Street fighter

29

When they returned from the Forum, Festus removed the bloodied dressing from Marcus’s knee, shaking his head at the wound, raw and red where the scabs had opened. He cleaned it up, rinsing away the fresh flow of blood, and then put on a new dressing. After that he brought some porridge from the kitchen, hot and steamy, and made Marcus finish the bowl before he ordered him to get some sleep.

Marcus was content to obey Festus. The hard training of the previous day, the anxiety of a largely sleepless night and the frenzied burst of energy and nerves in the fight had left him utterly exhausted. He slumped back on his bedroll and Festus covered him with a blanket and his cloak, then left the cell, closing the door behind him. Marcus stared up at the ceiling, troubled by flashes of images from the fight. Then he forced the dark visions from his mind and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly until he slipped into unconsciousness.

‘Marcus. .’

He felt a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and opened his eyes a fraction. Lupus was squatting beside his bedroll. The room was filled with shadows and only a weak shaft of light from the window high above pierced the gloom. Marcus sat up slowly, groaning at his aching muscles. Lupus remained silent, regarding Marcus with an admiring expression.

‘What time is it?’ Marcus asked as he rubbed the back of his head.

‘Past the seventh hour. Festus sent me to wake you up. The master’s guests have arrived for the feast.’

‘Did his Land Reform get through?’

‘Yes. It was close, though.’

Marcus wearily ran a hand through his hair. Then the crisis had passed. Pompeius’s veterans would have their reward and the threat of a dictatorship had passed. Marcus had played his part in making that possible, and he took some satisfaction from that. But the prospect of claiming his reward was uppermost in his mind. Only when he was free could he begin his fight to rescue his mother.

Lupus smiled. ‘Caesar always gets what he wants.’

Marcus stared at Lupus, wondering at the other boy’s blind faith in his master. ‘He nearly didn’t, this time.’

Outside the slaves’ quarters came the sound of running feet and shouting as the final preparations for the celebration were made. The waft of rich odours from the kitchen drifted down the corridor. Now that he was rested, Marcus felt ravenously hungry. He stood up and stretched his limbs and Lupus scrambled up beside him, anxious to know more.

‘That Celt you defeated was a giant.’

‘He was bigger than me,’ Marcus replied. ‘But not as fast.’

‘Nor as honourable. Trying to stab you in the back like that.’

Marcus recalled the glare of hatred in Ferax’s eyes and shuddered.

‘It was a low thing to do.’ Lupus shook his head. ‘He deserved to die.’

Marcus stared at the other boy. ‘He was a slave, Lupus, like you and me. Neither of us had any choice. We had to fight, because our masters made us.’ It was not wholly true, Marcus reflected. Caesar had implied that Marcus could turn down the fight, but Marcus wondered what would have happened if he had done so. Perhaps Caesar was shrewd enough to know that Marcus would accept the challenge. And it was better that he went to the fight willingly rather than being forced into it. Marcus smiled to himself, understanding one aspect of his master’s greatness — the ability to bend others to his will while they thought they were making their own choices. Clever. Very clever indeed.

His mind switched back to his earlier train of thought. ‘Lupus, no one deserves to die, just for being a slave.’

Lupus looked at him blankly, then shrugged. ‘I heard it was a good fight. Festus thinks you will be the greatest gladiator in Rome in years to come.’

‘He said that, did he?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Lupus nodded eagerly. ‘He says that he has never seen anyone with such promise.’

Marcus took little pleasure in such praise. He had not chosen to be a gladiator, and had long promised himself he would win his freedom and never again fight for the entertainment of other people. Yet he was aware of something stirring in his heart — a feeling of pride and, perhaps, a sense of destiny. The blood of Spartacus flowed in his veins and the same anger at the injustice of slavery filled his mind. Perhaps the gods had greater plans for him than he supposed.

‘Anyway,’ Lupus continued, ‘Festus sent me to wake you. He says you are to attend the master’s feast and stand at Caesar’s shoulder. That’s quite an honour. Now I’d better get back to the garden. Flaccus has appointed me Caesar’s cup bearer for the night.’

Lupus hurried from the room and Marcus was left alone. He smoothed down his tunic and his hair and then took a deep breath before he strode stiffly out of the cell, down the corridor and across the yard to the main house. The clouds that had covered Rome earlier in the day had gone and the evening sky was clear, washed with a golden hue. The feast was being held in the garden, where temporary dining couches were set in lines along the paths. The benches and other garden furniture had been placed along the rear wall, out of the way.

The most important guests sat with Caesar at the end of the garden, looking back towards the atrium. Portia was sitting a short distance from her uncle, next to a powerfully built man with thinning fair hair. The similarity of his features to those of General Pompeius were striking. Marcus felt his heart sink as he realized he was looking at the man Portia was to marry.

Oil lamps on tall stands had already been lit, and thin trails of smoke curled up into the evening sky. The guests were halfway through the first course — trays of small pastries containing spiced meats. Slaves scurried from table to table with jars of wine and the troupe of Greek mime actors was limbering up to one side as they prepared to perform. One of the team was busy arranging the props and costumes they would be using in their act.

