Gladiator

9

Marcus ran on for a mile or more, his eyes brimming with tears. His heart was beating wildly and the heat of the morning sun beneath the boughs of the pine trees drenched him with sweat. The run through the trees had left his face and hands scratched and bleeding, and his muscles ached from the effort. Yet the pain on his skin and in his limbs was nothing compared to the agony that engulfed his heart. He stopped and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled for breath. He strained his ears to listen for any sounds of pursuit above the blood pounding through his head, but there was nothing except for the faint caws of crows, swirling across the forest.

As he recovered his breath, Marcus tried to think about his situation, but it was impossible to concentrate while images of his mother, injured and at the mercy of the driver, flooded through his mind. Her shouts to him to run still echoed in his head. Marcus straightened up and turned back to stare uphill towards the road. He felt like a coward. He also felt more afraid of being alone than he did of the driver, and the punishment that the driver had threatened him with. With a sharp intake of breath Marcus decided what he must do. He turned around, searching the ground until he saw what he was looking for. A short distance away was a fallen tree. He ran over and snapped off the largest branch that he could handle. Hurriedly stripping off some of the small twigs, Marcus gripped the end of the branch and swung it round, one way and the other, then he whacked it down on the tree trunk. The blow jarred his arms, but the branch did not snap.

‘That’ll do,’ he muttered to himself, then set off up the slope, climbing back in the direction from which he had fled. He knew that he had little chance against the burly driver, unless he could find some way to surprise him. If Marcus could do that, then he might be able to knock him unconscious, even kill him. Then he could rescue his mother and take the wagon somewhere to find help. His thoughts stilled for a moment. Could he really kill the driver if he had the chance?

‘Yes,’ he growled to himself. He would do it, if he had to.

As Marcus emerged from the thicket of pine trees he had used to escape from the driver, he crouched low and picked his way over the carpet of pine needles, making no noise. His eyes and ears strained to pick up any signs of life ahead. There was no movement, apart from the faint shimmer of light and shadows on the ground. When he reached the place where he had left his mother, Marcus knelt down. The needles were disturbed and there was a smear of blood on a rock. He stared at the blood for a moment as a wave of anxiety gripped his body. Then he swallowed, grasped his makeshift club more tightly and crept up towards the road. As his eyes drew level with the rutted surface Marcus paused and glanced cautiously from side to side. The road was empty.

There was no sign of the wagon.

He climbed on to the road and stood in silence, staring in the direction the wagon had been headed. He did not know what to do. No idea at all. His first instinct was to run after the wagon and see through his plan to attack the driver and rescue his mother. But the panic and fear that had seized him earlier had begun to recede and he was able to think more clearly. He could follow the wagon and wait for the chance to strike, but having been tricked once the driver would be on his guard. If Marcus was caught, then it would all have been for nothing and he and his mother would be condemned to the living death of working in a slave gang on Decimus’s estate. And there was little doubt that the driver would give him a severe beating as well, before throwing him back into the cage.

His mother was right. He must find help. Find someone who would listen to what he had to say and give Marcus and his mother justice, and punish Decimus. A spark of anger ignited in his chest at the thought of the man who had taken away his happy life, and stolen his parents from him. Punishment would not be enough for Decimus. He must pay with his life.

With a heavy heart he turned round and started to walk back in the direction of Stratos. There was no question of entering the town again. If he was recognized, he would be caught and thrown into the auctioneer’s cells while a message was sent to Decimus informing him that the runaway slave was recaptured. Instead, Marcus decided to make his way to the river and then follow that to the sea, where he could find a port. Then he would need to get on board a ship bound for Italia, where he would find General Pompeius and tell him everything. But even as he resolved to make this his plan, Marcus knew that the path ahead of him was difficult and dangerous.

He rested the club on his shoulder and increased his pace as he strode along the rough track. Overhead the sun had risen to its zenith and the heat was scorching, rippling off the baked-hard earth of the road ahead. Once he was clear of the pine trees, Marcus could see Stratos down in the valley below, and the broad silvery ribbon of the river snaking across the valley floor before it passed through some hills in the distance. He left the road and made his way across country towards the river, cautiously passing through several olive groves and a vineyard on his way. Occasionally he saw people but kept he well clear of them. Marcus was not sure if he could risk asking help of anyone who lived close enough to Stratos. They might know of Decimus and hope to claim a reward for returning a runaway slave to him.

