Gladiator

22

Porcino immediately gave the order for his guards and the drill instructors to search for Brixus. The slaves were locked into the barracks and Marcus hurried to one of the narrow ventilation slits and climbed on a bench to see out of the building. Looking out through the draughty opening, he could see the flare of torches in the stiff breeze and the dark shapes of men scouring the other buildings for any sign of Brixus. The voices of Porcino and Taurus echoed from the walls as they led the hunt.

‘So much for the seasonal spirit,’ a voice muttered beside Marcus, and he turned to see that the Spartan had joined him. ‘Funny how our master’s goodwill vanishes the instant his property is at stake, and here we are again, slaves locked in our prison. Oh well.’ He smiled humourlessly.

Marcus turned back to the slit as a party of men rushed by. He had been shocked by the announcement of Brixus’s escape. The cook had given him no indication of his plans and Marcus felt hurt that his friend had not trusted him enough to tell him. He was furious that he had missed the chance to join Brixus in his escape. He could have been on his way to find General Pompeius right now, rather than indulging himself with the other slaves.

‘Do you think he will get away?’ Marcus asked.

‘How should I know?’ The Spartan shrugged. ‘I can see only as much as you. But, for my money, Brixus is a fool to attempt it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Why? The man is lame. Even if he has managed to get over the walls, he cannot hope to outpace his pursuers. Come the morning, they will search the countryside for him. His only hope is that this rain washes away any tracks that he might have left. With his limp Brixus is going to stand out.’ The Spartan was silent for a moment and then clicked his tongue. ‘I’d be surprised if they didn’t recapture him before nightfall tomorrow.’

‘And if he is taken, Porcino will punish him,’ Marcus mused.

‘Yes.’

Both of them stared out into the night before Marcus cleared his throat. ‘What do you think Porcino will do to him?’

‘He will want to make an example of Brixus in order to discourage the rest of us from thinking about trying to escape. That will be weighed against Brixus’s value. Quite a dilemma for our master, eh? A struggle between his desire for discipline and his greed.’

‘If discipline wins, then what?’

The Spartan turned to Marcus. ‘Porcino will have him crucified in front of us, and leave him there to die, and then leave him there for a while longer to make certain we learn the lesson.’

Marcus felt his blood go cold. ‘Do you really think so?’

The Spartan nodded, then eased himself back from the ventilation slit and yawned. ‘Nothing we can do about it, boy. Best you get some rest. You’ll need it when you go back to training in the morning.’

Marcus glanced at him and nodded, but stayed by the opening, watching as the hunt inside the compound came to an end and Porcino ordered his men to start searching outside the walls. The Spartan cracked his shoulder joint and turned back towards the stall as he muttered, ‘Anyway, happy Saturnalia, boy.’

But Marcus could not reply. He was too caught up in thoughts of what would happen to his friend if they found him.

For the next few days Marcus lived in dread of hearing the news that Brixus had been recaptured. He and the other boys continued with their training. The winter was cold and the boys shivered each morning as they rose with the dawn to carry out their duties in the kitchen before Amatus led them out to the training ground. As the new year began, he introduced his students to new techniques in swordplay and then had them practise against the posts until he was satisfied that they were ready for the next stage.

It was a cold, bleak morning as Marcus and the others collected their training weapons and formed up in two lines, waiting for Amatus to begin the day’s lesson. He stood before them, examining the slaves with a hard stare. Then he spoke.

‘Today, we put your training to the test for the first time. You’re all a lot fitter, tougher and stronger than you were when you arrived here. You also know how to handle a sword and shield. However, it’s one thing to practise against a post. Quite another to be faced by a real opponent. And that’s what you will be doing from now on.’

Marcus felt his pulse quicken and the boys on either side of him stirred with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

‘Today you will begin sparring with your comrades. The rules are simple. You will fight when I give the command and you will stop the moment I give the order “Cease!” I want you to fight like you mean it. Like your life depended on it, because it will one day. You will do yourselves no favours by pulling your blows. I know some of you may be friends, but know this: a gladiator cannot afford to have true friends. A true friend you might give your life for. That is not the concern of a gladiator. Anyone you call a friend today may well be matched against you in the arena tomorrow. And then where will your friendship get you? Killed.’ He paused to let his hard words sink in. ‘Now, you need to know where to strike. Ferax!’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Step forward, here!’ Amatus pointed to the spot in front of his students. He turned Ferax around to face the other boys. ‘Watch carefully. Lower your shield, Ferax.’

