Gladiator

23

The arrival of the party from Rome was marked by a whirl of preparations. Porcino ordered in fine delicacies, wines and the best food of the region, as well as hiring a celebrated cook owned by a wealthy wine merchant in Herculaneum to prepare a banquet for his guests. The arena attached to the gladiator school had a grandstand to one side where spectators had a good view across the sand-covered oval. In the days before the guests arrived Porcino’s slaves repainted the woodwork, erected a goatskin awning over the structure to provide shelter from any rain. The best couches from Porcino’s villa were carefully carried across to the grandstand and arranged in a shallow curve facing the sand. The couches were then covered with fine rugs and cushions before dining tables were laid out before them. Braziers were set up to keep the guests warm.

Marcus saw some of the preparations when he was marched over to the arena for training each morning in the lead-up to the event. As soon as Porcino’s visitor had paid the fee for the two boys to fight, they were immediately separated from the other slaves and moved into a small block of individual cells that backed on to the guards’ quarters. These cells were for those who were being made ready for a fight. Their food was carefully prepared to build up their strength: a thick meaty broth, boiled eggs, cured sausage with a high concentration of garlic and watered wine. The food was good, but Marcus had little appetite and had to force himself to eat, mechanically chewing each mouthful and not savouring the flavour. His mind was filled with a growing sense of dread as each day passed.

The men and boys picked to entertain the Romans were kept isolated from the other gladiators when not training. No talking was permitted in the cells, as each fighter mentally readied himself, forgetting his former companions and focusing his mind on the need to win, and live. Each morning Marcus was roused from his cell by Amatus and taken to the arena to be personally drilled in the use of the weapons he would wield in the bout with Ferax. Porcino’s customer had decided that they would fight with short-swords and small shields called bucklers, with studded leather cuirasses to protect their bodies. Marcus found the armour heavy and uncomfortable and it took a while before he got used to it. Amatus concentrated Marcus’s efforts on sword technique, adding a repertoire of new attacks and defences.

Another instructor was preparing Ferax, working on his fitness in the training ground. At noon the two pairs swapped places and Marcus put aside his sword and shield as he was ordered to run around the boundary, stopping every so often to lift weights. After that Amatus moved him on to the agility training, making him duck and jump as he swiped a long cane at the boy’s arms and head, or his legs. Marcus had to be alert to dodge the slashes, but sometimes he was too slow and winced whenever a stinging blow connected.

‘Let that happen in the arena and you’re dead,’ Amatus warned him.

Marcus nodded and hurriedly readied himself for his trainer to begin again, concentrating hard to avoid the next blows. Once Amatus was done with that exercise, he allowed Marcus a brief rest before he took up his weapons and moved on to the training posts to practise his sword strokes. Afterwards, as Marcus sat on the ground, wearily hugging his knees, he looked up at the trainer and asked, ‘Do you think I can beat Ferax?’

Amatus stared at him for a moment before he replied, ‘The odds are against you, young Marcus. Your opponent is bigger and stronger. If he can bring his weight to bear and knock you down, then you will be at his mercy.’ He paused, scratched his chin and continued in a more kindly tone, ‘But there’s always a chance, no matter what the odds. I’ve seen far more unevenly balanced fights yield a surprise result. The trick of it is not to get too close to him. Avoid direct contact and don’t let him use his size against you. You’re small and fast. Wear him down. A small cut here and there and you might bleed him enough to slow him down for a kill.’

Marcus felt a shiver go down his spine at the mention of the word. Even though a deep hatred of Ferax burned in his heart, he still felt that he was not sure that he could kill the Celt if the time came. He cleared his throat and spoke.

‘I’ve heard some of the veterans say that if a gladiator fights well enough, then even if he loses he is spared by the crowd.’

‘Fat chance.’ Amatus snorted. ‘Not with the lot you will be fighting in front of.’

Marcus frowned. ‘Why?’

‘They’ve paid for eight of Porcino’s best men, some of his animals and you two boys. A small fortune. You can be sure that they will want value for money. It’s not the same as a fight in a public arena. The mob are happy to watch a good fight and generous to a man who puts up a decent struggle before he loses. That’s because they haven’t paid for it. With aristocrats it’s different. They part with a fortune and aren’t happy unless blood is shed. If they have paid for a fight to the death, then that is what they expect.’ Amatus leaned forward and punched Marcus lightly on the shoulder. ‘So, when you get in that arena with Ferax, only one of you is coming out of it alive. Have that fixed in your head. Clear?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Then on your feet. There’s work to do.’

Marcus did not sleep the night before the fight. He sat propped up against the cold wall in his cell. Occasionally he could hear a sound from one of the other cells as a man shifted on his straw-filled mattress or muttered in his sleep. Once he could hear the sound of crying, and a thin keening whine, before a guard strode down the corridor in front of the cells and bawled at the man to be quiet. Marcus had never felt so lonely or afraid, even through all he had endured since the day that a happy life had been murderously stolen from him and his mother. He tried to force all such thoughts aside and concentrate on the coming fight. Amatus was right – his opponent would try to rush him and use his superior momentum to defeat Marcus. He would need to focus all his wits and be ready to evade Ferax’s attacks. At the same time he could not afford to get close enough to strike a killing blow. After a while, Marcus found himself wondering about Ferax. What would the Celt be thinking? Was he awake as well, planning his fight, tormented by fear and utterly unable to sleep?

