‘Evil?’ Festus cocked an eyebrow and smiled faintly. ‘Well, if he tries to cast a spell on Caesar, I’ll be sure to let you know.’

Marcus scowled at him, furious with Festus for being so dismissive. Then he turned and made his way back through the crowded inn. He paused at the door for one last, hateful glimpse of Decimus and stopped dead. Quintus had approached the moneylender’s table and was leaning down as he spoke earnestly with Decimus. The exchange was brief, and there was no mistaking the pleading expression on the tribune’s face. Decimus was still for a moment, as if thinking, and then podded. He reached down and took out a heavy purse from under his cloak, placing it in Quintus’s spare hand. The tribune looked round nervously before he slipped the purse out of sight under his own cloak. He quickly nodded his thanks to Decimus and hurried back to the dice game.

Marcus remembered Portia’s comment about her husband’s gambling habit. It seemed even more of a problem than she had feared and Marcus felt a stab of pity for his friend. It was a poor match, her marriage. Forced on Portia for political reasons, it had condemned her to being the wife of a wastrel whose only apparent talent was a capacity to lose at dice games. Marcus felt a moment’s sorrow. If Quintus carried on like this, he would only make Portia more unhappy. It was bad enough that he was unlucky, but that weakness was made worse by his lack of judgement.

Only a very desperate or foolish man would ever borrow money from the likes of Decimus. Marcus had learned that lesson only too well. It had cost Titus his life and all that he possessed. Now Decimus had found a new victim, and who knew where that would end.

Lupus had been ordered to remain in a simply constructed shack close to the main compound in the heart of the rebel camp. With each passing day he grew more fearful. Despite Mandracus’s kindly treatment of him and the promise that he would never be a slave again, Lupus felt he was treated like a prisoner. From the door of his shelter Lupus could see the largest hut in the camp — the one belonging to Brixus, he had discovered. Constructed from crudely cut stone with a manure and mud mixture pressed into the gaps for weatherproofing, and the thatched roof overhanging the walls, it was quite unlike the fine villas of Roman aristocrats, but palatial under the circumstances. A dozen men armed with spears and shields stood guard round the compound, with one assigned to watch over Lupus.

He was eventually summoned by the rebel leader one evening and taken to wait outside Brixus s hut until given permission to enter. The rosy glow of the sun slipped behind the rim of the mountains, and the valley was plunged into shadows as the failing light took on a blue hue. Around Lupus the rebels built up their fires, but none made any attempt to light them as they squatted down, waiting while the sunlight faded.

Lupus began to shiver, and after a moment he addressed the man escorting him. ‘Why don t they ever light the fires during the day?’

The man nodded up at the sky. ‘Smoke. We light a fire and there’s a danger that the smoke is seen and someone gets curious enough to come and investigate. So there are no fires until nightfall. Under strict orders from Brixus. Anyone who disobeys gets flogged publicly.’

‘Oh …’ Despite Mandracus s early reassurance that no harm would come to him, Lupus felt scared of the people around him. Now it seemed that their leader was a man who, despite proclaiming their freedom, ruled his followers with ferocious discipline. The cold mountain air penetrated Lupus’s cloak and tunic, and he stamped his feet on the ground as he felt his limbs begin to grow numb. He found himself thinking about Marcus and the others, who would probably be sheltering from the night in some comfortable house in Ariminum by now. As he thought of his friend, Lupus felt a stab of sorrow. Marcus would not be as afraid as he was, or at least would not show it. He had strength and courage, and Lupus knew that he could have coped with his present situation far better with Marcus at his side. But Marcus was not here. Nor were Festus or Caesar. Lupus was alone and no doubt his former companions thought him dead, buried beneath the avalanche. For a moment Lupus felt tears of self-pity in his eyes, but cuffed them away quickly, angry with himself for being weak. Marcus would never let himself feel afraid like this, Lupus told himself. He must be more like his friend. Show no fear, and win the respect of the men who had captured him.

At length, as the stars pricked out in the cold heavens above, Mandracus emerged from the hut and looked around for a moment before nodding to one of the guards by the nearest fire.

‘It’s dark enough. Start the fire.’ He glanced briefly at Lupus, then went back inside.

The guard immediately took out a tinderbox from the bag hanging on his shoulder and knelt down by the brushwood piled in a rough cone. Dried moss, straw and twigs filled a small gap at the base of the fire. As he huddled over the tinderbox, Lupus could hear the clatter of flints as tiny sparks fell on to the charred linen inside the box. A faint glow illuminated the man’s face as he blew softly, coaxing the tiny flame so that it spread to the other flakes of linen. Then he added some pinches of dry moss and added the contents of the box to the kindling at the base of the fire. It soon caught and spread quickly with a crackle to accompany the hungry orange tongues of the flames. One by one, other fires were lit, dotting the gloom of the valley with rosy glows that illuminated the small figures huddled round for warmth.

‘Can I go over there?’ Lupus nodded to the fire where a handful of guards stood, spears braced against their shoulders as they held their hands out towards the glow.

The guard cast a longing look towards the fire. ‘My orders were to keep you here until I heard otherwise … But I don’t suppose it can do any harm. Come on. But don’t try anything. I’ll be watching you, lad.’

‘Try anything?’ Lupus chuckled bitterly. ‘And where would I run? There’s only one way out of the valley, and that’s heavily guarded.’

The guard stared at him. ‘All the same. No funny stuff. All right?’

Lupus nodded, and the man gestured towards the fire with his spear. They crossed the compound and joined the other guards. One of them produced a wineskin and passed it round. The man responsible for Lupus took a swallow, then lowered the wineskin with a satisfied sigh.

‘Ah! That warms the heart. Here, boy. Have some.’

He held the flask out to Lupus. For a moment the boy hesitated, then he reached out and took the wineskin with a nod of thanks. Taking out the stopper, he sniffed the contents and could not help wrinkling his nose at the sharp, acidic odour. The men chuckled at his reaction and Lupus forced himself to control his expression. Steeling himself, he put the nozzle in his mouth and raised the skin up as he tilted his head back. For a moment there was nothing and then a jet of the wine sloshed into his mouth, sharp and burning on his tongue. He lowered the wineskin and spluttered, to the accompaniment of laughter from the guards round the fire.

‘Rough stuff, eh?’ said the guard. ‘Even for those of us who aren’t used to the wines of the richest households in Rome.’ lie gestured towards Lupus’s plain but well-made cloak. ‘It’s Mir you ain’t ever had to work in the fields. You’re a house slave. No doubt raised on the fine scraps from the master’s table. Never done a real day’s work in your life, I suppose?’

Lupus flushed angrily but dared not reply.

‘Thought so.’ The guard nodded. ‘Well, now you’re no better than the rest of us. We’re all the same here, lad. And you’ll fight alongside the rest of us when the time comes.’

Lupus swallowed anxiously. ‘If I refuse?’