With the Celt standing before them unprotected, Amatus swiftly raised his training sword and pointed it at Ferax’s face. The Celt flinched slightly.

‘A thrust here may kill your opponent if it breaks through his skull. At the very least it will cripple him. However, it’s a difficult blow to strike. But you can use it to distract him, then go for another target.’ He lowered the tip of his sword. ‘Like the throat, for instance. A good strike here will get you a kill. Lower down we have the chest. Best to avoid this area, since many opponents will have armour, a shield, or both. You need to be very close and ram the blade home if you are going to get through the ribs to the heart. Better to aim lower. As we say in the business, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. A good thrust here has a chance of striking an organ, or if you rip the blade out violently enough you may disembowel him.’ Amatus tapped the tip of the wooden sword against Ferax’s thighs and arms. ‘The limbs make good targets and you should try to cut tendons to cripple your opponent. They won’t bleed out, but at least they won’t move, or strike as fast, and you can pick ’em off at your leisure.’ He lowered his sword. ‘There’s no point in showing you targets to strike on the rear of your opponent, since no gladiator worth his salt will ever turn and run from you. If he does that, then he’s as good as lost the fight already. Is that clear to you all?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the boys called back.

Marcus joined them, even though he was unnerved by the cold-blooded advice that Amatus had just presented to them. It was the first time that the real purpose of all their training had been brought home to them so directly. Marcus wondered how the other boys were reacting to the possibility of one day having to try to kill someone they had trained with. He glanced to either side and noted the intent expressions on people’s faces as they exchanged brief looks with their companions.

‘Very well.’ Amatus nodded to Ferax. ‘Get back to your position.’

Once Ferax had rejoined the others, Amatus pointed to the line of posts. ‘When I give the order, you will wait over there. I’ll call you out two at a time. The rest of you will watch closely. Learn from their mistakes. Go!’

They hefted their shields and quickly trotted over to the stakes. Amatus waited until they were still and then pointed to one of the Nubian boys. ‘You!’ Then he pointed to one of Ferax’s companions, a heavy-set Celt with a spotty complexion. ‘And you! Step forward.’

The two boys emerged uncertainly from the ranks and Amatus clapped his hands together. ‘Quickly! Out here and face each other, ten paces apart.’

They trotted forward to take up their positions and Amatus stood slightly to one side, sword in hand. ‘Make ready!’

The two boys lowered themselves into a crouch, shields raised and swords advanced, slightly to one side.

‘Begin!’

At once they closed on each other, halting just beyond reach, as each sized the other up. The Celt moved first, stepping forward and lunging with a loud cry. The Nubian easily retreated and knocked the blow aside. They both drew off for a moment, then the Celt struck again, running forward and battering the other boy’s shield. The Nubian took the blows, holding his ground, and then, just as the other began to draw back to catch his breath, the Nubian struck. He lashed out at the sword arm, a savage numbing blow that almost caused the Celt to drop his weapon. As he cried out in pain and surprise, the Nubian struck at his knee and then crashed forward, throwing his full weight behind his shield. The blow knocked the Celt back. He stumbled, then tripped and toppled on to his back with a thud and an explosive gasp of breath. The Nubian sprang forward, teeth flashing with a triumphant grin. He stood astride his opponent, sword raised, and then looked towards Amatus for confirmation of his victory. On the ground the Celt seized his chance and kicked up into the Nubian’s groin. With an agonized groan the Nubian doubled up and staggered aside. The Celt scrambled to his feet and punched the other boy on the head, again and again, until his legs gave way and he fell on his knees. The Celt grasped the wooden sword and ripped it from the other boy’s grasp. He didn’t spare the trainer a glance as he whacked the Nubian on the side of the head, sending him sprawling and dazed on the sand. Just as he went to strike again, Amatus intervened.

‘Cease!’

The Celt drew back. Amatus ignored the boy on the ground as he stared round at his students. ‘Lesson one: the fight is not over until you are certain the other man is down and out.’ He turned to the Celt. ‘Help him up and get back over there. Next bout: Petronius and Democrites.’

The sparring went on for the next hour and Marcus watched the fighters closely, noting their mistakes and where they achieved success. He felt increasingly anxious as he waited for his name to be called out, particularly as Ferax had not yet been picked either.

