Gladiator

19

As soon as he had recovered from Ferax’s beating, Marcus returned to training with the rest of the class. Winter swept across the Campanian countryside, bringing with it wind and cold squalls of rain. Brown, crispy leaves from the trees outside the school swirled over the walls and collected against the sides of the buildings and in the corners. The change in the season had not the slightest effect on the daily routine, however. After breakfast Marcus and the other boys marched out to the training ground, where Amatus instantly set them to work.

Every day it was the same set of exercises repeated over and over. The boys were exhausted and, having completed their duties for the day, collapsed on to the straw in their stalls and fell asleep at once. Marcus was the last to sleep, having been tasked with latrine-cleaning duties. Only when the wooden benches had been scrubbed, the vinegar tubs emptied and refilled, and the channels beneath the latrine benches sluiced clear could he rest. It took weeks before the stiffness in his muscles wore off by the next morning. But as winter set in he began to feel stronger. He could lift far heavier weights than when he arrived. His stamina was also steadily increasing, so that he no longer felt exhausted by the day’s labour and he rose each morning alert and ready to begin training.

In the last month of the year Amatus decided that they were ready to begin weapons training. As the boys marched into the training compound, they saw a small cart loaded with wooden swords and wicker shields. Marcus felt his pulse quicken at the sight. At last they were going to be taught how to fight! Even though he knew that this was another step on the way to the deadly combat of the arena, Marcus was keen to learn the skills his father had once had. He had already realized that there was little chance of escape while the guards watched the slaves closely from the towers. One day, perhaps soon, he would win his freedom. Then he would be better able to find his mother, set her free and protect her.

‘Right, you lot!’ Amatus shouted as he stood by the cart. ‘Each boy take a sword and a shield and stand in a line in front of the training posts!’

Marcus joined his companions as they pressed close to the edge of the cart and waited their turn to be equipped. He felt a sharp poke in his side as Ferax leaned towards him. ‘Wooden swords for now. But let’s see what damage they can do, eh?’

Marcus turned to look up at the Celt. ‘Wood or steel, either way, I will cut you down to size.’

‘Oho!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Silence there!’ Amatus bellowed. ‘One more word from you, Ferax, and you’re on latrine duty.’

Ferax bowed his head quickly and pushed himself in front of Marcus and the others to take his training weapons from Amatus. When it was Marcus’s turn he was surprised by the weight of the shield and the sword. He experimented with a few loose swings of the sword as he made his way over to one of the training posts – stout lengths of wood, standing as high as a man and battered and chipped from years of enduring blows from the gladiator school’s students. When all the boys were in position, Amatus approached a post in the middle of the line. He turned to face them.

‘I’ve spent the last months making you fit enough for what lies ahead. Now the real work begins. You will continue your exercises, carrying this kit. You will also be trained in basic fighting techniques. Today we will cover the absolute basics: the thrust, the recover and the block. Watch me closely.’

Amatus raised his shield and placed his left foot forward. ‘See this? You keep your weight evenly balanced and then lower your body so that you are ready to throw your weight forward or back as necessary. Always lead with your left foot and follow with your right. It’s not like normal walking.’ He looked round at the boys. ‘Got that? I don’t want to see any of you crossing your legs over. You do that in a real fight, your opponent can catch you off balance and knock you down in a flash. Learn to move properly now and it’ll become second nature. Right, adopt the stance and when I advance, you retreat, keeping the same distance between us. When I fall back, you follow up. Clear? Then into position.’

Marcus advanced his leading foot, held his shield up and glanced to either side to make sure he was in the correct posture. Amatus paced down the line, nodding approval and barking sharp criticism as he inspected his students. He paused in front of Marcus.

‘What the hell are you doing with that sword? It’s a sword, not a bloody walking stick! Hold it up, level with the ground, tip just in front of the shield! You have to be ready to strike or block at any moment.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus did as he was told.

‘That’s better.’ Amatus moved on.

When he was satisfied that everyone was ready, Amatus began to drill them in movement, gradually increasing the pace and testing their reactions with occasional swift advances and retreats. Those who were slow to react were bawled at and made to run around the training compound before rejoining their comrades. As the hours passed, the weight of the equipment began to tell and Marcus felt his muscles burning under the strain. But he gritted his teeth and continued, watching Amatus closely and matching his movements as swiftly as he could.

At length Amatus straightened up and lowered his shield. He looked over the class with a slight sneer. ‘That – was – pathetic. I’ve never seen such a bunch of losers in all my born days. So, we’ll just have to keep at it, until you thick-headed farmboys get it. Take position! Begin!’

