurions and civilians stood in a ring over a dice game. Marcus knew that if he drew up his hood he would only attract attention, so instead he worked his way round to an alcove and stood in the shadow as he scrutinized the men in the room.

He picked out Quintus easily enough. Portia’s young husband was grinning like a fool as he opened his purse. But his smile faded as he groped around inside and his hand came out clutching a small handful of silver coins. He hesitated briefly, before bending down to place his bet. Marcus’s eyes then fixed on Festus, sitting on the far side of the room, watching proceedings as he sipped from a bronze goblet. Marcus followed his line of sight to a group of men at a table opposite Festus. He spotted Decimus at once, due to the expensive embroidery on his cloak. A squat muscular man sat next to him, and three more perched on the other side of the table with their backs to Marcus. Two had close-cropped hair; the third was shaven-headed, but the dark hair of an unkempt beard bustled out from each cheek so that he probably looked like a barbarian from the front.

Now that he had them in sight, Marcus stared at Decimus for a while. He recalled vividly the cruel expression in the man’s face when the moneylender had told Marcus and his mother of their fate as they lay in a holding cell of the slave market back in Greece. Marcus edged round the room and made his way towards Festus, where he positioned himself with his back to Decimus and the others.

Festus’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. He leaned across the table. ‘What are you doing here?’ he growled.

‘Caesar’s dismissed me for the evening. I thought I’d have a look around the town.’

‘Pollux! Do you think I’m a fool, Marcus? You’ve come to spy on Decimus.’

‘How was I supposed to know he’d be here?’

‘Where else would he be in a one-mule dump of a town like Mutina? You’d better get out of here before he spots you.’

‘I’ll go in a moment. But first you tell me what he’s been up to. Caesar thinks there’s more to his being here than buying up prisoners.’

Festus shrugged. ‘If that’s true, then there’s been no sign of anything suspicious. He sticks close to his men over there and they travel in the wagon. There’s been no messages delivered to them, and none sent anywhere.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all I’ve seen.’

‘And no sign of Thermon?’

‘No. None of ‘em look like the man who tried to kill Caesar. See for yourself.’

Marcus half turned cautiously, and looked over the rim of his shoulder. From where he sat, he had a side-on view of the table, and in the dim light cast by the inn’s oil lamps he could make out the profiles of Detimus’s companions. None had the neatly styled hair and well-groomed features of the moneylender’s dangerous henchman. As Marcus watched, there was another cry from the men playing dice and he glanced over towards them. He saw Quintus’s face twist into an ashen-faced grimace as he crushed his empty purse in his fist and backed out of the ring of men still watching the game.

‘You’d better go,’ said Festus. ‘Before you are seen.’

Marcus nodded and rose from the table. He paused. ‘Keep a close eye on Decimus. He can’t be trusted. And he’s… evil.’