Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon (книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

This boy is my adviser on gladiators. Even more than that.

‘I have trusted him with my life in the past and would do so again if need be.’

‘Him?’ Quintus laughed. ‘Why, he’s just a runt.’

‘You think so? I’d place money on him long before I’d ever bet on you.’

Marcus saw the blood drain from the tribune’s face as he glared angrily at his commander. ‘I’d thrash this boy in a fight, sir.’

‘Then let’s put it to the test.’ Caesar drew his sword and handed it to Marcus. ‘Draw your blade, Quintus. Let’s see if you are as good with a blade as you think you are. A little fencing bout. Just to first blood.’

Quintus looked astounded. His comrades muttered encouragement and he nodded and stood up, drawing his sword. He took up position ten feet from Marcus and turned to face him with a contemptuous sneer. ‘Like I said, no brain, and it seems no muscle either.’

Marcus said nothing but tested the weight and balance of Caesar’s sword. The proconsul stepped closer to him and muttered softly. ‘I just want you to make an example of him. Go easy. I’m not looking to create a vacancy in the tribunes’ ranks or make a widow of my niece. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ Caesar stepped back, clear of the short stretch of open ground between Quintus and Marcus. ‘Begin!’

The tribune looked at Marcus and puffed his cheeks. ‘Are you sure about this, sir? I’d hate to damage one of your servants.’

Caesar smiled. ‘Why don’t you just try?’

Quintus raised his sword and took a quick step forward as he let out a loud shout. ‘Ha!’

Marcus barely flinched and stood his ground, staring back intently as he balanced on the balls of his feet, weighing up the tribune. The youth was powerfully built, and could move with speed, but his poise was poor, clumsy even.

Having made his attempt to startle Marcus and failing, Quintus looked towards his cronies and chuckled. ‘There! Too stupid to react.’

The moment the tribune’s eyes glanced aside, Marcus attacked. He lunged forward, arm and blade outstretched. His opponent caught the movement and swung his blade up to parry the blow. Marcus flicked his wrist, letting the weight of his sword drop and swing under the tribune’s weapon. As he continued forward, he ducked low and struck the youth’s wrist with the flat of his blade. Quintus let out a strangled cry as the shock of the impact caused him to lose his grip and the sword fell from his Angers. Marcus followed through with the heavy bronze hilt of the sword, driving it into the tribune’s stomach with all his strength. Quintus let out an explosive gasp and staggered back, struggling for breath. Marcus calmly stepped forward and, raising the tip of his sword, made a tiny cut on his opponent’s cheek.

‘First blood.’ He smiled thinly, then turned to hand the sword back to Caesar.

The proconsul chuckled as he sheathed the blade and gestured to the astonished-looking tribunes. ‘Help Quintus back to his bench.’

Once the wheezing youth was seated, Caesar addressed his officers again. ‘If that is what a boy gladiator can do, then you can imagine what an experienced man is capable of. I think we’ve all learned the lesson. Never, ever take your opponent for granted. The briefing is over. Have your men ready to march at first light.’

He nodded to the camp prefect and the latter shot to his feet and barked. ‘Stand to!’

Every officer rose and stood stiffly, except Quintus who was forced to bend forward, still struggling to fill his lungs.

‘Dismissed!’

The officers began to file out of the tent, and Quintus angrily shook off one of his friends’ hands as they tried to help him. He glared at Marcus as he dabbed the blood from the small cut on his cheek. ‘Be careful, boy.’ he growled. ‘I will not forget this, nor forgive it.’

Marcus showed no reaction but felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Quintus hobbled from the tent. Caesar waited until the last of the centurions was leaving before he patted Marcus on the shoulder. ‘Nice work. That one needed to be taught a lesson. More than one lesson perhaps,’ he added bitterly. ‘He takes too much for granted. I think this campaign is just what he needs to grow up a little and be worthy of the name he bears, especially as he now represents my name too.’

There was a rustle and Marcus and Caesar turned to see the camp prefect holding the tent flap back. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s a man just arrived. Says he comes from Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

‘Crassus?’ Caesar raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he say what he wants?’

‘Only that he desires to speak with you at once.’

Caesar shrugged. ‘Very well, show him in. I’ll speak with him briefly. Marcus, gather up your slates and get yourself back to Ariminum. Have Portia’s cook feed you well. Then pack your kit and be ready to leave the house before dawn.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus stuffed his slates into the shoulder bag and pulled up the hood of his cloak to cover his head from the rain.

During their exchange the camp prefect had ducked his head out of the tent and beckoned to the man waiting outside. A moment later a tall, lean man limped into view. His cloak was flecked with mud and beads of water and what was left of his hair was plastered against his scalp. But as he saw him, Marcus’s heart lurched in his chest and he felt a burning rage sweep through his limbs. He recognized the man at once. There was no mistake about it. Decimus. The man who had made an attempt on Caesar’s life the year before, and the moneylender whose thugs had murdered Titus and dragged Marcus and his mother off into slavery.

11

Decimus glanced round the tent, barely registering Marcus’s presence before he turned his attention to Caesar. He bowed his head and held out a small roll of parchment secured with a seal.

‘A letter of introduction from Crassus, sir.’

Caesar took it, broke the seal and unwound the message before scanning the contents. ‘Publius Decimus?’

Marcus was watching him closely to see if Caesar recognized the name, but the proconsul’s expression did not waver for an instant.

‘Yes, sir.’ Decimus smiled. ‘At your service.’

‘Apparently not. You are here acting for Crassus.’

‘Indeed, yes.’

‘This letter requests that I permit you to accompany my forces in the fight against the rebels. For sundry commercial purposes … That’s more than a bit vague.’ Caesar frowned. ‘Care to elaborate?’

‘That would be a pleasure, sir. I am to act as the agent of Crassus in the purchase of any prisoners taken by our soldiers. I am authorized to pay your men directly, and of course you will receive a fifth commission on the value of each purchase, sir. A most generous share, as befits the close ally of my patron.’

‘I see.’ Caesar rolled the letter up and tapped the end against his chin as he stared at Decimus. At the side of the tent Marcus struggled against the urge to dash across the tent and hurl himself upon the man who was the cause of all his suffering. It took all his self-control to keep himself still as he resolved to remind Caesar who the man was.

The proconsul handed the letter back to Decimus. ‘Your patron’s terms are most generous. I accept them. I will make arrangements for you to march with the baggage train. I imagine that you have brought some staff with you to assist with the processing of the prisoners and to escort them to a suitable holding depot?’

‘Yes, sir. My men arc with the wagons outside.’

‘Then you can rejoin them. Have one of my clerks direct you to the baggage train and wait for your instructions there, Decimus. I wish there were time to offer you more hospitality but there is much I have to organize before we leave camp tomorrow.’

‘Of course, sir. I understand.’ Decimus bowed again and turned to leave the tent. The instant that Marcus judged the man was out of earshot he brushed back the hood of his cloak and rushed across to Caesar.