The movement drill continued for the rest of the day, and the next morning. Amatus increased the pace of their movements, letting out a deafening ‘HA!’ each time that his right hand punched forward. The boys responded by raising their shields and swords, ready to parry direct attacks, as well as overhead blows and slashes from the side. When Amatus drew back and lowered his sword, they made their thrusts at an imagined foe and let out their own shrill cry of ‘HA!’

‘What the hell was that?’ Amatus responded furiously to their first effort. ‘You trying to make me laugh? When you strike, you give me a roar like a lion. There’s more to winning than using a blade well. You have to scare your opponent. You have to make ’em think you’re some wild barbarian warrior whose blood is on the boil. Make ’em fear you and the fight’s half won. Let’s try it again.’

He dropped into a crouch, paused, stepped back twice and pointed his sword towards the sand to signal his students to attack. Marcus thrust out his wooden sword with all his strength, at the same time as a cry ripped out of him, from the bottom of his lungs, adding to the din of the rest of the students.

Amatus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Better, but you still don’t scare me. Work on it.’

For the next few days they continued the drills. Then Amatus moved them on to the basic sword strokes and they spent hours thrusting and cutting at the training posts, the air filled with the sharp crack of wood on wood and the yells as each boy struck.

All the time Marcus watched Ferax closely in case he tried anything while Amatus was not looking their way. For his part the Celt regarded Marcus with contempt and had let it be known that he had beaten Marcus up. Now the other boys regarded Ferax with fear and did all that they could to avoid his attention. So none of them befriended Marcus, or even spoke to him. He tried not to care, as he still had the two Athenians for company, as well as Brixus, who treated him well and saved some extra scraps of food for him at the end of most days. However, Marcus felt the despair slowly building in his heart. He was no closer to finding General Pompeius and regaining his freedom and that of his mother. Nor would he ever have his revenge on Decimus while he was imprisoned in this gladiator school.

His misery was compounded by the cruel tricks that Ferax played on him whenever Amatus had his back turned. Some days he would deliberately position himself close to Marcus and then trip him up as they were running circuits of the training ground. Or he would shove Marcus when they were using weights, causing Marcus to drop them on the sand, and Amatus would spin round and bellow abuse into his face and strike him with his cane. Marcus bore it all with a grim determination to bide his time, build his strength and wait for the day when he was ready to turn on his tormentor.

The year drew to an end and still no opportunity for escape presented itself, as the slaves were kept inside the walls. The gladiator school began to make preparations for the annual festival of Saturnalia. One morning, wagons trundled into the school laden with jars of wine, fine bread, haunches of cured meat and baskets of pastries. They were unloaded by Marcus and the others, under the watchful gaze of Amatus and a section of the school’s guards, to prevent anyone stealing anything. Once the supplies for the feast had been placed in one of the storerooms, Amatus locked the door and took the key to Taurus.

While they waited for Amatus to return, Ferax stepped towards the door and sniffed. ‘Smell that, boys? Smell all that good food? In five days we’ll be eating our way through it.’

One of the guards laughed. ‘If the master is not happy with your progress then you’ll get what’s left over after the men have finished eating, my lad. That’s what you’ll be feasting on.’

Ferax scowled. ‘That ain’t fair. We’ve as much right to it.’

‘You’re just at the bottom of the pecking order.’ The guard cuffed Ferax round the ear. ‘And you call me “master” when you address me.’

‘Yes, master.’ Ferax bowed his head. He saw Marcus and grinned. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing, master. I ain’t at the bottom of the pecking order. He is, that one there.’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘The son of a centurion.’

Marcus stood still and concealed his feelings of hatred and anger as Ferax continued in a louder voice, addressing the rest of the class, ‘When Saturnalia comes, I get first choice from the table. Then my friends, then you lot and lastly him.’ He stabbed his finger at Marcus. ‘If anyone tries to jump the queue, then they’ll have me to answer to, and you all know what happens to those who try to defy me…’

Hardly any of the boys dared meet his eye and a few glanced nervously at Marcus as they remembered his fate.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Marcus said firmly, though inside his stomach knotted with anxiety.

‘No? Well, you should be.’ Ferax glared at him and then slowly shook his head. ‘Not that you’ll be around to fear me for much longer.’

Marcus frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Before Ferax could respond, a voice cut through the air.

‘What’s all this?’ Amatus bellowed as he strode back towards them. ‘Hanging around like a bunch of farmhands.’ He shook his cane. ‘Get in line, damn you! Or you’ll feel this across your backs!’

