Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon - Страница 31

Marcus frowned. So, she spoke about him. Even to the man who had become her husband. He felt a spark of warmth in his heart. That, and the hope for something impossible, then he pushed the thought aside.

‘Sir, the sooner we set off after the main column the better.’

‘I know that!’ Quintus snapped and tugged sharply on the reins as he turned his mount, trotting back down the line to shout at the men. ‘Get those packs loaded on the wagons! Centurions! Get your men moving. I want the wagons sent off as soon as possible!’

Marcus watched him for a moment, then looked up at the sky. Thick flakes of snow swirled down from the dark grey clouds and there was no sign of any break in the weather. The track along which the column had marched was already covered by fresh drifts, and Marcus realized they had little chance of catching up with Caesar and the main column the following day.

Once the men had formed up, two centuries marched in front of the wagons, with two more at the rear. The rest of the legionaries were strung out beside the vehicles, ready to clear drifts from the track or put their shoulders to the wheels to push the carts and wagons forward. Quintus rode at the head of the formation, with the senior centurion of the cohort at his side. Marcus remained a short distance behind, to keep out of the tribune’s way. He had no desire to antagonize Portia’s husband any further.

It took two hours, as far as Marcus could estimate, for the baggage train to reach the rise from where the villa had been sighted earlier that day. Now the blizzard obscured the way ahead and it was impossible to make out any of the buildings. The water at the edge of the lake had frozen and the snow settling on the ice left only the middle of the lake visible.

As they approached the villa, a faint glow through the fall-ing snow revealed that some buildings were still on fire. A short distance further on Marcus could see the dark mass of the mill by the stream and then the wooden stockade surrounding the villa, the outline of the sharpened stakes clearly defined against the glow of the fire within.

‘We should stop here for a moment to rest the men and mules,’ the centurion marching beside Quintus advised. ‘It’s hard going, and they’re exhausted.’

‘If we stop now, they’ll not want to continue,’ Quintus mused. ‘Better we carry on.’

‘If we do that, sir, then we’ll risk losing men and beasts along the way. Any stragglers we leave behind won’t survive the night without shelter.’

‘That’s their lookout. I have orders to bring the baggage up to the main column as soon as I can.’

The centurion sighed in frustration and was about to speak again when Marcus heard a faint sound to his left, from the direction of the trees. It had sounded like a voice calling out. He flicked his hood back to hear more clearly, tilting his head to the side as he strained his ears.

‘Did you hear that?’ he interrupted the two officers.

‘What?’ Quintus rounded on him, the wind fluttering the crest on his helmet. ‘Hear what?’

‘Quiet!’ Marcus snapped. ‘Listen! There it is again.’

There was another shout from amid the trees, muffled and impossible to make out, but definitely a voice.

‘Could be a wild animal,’ suggested the centurion. ‘With the wind and all, it’s easy to mistake the sound.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘There’s someone out there, I’m telling you.’

Quintus chuckled. ‘Your imagination is getting the better of you, boy. You should have stayed in Caesar’s household in Rome where you belong.’

Before Marcus could respond, the sound of a horn cut through the moan of the wind. Three sharp blasts, a pause, then they came again. Along the track the men and vehicles slowed to a halt as faces turned towards the sound with anxious expressions.

‘What’s that?’ Quintus asked.

The horn sounded a third time and a cheer rose up from within the forest. Marcus stared at the shadows along the treeline, no more than two hundred paces away. As the sound of the cheers swelled, he saw movement and the first of the figures burst from cover to charge across the snowy field towards the track.

‘Ambush!’ the centurion exclaimed, then turned to his men and cupped his hand. ‘Form line to the left!’

Quintus stared at the oncoming men open-mouthed, then thrust his jaw out as he drew his sword. He caught Marcus’s eyes and nodded grimly. ‘Looks like we were right about the risk.’

‘Maybe,’ Marcus replied through gritted teeth. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now.’

He reached down for the handle of his sword and drew the blade from its scabbard with a sharp rasp.

‘Stay close!’ Quintus ordered. ‘If you’re half the gladiator they say you are, I want you at my side.’

The tribune wheeled his mount and spurred it into a gallop back along the track, past the men of the first two centuries who had dropped their yokes and were hurriedly checking the straps of their armour before raising their shields to form a line facing the ambushers. Leaning forward in his saddle, Marcus glanced to his right and saw the white expanse in front of the forest was filled with figures. Thousands of them were surging through the ankle-deep blanket of snow.

Quintus reined in when he reached the wagons, shouting at the thin screen of legionaries to step aside and let him through. Some of the mule drivers had already deserted their positions and were running towards the shelter of the stockade, while others ran blindly towards the stream. The water was raging between the banks and Marcus knew that anyone attempting to cross it would be swept away. There was no escape from the trap that had been set for them. They must close up and hold their ground for as long as possible. As Quintus took up his position by the cohort’s standard, close to the wagon where Decimus and his men stood ready with their swords, Marcus edged his horse alongside the tribune. He stared at the wave of men rushing towards them, their mouths open as they let out a deafening roar of triumph. Most were well armed, kitted out with shields, helmets and weapons looted from the farms, villages and small towns that they had attacked. A far cry from the ragged appearance of Polonius, the rebel tortured by Festus.

In that instant Marcus saw it all. The clever trap Brixus had set for Caesar played on the Roman’s contempt for the rebel slaves and his desire for a quick end to the campaign. Polonius had been a plant, deliberately left behind to be captured and give the information that had lured Caesar away from his baggage train. It had cost him his life and Marcus could only marvel at the courage of a man who played such a part, sacrificing himself to give his comrades a victory over the Romans. He wondered if any man in Caesar’s army would have such courage. Then there was no more time to think: the enemy was upon them.

At the front of the charge the men armed with slings and bows stopped to loose their missiles before charging on. Marcus turned at the sound of a dull crack and saw one of the legionaries fall, his face a bloody mask. He thudded into the snow and kicked out for a moment before losing consciousness. More shot and arrows rattled off the heavy oval shields as the legionaries raised them up. There was a shrill braying as the mules fell victim to the barrage and some of the mule teams began to panic and drag their vehicles out of line. Marcus saw one team veer to the side, thrusting through the legionaries. One man was knocked down, his legs crushed as the cart wheel ran over them. The mule team broke into a trot, careering across the snowy field into the rebel ranks.

‘Ready javelins!’ barked the senior centurion.

The gap between the two sides had narrowed to no more than thirty paces. Waiting for the centurion’s order, the legionaries hefted their javelins and drew their arms back. Marcus saw the centurion narrow his eyes as he timed the moment, his sword held high. With a dull gleam, the blade swept down and he bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘Loose!’