Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

20

In the pale light of dawn Marcus was dragged out of the windowless cell that Taurus had thrown him into the previous night. The air was cold and he fought down the instinct to shiver. He was determined not to let anyone see that he was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his life. The fear was not just for himself, but for his mother, and he cursed himself for failing her. Amatus fastened his hand round Marcus’s arm in a powerful grip and led him past the barracks and through the gate into the training compound. Taurus stood waiting for him.

‘Still say you’re innocent, boy?’

Marcus nodded. ‘I stole nothing, master. It was someone else who made it look as if it was me. I swear it, by all the Gods.’

Taurus frowned. ‘Careful, lad. The Gods are not inclined to show much mercy to those who swear falsely.’

‘I know, master.’

‘Whatever the Gods think, you’re in my hands now and you’ll take your punishment. Understand?’

Marcus hesitated before he gave a resigned shrug. ‘Yes, master.’

There was a brief silence and then Taurus spoke again. ‘Look here, Marcus, if it wasn’t you who stole the meat, then who was it, eh?’

Marcus had a clear idea of who had framed him. If anyone was behind this, it had to be Ferax. But Marcus had no evidence to support any accusation against Ferax, and in any case, with the discovery of his boot, and the smell of Brixus’s wine on his breath, it was natural for Taurus to assume that he was guilty. All that Marcus could do was to resolve that he would have his revenge on Ferax, if he survived his punishment. He looked up bleakly and met the gaze of the chief trainer. ‘I can’t say who it was. Only that it was not me, master.’

‘Then you leave me no choice.’ Taurus straightened up and switched his steely gaze to Amatus. ‘Summon every slave to bear witness.’

‘Yes, master.’ Amatus released his grip, bowed his head curtly and turned to hurry back towards the barracks. Marcus stood stiffly and stared straight ahead as Taurus tapped the tip of his vine cane against the side of his boot. A short time later the first of the gladiators trooped through the gate and formed a line opposite Marcus. The men barely cast a glance over the young boy as they stood waiting. Once the last of them had arrived, next came the boys from Marcus’s group. Most were curious, but some seemed to regard him with dread as they imagined themselves in his place. Ferax and his cronies watched him with faint mocking smiles as they strode by, and Marcus felt his rage flare up inside him. Last of all came the serving slaves of the gladiator school, Brixus among them. There was a surprised expression on his face when he saw Marcus. Then he and the others hurriedly formed up to one side.

When the last of them was in place, Taurus took a deep breath as he paced to the middle of the training ground. ‘For those who don’t yet know, you have been summoned here to bear witness to the punishment of this thief. The boy stole food from the kitchen last night. Thanks to his foolishness he was caught. By now you should all know the punishment for theft. Let this morning be a warning to you all.’ He turned to Amatus. ‘Bring your class forward. Form two lines across the centre of the training ground!’

Amatus bellowed at the boys, who quickly trotted forward and formed an avenue in front of Marcus. The other end, fifty paces away, was by the stockade on the far side of the excercise ground. The boys stood six feet apart, facing the opposite line. Once they were in place, Amatus strolled over to a wicker basket containing a stack of stout wooden staves. He took out a large bundle of them, holding them up against his chest, and then returned to his waiting class.

‘Take one each!’ he ordered, stopping in front of every boy as they armed themselves. Ferax hefted his staff and gave it a vicious experimental swing that thudded down into the gravel in front of him. Then he glanced at Marcus and winked. When the last staff had been issued, Amatus took up a position at the far end of the gauntlet.

Taurus turned to Marcus. ‘Take off your tunic.’

Marcus faced the man, with his back to Brixus and the other slaves, and then reached down and pulled the hem of his tunic up, over his waist, before shuffling it over his shoulders. Taurus took the bundle away from him and Marcus stood in his boots and loincloth. There was a faint gasp of surprise and Marcus glanced round to see Brixus staring at him, wide-eyed.

‘Quiet there!’ Taurus roared. ‘Those on the gauntlet make ready! I don’t want to see anyone slacking off. As the boy passes in front of you, you will do your utmost to strike him, hard. Anyone who fails to land a blow, or strikes too softly, will be the next one to pass through the gauntlet. Is that clear?’ He grasped Marcus by the shoulder and steered him towards the pair of boys at the head of the gauntlet. ‘When I give the word, you begin.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Best to run like hell. Keep your arms up to protect your head. Don’t hesitate and don’t fall down. If you do, then you’re dead. Understand?’

Marcus nodded, his body trembling in the grip of naked terror.

‘Then get ready. On the count of three. One! Two!…’

‘Stop!’

Taurus spun round with a furious expression. ‘Who the hell said that?’

Marcus looked over his shoulder and saw the slaves glancing at Brixus. The old cook swallowed nervously and then shuffled forward a pace. ‘It was me, master.’

‘Brixus? How dare you? How dare you intervene?’ Taurus bunched his fist around the head of his vine cane as he strode up to the cook, his expression as black as night. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Brixus rose to his full height and faced the drill master squarely. ‘The boy is innocent, master. I know him. Marcus is not the thief.’

‘Really?’ Taurus snarled. ‘What makes you think that? Unless you were there and saw the thief in person. Well?’

Brixus’s eyes briefly met those of Marcus. Then Taurus rammed his cane into the cook’s stomach and he folded over with a groan, slumping to his knees. Taurus leaned over him menacingly. ‘Well?’

‘It was – me.’ Brixus gasped for breath. ‘I stole the meat.’