At once the boys rushed into formation and Amatus led them off to the training ground, where he drilled them hard for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Once the boys were dismissed and had made their way to the kitchen, they talked in excited tones about the coming festival. Marcus knew about Saturnalia from his days on the farm. As the year came to an end, the house would be decorated with garlands made from the branches of pine trees. In the kitchen his mother would labour over special treats. On the day of the festival, Marcus’s father, as head of the household, would act as the host for his family and slaves alike, serving at the table where they had gathered to eat. Afterwards, Aristides would take out his flute and play music for a while, before someone else would tell a story or put on a mime. Then, as night closed in, Marcus would ask Titus to tell them a tale of his years in the army, of the sights that he had seen as General Pompeius’s legions had marched across the known world. Marcus sighed. That was at the time when the farm had been making money and Titus had owned several more slaves. When his fortune had turned, the slaves were sold off one by one and the celebration of Saturnalia became a very quiet affair.

Marcus smiled as he recalled the happier days that were almost like a dream to him now. A painful dream. He wondered what form the festival would take in the gladiator school. Would Porcino himself come to serve his slaves? It hardly seemed possible. At least there would be a brief break from the usual exhausting daily routine. That was something, he reflected, and he kept his mind on the promise of a stomach filled with good food for the rest of the day’s training session.

Afterwards, as he helped in the kitchen, Marcus noticed that Brixus was watching him carefully, as if weighing him up. When the evening meal was over and Marcus was about to set off to the latrine to finish his duties for the day, Brixus took his arm as he made to leave the kitchen.

‘Marcus,’ he spoke quietly, ‘do you still want to know more about Spartacus?’

He nodded.

‘Then come back here, once you have finished in the latrine.’

‘All right. I will.’

Brixus released his grip and Marcus hurried off. As he scrubbed the benches, he could not help wondering at Brixus’s change of heart. When they last spoke of the rebellion, Brixus had ended the discussion abruptly, the moment he felt he had said more than he should. Although Marcus was tempted to rush the cleaning of the latrine, he did not dare to let Taurus find fault with his work, so he refilled the tubs and carefully sluiced the channels as always, then put the brushes and buckets away in the cupboard by the door before leaving. The night was dark and a chilly wind blew across the gladiator school.

Brixus was sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen when Marcus returned. The room was lit by a single oil lamp at the end of the table. A small jar of wine sat in front of Brixus and he was pouring himself another cup as Marcus entered. Brixus looked round quickly and then relaxed when he saw Marcus.

‘Ah, good. Come and sit down, boy.’ He nodded to the stool on the other side of the table and Marcus did as he was told, noticing that there were two cups on the table. Brixus filled the spare cup and pushed it carefully across towards Marcus.

‘There, drink it. Helps to keep the cold out.’

‘Thanks.’ Marcus nodded as he took the cup, a plain clay vessel with a chipped rim. He had drunk wine before, heavily watered down by his mother, but the rough flavour of the drink Brixus had poured for him took him by surprise.

‘Not the best stuff.’ Brixus smiled. ‘But wine isn’t so easy to come by in here. I bought this one from the guards.’

‘You have money?’ Marcus said in surprise. Most slaves he knew of were not allowed to keep money.

‘Yes, of course. Porcino allows his most trusted slaves to earn and save money. After all, one day we might have enough to buy our freedom and he’ll make a tidy sum out of it, as well as not having to feed and house us as we grow old. Anyway…’ He took a quick sip and narrowed his eyes a little as he looked across the table at Marcus. ‘You want to know about Spartacus.’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, but first let me put things straight between us. I imagine you haven’t forgotten that day when we were polishing brass for the master at his house.’

‘I remember it.’

‘Yes. And you will also remember that I said I knew Spartacus.’

Marcus nodded. ‘You said that you knew him very well.’

‘So you went away with the impression that I was perhaps a friend of his?’

Marcus did not know what to say and instead took another sip of the fiery liquid as he waited for Brixus to continue.

‘Whatever the truth of it is, young Marcus, I think you must know how dangerous it would be if people got the impression that I was close to Spartacus. Romans have long memories and they are not a forgiving people. I know that you are a Roman, but I also sense that you have a good heart. You are not like some of the boys who pass through the school. Crafty little thieves and bullies, some of them. Especially lads like that Ferax and his thugs. You are not like them. So I trust you, but now I have to know how far I can trust you.’ He stared at Marcus for a moment. ‘You must not breathe a word of what I said to you. Do you promise?’

Marcus nodded solemnly. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Brixus sighed with relief. ‘Now that I have your word, what can I tell you about Spartacus?’

Marcus looked at him eagerly. ‘Were you one of his bodyguards?’

‘No, I was more than that. I was one of his lieutenants. I commanded his scouts.’ Brixus smiled sadly as he gestured to the plain plaster walls surrounding them. ‘This is all that is left to me. I used to be a fine gladiator, then a leader in Spartacus’s army. Now I am just a humble slave.’

‘If my father told me the truth, then you are not humble. You fought well. You won your glory.’

