Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

17

The last days of summer passed in a relentless routine of training and kitchen duties. Marcus and the other boys were roused at first light and they marched over to the kitchen block to help prepare the morning meal. Marcus was tasked with lighting the kitchen fires on the blackened iron grates below the cooking grilles. A small brazier was kept permanently lit in one corner of the kitchen and once Marcus had laid the kindling he carefully carried over some of the glowing embers and inserted them into the fireplace. Then, puffing his cheeks, he gently blew to make the embers catch and direct the small licks of flame into the kindling. There were three fires to be lit and maintained, and Marcus had to make sure that he kept an eye on each of them. Fresh wood had to be brought continually from the store outside the kitchen and laid by the hearth ready for use.

The slave in charge of the kitchen was a former gladiator named Brixus who had been badly injured five years ago. The hamstring in his left leg had been almost severed by a sword blow. Although the crowd had spared him, it was the end of his career in the arena. Porcino had transferred him to the kitchen, where he might still be of some use to his owner. Brixus was solidly built and looked the same age as Marcus’s father. Except that his hair was thick and dark with not a hint of grey in it. He made his way around his kitchen with a very pronounced limp that gave him a rolling gait.

Ferax and his friends made fun of Brixus behind his back, silently gesturing to each other and doing quick imitations of his walk. When he glanced round, or turned suddenly, they would instantly go back to their duties overseeing the large cauldrons of thick barley meal that bubbled and hissed faintly as the boys stirred the steadily thickening breakfast with stout wooden paddles.

An hour after Marcus and the others had risen to prepare their meal, the new trainees trooped into the mess hall next to the kitchen. The men picked up their bowls and wooden spoons and then waited in line to be served from the steaming cauldrons. They sat on long benches in silence and ate from the bowls in their laps. The drill instructors slowly walked up and down between the benches, ready to lash out with their vine canes at any man who talked. Only when the men had finished eating and been marched off to begin their morning training were the boys allowed to eat. Then they washed the bowls and spoons and waited for Amatus to lead them to the training ground.

The large open space in the centre of the school was surrounded by a ten-foot-high timber stockade. Inside, the earth had been beaten flat and covered with dark sand from the shores of the Bay of Neapolis. It was here that the new intake of slaves began their training for the hard and dangerous life that lay ahead of them. The instructors bellowed their orders as each of the four groups took turns at running around the perimeter, lifting weights and making their way through a simple obstacle course, all designed to increase their stamina, strength and agility.

Amatus followed his class round the training ground, his vine cane ready to strike at any boy who lagged too far behind the rest, or did not put enough effort into lifting weights, or stumbled clumsily. Marcus was mindful that Amatus had admired his courage when he had been branded, so did his best to keep the instructor’s respect. No matter how hard his lungs burned with the effort of his exertions, or how leaden his limbs felt, Marcus drove himself on. Some of his companions were not so determined and soon carried bruises and welts from Amatus’s cane. Only one other boy showed the same determination as Marcus and that was Ferax. While Marcus had more stamina, Ferax had the strength, and they more or less matched each other in terms of agility.

Although their rivalry was unspoken during the training, Amatus was experienced enough to spot it at once and he goaded them on gleefully.

‘Come on, Ferax! That boy is half your size! What’s the matter? Can’t keep up with him? You will, my lad, or you’ll feel the end of my vine cane! Move those legs, you lazy Celtic swine!’

Or, when Marcus was grimacing as he struggled to raise one of the heaviest weights up to his chin, Amatus would come and stand by him and roar in his ear, ‘Call that a weight? I have seen maggots lift heavier rocks than those! How the hell do you expect to grow as big as Ferax if you don’t work at it? Come on, Marcus, show that bloody Celt what a Roman can do!’

Marcus felt the gaze of the other boys on him and knew that he must impress them if Ferax was not to win them over to his side. At the same time he was aware of the simmering hatred the Celt directed at him. For a while there was nothing Ferax could do about it. The days were too strictly organized for him to find the time to take out his wrath on Marcus, and once the boys retired to their stalls at night, they were too tired for anything but sleep. Marcus would curl up in the straw, while Pelleneus and Phyrus would talk in low voices for a while before they too fell asleep. The Spartan still kept aloof for the most part, but occasionally contributed a comment to the conversation if he felt it necessary to correct an opinion.