At last the thin light of the coming dawn filled the barred window high on the wall, casting a weak beam on the door to the cell. As the shadows of the window bars grew more distinct and the room became brighter, Marcus rose from his bedroll and stretched himself, easing the stiffness out of his muscles. He felt tired, but knew that the months of gruelling training, and the advice that Amatus had given him in the past few days, meant that he was no longer the small, innocent child who had run through the olive groves of his father’s farm. He was a fighter. Today he would put his skills to the test. If he was killed, then all was lost. His mother would die alone and forgotten. If he won, then there was hope for them both.

There was a clank as the door at the end of the corridor was opened and the sound of feet shuffling along as each cell door was opened and then closed. A short while later the bolt on the outside of Marcus’s door grated and the door swung open. A guard entered, carrying a bowl of porridge and a jug of water. He set them down beside Marcus’s bed and paused a moment.

‘Best get that inside you.’ He smiled gently. ‘You’ll need all your strength today.’

Marcus reluctantly reached down for the bowl. ‘Thank you.’

Once the guard had left the cell and the bolt had been thrust back into place, Marcus gazed at the glutinous grey mass in the bowl, then picked up the spoon and forced himself to eat. The porridge was thick and salty, but he relished the feeling of warmth it left in his stomach and soon finished it.

An hour after dawn the door to the cell opened again and Amatus ducked his head in. ‘On your feet. Time for you to kit up.’

Marcus felt his body tremble as he followed the trainer out of the cell, down the corridor and outside. The other gladiators were waiting for him in a line. Eight well-built men in plain tunics and sandals, and Ferax. None met his eye as they stared ahead. Taurus stood to one side, tapping his vine cane into the palm of his free hand.

‘Last boy! In place, quickly!’

Marcus hurried to the end of the line and stood as tall as he could. He stared fixedly at the wall in front of him. Taurus strode along the line, scrutinizing those chosen to fight. Satisfied that they were not showing any obvious signs of fear, he nodded to himself and began to address them in his customary parade-ground bellow.

‘The master’s guests have already arrived at the villa. Porcino is treating them to a light meal while he briefs them on each of you, giving details of your strengths and weaknesses for when they bet between themselves. For those of you unlucky enough to be the favourites, I have a few words of advice: don’t lose. They’ll not thank you for it and will be sure to turn down any appeal for mercy. The first bout will take place at the fourth hour, with an interval of half an hour to permit the guests to eat and talk between fights. The boys will fight last. There’ll be a few animal fights afterwards to end the day.’ He paused to stare hard at them. ‘Porcino’s customers have paid for a good show. I don’t want to see any kid gloves stuff. Nor do I want to see any quick kills. Show them some sword skills first. Give them some drama before you make it serious, understand? Right, that’s it. You know what you have to do. Time to sort out the kit. Follow me!’

Taurus abruptly turned and marched towards the armoury as the gladiators and Amatus followed on behind. The weapons and armour were kept in a securely locked building with small windows, each fronted by a solid iron grille. Inside there were racks of spears, tridents, swords and knives, as well as helmets, body armour, arm padding, greaves and the weighted nets used by those gladiators training to become retiarii – the men who also fought with tridents and nets. Marcus looked at the weapons as he tried to suppress a shudder. Taurus ordered them to form a line in front of a sturdy table while he and Amatus issued the kit.

‘First man, Hermon!’

The tall Nubian at the head of the line stepped forward. Taurus scrutinized him briefly. ‘You’ll fight as a secutor. Helmet, large cuirass, shield, right greave and gladius.’

Amatus nodded and selected the weapons and armour from where they were stored and brought them back to the table. While the Nubian began to fasten the straps of his armour, Marcus glanced at his opponent. Ferax stood rigid, facing forward. Although he seemed perfectly still and in control of himself, Marcus saw a bead of sweat trickle down the Celt’s neck. The fingers of his left hand twitched slightly and his legs trembled. So, Marcus thought, his opponent was just as scared as he was. That might even things up.

One by one, the fighters stepped forward to receive their equipment, and the quiet in the room was broken only by the curt commands of Taurus, the clink of metal and fumbling as the men adjusted their buckles. As soon as the gladiators had put on their armour, they found some space to heft their swords, carefully noting how well the weapons were balanced.

Ferax took his kit and then it was Marcus’s turn. He picked up the pile of arms and armour, noting the cuts in the leather cuirass and surface of the shield. Moving to one of the benches lining the wall, Marcus set his equipment down and then, after a short pause, he lifted the breast- and back-plates and began to buckle them around his body. Amatus watched him with a critical eye and then sighed and stepped over to him.

