Street fighter

27

They arrived early in the morning, a full hour before the appointed time for the duel. It had rained hard during the night and the flagstones in the Forum were slick and gleamed dully in the pale light. The air, usually heavy with the stink of the city, was fresh and had a slight musty tang as the morning sun evaporated the puddles on the dirty streets.

Marcus was accompanied by Festus and a handful of his body-guards who carried Marcus’s weapons and equipment, as well as a small litter to take him back to his master’s house if he should lose the fight. Caesar had yet to set out for the Senate House, and was conferring with Pompeius, Crassus and the rest of his closest political allies. Regardless of how the duel turned out, the vote over the Land Bill would go ahead and they had to be ready for any last-moment switches in allegiance.

A large crowd of people had already claimed the best vantage points to watch the contest. Once Festus’s men had set down the equipment they began to rope off an area in front of the steps of the Senate House to form a makeshift arena, a square of roughly sixty feet on each side.

Marcus stood by the equipment as Festus oversaw them. He was filled with the same dread he had felt at his last fight in an arena — at Porcino’s school, months ago now. He felt sick to his stomach and the tension heightened his senses so the world around him seemed drenched with colour, light and shade, and the sounds of the city were more keen and rich in tone. Even his sense of smell detected subtle odours he had not been aware of before. His limbs felt light and tense and they trembled a little.

‘Here, take my cloak,’ said Festus, wrapping it around Marcus. ‘Better?’

Marcus nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Try not to think about the fight itself. Concentrate on your preparation.’

Not knowing what weapons the other gladiator would be using, Festus had opted to play safe and have Marcus fight as a retiarius — a net man. This meant he was protected by a shoulder guard and a studded leather stomach belt, and armed with a short trident with cruelly barbed points, as well as the net itself. This was eight foot across, weighted at the edges and attached to Marcus’s wrist by a leather loop, which he could easily slip off if the need arose. Although he would have hardly any protection, Marcus would be able to move and strike quickly.

They had spent the previous day practising in the yard. During the morning, Festus had taken the role of a heavily armed Samnite, constantly trying to rush Marcus and force him into a corner. But Marcus had learned to avoid that trap and darted aside, casting his net to trip Festus, or throwing it high in an attempt to tangle him in its folds. Marcus had been careful to favour his wounded knee and had been knocked down twice, much to Festus’s irritation. In turn, he had brought down his trainer three times and Festus had been grudgingly satisfied. In the afternoon, Festus had sparred as a retiarius and it had become a fierce and focused duel in which Festus had used his greater size and speed to hold his own. They had ended the day hot, tired and sweating, with equal honours.

Although he still felt a little stiff, Marcus was ready to face his opponent. His knee had been carefully bound to protect the wound while giving him as much mobility as possible. He felt confident about his weapons and had carefully chosen the most balanced trident from the small armoury at Caesar’s house.

‘Best get you limbered up,’ said Festus. He took a pot of garlic oil from his leather satchel and poured some into the palm of his hand. ‘Take off the cloak.’

Marcus did as he was told and shivered in the cool air as Festus gently kneaded his shoulders, arms and legs, easing the tension out of the muscles. Once he had finished he handed the cloak back to Marcus — just as Caesar and his closest political allies strode up. Lupus followed a short distance behind his master and offered Marcus a nervous smile as they approached.

‘All ready, Marcus?’ asked Caesar.

‘Yes, master.’

General Pompeius looked over Marcus and sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Are you certain about this, Caesar? Our hopes are riding on this boy and, well, he doesn’t look much like a champion gladiator to me. Isn’t he the one who allowed two gang members to kidnap my future daughter-in-law?’

‘I know this boy well,’ Caesar countered. ‘He has the heart of a lion and can strike with the speed of a panther. Trust me, Pompeius. I know what I’m doing.’

‘I hope so, for all our sakes.’

As his companions mounted the steps to find a place to watch the fight, Caesar waited behind. He placed his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and smiled.

‘What I would have given for a son like you. . May the gods protect you, Marcus. And there’s something else.’ He reached inside his toga to pull out a small silk scarf. ‘Portia sent this to you — for luck.’

Marcus felt his spirits rise as he took the scarf. A sweet scent rose from the material. He carefully folded the scarf into a loose band and tied it securely about his neck. Caesar nodded with satisfaction, then patted Marcus’s shoulder affectionately and strode off to join the others. Marcus wondered if the gesture was real, or whether it was merely one of Caesar’s tricks to win the loyalty of those who served him.

