Gladiator

18

‘You’re late,’ Brixus said gruffly as he approached Marcus from behind the following morning. ‘I’ll give you a good hiding if you don’t have those fires ready in time.’

Marcus rose stiffly from where he was arranging the kindling in the hearths. He looked down at Brixus’s boots as he nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Brixus. It won’t happen again.’

His voice was strained and muffled, and Brixus stepped towards him and lifted his chin to raise his face up, then caught his breath.

‘Looks like you’ve been thoroughly worked over, my lad.’

Marcus’s left eye was swollen so much it was closed. His face was cut and bruised and his lips were split and crusted with dried blood. He held one hand protectively over his ribs. Brixus puffed his cheeks out and steered Marcus towards a stool in the corner of the kitchen. ‘You sit there. I’ll find something else for you to do.’

‘I’m all right,’ Marcus mumbled.

‘No, you’re not,’ Brixus replied with a wry smile. ‘You’re a mess. Now do as you are told and sit down.’ He pushed Marcus towards the stool, then turned, looked round the kitchen and clicked his fingers as he pointed at one of the other boys. ‘Bracus! You’re on fire duty this morning. Get ’em laid and lit. And you, Acer, go and fetch Amatus.’

‘Amatus? The drill instructor?’ The boy looked fearful.

Brixus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know another Amatus? No? Then get to it!’

Marcus eased himself down on to the stool and winced as pain stabbed into his side. He breathed as gently as he could until the pain had gone away. Then his thoughts returned to the previous night. The last thing he could recall of the confrontation with Ferax was being beaten while he tried to curl into a protective ball on the ground. Then all was blank until he woke in the night to find Pelleneus mopping his face with a damp cloth, and Phyrus in the background looking on anxiously. The faint glow of a torch lit the scene as Phyrus muttered, ‘It’s my fault. I should have kept an eye out for him.’

Pelleneus shook his head. ‘That’s not possible. You couldn’t have prevented this.’

As Marcus stirred and groaned in agony, Pelleneus leaned forward. ‘Who did this to you? Tell us, Marcus.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘It was the Celt, wasn’t it?’

Marcus did not reply.

‘I thought so.’ Pelleneus nodded. ‘Well, he’s not going to get away with this. I’ll see to him.’

‘No!’ Marcus croaked. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll have my own revenge.’

‘You think so?’ Pelleneus glanced over his injuries. ‘Next time, he’s going to kill you.’

‘I’ll be better prepared,’ Marcus mumbled through his swollen lips.

‘He’s right,’ a voice interrupted, and they turned towards the Spartan, who was standing a short distance away. ‘The boy has to fight his own battles, if he is to become a man.’

Pelleneus glanced round. ‘Another fight will kill him, Spartan. So just leave the philosophy to us Athenians, eh?’

The Spartan shrugged. ‘The boy knows what I say is true. This is his fight and you don’t have the right to take it from him.’ He turned his dark, penetrating gaze on Marcus. ‘I know your mind, boy. You have the blood of a warrior in your veins. You must not shame yourself by avoiding this fight.’

‘I won’t.’ Marcus nodded as he closed his eyes again. ‘I will beat him.’

Pelleneus let out a sigh of frustration. ‘It’s your funeral, Marcus. And thank you, Spartan. You are as helpful as ever…’

When dawn came, Marcus had taken a while to get back on to his feet. Every movement was agony as he made his way from the cell block to the kitchen. Now he looked across the counters to where Ferax and his cronies were joking with each other as they filled the cauldrons with ground barley, oil, salt and animal fat. He felt a yearning for revenge. Come what may, he would face Ferax again. But next time he would be prepared. He would be stronger and he would learn how to fight well. When he was ready, Marcus would teach the Celt a lesson he would never forget. At that moment Ferax looked up and caught his eye. The two boys stared at each other, then Ferax winked and pursed his lips in an expression of mock pity.

Marcus felt a dreadful wave of rage and hatred sweep through his body. The desire for revenge even eclipsed the feeling of hatred he had for Decimus, who had caused all this to happen in the first place.

Amatus entered the kitchen and looked round until he saw Brixus and then strode up to him. ‘You asked for me?’

‘Yes, it’s the boy there.’ Brixus nodded towards Marcus. ‘He’s been beaten – badly. I doubt he will be able to train today and I thought you should know.’

‘Beaten?’ Amatus came over to Marcus and looked at him, noting the injuries. ‘Who did this to you, boy?’

‘No one,’ Marcus said quietly, meeting his gaze defiantly. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that Ferax was watching them closely. He cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as he could, so that all in the kitchen would hear. ‘I slipped over in the latrine.’

‘Is that so?’ Amatus could not help smiling slightly. ‘How many times? I had no idea taking a dump was so dangerous. Look here, boy, there’s no point in trying to pull the wool over my eyes, I’ve heard it all before. Someone attacked you. That’s against the rules and they’re going to have to be punished. Master Porcino does not take kindly to people mishandling his property. So tell me, who did this?’