‘That won’t do.’ He tugged the breastplate. ‘Too loose, Marcus.’

While Amatus adjusted the buckle and tested the fit again, Ferax snorted with derision. Marcus tried to ignore him and nodded to his trainer. ‘Thanks.’

Amatus shrugged. ‘Just do as you were taught, lad. If I had caught you making such a slovenly job of it on the training ground, I’d have boxed your ears. Make sure you do it properly next time.’ He paused and smiled faintly. ‘Assuming there is one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marcus took up his buckler and tested its weight. The small shield was light and the metal of the boss was thick enough to protect his hand from any blows. The sword was lighter than those he had used in training and the edge had been honed to a lethal sharpness. He grasped the hilt tightly and experimented with a few quick thrusts and cuts, feeling the weight and balance.

Once the gladiators had finished arming themselves, Taurus rapped his vine cane on the table. ‘Sit down! Each pair on opposite sides!’

The fighters did as they were told, taking their places on the benches either side of the armoury, sitting in silence. Taurus nodded to the other trainer.

‘Stay here and watch this lot. There’s no ceremony today, the guests just want the fights. I’ll send for these men once the show begins.’

When Taurus had gone, Marcus and the others sat still, waiting, not making a sound. He looked sidelong at the other fighters, wondering how they could look so composed in the face of death. Opposite him, Ferax glared back, eyes wide and boring into Marcus. After a while Marcus looked away, fixing his gaze on a helmet on the shelf above his foe. A shaft of light from outside caught the bronze cheekguard and it blazed with colour.

A long hour passed and then Marcus could make out the sounds of light laughter and excited chatter, and he guessed that the spectators were taking their places in the stand above the arena. Sure enough, Taurus returned soon after and stood in the doorway of the armoury. ‘First two pairs! Follow me!’

The four rose up: two heavily armed secutors and two thracians, the latter armed with vicious-looking curved blades. They strode out of the armoury and Marcus heard their boots crunching down the gravel that lined the tunnel towards the arena. All was quiet for a while before the cry of the gladiators reached his ears.

‘We who are about to die salute you!’

There was the faint clatter and clash of metal and some cries of support. The sounds continued for a while and then there was a disappointed groan from the spectators, followed by silence. There were none of the usual sounds of the school. As a fight was on, the rest of the gladiators were locked into their barracks, so as not to distract the spectators from their entertainment.

‘Next pair!’ Taurus bellowed through the door.

It was nearly midday when Marcus and Ferax were called for. Taking up their weapons, they followed Taurus into the tunnel that led from the school a short distance to a stout iron cage beside the arena. The last pair of men were sitting on benches at either side, their shields, swords and helmets close by. Two guards armed with spears stood outside the cage, ready to operate the sliding door that led into the arena. As Marcus and Ferax entered the cage and sat down, Marcus heard a low growl and glanced round to see that there was another cage, slightly hidden by the curve of the arena’s stockade. Inside there was a blur of fur and he heard another growl. Wolves, he realized. Ready for the last act of the show. The sounds of the spectators carried clearly to his ears: the lower tones of adults talking, pierced by the shrill chatter of children.

The four fighters waited, under Taurus’s stern gaze. Then Porcino’s voice called down from the spectators’ stand. ‘Next!’

‘Up!’ Taurus ordered the two men, and they hurriedly rose to their feet, pulling on their helmets and buckling the chin straps. Then they picked up their shields and swords and stood ready. Taurus grasped the edge of the sliding door with his hand and pushed it open. Through the gap Marcus could see the arena, with dark stains in the sand. Beyond lay the audience. Six adults – four men and two women – and three children. Marcus did not have time to register the details of their faces before the two gladiators entered the arena and the door slid back into place.

‘We who are about to die salute you!’ the gladiators chanted.

There was a pause, then the shrill cry of a whistle and the bout began. The clang of sword on sword made Marcus flinch and he shuffled to the edge of the bench so that he could see into the arena through the gaps in the stockade. The forms of the gladiators were hard to make out except as partial fleeting glimpses. Aside from the exchange of blows, delivered with grunts, there was little noise. The audience was watching the fight in rapt attention. Marcus turned away, feeling sick. Any moment now it would be his turn, and he was seized by a sudden conviction that he would lose the fight and die on the sand. Slowly, if Ferax had his way.

There was a hurried scramble of blows and a crash as a body slammed into the front of the cage. The man’s body blocked the light passing through the gaps and Marcus almost jumped from the bench as the bloodied tip of a sword burst between two of the stockade’s posts. The body sagged a little, then there was a deep groan as the blade withdrew and a soft thud as the dead man fell to the sand.

A moment later the door to the cage opened and the survivor stumbled through, in a daze. There was a deep cut on his thigh and he left a trail of spots behind him as he passed between the two boys and out of the cage into the tunnel leading back to the compound. Through the opening Marcus saw two slaves approach the body and drag it away across the arena.

Taurus waited until the body was out of sight before he turned to Marcus and Ferax and gestured towards the arena. ‘It’s your time! Out there, now!’