By now the crowd had swelled and Caesar’s lictors joined Festus’s men to keep people back from the rope perimeter. Shortly before the fight was to begin, Lupus stood on tiptoe, craning his neck as he stared across the Forum.

‘Here they come.’

Bibulus and his bodyguards appeared through the crowd, leading a small procession of allies, including Cato, as well as his fighter and trainer. The crowd parted before them as people tried to catch sight of the other gladiator and assess his form before making bets on the outcome. Marcus strained for his first sight of his opponent, but there were too many people in the way.

Bibulus waited while the rope was lowered, then crossed the open space and raised his hand in greeting to Caesar. No words passed between them, but Bibulus stopped in front of Marcus and shook his head mockingly. ‘Is this the gladiator who will save Caesar’s honour?’

Those close enough to hear grinned or laughed at the comment, and Marcus felt a flush of rage. He quickly checked the feeling. Bibulus was trying to unsettle him — what had he been taught? He must not let his anger throw him. Instead, he raised his voice as he replied. ‘I wonder what this senator even knows about honour?’

The crowd laughed again, some of them cheering, and Bibulus’s amused expression turned to anger. He leaned closer to Marcus. ‘We’ll see who is laughing when my boy smashes you to the ground and plunges his blade into your throat.. ’ He turned round abruptly to address the crowd. ‘To honour the noble people of Rome, and as a blood offering to the gods to guide the judgement of those about to vote on the most important legislation in a generation, I offer you this fight between two of the finest young gladiators in the republic! Fighting for Caesar, we have Marcus, from the school of Porcino in Campania. Opposed to him, I give you my champion, from the same school

He gestured towards the group of men who had accompanied him, and they parted to allow the gladiator to step forward. He was taller than Marcus and well built. He already wore his equipment and was armed as a Samnite, with leg guard, heavy square shield, and a gleaming bronze helmet with two red plumes rising on either side of its crown. Marcus was desperate for a look at him, but his face was obscured by the helmet’s grille. He hardly dared think the name he suspected, but Bibulus had said his opponent was from the same school. .’

The gladiator stopped, ten feet from Marcus, leaned his shield against his thigh and reached up, undoing the strap to lift the helmet from his head, just as his master announced his name.

‘Ferax, the Celt!’

Of course. Marcus smiled grimly at the sneering boy who had made his life a misery at Porcino’s gladiator school. Who else would be so determined to defeat and kill him? Bibulus had made a cunning choice of opponent.

‘My old friend,’ Ferax chuckled. ‘It’s been a long time, and not a day has passed when I haven’t prayed to the gods for a chance to face you again. Only this time, I win, and you die.’

‘Ferax. .’ Marcus whispered to himself. Why did it have to be Ferax?

The memory of their last meeting in the arena sent a tremor of fear down Marcus’s spine. Ferax had lost and Marcus had spared him, leaving the Celt humiliated.

Festus leaned close to Marcus and whispered urgently, ‘Control your fear. Don’t show him you are afraid.’

Marcus nodded. He took two steps towards his opponent, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘You’re still all mouth, Ferax. I beat you last time we met. I should never have let you live.’

‘That was a mistake you’re about to pay for,’ Ferax sneered. ‘With your life.’

Realizing there was more to this confrontation than two strangers fighting, the crowd fell quiet and tried to catch every word of the brief exchange. But before Marcus could reply to Ferax, Bibulus raised his hands.

‘Let the contest begin! Gladiators, prepare!’

Ferax replaced his helmet, drew his sword and stood waiting while Festus securely fastened Marcus’s flanged shoulder guard and, once Marcus had dusted his hands with chalk to ensure a good grip, handed him the net and trident. As he shook his limbs and rolled his neck, Marcus noticed a disturbance at the side of the roped-off area. A small group of boys had squeezed to the front, and almost at once there was a surprised cry. ‘Look, it’s Junius!’

Marcus looked over to see Kasos staring at him in astonishment. He smiled faintly and nodded a greeting.

‘To your marks!’ came a voice. The official overseeing the fight stepped forward and used his staff to mark two flagstones, ten feet apart.

Ferax sauntered into place, and turned to tap the side of his blade against the rim of his shield. With a last deep, calming breath, Marcus took up his position and raised his left hand to lift most of the net from the ground. He gripped the shaft of the trident tightly in his right and lowered himself into a well-balanced crouch.

The official glanced from side to side, then thrust his staff into the air as he stepped away quickly.

‘Begin!’