It was a month after Marcus arrived that Ferax found his opportunity. It was after the evening meal, and Marcus was the last to leave the kitchen and make his way back to the cell block. On the way, he stopped, as usual, in the latrine that stood in the corner of the school wall. The season was turning and the evening air was chilly as the nights drew in. A single small brazier burned at the far end of the latrine block when Marcus entered and by its wan glow he made his way to the two wooden benches opposite each other. There was only one other occupant, a Nubian boy, who had finished his chores only a short time before Marcus. They nodded a casual greeting to each other since the Nubian could still speak only a handful of Latin words, though he understood a good deal more, thanks to Amatus’s vine cane.

Marcus pulled up his tunic and sat down on the wooden bench, which was worn smooth through many years of use. The faint trickle of running water came up from the channel that carried the waste away, out under the wall into a small stream that passed close by the gladiator school. He had nearly finished his business when he heard the crunch of footsteps approaching the latrine entrance.

‘Oi, Nubian, outside!’ Ferax jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I want a word with the centurion’s son.’

The Nubian nodded, then stood up and reached for the handle of the sponge stick in the nearest of the tubs of vinegar that stood between the two benches. He applied it quickly, then lowered his tunic and hurried from the latrine, casting a wary glance at Ferax as he dashed past.

Ferax sauntered slowly down the length of the latrine as he undid his belt. ‘Well now, boy, it’s time to see just how brave you can be. You ready for it?’

Marcus felt his insides turn to ice as he hurriedly scrambled up and pulled his tunic down. He glanced round quickly, but all the windows were little more than slits high up on the wall and there was only one doorway into the latrine. He was trapped. Marcus snatched up a sponge stick and held it ready in front of him. Ferax stared at him and then chuckled. ‘What, you think you’re going to stop me with a stick?’

‘Leave me alone,’ Marcus said as firmly as he could. ‘I won’t warn you again.’

‘Oooh, you scare me.’ Ferax pretended to tremble. ‘You really do.’

Marcus realized that there was no way out of the confrontation. There was nothing he could say to talk Ferax out of it. As he accepted this, Marcus felt a sense of calm in his mind and heart. He would fight and most likely lose. But he would hurt Ferax as much as possible in the process.

‘Then I’m not the only thing that scares you,’ Marcus responded. ‘I saw you when we were waiting to be branded. I saw how scared you were. I saw you shake like a coward. That’s why you hate me, isn’t it?’

Ferax stopped six feet from Marcus and snapped the belt out between his hands. ‘Does it matter why? The fact is I hate you and I want to hurt you, Roman.’ He began to wrap the belt around his right fist, ending with the buckle across his knuckles. Then he took a wary step towards Marcus, lowering his body as he prepared to spring. Marcus raised the sponge stick and leapt forward before his opponent could get in his attack. The soiled stick, soaked in vinegar, struck Ferax on the cheek and he let out a brief cry of surprise and pain as Marcus stabbed the stick at his face, aiming for the eyes. As he had hoped, Ferax instinctively raised his hands to ward off the blow, and the Celt’s fingers closed round the shaft of the stick and he snatched it away. Marcus released his grip and threw himself forward into the other boy’s body, punching into Ferax’s stomach with all his weight.

‘Ooof!’ Ferax grunted as he bent over.

Marcus punched again, then changed his angle and slammed his fist into Ferax’s nose. The older boy’s surprise quickly passed and now he let loose an animal growl, ignoring the blows Marcus rained on him. Ferax shoved Marcus back with his left hand and then slammed his right into Marcus’s side. The blow was sharp and painful and took his breath away, but he knew that if he stopped fighting, Ferax would pulverize him. Ferax punched him in the side again, then aimed a blow at Marcus’s head, catching him on the jaw. The buckle cut into his flesh and Marcus saw a bright flash of white, then swirling sparks as he staggered back a step. Ferax followed up and hit him again, close to the ear. Marcus felt his legs wobble and he went down on one knee, instinctively raising his hands to protect his head. Ferax hit him again and Marcus fell flat on to the paved floor with a gasp. Above him the vicious expression of the Celt swam in the dim light cast by the brazier as he leaned over Marcus and punched him again and again, until he lost consciousness.