Several bouts had been fought when the gate to the training ground was opened by a guard and two men entered: Porcino and a stranger wearing an embroidered red tunic and fine leather boots that stretched up his calves. As soon as he saw them, Amatus called his class to stand to attention and ordered them to bow their heads.

‘This is Amatus.’ Porcino casually indicated the trainer. ‘He is breaking in the youth class, as you can see, my lord.’

Marcus’s ears pricked up as he heard the deferential tone in the lanista’s voice. Clearly his companion was someone of note.

‘Ah, good! Weapons training,’ said the stranger. ‘This is precisely what I want to see. Gives me a chance to buy the best for my friend’s party. Please tell them to carry on. We can watch from the bench over there.’

Porcino nodded. ‘As you wish. Shall I send for some refreshments?’

‘No. Later perhaps, when we discuss the details.’

Porcino nodded to Amatus. ‘Carry on.’

As the two spectators watched, the bouts continued. Amatus observed his students closely, threatening to strike those who were slow to close on each other, shouting instructions and stepping in to stop fights the moment it was clear that one of the boys had been defeated. As the last four stood waiting, Amatus called out two names, leaving Marcus and Ferax for the last bout.

Marcus felt his heart quicken as he glanced at Ferax. The other boy smirked.

‘Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,’ Ferax said softly so that only Marcus could hear. ‘You can be sure that I won’t be pulling any blows for you, my friend.’

Marcus swallowed and turned away, tightening his grip on his wooden sword and wicker shield. He watched the fight, but did not take in any of the details, as if the last but one of the sparring pairs were just two shadows dancing around each other. His mind was racing as he tried to recall all that he had been taught, and all that he knew about Ferax. He must think of a way to beat his opponent. He had to make a plan.

‘Cease!’

Marcus was shocked to find that the fight was over. He saw the winner helping the other boy back on to his feet and the pair joined those who had already fought.

‘Last pair!’ Amatus beckoned to them.

Marcus swallowed and did his best to look calm and fearless as he strode out and took up his position, turning to face Ferax.

‘This fight’s been a long time coming,’ Amatus announced in a faintly amused tone. ‘So let’s see what you two can do, eh?’ He lowered his voice as he continued, ‘I know you two hate each other’s guts, but keep it under control, and when I tell you to stop, you do so at once. Either of you try anything on, then I’ll give you a hiding. Ready!’

Marcus lowered himself into a crouch, eyes fixed on his enemy. Inside his chest his heart beat like a drum and all his senses were strained to a fine pitch. Any trace of a smile, or cruel amusement, had drained from Ferax’s face and he returned Marcus’s stare with an intense expression.

‘Begin!’

With a shrill roar that strained his throat Marcus charged forward. Ferax’s eyes widened in shock and at the last moment he hurriedly threw up his shield. There was a thud as they collided. Marcus struck out with his sword, thrusting past the shield and glancing off his opponent’s shoulder. Ferax grunted with pain and he retreated as quickly as he could, opening the gap so that he could use his sword more effectively. Now he could block Marcus’s blows. After a sharp clatter of wood their swords parted company and each paused to eye up the other warily.

Unlike in the earlier bouts, Amatus did nothing to urge them to close on each other. Instead he watched eagerly. The other boys were still and silent too, keen to see how well the two foes acquitted themselves in an open fight. The excitement seemed to communicate itself to Porcino and his guest as well, and they leaned forward to watch.

Raising the blunt tip of his sword, Ferax advanced, then with a sudden movement he kicked up some grit and Marcus instinctively blinked as it stung his neck and chin. At once Ferax sprang forward with a deafening bellow and savagely hammered his sword lower on Marcus’s raised shield, driving his arm lower with every blow. Marcus ignored the jarring sensation in his left arm and concentrated on fending the attacks away from his head. Then he dropped down on to one knee, thrusting his shield up as he swung his sword in a cut to the Celt’s thigh. The blow landed home with a sharp thwack. Ferax roared again – in pain this time – and surged ahead, pushing Marcus back. Marcus tried to brace his boots into the grit to hold his position, but the pressure was relentless and irresistible and he was forced to give way.

Sensing victory, Ferax pressed on, cutting at Marcus as hard as he could. Then, with a quick switch in direction, his wooden sword swept round the edge of the shield and struck Marcus’s left arm with a numbing slap. The blow was painful and deadened the senses in his arm so that his grip on the handle of the shield momentarily loosened. Two more blows on the wicker and his fingers lost their hold, the shield slipping from his grasp. Marcus let it fall and scurried back, remaining in a crouch as Ferax snarled triumphantly.

