Son of Spartacus - Scarrow Simon (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
As the drenched figures huddled close to the flames, the landlord of the inn came rushing out from a narrow doorway behind the counter.
‘Ah, gentlemen, you must be chilled to the bone! Get those clothes off and sit you down. My wife and girls will see that they are dried. We’ve more racks in the kitchen. Just hand ’em to me and once you’re dry and changed we’ll bring you some nice hot stew.’
Marcus and the others gratefully peeled off their wet over-clothes and heaped them on the counter before rummaging through their saddlebags for dry garments. The cold had left Marcus with numbed hands and feet and he now rubbed his palms together in front of the fire until feeling returned to his fingers. Lupus simply stood with a vacant expression as he held his hands out towards the flames.
‘Don’t put your hands too close while you can’t feel them, said Marcus, ‘or they’ll start burning before you realize it.
‘I just want to be warm again,’ the other boy muttered. ‘By the Gods, I wish I was back in Rome.’
‘Well, you’re not. And you’d better get used to it. Caesar's on campaign now and where he goes the rest of us will follow.’
‘Then let’s hope that he deals with these rebels quickly and we get this over with.’
‘Over with?’ Marcus could not help smiling. ‘This is just the beginning. When — if- he defeats the rebels, then Caesar aims to make a name for himself in Gaul. There’ll be years of campaigning before he’s done.’
Lupus lowered his hands and turned towards Marcus with a bleak expression. ‘Years?’
The innkeeper returned and gathered up the bundle of wet clothes, taking them back into the kitchen. A squat, heavily built woman with a dark complexion soon emerged, carrying the wooden handle of a heavy cauldron. At once a rich aroma filled the room and Marcus felt his stomach rumbling as his appetite awoke. Behind the woman came a young girl, no more than eight, Marcus guessed, struggling under a large tray piled with wooden bowls and spoons.
The woman set the cauldron down on the counter and her daughter placed the bowls beside it. The first two bowls were filled with a ladle and the girl carried them across to Caesar and Festus. Having grown used to the deference with which Caesar was approached in Rome, Marcus could not help a soft gasp as Festus received the first bowl, and then his master before the girl turned back to serve the others. Festus glanced anxiously at Caesar, but the great man just chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. He leaned forward and sniffed the stew.
‘And what have we got here, innkeeper?'
The owner of the inn ducked out of the kitchen. ‘Sir?’
‘What’s in the stew?’
‘Goat. No shortage of that around the town!’ the man said cheerfully. ‘I do hope it’s to your liking.’
Caesar tested a spoonful and nodded. ‘Indeed it is. Just what a man needs after a day on the road, eh, lads?’
The men voiced their agreement, and as soon as they were served moved to a table on the far side of the room to avoid encroaching on their master. Marcus and Lupus were the last to take their bowls. As they headed towards the table where the bodyguards were bent over their food, Caesar called out.
‘No. Over here. Join us, Marcus. You too, Lupus.’
They turned and crossed towards the table where the two men were seated.
‘What does he want with us?’ Lupus asked in a whisper.
‘No idea,’ Marcus replied softly.
They set their bowls down and each pulled up a stool, sitting nervously under the piercing gaze of Caesar’s dark eyes. He gestured towards their bowls and spoons. ‘Eat up, boys. Tonight we are a happy band of travellers. We’ve left Rome and all those stiff social manners behind for a few days. Life has become a lot less complicated and that is the way I like it. We’ve escaped from those scheming rascals in the Senate and our task is simple and direct: track down and destroy this man Brixus and his rabble. That is all.’ He took another spoonful of stew and chewed quickly on a chunk of meat. ‘Damn fine stew this. Must remember to eat goat more often, right, Festus?’
‘Yes, master.’ The leader of his bodyguard bowed his head.
Marcus tucked in, his spirits rising with every mouthful of the richly flavoured meal. After a moment even Lupus got over the fact that he was sharing a table with his master and began to eat. At length Caesar pushed his empty bowl aside and leaned back against the cracked plaster wall behind his stool. He was silent for a moment and then folded his hands together.
‘I’ve just remembered. I’ve seen this town before, years ago. I was only a tribune then, in the early days of my soldiering. I had just been appointed to one of the legions in Crassus’s army and was riding to join him with a cohort of allied cavalry. We stopped at this town for the night. I didn’t stay here. One of the local magistrates put me up for the night.’ He paused. ‘It was as dismal a place then as it is today. Anyway, we rode on the next day and I never thought I'd be staying here again.’
Festus finished his bowl and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Crassus? Then that must have been when he was fighting Spartacus, master.’
‘Indeed it was. That’s what set my mind to it. Thinking about the enemy we face now. Last time I arrived just in time to witness the final great battle, when Crassus crushed the rebel army.’
‘Crassus?’ Marcus could not help being surprised. ‘I was told that it was Pompeius who ended the rebellion, sir.’
‘Pompeius?’ Caesar cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. ‘No, he reached the scene shortly afterwards, just in time to mop up the survivors of the main battle. I had the fortune to be witness to both battles, if you can call Pompeius’s action a battle. Skirmish more like. Not that he described it that way to the Senate. Oh, no. He sent them a report stating that it was he who had put an end to the rebellion and killed Spartacus. As if Crassus had been doing nothing for the previous two years. That’s Pompeius for you. He’ll claim all the credit that he can.’
Marcus leaned forward and stared at his master intently as a peculiar anxiety to know more gnawed at his heart. ‘You said you were at both battles, sir?’
‘That’s right. After the first one, Crassus sent me to find Pompeius and request that he block the survivors’ escape route. He did that right at least.’
Marcus felt his pulse quicken. He had rarely heard Titus, the retired centurion who had raised him, talk of the rebellion. The brutality and hardship of the campaign had scarred Titus for the rest of his life. Now Marcus had a chance to discover more about his true father.
‘What was it like, sir? What happened?’ Marcus swallowed nervously. ‘Did you ever see Spartacus himself?’
‘So many questions.’ Caesar smiled faintly. ‘Well, there’s nothing else to do in this place but talk.’
Lupus discreetly reached for his satchel and pulled out a waxed notebook. Caesar shook his head. 'No need for that. I am not anxious to record my part in the slave revolt for posterity. The sooner the whole episode is forgotten the better.’ Lupus nodded and returned his writing tools to his satchel, while Caesar closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, then began. ‘It was a war like no other I’ve ever seen, or heard of. Neither side took many prisoners and the slaves showed no mercy to any slave traders or overseers who fell into their hands. Of course, most of this I got second hand from the men who had been fighting Spartacus and his rebels during the earlier years of the revolt. By the time I joined Crassus he had closed in on them, trying to force Spartacus to turn and give battle. He was like a wounded animal: never more dangerous than when they are trapped and know they must fight or die. So Spartacus formed his army up on a ridge across our line of march.’
Caesar stared at the table in front of him and Marcus willed him to go on. Caesar cleared his throat and continued, his voice a little lower. ‘Even though we outnumbered them, I could see that our soldiers were nervous at the prospect of a fight. I remember that I did not understand their reaction. They were trained soldiers and well equipped. Many of them were veterans of previous campaigns. When I looked at the rebels I could see that many of them only carried farming tools and wore little or no armour. There were women there too, and even old men and boys. There were several thousand in the centre of the line who were well equipped and were formed up in a disciplined line. Behind them a body of mounted men surrounded Spartacus and his standard.’