Taurus froze. ‘What’s that? You? I don’t believe it!’

‘It’s true, master.’ Brixus fought for breath. ‘I did it. The boy is innocent.’

Marcus shook his head in bewilderment. Brixus was the thief? A cold chill of doubt gripped his heart as he wondered why Brixus had spoken up. Was it guilt, perhaps, for Marcus taking the blame for the stolen venison? Every face on the drill exercise ground was turned towards the two men and there was a long silence before Taurus straightened up and placed his hands on his hips. ‘All right, then. If it was you, why confess now, when you could have got away with it, eh?’

Brixus caught his breath and looked up. ‘I’ll not have some boy take his strokes on my behalf, master.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have my pride. I may be a slave, but I still have some sense of honour.’

‘Honour?’ Taurus barked out a laugh. ‘Honour! Wonders will never cease! Honour is for free men, Brixus. It’s a luxury no slave can afford.’

‘Though I am a slave, I am still a man, master.’

Taurus took a step back. ‘All right, on your feet, then. Let’s see how your sense of honour copes with a good hiding.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘You, boy! Pick up your tunic and stand to the side.’

Marcus hesitated, too surprised to move. Taurus raised his vine cane threateningly and Marcus snatched up his tunic and trotted over to the slaves. As he pulled it back over his head, he heard the drill master order Brixus to strip and take up his position at the start of the gauntlet. Marcus shuffled his head through the top of his tunic and saw the cook limp towards the lines of boys.

Taurus stood just behind him, waited for complete stillness and silence and then called out, ‘Make ready! One… Two… Three. Off you go, Brixus!’

The cook ducked his head down and raised his arms to each side to protect his skull from the blows to come. Then, with a swift lurch forward, he entered the gauntlet. Marcus caught his breath as the first pair of boys struck out with their makeshift clubs. Brixus was moving faster than they had anticipated and they had little time to prepare their strikes. One staff deflected off his side and the other glanced off his shoulder as he ran on in a low crouch. The second pair of boys were more prepared and their blows landed solidly against Brixus’s back with thuds that carried clearly across the training ground. He took his blows and scurried on, dodging unevenly from side to side to put off the aim of his assailants. Marcus watched his progress, stomach knotted in anxiety.

‘Come on, Brixus,’ he muttered. ‘You can do it.’

Brixus was over halfway through the gauntlet and his combination of moving as swiftly as his limp allowed and erratic movements had managed to save him from the full force of the blows aimed at him. There were only another twenty or so paces to go now, but near the end of the gauntlet Marcus could see Ferax raising his club, edging forward into the path of Brixus. The cook had his head bowed down slightly and did not see the danger until the last moment, as he sensed the presence of someone directly ahead of him. With a savage shout of triumph Ferax swung his club down and it glanced off the side of Brixus’s head. His legs gave way underneath him and he sagged on to his knees, his torso swaying, as if he was drunk. Ferax hefted his club, standing over the helpless cook.

‘No,’ Marcus muttered desperately. ‘No… NO!’

He sprang forward, sprinting diagonally across the training ground. Ferax was turned slightly to one side and could not see him approaching. His attention was fixed on his victim and he grasped the stave in both hands and began to raise it high above his head. Marcus threw himself across the hard-packed earth, desperate to save his friend.

‘Hey, you!’ Taurus bellowed. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

Marcus ignored him, concentrating all his attention on Ferax. The Celt’s shoulder and arm muscles tightened as he made to swing his club and Marcus launched himself forward, grabbing frantically at the bigger boy’s wrists an instant before his full weight smashed into Ferax’s side. The breath was driven from their bodies as both crashed on to the ground to one side of Brixus. Ferax was momentarily too surprised to react. Marcus used the advantage. He aimed several blows into Ferax’s stomach, winding him, so that the Celt lay on his side, gasping. Marcus quickly rolled away and rose into a crouch, ready to continue his attack. But Ferax could not fight back for a moment. Taking his chance, Marcus scrabbled over to Brixus.

‘Get up! Come on, Brixus, on your feet.’

Brixus rolled his head to one side, dazed. ‘I – I can’t.’

‘You must! Or die here!’ Marcus grabbed him, gritting his teeth as he strained to help the man on to his feet. Then, taking one arm across his shoulder, he struggled forward. Ahead lay the last two boys, two of Ferax’s companions. They looked from their leader to Marcus uncertainly.

Marcus was overcome by fury.

‘You even touch Brixus and I swear I’ll kill you…’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

The boys kept hold of their staves, but made no moves towards him as Marcus staggered by with Brixus and collapsed at the end of the gauntlet. His chest was heaving from the exertion as he forced himself to his feet and stood over Brixus protectively.

‘Well, well!’ Taurus laughed as he strode towards them. He looked Marcus over with an amused expression. ‘You’re skin and bone and with just scraps of muscle on you, but by the Gods, you have the heart of a lion! I may make a gladiator of you yet, young ’un.’

‘No! Not if I can help it!’ Ferax growled, struggling back to his feet, one hand stretching towards the wooden club he had dropped. His fingers closed round the haft and then he let out a sharp cry of pain as Taurus stepped down on his fingers with his nailed boots.

‘Let go of it, lad! You had your chance. Next time you’d better not hesitate. Consider it a lesson learned.’

Ferax glared up at him.

‘I said, let go. I won’t say it again.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Ferax loosened his grip and shuffled back. He turned his attention to Marcus and muttered, ‘You’re dead. I swear it, by all that’s sacred. You will die by my hand.’