Gladiator: Son of Spartacus by Simon Scarrow

eased her back as he beamed down at her. ‘How is my favourite niece?’
    ‘I’m your only niece.’ She punched him lightly on the chest.
    ‘Well, there you are then. Still my favourite. And how are you adapting to married life? Where is that husband of yours, young Quintus?’
    Marcus saw her smile waver for the briefest instant before she replied. ‘Oh, he’s down at the officers’ club. They’ve set themselves up in an inn on the harbour front. They’re very busy at the moment, as you must know. Getting the army ready for the new campaign. I suppose they are entitled to a bit of fun now and again. But we’re happy. Very happy. Although I know that I will not see him for a long time when you take the army north, into Gaul.’ Her smile faded as she took his hand. ‘Please don’t give the order too soon.’
    ‘My dear, empires are not won by men who stay at home with their wives.’
    ‘And men who win empires are not born if their fathers are never at the side of their mothers,’ she shot back.
    ‘Hah! You have a sharper mind than half the men in the Senate, and a sharper tongue than the rest of them. But enough of that. I have a surprise for you, just in case you were missing Rome.’ He stepped aside to reveal his two companions. ‘Here’s Festus, and Marcus.’
    ‘Marcus!’ Portia smiled and stepped towards him and took his hands, at arm’s length, gave a squeeze and then released them. ‘You look well. Fully recovered from the fight with that awful thug Ferax?’
    ‘Yes, mistress,’ Marcus replied formally, as was the expected custom between them in front of others. ‘I am well. It is good to see you again.’
    ‘Then perhaps we can talk a little later on, when you have all been fed?’
    Caesar coughed. ‘I’ll eat later. There’s something I need to attend to first. This officers’ dub, where is it exactly?’
    ‘Must you go already?’ Portia frowned.
    ‘I have much to do. We are on the march against the rebel slaves the day after tomorrow. I need to look at my officers. See what they’re like and choose those who will accompany me. I won’t be too long, I promise. Meanwhile, you can see that Festus and Marcus are fed, and plague them with questions about events in Rome since you left. I know it’s only been a few months, but they’ve been filled with incident.’
    ‘I will ask. But tell me, how is Lupus? I thought you’d need your scribe at your side.’
    Caesar pursed his Ups. ‘Marcus is my scribe now.’
    ‘Oh. Why not Lupus? I thought he was good at his job.’
    ‘He is... was. We lost Lupus on the journey here.’
    ‘Lost?’
    ‘We were ambushed by brigands. Lupus was killed.’ He cupped her cheek in his hand. ‘The others can tell you the story. I must go.’
    Caesar kissed her on the top of her head and turned away to stride through the door into the street. The doorman closed it behind him and Portia was left with the others. She looked from face to face. ‘Poor Lupus... Come then, to the triclinium. I’ll have food and drink brought for us and you can tell me what happened.’

    The triclinium of the slave-dealer’s house overlooked a long colonnaded garden with a water channel running down the middle, crossed by two small wicker bridges. Dusk had fallen over Ariminum and the air was chilly, so a fire had been lit on a brazier in the middle of three dining couches. Small tables had been set in front of each and a woman slave in a plain brown tunic brought small platters of sliced sausage, olives, honeyed bread and delicate pots of fish sauce to drizzle on their food, together with glass goblets and ajar of watered wine.
    For a while they talked light-heartedly about affairs in Rome and the latest scandal to emerge from the world of chariot racing where one of the owners of the blue team had been accused of bribing a stable boy from the green team to poison the feed of the best horses. As a result the races had been cancelled for two months until tempers between