Street fighter

28

Marcus stood his ground, watching Ferax like a hawk. At first, Ferax did not move, aside from continuing to tap the rim of his shield. Then he walked forward casually until he had halved the distance between them. Suddenly he lunged forward, and before he could help himself, Marcus flinched back.

Ferax laughed contemptuously. ‘Go on, little man, jump!’

Marcus gritted his teeth. He recalled the fear he had lived under as he endured the Celt’s endless torments at the gladiator school. Enough! Marcus fumed at himself. He was playing into his enemy’s hands. He had to shake off the past. He must think of Ferax as his opponent of the moment, and forget anything that affected his concentration.

He stepped forward himself, lifting the net clear of the ground, and began to swing it slowly to and fro. Ferax watched him warily. It was clear that he was no longer the impulsive fighter of several months before. Marcus had been the cautious one then. It gave him an idea — could he use their previous encounter to his advantage? If Ferax was expecting him to be cautious, Marcus needed to do something unexpected to throw him off his guard. Abruptly he rushed forward, stabbing his trident towards Ferax’s exposed neck. The blow was blocked with the shield as Marcus had expected and, as he snatched his right arm back, he swung the net out wide to his left, attempting to snag Ferax’s sword arm. Ferax twisted and stepped nimbly out of reach, and the two faced each other again, breathing hard as they planned their next moves.

‘Come on, Junius!’ Kasos called out. A man next to him said something in an irritable tone. Kasos looked surprised.

‘No? Really? All right then. . Come on, Marcus! Stick it to him! ’

His gang took up the chant and Marcus smiled grimly, then dashed forward again, feinting at his foe’s throat. As Ferax’s shield went up, Marcus altered the angle of the thrust towards his opponent’s leg. The outside prong gashed the other boy’s thigh and Ferax let out a cry of pain and anger, before he charged inside the reach of the net and slashed his sword in an arc aimed at Marcus’s face. Marcus felt the sweep of air and heard the hiss of the blade as he narrowly managed to duck beneath the finely honed edge, and just had time to thrust his trident under Ferax’s exposed armpit. There was not much force in the blow but the prongs gouged three shallow wounds in his side. Marcus sprinted forward past his opponent, then turned quickly, hoping to strike from behind. But Ferax spun round and was on guard before Marcus was balanced enough to use his trident.

They faced each other again. Ferax was breathing loudly through the grille of his helmet, which hid his expression and made him more intimidating. Marcus swished his net forward gently so that it rasped over the ground, trying to unsettle his opponent. Blood trickled down from the small cuts in Ferax’s side and thigh but Marcus saw that he was not bleeding enough to interfere with his ability to fight.

‘First blood to you, Marcus,’ the Celt growled. ‘I was going to offer you the chance to end this quickly and painlessly, but now I’m going to make you suffer.’

Marcus did not reply, but stayed in a crouch and began to circle round to one side, forcing Ferax to face him and present his back to the nearest corner. Marcus feinted with the trident and then swung his net low towards his opponent’s feet, forcing Ferax to retreat out of range. He repeated the strategy and once again Ferax gave ground and was now no more than six feet from the corner of the roped-off area. Beyond the Celt Marcus could see the faces of the mob. Some were urging Marcus on, their faces contorted with cruel excitement. Those supporting Ferax bellowed with rage that he was retreating.

Ferax sensed he was running out of space and braced himself to attack. Marcus saw him draw his weight back in readiness an instant before Ferax charged forward with an animal roar, his feathers swaying violently above his gleaming helmet. He thrust his shield forward, then made a cut towards Marcus’s head with his sword, and then again, always powering forward. Marcus had no choice but to fall back before the onslaught and Ferax gave him no time to ready his net. Now it was Marcus’s turn to be pressed back towards a corner and he well knew the danger of such a trap. There was only one thing he could do. As soon as Ferax made the next thrust Marcus dived down and rolled under his shield, and rolled over again before regaining his feet, gritting his teeth as he felt the wound to his knee tearing open. Ferax slithered to a stop on the wet stones and turned round as the crowd let out a roar of approval for Marcus’s daring move.

The cheering seemed to provoke Ferax and he battered the side of his sword against the rim of his shield as he worked himself up for another attack. With a loud roar, he charged forward, hacking at the shaft of the trident that Marcus thrust back at him. Marcus made to leap to one side and let the Celt rush past him, but Ferax anticipated the move an instant later and swung his shield round to strike Marcus. The corner struck his wounded knee and an intense pain shot up his leg. Marcus scrambled to one side and the two fighters stood a short distance apart, chests heaving as they sized each other up again. Marcus felt something warm flowing down his shin and glanced down. The blow from the shield had torn the dressing aside and gouged open the wound. Blood was welling out of the torn flesh.

‘Ha!’ Ferax shouted gleefully. ‘I have him!’

The crowd’s cheers subsided a little as they caught sight of the bright crimson streak on Marcus’s leg. He carefully tested the weight and felt the muscles of the leg tremble. A wave of nausea swept through him as the pain took hold and he tottered back a pace, gritting his teeth so tightly that they ached.

‘Now I shall have my revenge,’ Ferax muttered. He lowered himself into a crouch, ready to make another attack.

Marcus thought quickly. He was at a disadvantage now. Only one thing might save him — he must not give his foe the chance to attack first. Ignoring the pain in his knee, Marcus swiftly stepped forward, slipping the leather loop from his wrist and swinging the net out and above his head, circling it ready to throw, his trident held out with a straight arm as he aimed the points at his opponent’s throat. Then he cast the net, hurling it high so it caught Ferax’s shield and sword and covered his helmet, before the weights closed the edges of the net around his body. It was a fine cast of the net and the crowd gasped in anticipation as Marcus took the shaft of his trident in both hands and moved forward.

‘Get off! Get off!’ Ferax shouted as he struggled to free himself. The sword came free from the strands of the net but the shield was still caught in its folds. With a curse, he released his grip on the handle as he let the shield and net drop to the ground. Now he faced Marcus with only his sword, much shorter in reach than the trident.

Marcus feinted and Ferax stumbled away from the barbed points.

‘Go on then,’ Marcus smiled grimly. ‘Jump. .’

But none of this was funny to Marcus and his expression hardened as he thrust at Ferax in earnest. The other boy parried the trident, and then again as Marcus continued to jab at him. The crowd’s excitement reached a pitch as they cheered deafeningly.

‘Kill him!’ Kasos cried out.

Marcus tightened his grip on the shaft of the trident and made an obvious attack directly at Ferax’s chest. The Celt threw up his sword and at the last instant Marcus pulled his thrust, just enough to let the sword pass between two of the prongs of the trident. Then he gave the shaft a violent twist to the side. The sword was wrenched from Ferax’s hand and clattered to the ground ten feet away. At once Marcus sidestepped to place himself between Ferax and his weapon, and then moved in, forcing Ferax into a corner until he was pressed up against the crowd. There was a cry of alarm and a man thrust Ferax forward. As he did so, Ferax’s toe caught on the corner of the flagstone and he fell face down at Marcus’s feet, the rim of his helmet ringing with the impact.

Marcus pressed his boot down on Ferax’s back and pushed the prongs of the trident against his neck. ‘Don’t move!’

Ferax lay still and said nothing, and then a terrible keening cry of rage and bitter frustration strained from his lungs.

‘Finish him!’ a voice bellowed from the crowd. Others took up the cry. Marcus felt an impulse to thrust the trident home and kill his defeated opponent, and he knew the audience would cheer him for it. Then he recalled the last time he had fought Ferax and the same revulsion flooded into his heart. Despite everything that Ferax had done to him, they were both victims of the same crime against humanity. Marcus leaned forward and spoke urgently. ‘Ask for mercy if you want to live! Ferax, do it, before it’s too late!’

‘Death! Finish him! Kill!’ The shouts were spreading through the crowd.

Ferax eased a hand out and lifted it slowly, extending his first two fingers. Now some of the crowd began to call for his life to be spared, and others joined in so that the Forum filled with the din of competing cries. There was no way for Marcus to tell which side was in the majority, so he looked towards Caesar for a decision — and hoped it would not mean Ferax had to die.

His master looked round at the crowd, taking in the disappointed face of Bibulus, then raised his thumb. Relief surged through Marcus as he lifted the trident from Ferax’s neck. Slowly, he turned to look at the crowd, deafened by the roar of his name from thousands of throats.

‘Marcus! Marcus! Marcus!’

He could not deny the thrill of his triumph and the giddy joy of having survived the fight. Marcus punched his trident into the air, and again as he yelled his name along with the crowd. He turned and saw Lupus grinning at him. Suddenly the grin faded and Lupus thrust out his hand, pointing behind

Marcus. He was shouting something, but his words were lost in the din.

Marcus frowned, lowering his trident, and turning to follow the direction of Lupus’s finger. He saw a blur of movement, Ferax bare-headed, a ferocious snarl on his face as he snatched up the sword. Marcus just had time to raise his trident before Ferax crashed into him, smashing him back on to the ground. His head cracked against the wet stone and everything went black.

‘Marcus! Marcus. .’

Slowly the black gave way to light, with a blurred face looming over him. He blinked and his vision began to clear. An agonizing pounding filled his head and he winced.

‘Marcus, can you hear me?’

‘Y-yes,’ he muttered. Now he saw a ring of other faces around him, strangers, looking down. Then he recognized Lupus and Festus staring at him anxiously. He was still in the arena. What had happened? Festus gently lifted him to his feet and supported him round the shoulders. ‘Ferax!’ He started in alarm.

‘Easy there,’ said Festus. ‘You’re all right.’

‘Where’s Ferax?’ Marcus demanded.

‘There.’ Festus nodded at the ground.

Ferax lay on his side, his eyes wide open and unblinking. His mouth was firmly closed, pinned into place by the prongs of the trident that had impaled him under the chin and pierced his skull. Marcus stared at his body, feeling empty and sick. Festus saw his expression. ‘He attacked you when your back was turned. It was lucky you raised your trident in time… Anyway, he got what he deserved. Shed no tears for him, Marcus.’

Before Marcus could respond there was another man standing in front of him. Caesar was smiling widely. ‘Well done, my boy! A fine victory. I’m proud of you. And grateful.’

Caesar called one of his slaves over. ‘A purse of silver for my champion. And give the rest to the crowd.’

The slave bowed his head and then fished into his haversack, taking out a small leather purse the size of a pear that he pressed into Marcus’s hands. Then he reached into his bag again and took out a fistful of bronze coins, which he hurled into the air. The crowd cried with excitement as people snatched at the coins, or bent down to retrieve those that had fallen to the

‘Caesar!’ the slave cried out, throwing out a last handful of coins. ‘Caesar!’

The cry spread through the crowd, echoing off the walls.

Marcus watched as Caesar turned back towards the Senate House and climbed the steps at a stately pace. Most of the senators on either side joined the crowd in cheering his name.

Now the fight was over, Marcus felt his limbs tremble with relief as Festus wrapped his cloak over Marcus’s shoulders and steered him away, back in the direction of the Subura. ‘Festus. I didn’t mean to kill him.’

‘You had no choice, boy. Listen, we’re finished here, Marcus. You need rest, and later something to eat. You may want nothing now, but you will later. Trust me.’

Marcus was in no mood to argue. He let himself be guided by Festus, and was almost oblivious to the pats on his shoulder and the ruffling of his hair from those in the crowd who congratulated him as he moved through the throng. He reached up and with trembling fingers unfastened Portia’s scarf. He breathed in the scent, marvelling at how good it smelt. Closing his eyes, he sent a prayer of thanks to the gods. He was still alive.