Street fighter

5

Marcus hardly slept that night, but lay on his bedroll staring up at a thin shaft of moonlight shining through the slit window high up on the wall. Lupus was lying on his back, snoring. The other boy, Corvus, lay curled up under his worn blanket, muttering to himself as he dreamed. So far they had exchanged only a few words about their backgrounds. Returning from the Forum, Lupus had told Marcus that he’d been born into Caesar’s household and been a slave his entire life. And he’d heard from Corvus how he’d been sold as an infant to a gladiator trainer by his poverty-stricken parents. But the trainer’s hopes of teaching Corvus disappeared when the boy broke his leg and was left with a limp. The lanista duly sold him to a slave dealer who had brought the boy to Rome, where he’d been bought as a kitchen slave by Flaccus.

Marcus’s thoughts turned away from them. Since seeing Decimus and Thermon outside the Senate House, his mind had been in turmoil. For a while, his original plan to appeal to Pompeius for help were replaced by a burning desire for revenge with far-fetched plans to track down and kill Decimus.

Gradually his rage faded and Marcus began to think about the implications of the tax collector’s presence in Rome. If he was a supporter of Crassus, who in turn was an ally of Caesar and General Pompeius, then the situation was more complicated than before. How could Marcus appeal to Pompeius for help in freeing his mother and bringing Decimus to justice for kidnapping them, if the tax collector was a close associate of Pompeius’s key ally? Pompeius would never side with Marcus against a man as powerful as Crassus.

Even while he felt despair at this new turn of events, Marcus realized it also gave him an opportunity to discover where his mother was held. If he knew the location of Decimus’s farming estates in Greece, he might find out where his mother had been sent. Then he was struck by the cold reality of his situation. Marcus was only a slave. How did it help to know where she was if he couldn’t free her? And Pompeius clearly had more important matters to think about — why should he help Marcus?

The confrontation at the Senate House had shown Marcus how divided the powerful families of Rome were. From all he’d heard and seen today, the Senate was riven by politicians jostling for power and the affection of the mob. What struck Marcus most was the way Caesar had abused his power, deliberately offending his opponents. Clearly, he enjoyed taking risks. Although Marcus understood little of Roman politics, it seemed to him that such men were a danger to themselves, and to those who followed them.

Marcus shuffled on to his side and closed his eyes. For a moment his mind wandered, and then he found himself thinking of Portia. She was the closest he’d had to a friend for a long time. At first fearful of the consequences of speaking to her alone, he’d begun looking forward to more time with her once he assumed his duty as her bodyguard. But first he had to complete his training and wondered if this would be as hard and dangerous as that of Porcino’s gladiator school. One thing was clear: Marcus would be in as much danger on the streets of the capital as he had been facing wild wolves in the arena.

It was hours later, after his mind had turned over the situation with Crassus, Pompeius and Decimus a hundred times and he was still no closer to coming up with an answer, that Marcus’s weary mind finally began to embrace sleep.

‘Wake up, Marcus, you dozy fool!’ Festus shouted at him, whipping his cane out and flicking the end on to his shoulder. There was a burning pain and Marcus grimaced as he jumped back and held his club out in front of him, ready to parry the next blow. Marcus did not resent his hard treatment. After all, Festus was training him to survive, and he knew he’d been slow this morning, finding it difficult to concentrate after his miserable night. But he had reached a decision — he would bide his time and find out how Decimus fitted into Caesar’s world. Then he could decide how best to act. He focused himself once more on the fight, knowing these skills were needed to protect Portia.

‘That’s it.’ Festus nodded with satisfaction. ‘Much better, Marcus. Now stay alert. You can’t afford to react slowly in the streets. You could face an attack from any direction, at any time. And unless your eyes and ears are razor sharp it’ll be too late to do anything.’ Before he had completed his sentence his cane was lashing out again. This time he aimed it in a wide arc towards Marcus’s other shoulder. It was an obvious move and Marcus instinctively moved to block it. As soon as he did so Festus flicked the cane up and brought it down towards Marcus’s head, hissing through the air. Marcus dropped down on one knee and threw his club up so that the cane cracked against the shaft instead.