‘I told you, I was in the latrine block and I slipped over, sir. That’s all.’

‘And that’s a lie, boy.’ Amatus frowned and poked his finger into Marcus’s chest. ‘I don’t like being lied to. Tell me, or it’ll be you I punish.’

‘I slipped over, sir,’ Marcus replied flatly.

‘On your head be it, then.’ Amatus turned to the cook. ‘Can’t afford for him to have any complications. He’s off training for two days.’

‘No, I can still do it.’ Marcus struggled on to his feet, only for Amatus to push him back down as he continued speaking to Brixus. ‘You’ve got yourself a full-time helper for a while. Make the most of it.’

‘There’s plenty of work he can do here.’ Brixus nodded. ‘I’ll keep him out of trouble.’

‘Better had.’ Amatus lowered his voice. ‘I can’t let this sort of thing happen again. Next time there will be consequences for those involved.’ He turned back to Marcus. ‘As for you, since you have such a problem keeping on your feet in the latrine, then the latrine obviously needs a good clean. That’ll be your job from now on. You’re off the evening kitchen detail. Instead you’ll scrub and wash down the latrine block each night. Maybe that’ll teach you not to lie to me.’

Amatus strode off, out of the kitchen and back towards the instructor’s mess to finish his morning meal. Once he had disappeared from view, Brixus looked round the kitchen and took a deep breath. ‘What are you all standing still for and gawping like fools? Get back to work!’

The boys instantly returned to their tasks, heads lowered as they avoided his gaze. Brixus stared at them a moment to ensure they were concentrating on their duties, then returned to Marcus. ‘You ever polished brass before?’

Marcus recalled the medallions on his father’s chest harness, each one awarded for an act of bravery. During the winter, the old centurion used to take out his kit and show Marcus how to keep it clean and gleaming through the use of an abrasive powder mixed with olive oil, rubbed in with an old cloth before being wiped away and buffed until it glinted. He looked up at Brixus. ‘I know how to polish.’

‘Good, because the master wants his table brass ready for a banquet in five days’ time. You can help me with the job.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

Once the men had eaten, and the boys had cleared and cleaned the kitchen before hurrying off to join them on the training ground, Brixus gestured to Marcus to follow him. They crossed the compound to the main gate, where one of the guards stepped into their path and raised his hand.

‘Halt! What’s your business here?’

Brixus limped to a stop, fished inside his tunic and brought out a waxed slate. He flipped it open and pointed to the instructions etched into the wax, together with the impression of Porcino’s seal ring. ‘There.’

The guard glanced over the slate. ‘What about the boy?’

‘He’s my assistant.’

The guard looked at Marcus and then stood aside as he nodded to the rest of the section guarding the main gate. ‘Open up.’

The locking bar was removed and the thick door opened just wide enough for Brixus and Marcus to pass through. It closed behind them with a deep thud as the guard waved them towards the villa of Porcino.

‘Come,’ said Brixus as he limped a short distance up the track before turning on to the drive that led to the villa. After the hardships of the gladiator school, Marcus saw that the owner lived very comfortably indeed. The drive to the house was lined with neatly trimmed bushes and every so often a short pillar supported the bust of a man. Marcus thought he recognized some of the faces from the statues he had seen at Nydri and in the towns and ports he had passed through on the way to Capua.

‘Who are they supposed to be?’ he asked Brixus quietly.

‘These?’ Brixus gestured towards the busts. ‘They’re the Roman quality, they are. Consuls, senators, high priests and so on. Our master likes to impress his guests, and at the same time he’s shrewd enough not to pick sides. See there? That’s Marius and directly opposite is Sulla. Bitter enemies in life and their legacy still divides the people of Rome. But Porcino aims to keep both sides happy whenever their supporters happen to pay a visit to the school.’

‘Do they come often?’

‘Often enough. There’s always some politician wanting to buy up some gladiators and put on a show to impress the mob.’

‘What about General Pompeius?’ Marcus asked, trying not to show his excitement. ‘Does he come here?’

‘Not likely!’ Brixus snorted. ‘He’s far too grand to pay us a visit in person. But we had one of his stewards here a while back. He bought four pairs of fighters for a private entertainment at Pompeius’s palace outside Rome.’

Marcus smiled to himself at the prospect, however slim, that such a fate might befall him one day. Perhaps Pelleneus was right. He should concentrate on staying alive long enough for such a chance to be placed before General Pompeius.

Porcino’s villa, like most grand Roman villas, was built with a large courtyard in front, entered through an elaborately decorated arch. Beyond the courtyard lay the main house, built around a neatly kept garden at the centre of which lay a pond into which the water from a fountain tinkled lightly. There was a small door in one corner of the courtyard that led through into the slaves’ quarters. Here was the familiar grim plainness of the school. Bare walls and gloomy rooms with high, barred windows. Brixus continued down a short corridor into a storeroom. The shelves were stacked with brass and silver platters, bowls and goblets. Elsewhere there was a collection of fine Samian ware, glass jugs and a few glass bowls. Brixus pulled up a couple of stools and returned with a small box containing some rags, as well as pots of abrasive powder and a small jar of oil. He muttered as he brought down a stack of brass platters and placed them on the floor between the stools. Handing one to Marcus and taking one for himself, he set to work.

