Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon - Страница 28

‘I can’t see any bodies,’ he muttered.

‘Not yet. But there will be a few,’ Festus replied grimly. ‘They would have surprised the place, freed all the slaves and taken what loot they could carry, then set fire to it. The steward of the villa and the guards are probably dead. Their bodies will be under that lot somewhere. Not that there will be much left of them after the fire.’

Both of them were silent a moment before Marcus spoke again. ‘We can’t be more than ten miles from Mutina. The rebels who did this were taking quite a risk venturing this far from the mountains.’

‘Or they’re becoming more confident. If so, then Caesar should be worried. Looks like Brixus and his men aren’t afraid of the local garrisons any more. Only the largest towns will be safe from their raids if Caesar’s plan fails.’

Marcus looked back through the remains of the gate. Caesar was delivering a verbal report of the attack to one of his staff officers before sending him to Rome. It would take several days to reach the capital, where a senator would be informed of the destruction of his property. But there would be other consequences. The burning of the villa would provide Caesar’s political enemies with another excuse to attack him in the Senate. Marcus could already imagine the scene with Cato rising to his feet to denounce Caesar. If Caesar couldn’t handle a gang of rebel slaves, what chance had he of taking on the Gauls that threatened Italia’s northern frontier? It would be better to recall an incompetent general and send a more worthy replacement, Cato would argue. Meanwhile, Crassus would sit back smugly and enjoy the damage to his rival’s reputation.

‘What do you think he will do now?’ asked Marcus. ‘Send for more men?’

‘No. He’ll stick to the plan. This changes nothing. If he sends for reinforcements, it would be as good as admitting he had made a mistake. You know what he’s like. He’ll never admit to making a mistake if he can avoid it.’

There was a pounding of hoofs and Marcus turned to see the staff officer galloping back in the direction of the junction where the Via Flamina branched off towards Rome.

Caesar cupped a hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Reform column! We’re moving on!’

Marcus untethered his horse and climbed back into the saddle. He waited for Festus and the two of them walked their mounts into the road that passed the gate. Behind them, the centurions and optios bellowed at the men to abandon their search and rejoin the column. Once every man was back in position, Caesar waved his arm forward and the cavalry led them along the road that climbed into the foothills of the Apennines. A squadron of cavalry rode a short distance ahead to scout the way and guard against ambush. Behind them came the general and his officers and bodyguards and then the infantry, trudging along four abreast, marching yokes resting on the padding they wore across their shoulders. After the infantry came the small baggage train, carrying a few days’ supply of grain and the soldiers’ tents, which would offer them some protection against the freezing temperatures up in the mountains. With them trundled the wagon of Decimus, while he rode beside on a horse. At the tail of the column came the cohort of legionaries assigned to serve as the rearguard.

As the column left the smouldering remains of the villa behind, Marcus’s sense of foreboding increased. He had begun to doubt the wisdom of Caesar’s plan. With little known about the strength of the enemy, it made no sense to start out with a modest force and then proceed to divide it.

The truth about his father’s identity was another matter that troubled him. It seemed as if a quiet voice constantly encouraged him to accept the challenge of living in a manner that would make his father, Spartacus, proud. The same voice constantly reminded him of the evils of slavery and the duty of everyone aware of its injustice to stand up and fight those who enslaved other people. And that meant fighting the Roman Empire itself and all those who served it. Especially men like Caesar.

And yet Marcus knew the struggle was not as simple as that. He remembered the tales that Titus had told him when he was a young boy. Titus had fought the Gauls, Parthians and other barbarians, and the vivid descriptions of their atrocities had chilled Marcus’s blood. It had also convinced him there were worse people in this world than those of Rome. There had to be a middle way between the traditions of Rome and those who wanted an end to slavery. Or was that just the wishful thinking of a young boy? Yet here he was, riding beside the men marching to hunt down and kill those who opposed slavery. Part of Marcus thought he was on the wrong side. That he should take his chance and run away to join Brixus and his men. But then he remembered his mother. Her best chance of survival rested on Caesar helping Marcus to track her down and set her free. With a leaden feeling in his heart, Marcus knew he was trapped. He had to remain at Caesar’s side and serve the Roman general until his mother was safe. After that, finally, he could decide his own future.

The column continued into the mountains, and the road gave way to a narrow track hemmed in on either side by forests of pine trees enveloped in mists and cloud. The grey skies steadily darkened and there were frequent showers of rain. Marcus hunched in his saddle and daydreamed of sitting in front of a fire at Portia’s house in Ariminum when the current campaign was over. There, with Festus and Caesar, he would tell Portia of their experiences, and perhaps she would secretly give Marcus a knowing look.

As quickly as the thought occurred to him, Marcus thrust it from his mind. He must not let himself even think about her in that way. She could never be more than a friend, and then only in private, hidden from those who would be horrified at the prospect of friendship between them.

As the rain gave way to sleet and snow, the column passed the remains of a handful of other small villas that had been raided by the rebels. Only ruins remained, and Marcus sensed the anger welling up in the men around him. When the time came for them to fight, they would show little mercy.

At the end of the first day the column reached a small town perched on a cliff above a stream. While the men set up their tents on the open ground outside the town walls, Caesar and his entourage found accommodation in the house of an affluent mule-breeder. Publius Flavius glumly told his guests about the constant raids on outlying farms and villages in the area. A shepherd had driven his flock into the town the previous day, claiming to have seen a party of rebels — no more than a hundred of them, on foot — making for a villa in a valley not ten miles away. Caesar ordered Marcus to take down the details as he listened patiently, then reassured Flavius that the threat would soon be extinguished.

The following morning the temperature dropped and snow began to fall, blanketing the tiled roofs of the town and drifting across the track that led further into the mountains. Caesar inspected the path with a frustrated expression before turning to issue orders to his closest followers.

‘We’ll take the cavalry and ride on. The rest of the column will follow as best they can. I’m keen to catch up with those slaves seen by the shepherd. If we can capture them, they’ll provide us with useful intelligence about Brixus. With a bit of luck, they might even know where he is.’

Festus puffed his cheeks out and cleared his throat. ‘Is that wise, sir?’

‘Wise?’ Caesar asked tonelessly, but Marcus saw the dangerous glint in his eyes, the prelude to one of his angry outbursts. ‘Why would it not be wise, Festus?’

‘Sir, it would mean dividing the force yet again.’

‘I have more than enough mounted men to take on a hundred rebels. Besides, the infantry and the wagons are holding us up. If we stay together the enemy will escape. I won’t let that happen. My mind is made up. Give the orders to the cohort commanders. Meanwhile, the cavalry are to set off as soon as they are ready.’