Brixus shook his head. ‘There was no glory in that last battle, Marcus. It was a bloody massacre. We had been on the run for months, always just a few steps ahead of the pursuing legions of Crassus, who defeated us in several battles and skirmishes. Then Pompeius arrived and we were caught between the two armies. We had no choice but to turn and fight. By then we had lost many thousands to sickness and injury and there were barely five thousand men who could still hold a sword or spear. Most of them were cut down in the first charge. But Spartacus and his bodyguards fought their way deep into the Roman lines before they were halted, surrounded and killed. It was all over in less than an hour.’

Marcus stared at him. ‘But that’s not what my father said. That’s not what people say.’

‘Of course not. Too many men had reputations to build for it to be anything other than a great victory against a dangerous enemy. Crassus claimed that he had beaten us, but Pompeius – the Great Pompeius – reported back to Rome that it was really he who had overcome the slave horde. When I was held prisoner in his camp, I heard him making speeches to his men telling them what heroes they were. He was very generous with his awards and praise, and I dare say your father was one of those who did very well out of it. Small wonder he was content to stick with his general’s version of events.’

Marcus felt a sour taste in his mouth. He did not want to believe what Brixus was telling him.

‘Of course, the one thing that Pompeius could not destroy, or corrupt, was the inspiration that Spartacus gave to us. Even though the rebellion was crushed and Spartacus was killed, his example lives on. Ask almost any slave. He is our secret hero. We live for the day when another Spartacus will rise up and shatter our chains. And perhaps the next time it is we who will be victorious and Rome that will be humbled.’

He drained his cup and looked directly at Marcus. ‘There. You wanted to know more and now I have said my piece. What I need to know is that you will keep it secret.’

Marcus nodded slowly. ‘I will. I swear it, on my mother’s life.’

Brixus watched him closely for a moment. ‘That is good enough for me. Give me your hand, young Marcus.’

Leaning across the table, Marcus reached out and felt Brixus’s weathered fingers close round his hand. They shook briefly, then Brixus released his grip.

‘That’s all for tonight. You must be tired.’

‘Very.’ Marcus slid off his stool. ‘Thank you for the wine.’

Brixus smiled and waved a hand towards the door.

Outside, Marcus hunched his head down into his tunic and marched quickly up the short route from the kitchen to the cell block. The guards let him inside and locked the door behind him. When he reached his stall in the gloom, Marcus slipped off his boots and crawled on to his pile of straw, pulling his spare tunic over him to keep him warm. Sleep came easily, despite thoughts about what Brixus had told him swimming around in his head. The sleep was deep and dreamless.

Until he was kicked sharply in the ribs. ‘Get up! Get up, you thief.’

Marcus stirred, his mind drowsy. He squinted up as a torch blazed over him. The man who had woken him now wrenched him up on to his feet. Now Marcus could see that it was Amatus who was holding the torch, and the man who had kicked him painfully was Taurus, the chief instructor of the school.

‘What have you done with it, thief?’

Marcus blinked and shook his head. ‘Done? Done with what, master?’

‘The venison joint you stole from the storeroom.’

‘What?’ Marcus glanced from one to the other. ‘What venison, master? I swear I haven’t taken anything.’

‘Liar!’ Taurus held up a boot. The ties had snapped and the leather uppers flapped as he shook it. ‘This is yours.’

Marcus stared at it and shook his head. ‘My boots are over there, master. At the entrance to the stall.’

‘Three of them are. This one was found, a short while ago, when the watch was changed. Guess you must have abandoned it in your rush to escape before you were seen, eh? It was found in the storeroom used for the festival of Saturnalia. The lock had been smashed. Some wine had been drunk and the venison stolen.’ He frowned and sniffed Marcus suddenly. ‘You smell of wine!’

Marcus felt a ripple of icy terror sweep down his spine. ‘It wasn’t me! That’s not my boot. I swear it.’

‘Shut your mouth, thief!’ Taurus held the sandal up to the torch. ‘LVIII. See it? That’s one of a pair issued to you. So, no more lies, thief. You’ll pay for this. Do you know what we do to thieves?’ He clenched his fist in Marcus’s tunic. ‘Well?’

‘N-no, master.’

‘We get them to run the gauntlet.’ His lips twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Your comrades will form two lines. Each slave has a club and when the word is given the thief has to run down the entire length of the gauntlet, being beaten as they go.’ Taurus chuckled. ‘The thing is, I’ve rarely ever known a slave survive long enough to reach the end.’

Marcus felt his guts turn to ice. He wanted to deny it, to claim his innocence, but from the look on Taurus’s face, the man would not want to hear a word of it. The raised voices had woken some of the others and by the dim light of the brazier at the end of the barracks Marcus could see their faces peering at him over the sides of the stalls. He saw Ferax and their eyes locked on each other as a crafty smile slowly formed on the Celt’s lips.