Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

21

Brixus winced as he struggled to ease himself up on the bedroll. He leaned back against the plaster wall of the infirmary and breathed carefully for a moment in order not to make the pain from his cracked ribs any worse. Aside from the strips of cloth tied firmly about his body and one forearm bound with splints, his body was covered with livid purple bruises and dark scabs where his skin had been grazed or cut. Marcus felt sick with horror at the severe beating the cook had taken for him.

‘Come now,’ Brixus forced a smile. ‘I don’t look that bad.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘You’re a mess.’

‘Thanks. If that’s what I get for saving your hide, then next time I won’t bother.’ He pretended to look hurt and disappointed for a moment before his smile returned. ‘Anyway, it’s been two days since it happened and I haven’t seen you since then.’

‘Taurus has been keeping me busy. He said that I should take on most of your duties until you recover. When I’ve not been training, I’ve been kept busy in the kitchen. Taurus has been watching over the place like a hawk. I think he’s making sure that there’s no further trouble between me and Ferax.’

‘Some chance.’ Brixus snorted. ‘I know his type. Ferax will not rest until he has destroyed you.’

‘I know,’ Marcus replied quietly. He cleared his throat and continued, ‘Anyway, how are you feeling today?’

‘It hurts, all over, but the surgeon says that there’s no permanent damage. It’ll be a while before my arm is better. So you’d better do a good job of looking after my kitchen, young Marcus, or Ferax won’t be the only one out for your blood!’

Brixus paused and stared intently at Marcus. ‘I understand you stepped in to save me. I still can’t remember much about what happened. After the first blow to my head things went a bit hazy. Taurus told me about it.’

‘Taurus?’ Marcus was surprised.

‘Yes. He’s given orders that I’m to be well looked after. Of course he said that he was only doing it to make sure that Porcino didn’t lose a slave and that I needed to recover as soon as possible to resume my duties in the kitchen. But he wasn’t fooling me. I could see that he was impressed by both of us.’

‘Oh?’

‘Surely. Me for taking the blame and you for rushing to defend me. Taurus may be a hardbitten old brute, as so many legionary veterans are, but he’s fair-minded and knows a good quality when he sees it.’

Marcus nodded, but he was not interested in Taurus. Only in the question that had been fixed in his head ever since Brixus had saved him from the gauntlet.

‘Why did you do it? Why did you save me?’

Brixus stared at him for a moment, all trace of humour drained from his face. Then he shrugged faintly. ‘I don’t believe you stole the meat. In all likelihood, it was that thug, Ferax. He saw a way to lay the blame on you and have you disposed of in a way that was sure to increase his hold over the other boys. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen, Marcus. That’s why.’

Marcus was not so sure. He wanted to believe the cook – Brixus had proved to be one of the few people he counted among his friends in the gladiator school. However, it was hard to accept that someone would risk such danger for the sake of a few months’ friendship. Not unless there was some other reason. But what could that be?

‘I thank you for my life, Brixus,’ Marcus said awkwardly. ‘It was not just my life at stake, but my mother’s as well.’

‘I know. You told me all about her. About what had happened to your family.’ Brixus fell silent again, chewing on his lip as he stared intently at Marcus. Then he gestured to the floor beside his mattress. ‘Sit down. I want to talk about something.’

Marcus did as he was told, settling on the flagstones, legs crossed.

‘That’s better,’ said Brixus. ‘I don’t have to strain my neck to look up at you this way. Now, Marcus, I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘What questions?’

‘About your family… About that mark on your shoulder.’

Marcus raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You mean that scar?’

‘Scar? I suppose it could be called a scar.’

‘How do you know about it?’

‘I saw, when Taurus told you to remove your tunic before the gauntlet,’ Brixus explained. ‘When did you get the scar?’

Marcus shrugged. ‘It’s always been there, as long as I can recall.’

‘I see. Do you know how it happened?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘It must have been when I was an infant. Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious.’ Brixus pursed his lips before he continued, ‘Do you mind if I see it again?’

Marcus was puzzled by the request. ‘What’s so special about the scar?’

‘Let me see it.’

There was a strange gleam in the man’s eyes and Marcus felt nervous. He hesitated a moment and then eased the shoulder of the tunic down to expose the puckered flesh of the mark on his skin. It felt strange to him that he had never been able to see it for himself and had only ever been able to trace his fingers over the peculiar shape. He half turned to show his shoulder to Brixus. The cook stared at the mark in silence. Then he coughed. ‘Thank you.’

Marcus pulled his tunic into place and shuffled back to face the man. Brixus was looking at him with an intense expression. ‘Do you know what the mark on your shoulder is?’

‘No. I’ve never been able to see it properly.’

‘It’s not a scar, Marcus, nor any kind of birthmark. You’ve been branded. Just as I thought when I saw it for the first time, two days ago.’

‘Branded?’ Marcus shivered at the idea. ‘Why would anyone brand me when I was a baby? Anyway, what kind of a brand is it?’

‘A wolf’s head, mounted on the tip of a sword.’

Marcus could not help a quick laugh. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘I can’t say for sure, not yet,’ Brixus replied quietly, glancing over the boy’s shoulder towards the door of the cell. Then he continued in a low voice, scarcely more than a whisper, ‘Tell me about your family again. You say your father was a centurion.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What about your mother? Where did she come from? How did she meet your father?’

‘She was a slave,’ Marcus replied. ‘She was involved in the revolt led by Spartacus and was bought by my father when the rebels were crushed. He set her free and married her.’

‘And then you were born,’ Brixus mused. ‘Tell me, what does your mother look like? Describe her to me.’

As Marcus concentrated and painfully recalled as much about his mother’s features as he could, Brixus listened closely all the while, nodding from time to time as if to encourage him to continue. When Marcus had finished, Brixus frowned and shook his head as he muttered to himself, ‘She must have taken the branding iron with her…’

Marcus leaned closer. ‘What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense. Brixus, tell me what this is about. Tell me!’

‘I – I’m not certain, Marcus. My mind has been greatly troubled ever since I saw that brand of yours. It may mean something, it may not. But I cannot tell you any more until I have proof. Then I can tell you what I know. Until then you must say nothing of this to anyone.’ He suddenly gripped Marcus tightly by the wrist and drew him closer. ‘Not a word to anyone, do you understand?’

‘Why? What’s the secret?’ Marcus asked in frustration. ‘What are you hiding from me?’

‘It is better that you do not know. Not yet.’ Brixus relaxed his grip and slumped back with a grimace, his breathing coming in sharp snatches. He waved a hand towards the door. ‘I am tired now. I need rest. Taurus will be expecting you back in the kitchen, I’ll wager. Best get yourself there if you’re to avoid a thrashing.’

‘No,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘Tell me what you know.’

Brixus shook his head. ‘It is too early for that and too dangerous. I will tell you all I know when the time is right. Trust me. Now go!’ He reached out and thrust Marcus towards the door, forcing him to scrabble around to keep his balance.

With a dark frown Marcus stood up and angrily balled his hands into fists. Brixus turned his face away and did not speak any more. Marcus left the cell and strode out of the infirmary as he hurriedly made his way back towards the kitchen, filled with frustration.

The Saturnalia was celebrated on a cold, windy day. While the wind and rain lashed across the gladiator school, rattling on the tiles and howling round the walls, the slaves, the drill instructors, the clerks and even Porcino himself were all gathered in the largest of the barrack blocks. This year the lanista had decided to have all his slaves feed at the same time without regard to age. Tables and benches had been carried through from the kitchen and set up down the length of the building. Then, once the slaves had taken their places, Porcino and his freedmen entered carrying trays laden with food and drink. Today, for once, there was no training and the men and boys gazed with unrestrained delight at the food set before them. Fresh loaves of bread, cured joints of meat, cheeses, jars of fish sauce and heavily spiced sausages.

Marcus was sitting beside Pelleneus. Opposite sat Phyrus and the Spartan. Phyrus leaned forward and grasped one of the loaves, tearing out a large mouthful and chewing furiously.

‘Easy there, my friend,’ Pelleneus said, laughing. ‘Or there’ll be none left for the rest of us!’

‘Too right,’ Phyrus mumbled, spitting crumbs. ‘Mmm, it’s got sesame seeds in.’

Beside him the Spartan brushed away some of the crumbs that had fallen on the sleeve of his tunic, then reached for the smallest of the sausages and bit off the end, eating with studied indifference.

Marcus waited until the men had filled their wooden platters before tentatively reaching for some meat himself. Pelleneus nudged him.

‘There’s no pecking order at Saturnalia. Tuck in.’

As Marcus helped himself, Phyrus leaned over the table and hurriedly swallowed before he spoke. ‘How’s the cook doing? I heard you had been visiting him.’

‘Brixus is recovering well. Should be returning to duties any day now.’

‘Just as well,’ the Spartan commented. ‘He’s about the only slave who knows how to cook.’

Marcus flushed. ‘The other boys and I do our best.’

The Spartan shrugged. ‘Well, I hope you learn to fight better than you cook, young Marcus. If you want to live.’

‘Tshh, ignore him,’ said Pelleneus. ‘Enjoy the day.’

Marcus nodded happily. Despite everything that had happened to him, he had taken comfort from his three companions and had grown to regard them almost as if they were older brothers. No, not brothers, he thought to himself. More like uncles.

‘Ah, here comes the wine.’ Pelleneus nodded towards the door and Marcus saw the drill instructors returning to the barracks laden with jars of wine and baskets filled with wooden cups. Taurus approached them, placed a jar in the iron holder on the table and then set down four cups in a succession of sharp raps.

‘I’m not sure if I really care to patronize this establishment,’ the Spartan commented drily. ‘This serving-man seems far too surly.’

‘Make the most of it,’ Taurus grunted. ‘Tomorrow you’re all mine again.’

As the drill master moved on, Marcus exchanged a glance with the other three and then they burst into laughter.

The feasting continued throughout the day, and in the evening, after the remains of the banquet had been cleared away, the tables were pushed aside and Porcino ushered a troupe of entertainers into the barracks. Torches were lit and placed in the wall brackets, and by their light the entertainers performed some acrobatics before moving on to a repertoire of crude mimes that soon had the gladiators, most of whom were drunk by this time, in fits of hysterical laughter. Marcus, who had only had one cup of wine, felt pleasantly dizzy as he leaned against the wall and watched the performance with a bleary smile. But then his mood darkened again as he knew the morning would mark a return to the hard training regime of Amatus.

When the performers had finished their acts and left the barracks, Porcino climbed on to a table at one end of the room and raised his hands to attract their attention.

‘Quiet! Quiet there!’

Slowly the conversation died away and all eyes turned towards the owner of the gladiator school. Porcino waited until he had silence and everyone’s attention was turned on him. Then he drew a breath and addressed them.

‘Gladiators, you have earned your celebration of Saturnalia! It has been my pleasure to reward you for the effort you have put into your training. I have never seen such a fine intake of men and boys. You do honour to my gladiator school and you do honour to the tradition of those fighting-men who have gone before you. Gladiators, I salute you!’

All around Marcus the men and boys cheered lustily for a while. All except the Spartan, who gazed at his fellow slaves with thinly concealed contempt. Gradually the cheering died away and Porcino continued.

‘You are indeed as fine a body of fighters as I have ever trained. I am proud of you. In a few days I will be even more proud of you. We are to be honoured with a party from Rome’s finest families. They are coming to my school to be entertained by some of you. I expect those who are chosen to fight well, and uphold their honour, and mine. For those who distinguish themselves I can tell you that great fame and fortune will await you in Rome. For surely, once the Roman lords see you in action, they will want to show you off to their friends and the people of the greatest city in the world. Think on that, my gladiators! Greatness beckons. Answer it with a full heart and all the skills you have been taught,’ he concluded.

There were muted cheers from a handful of the men in the barracks, who were too drunk to fully understand the words of their master. Most were sober enough to understand the import of Porcino’s words. Glancing around, Marcus could sense the sudden change in the atmosphere. The mood of revelry had drained from the barracks and it felt as if a cold, dark shadow had fallen across the room. Pelleneus lowered the cup from his lips and tossed it to one side with a bitter curse.

‘I bid you good night!’ Porcino called out.

He was about to climb down from the table when the door to the barracks opened and a sentry entered, clutching his spear. He paused in front of the lanista and bowed his head.

‘Master, I beg to report that one of the slaves has gone.’

‘Gone?’

The guard swallowed nervously. ‘Escaped, master.’

The barracks fell silent as the men and boys strained their ears to catch what was being said. Porcino glared at the new arrival. ‘Escaped? How? They were all supposed to be in here tonight. How could the fugitive get past you and your men?’

‘Master, the slave was not in here. He was in the infirmary.’

Marcus felt his heart quicken.

‘Which slave is this? What is his name?’

‘Brixus, sir.’