‘There! Now to finish the job!’

He approached steadily, raising his shield to use as a ram, to bludgeon Marcus down. There was too little time to think, but as Ferax drew close Marcus sucked in a breath and launched himself forward. At the last moment he ducked down, rolling under the vicious slice that hissed over his head. In return he hacked at Ferax’s ankle and felt the impact of the blow shoot up his arms as the Celt bellowed in pain and abruptly halted. Ferax’s teeth were gritted and he winced the instant he tried to put any weight on the smarting ankle. Marcus darted round his side, forcing his foe to pivot painfully. The smaller boy moved in quickly and thrust the point into the Celt’s side and then scuttled back out of range.

‘I’ll get you,’ Ferax growled. ‘And I’ll gut you.’

Marcus kept moving, working round his opponent and forcing Ferax to keep putting weight on his injured ankle. At length Ferax slumped down on to his knee and raised his shield, desperately blocking Marcus’s attacks. Unable to find a way past the Celt’s defences, Marcus withdrew five paces and steadily circled his foe, noting that although Ferax could no longer launch an attack, neither could he himself get close enough to strike the decisive blow.

‘A stand-off!’ Amatus announced. ‘Cease!’

‘No!’ Ferax shouted. ‘I can finish him. We fight on!’

‘Suits me,’ Marcus replied coldly.

Amatus stepped in between them with an enraged expression. ‘You dare disobey my order? I’ll see you both flogged for this. Cease, I said. Do it – now!’

Marcus did not respond but sprang forward again, stabbing at Ferax’s side. Once more the wicker shield took the blow and Ferax desperately slashed at Marcus’s shin, just missing it as he fell back.

‘CEASE!’ Amatus yelled at the top of his voice.

This time Marcus reluctantly stepped back to a safe distance and lowered his sword. Amatus stormed up to him, wrenched the training weapon from his hand and turned to Ferax. ‘Drop your kit. You two are in the deepest trouble there ever was. I swear it! I’ll beat you both black and blue. Right here! Right now! Damn you.’

‘That’s enough!’ Porcino interrupted as he and the other man strode up. ‘Leave them be, Amatus.’

The instructor clamped his mouth shut, bowed his head and backed away with as much respect as he could manage to retrieve from his sizzling anger. Marcus stood, chest heaving, blood pulsing through his veins and hands balled into fists.

‘By the Gods,’ Porcino’s companion marvelled. ‘This boy is a fire-eater, make no mistake. And he is well matched by that young bull. Oh, yes! These two will do nicely.’ He turned to Porcino. ‘I’ll have them.’

‘These?’ Porcino looked surprised as he dismissively waved a hand at Marcus and Ferax. ‘Why, they are still in training, my lord.’

‘Their technique is crude, but they have something else. A vital, raw hatred of the other. I can see that as clear as day. Yes. They will do very nicely. A superb display for Varinius’s son.’

Porcino opened his mouth to protest, but the other man cut him short.

‘Naturally, I will pay handsomely for them, on my friend’s behalf.’

Porcino made a quick calculation and responded with a cool smile. ‘I have to say that I have had my eye on these two. Most promising recruits I’ve had in a long time. They’re sure to have fine fighting careers ahead of them. I would be losing quite an investment if they were forced to fight.’

‘Then be sure to ask a fair price of me when we settle our business in your office.’

Porcino nodded, as he inclined his head and gestured towards the gate. ‘If you would go ahead of me, most noble Marcus Antonius, I must speak briefly to their trainer.’

‘Very well,’ the man said, as a faint flicker of frustration crossed his face. ‘But be quick.’

He turned away and strode casually towards the gate. Porcino approached Amatus. ‘Have them taken to one side. Find another trainer for the rest of your students. I want you to concentrate on these two. Drill them as thoroughly as you can. They must be ready to fight in five days’ time.’

‘Yes, master.’

Porcino turned to examine Marcus and Ferax. There was a sad expression on his face. Then the sentiment faded as his voice hardened. ‘They are to be kept with the other pairs selected for the event.’

‘Yes, master. A real fight is just what these two need. Will it be a display bout, master?’

Porcino shook his head.

‘First blood, then?’

‘No.’ Porcino shrugged. ‘My customer wants a very special entertainment. He is acting for someone in Rome who wants to celebrate a family birthday. Only the most lavish entertainment will do. When these two go out into the arena, it will be a fight to the death.’