‘So,’ Brixus said, as he mixed some powder and oil in a small dish. ‘What’s your story, young Marcus? How did you come to be a gladiator at the tender age of… what?’

‘I’m eleven,’ Marcus replied, shocked that he had forgotten his birthday over a month earlier.

‘As old as that?’ Brixus mused with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Almost a man, then?’

Marcus had grown used to the ironic banter of adults and did not rise to the bait. ‘I was taken illegally. My mother was also kidnapped, and my father, a retired centurion, was killed.’

‘Ah yes. I had heard that was your claim. Son of a centurion, eh?’

‘It’s true.’

‘If you say so.’ Brixus shrugged. ‘So what was your mother, an exotic eastern princess?’

‘No,’ Marcus replied. ‘My father met her during the slave revolt and married her soon afterwards.’

Brixus paused and glanced at Marcus, rag-wrapped finger poised over the brass platter in his other hand. ‘Your father took part in the campaign against Spartacus?’

Marcus nodded. ‘He was there at the final battle, where the slave army was crushed and Spartacus himself killed. My mother was one of the women captured when the legions sacked the slave camp.’

‘I see.’ Brixus looked down and continued rubbing the powder and oil into the brass platter. ‘I have to tell you, Marcus, I was there too, at the end of the great slave revolt. I was at that battle.’

‘You?’ Now it was Marcus’s turn to pause. ‘You may have known my father. Which legion did you serve with?’

‘I didn’t serve with the legions. I served Spartacus.’

Marcus looked at him in surprise. Brixus returned his gaze with a cold, emotionless expression and Marcus wondered if he was telling the truth. Perhaps this was another of the practical jokes the men in the school seemed so fond of.

‘I thought most of the slaves captured by General Pompeius were put to death.’

‘They were. The day before the battle I was injured when my horse fell down a slope and rolled over me. I was forced to watch the battle from a wagon in the slave camp. Otherwise I would have shared the fate of all the men who were captured under arms. As it was, I was taken when the Romans entered the camp. I was sold on to one of the slave dealers who were following the legions. He sold me to Porcino soon after.’

‘I see.’ Marcus dipped his rag in the mix and began to polish a platter. ‘Did you ever meet Spartacus?’

‘Oh yes, most of the army knew him. He always made a point of walking through the camp each night to talk to his followers.’ Brixus paused and glanced warily at Marcus. ‘I saw him on many occasions. Spoke to him too.’

‘What was he like?’ Marcus asked eagerly.

‘He was a man like me. There were no horns growing out of his head. No fire burning in his eyes and he did not eat his prisoners, as you have no doubt been taught.’

‘But he must have been a great warrior. My father says the slaves fought like demons. Spartacus must have been a giant, like Phyrus.’

Brixus shook his head. ‘Spartacus was not a big man. He was my height and my build. He had dark curly hair and piercing brown eyes, like you. When the revolt broke out he had never killed a man. Never even fought in the arena. But he took to command like a fish to water. In days he had organized us into a formidable fighting force. In months he had gathered tens of thousands of followers, and captured enough weapons to equip us all. The other gladiators took on the job of training the slaves, and we did it well, as the departed spirits of many a Roman soldier will testify.’ Brixus gathered some more of the polish mixture and turned his attention to a new section of the platter. ‘Whenever we went into battle, Spartacus led the way, followed by the men of his personal bodyguard.’

Brixus smiled fondly as he recalled the memory, and Marcus stopped polishing to stare at him, his mouth dropping open slightly.

‘Were you in his bodyguard?’

Brixus frowned. ‘I did not say that. All I said was that I knew him, along with many who followed him. That’s all. Now ask me no more questions about Spartacus, or you’ll get us both into trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

Brixus lowered his platter and leaned closer to Marcus. ‘If your father was who you say he was, then you must know how much the Romans were terrified of Spartacus. They still are. They know that the spirit of Spartacus lives on in the hearts of every slave in Italy. Our masters want to make us forget. So you can imagine how angry Porcino might be if he overheard our conversation.’

‘But we’re alone,’ Marcus protested. ‘No one can hear us.’

‘Walls have ears,’ Brixus replied. ‘I’ve said enough already. Now get back to work, boy, and no talking.’

Marcus sighed, frustrated that he could not learn more about the great Spartacus. He raised his platter and began to rub the brass vigorously. All the same, he could not help wondering about Brixus. There was more to him than Marcus had thought. Much more. Despite his denial, clearly he had known Spartacus well. Well enough to put his life in danger if the truth became known. Marcus carefully looked up at the man from under his eyebrows. Come what may, he was determined to discover more about Spartacus.