‘Good lad,’ Festus grunted approvingly as he stepped back and lowered the cane. Once again they were in the small yard at the side of the house where Festus trained and exercised his men. ‘When you’re outside the house that club will be the first weapon you can use in a fight. Any blades you carry will be tucked in your belt or hidden under your tunic. They’ll be no use if you’re suddenly attacked. They’re only for when you have time to draw them out. Or when it’s you that’s making the attack, or setting an ambush. Got that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of course, there’s more than one way to use the club,’ Festus continued as he swept his cane above his head. ‘Only an idiot or an untrained fighter, which comes to the same thing on the streets, just swings the thing around.’

He lowered the cane and thrust the tip forward, pulling back the blow at the last moment so the point gently tapped Marcus on the chest. Marcus did not flinch, or even blink, just as he’d been taught. Taurus had once said that a fight between gladiators was half won the moment one of the combatants stared out his opponent.

Festus chuckled approvingly. ‘Perhaps the master was right. There’s a natural warrior inside you. With the right training and provided you live long enough, you might be a fine gladiator one day.’

Marcus felt his blood chill at the thought. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to fight another person to the death just to entertain a bloodthirsty mob — two slaves turned on each other for the pleasure of their masters.

Suddenly he had the unnerving sensation of another person standing at his shoulder, watching over him. He glanced round briefly but saw only the plain weathered plaster on the wall of the yard. Nevertheless, he had felt the presence of something, or someone, and a chill rippled down his spine. Perhaps it was the shade of his father — his real father, Spartacus. What would he think of his son working for one of the most powerful men in Rome, someone who represented everything his father had fought against?

Marcus realized a brief silence had fallen and saw Festus looking at him irritably. He quickly recalled the last words spoken to him and hurriedly cleared his throat.

‘Yes, sir. I hope so. A champion that Caesar will be proud to own.’

Festus’s expression relaxed into a smile. ‘That’s the spirit, boy. You have ambition. I like that. Still, ambition is only a small part of the struggle towards greatness. A gladiator needs strength, self-discipline and skill, and these only come through absolute dedication and training. Is that clear? There are no short cuts.’

Marcus nodded, and Festus continued. ‘Now back to the lesson. It’s vital that you are adept with the club before you guard Mistress Portia. If you fail to protect her, you can be certain the master will make you pay for it with your life. In that case, what have you to lose? If you are forced to fight to save her, you must be prepared to die.’

‘Yes, master.’ Marcus nodded solemnly. He had a brief vision of rescuing Portia again, saving her from some faceless attackers. He pushed the image aside. ‘I understand.’

‘Of course, fighting is a last resort,’ Festus told him. ‘Escape is always the first and best option. A bodyguard must not think like a soldier. If there is a choice between fight or flight, then you must always get the person you are protecting out of danger. But if it comes to a fight, remember you can use the point of the club as well as slashing with it.’ He stabbed the tip of his cane savagely into the wall beside Marcus’s shoulder, cracking the surface and sending chips of plaster flying through the air.

‘See there.’

Marcus turned and saw the depression in the wall with the spidery lines leading out from the impact point. He could easily visualize the damage that blow could have done to flesh and blood.

‘Imagine that was a man’s face, or his chest,’ said Festus. ‘If you were lucky enough to strike him in the eye it would blind him, and perhaps kill him. Either way he would be out of the fight. A slashing blow from a club bruises muscles and might break bones, but it is a crude and clumsy technique and not as effective. Always look to end a fight as quickly as you can. There is no audience to please, no glory to be won. Just get it over with and get Mistress Portia to safety as soon as possible.’

They practised with the club for the rest of the day and Festus did not spare Marcus much pain as they sparred. Marcus gritted his teeth and continued, gradually refining his technique until he could block almost every blow, and anticipate his trainer’s moves. Towards the end of the afternoon he even began to land his own strikes on Festus, making little effort to take the sting out of his cuts, or the power out of his thrusts with the end of the club.

Finally, Festus ended the lesson, rubbing his wrist where Marcus had just landed a sharp blow. He nodded grudgingly. ‘You learn fast. Tomorrow we move on to the stave. Off to the kitchen with you. And get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start at first light.’