By the time he reached the river Marcus’s throat was parched. He found a quiet spot where reeds grew along the riverbank and squatted down to drink, cupping his hands into the cool water. When he was refreshed, he removed his boots and waded into the river. There he removed his tunic and washed it in the gentle current, rubbing out the dirt that had soiled the cloth during the days he had been locked in the cage. When that was done, he lay the tunic out on the riverbank to dry in the sun. He settled nearby, in the shade of a stunted bush, and rested. The strain of the previous days had been eased a little by bathing in the river and Marcus gradually drifted off into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, night had fallen. Around him the shrill sound of cicadas filled the darkness. The air was cool and he reached across for his tunic. It was dry and once he had pulled it over his head Marcus felt more comfortable. As he slipped his boots on and tied the laces he glanced up. A half-moon hung in the sky, bathing the landscape in the faintest of blue hues. Marcus felt hungry and realized that he had had nothing to eat since the previous evening. He squatted down by the river to cup some water into his hands and drank his fill before setting off.

Marcus stayed as close to the river as he could, following it downstream. At first he found it unnerving, and every sudden rustle in the grass or crackle of a twig caused him to duck down and keep still. His heart beat quickly and he strained eyes and ears for any sign that he was being hunted. Only when he was satisfied that the noise had been made by some animal did Marcus warily continue on his way.

Twice during the night he came across small villages nestled on the riverbank. He crept carefully round the dark masses of the small houses and hovels, but no oil lamps glimmered in the darkness and no one stirred, except for a dog in the second village that barked briefly and let out a low howl before falling silent. As the first pale glow of dawn crept over the horizon, Marcus came across a third village. There was a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach and he reluctantly decided that he must risk finding something to eat. He had no idea how the people of the village would react to finding a young Roman boy on their doorstep. He would have to try to steal some food. The thought of stealing concerned him for a moment. It had been drummed into him by his father that theft was dishonourable and that a man who stole from his comrades should be severely disciplined. Yet now Marcus was hungry, so hungry that it was painful and distracting. A year ago he had been ill and unable to keep any food down and hadn’t eaten for days, so he knew that if he did not eat soon he would feel light-headed, faint and weak. There was no avoiding it. He must have food, however he came by it.

Marcus carefully approached a large house on the edge of the village. Outside the entrance a small flame flickered in a brazier. By its light Marcus could see a man curled up on the ground. He paused long enough to satisfy himself that the man was asleep and then crept closer. There were two low buildings extending either side of the house and the acrid smell of goats wafted on the night air. Marcus guessed that these were the sheds where the livestock and other foodstuffs were kept. He reached the end of the nearest shed and flattened himself against the roughly plastered wall.

He was still for a moment, listening for any movement, but there was nothing apart from the shuffling of one of the goats on their straw bedding – then silence. Marcus felt his way along the wall until he came to a door. He eased the latch up slowly, wincing as it grated. The door was mounted on heavy wooden hinges and creaked as he opened it enough for him to squeeze inside. A thin shaft of moonlight fell across the floor of the shed. By its light he could see another door on the far wall. Next to it stood racks filled with stoppered jars. Marcus moved further inside and came to some shelves. His fingers lightly felt across the objects stored there. There were some root vegetables, then bags filled with grain. Then he found some hard-surfaced objects the size of large stones. He pressed harder and they yielded. Marcus picked one up. It was light and, as he raised it to his nose, he smiled. Bread. He quickly picked up a few more of the small loaves and carried on searching. The next shelf had some cheeses and he took the largest one that he could manage, then helped himself to an empty waterskin lying next to the shelves. He could fill it from the river, he decided, as he started back towards the door, happy with his finds.

But as he walked quickly away, his foot caught on something heavy. There was a grating sound and an instant later a heavy jar smashed on to the flagstones. Liquid splashed up against his legs and the air was filled with the aroma of olive oil. An icy jolt of fear shot down his neck. The sound had been enough to alert the farmhands, he was sure of it.