Festus was standing beside Caesar’s couch and saw Marcus approaching. He bent down to whisper in his master’s ear. Caesar looked up and smiled, then rose to his feet as he beckoned to Marcus. He reached for his cup and, finding it empty, held it out to the side. At once Lupus, who had been standing several feet back, came forward to top it up from a small jar decorated in gold and silver, and then hurried off to the wine tubs for a refill.

‘Here is my champion!’ Caesar announced loudly, his voice carrying across the hubbub of conversation, which rapidly died away. Marcus felt the eyes of every guest upon him as he made his way round the couches where Pompeius, Crassus and their closest friends were lying, a few places away from Caesar.

Caesar placed his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and gently eased him forward so the guests could see him clearly. ‘My friends! Today we celebrate a victory for reason, and the humbling of those who would have led Rome into a new dark age. Bibulus and Cato were defeated in the Senate House and the ruthless gangs of their creature, Milo, have been driven from the streets. But perhaps the sweetest victory was the crushing of Bibulus’s gladiator by my own fighter, Marcus. Though the odds were against him, he had the courage, determination and skill to win through. His victory inspired ours, so I would ask you to raise your cups and toast the champion of Rome.’

All around the garden and the atrium the guests hurriedly picked up their cups and echoed his name before taking a sip. As the sound died down and the guests returned to their conversations, Caesar gestured to a spot to one side of his couch. ‘Over there, Marcus, where they can all see you.’

‘Yes, master.’

Caesar smiled. ‘You will not have to call me that for much longer. ’

Marcus bowed his head in gratitude before he took his position and stood, arms folded, at the shoulder of the most powerful man in Rome. His heart swelled with pride at his famous victory, but even more at having won his freedom. This was what he had come to Rome to achieve. Now, at last, he could begin the next stage of his quest, to find and free his mother.

Looking out over the guests, Marcus saw Pompeius smiling and laughing with his close associates. A short distance away, Crassus was looking more subdued, and he shot Pompeius a withering glance before turning back to his own entourage. The other guests, mostly senators, tribunes and wealthy merchants, all seemed to share Caesar’s cheerful mood. At the opposite end of the garden, the Greek actors, their faces heavily made up, were waiting for the signal to begin the performance. The man minding their equipment had moved closer to the wine tubs for a better view. Marcus saw Lupus approach the wine tubs, carrying Caesar’s personal wine jar. The Greek smiled and spoke to the boy, wrapping a familiar arm round the slave’s shoulder. He pointed at one of the actors and, as Lupus glanced away, a tiny flash of red from the man’s ring caught the light from the flames of a nearby oil lamp.

It was a small movement and at first Marcus wasn’t sure what he had seen. But he thought something had dropped from the Greek’s fingers into the wine jar. Before he could make up his mind, he heard a shout from behind him.

‘Marcus!’ General Pompeius beckoned to him. ‘Over here,

Marcus glanced questioningly at Caesar and his master nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

He strode over to Pompeius’s couch and bowed his head. As he walked he struggled with the sense that something wasn’t quite right about the Greek man with the mime artists. There was something familiar about him, despite the theatrical make-up.

‘That was some fight.’ Pompeius smiled. ‘Never seen a full-grown gladiator move so fast on his feet, let alone a boy! Hah! Caesar is right. You’ll be a champion to remember. I wonder, how much of that is down to your father? Did he raise you to be a fighter?’

‘My father is dead, sir. But you may remember him. Centurion Titus Cornelius. He fought with you in the last battle against Spartacus. He once told me he saved your life that day. One of the slaves had been lying on the ground pretending to be dead. He leapt up after you had passed him and tried to stab you. My father managed to intervene and kill the slave. ’

Pompeius’s brow creased as he thought for a moment. His eyes suddenly widened. ‘By the gods, yes, I remember! That was a fine piece of work. But for him, that cursed slave would have plunged his blade into my back. . And you’re his son. Then how did you come to be a slave?’

‘My father was murdered by the men of Decimus, a tax collector, sir. My mother and I were kidnapped and sold as slaves. That is how I became a gladiator.’

Pompeius stared at him before replying. ‘That is a hard tale, boy. If I had known the family of one of my officers had endured this, I would have intervened. What was the name of the tax collector again?’

‘Decimus, sir. But it was his servant who killed my father.’

‘And what was the servant’s name?’

‘Thermon.’

Something stirred in Marcus’s memory. The steely rasp of Thermon’s voice on the day he had turned up at the farm and killed Titus. A voice he thought he had heard again, more recently. .

The truth hit home like a hammer blow. The third man he had overheard at the inn. The one who had kept his hood raised. The man who wore a ruby ring on the finger of his right hand. .

A cold stab of fear shot up Marcus’s neck. He swung round and saw that Lupus had returned to his master’s side, and refilled his cup once again. The Greek who had been standing by the wine tubs was watching Caesar expectantly. Marcus abruptly turned away from Pompeius and sprinted back towards his master. Caesar drew his cup away from the jar and raised it towards his lips.

‘Caesar!’ Marcus shouted. ‘No!’