He made to run to the door but the spilled oil made the flagstones slippery and he was forced to tread carefully. Marcus heard a shout from the main farm building and he emerged from the shed into the moonlight to see that the man by the fire had risen to his feet and was sounding the alarm. Marcus ducked down behind a pile of firewood beside the shed to keep out of sight. Even though it was night, the moonlight would provide enough illumination for the man to spot him. A door crashed open just inside the entrance and a moment later two more men joined the first.

‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked.

‘Heard something breaking in one of the storerooms.’

‘Animal?’

‘We’ll soon find out! Come on.’

The first man lowered a torch into the brazier and the flames quickly carried to the oil-soaked rag binding the end of the torch together. The three of them started towards the shed, lit by a wavering pool of orange light from the flame of the torch. Marcus realized that they would see him in a matter of moments. He would not be able to outrun them laden down with the food he had taken, but equally he was starving and he knew that he would not be able to go on without something to eat. He glanced round desperately, then his eyes fixed on the oil gleaming in the entrance to the storeroom.

Rising up from behind the logs, he ran back to the door.

‘There!’ The man with the torch thrust out his arm. ‘That boy!’

‘Little thief! Let’s have him!’

They burst into a run. Marcus glanced round and then ducked back into the shed.

‘Ha! He’s trapped now,’ one of the men shouted with glee. ‘We’ve got him.’

Marcus carefully made his way across the pool of oil to the door on the far side. It was fastened with a simple bolt, but it was stiff and squealed faintly as he struggled to draw it back. There was a glow in the room as the man with the torch reached the entrance. Trying not to panic, Marcus struggled again with the bolt. His heart pounded with terror at the thought of being captured. Just then the bolt shot back and he thrust the door open.

‘Stand still, you!’ the man shouted across the room.

Marcus glanced back. ‘Make me.’

Then he ran off into the night. Behind him he heard the men enter the shed and there was a cry of alarm and a soft thud, then another, as they slipped and lost their footing in the slick of olive oil.

‘Watch that torch, you fool!’ a voice cried.

Marcus ran on, away from the village, making for the safety of the shadows under the nearest olive grove, a hundred paces away. He did not dare look back as his pursuers shouted in panic. Only when he reached the trees did Marcus pause and glance over his shoulder. The door was clear to see, lit by a strengthening glow of red and orange from within the shed. One of the men came stumbling out, silhouetted by the glare within. The torch must have set fire to something in the shed and now the flames were spreading quickly. The shouts of the men had roused more people from the house. Marcus’s chest heaved as he caught his breath and watched for a moment, content that no one was pursuing him. He tore at one of the loaves and chewed quickly. The first of the flames licked through the roof of the shed as several figures began to throw buckets of water on to the fire.

Marcus felt a surge of guilt at the sight. He had only wanted to eat and was shocked by the growing blaze. Once the fire was put out, the people who owned the farm would be sure to send men to look for the culprit. He had to move on quickly and get as far away from here as possible before daylight. Biting off some more bread, Marcus turned away and hurried through the olive grove. He strode as quickly as he could, not daring to run for fear of tripping and twisting his ankle in the dark. After he had put a mile between himself and the farm, Marcus turned back towards the river and continued following it downstream.

At first light he saw that the river was flowing through a narrow gorge and he was forced to follow a steep path leading up the hill to the side. When Marcus reached the crest, puffing from the effort, he stopped dead. On the far side of the hill the ground fell away to a narrow strip of coastal plain. Below, a large port lay in the shadow of the hill. Beyond the thick stone walls lay a confusing maze of dull red-tiled roofs stretching out towards the coast, where there was a wide bay. Twenty or thirty ships were moored beside the quay, and many more lay at anchor.

For the first time, Marcus felt his spirits rising as he stared down at the ships. Some of them were bound to be sailing to Italia and he would find a way to get aboard one of them. He would work his passage or, if necessary, he would stow away and jump over the side as soon as the ship dropped anchor off the coast of Italia. Then he must get to Rome and find General Pompeius. Marcus knew that a long road lay ahead of him and he must travel it alone and overcome the dangers he encountered on the way by himself. If only his father were still alive and here now. He would know what to do and he would be strong enough to see it through. For a brief moment he doubted whether he could do it, and then he remembered his mother and his heart filled with renewed determination to rescue her.

Marcus ate half a loaf of bread, and some of his cheese, then set off down the hill towards the port.