Street fighter

7

As the days of early spring passed, Marcus learned to use all the weapons that Festus required him to master before he could be entrusted with Portia’s safety. He’d had no further opportunity to see Pompeius or to learn more about Decimus’s involvement in Caesar’s political circle. Marcus was sure his influence couldn’t be good, but he could no more prove that to his master than he could hope to escape and find his mother on his own. For now, he resigned himself to doing well at his task and hoping that Caesar might reward him in a way that would help his cause.

Festus had taken Marcus into the streets on a few occasions to teach him to blend in with a crowd and watch for signs he was being followed, or for any ambushes. He was also taught the layout of the heart of Rome and districts that surrounded it. There was one place Festus didn’t take him, an area on the side of the Aventine Hill known as ‘The Pit’, where some of the hardest street gangs in Rome were to be found.

‘Trust me, Marcus, you never want to go anywhere near The Pit. The men that live there are animals. .’

Besides the club and staff Marcus learned how to use knives, and how to throw them. Festus had hurled a blade across the yard so that it landed a short distance from the centre, handle canted up at a slight angle.

‘A good strike will usually bring a man down if it hits him close to the spine, or in the back of a knee. But that would be a lucky throw. You’re more likely to just slow him down and make him bleed a bit before you can close the distance and finish him off. That’s if you’re good enough to hit him in the first place.’

Festus pulled out another knife from the holsters at the back of his broad belt. ‘Here. You have a go.’

Marcus took the knife and felt its weight. The blade was no more than six inches long but broad in proportion, with a deadly tapered point. The handle was thin and covered in an abrasive material — shark skin, according to Festus. He stood side on to the target and spread his feet wide to balance his body when he threw the knife. Then he held the blade between thumb and forefinger as he’d seen Festus do a moment before. Drawing his arm back behind his shoulder, Marcus squinted at the straw archery butt and hurled his arm forward, releasing his grip on the blade at the last moment. The knife whirled end over end across the yard, deflecting off the corner of the target before striking the wall beyond with a dull clang.

‘Not bad for a first effort,’ Festus conceded, handing Marcus another knife. Try thinking of a pipe between your eye and the target, then concentrate on throwing it down the line right through the centre of the pipe.’

Marcus did as he was told and this time his aim was better. But he had concentrated on accuracy rather than power and the blade fell short of the target. But after a few more attempts he began to hit the target and he felt a thrill of pride each time.

‘That’s good,’ Festus said, nodding. ‘A few more like that and you’ll be able to kill at a distance. That’ll save you the risk of taking ’em on hand to hand.’

Marcus felt his pride turn to guilt as he recalled the grim purpose behind the new skills Festus was teaching him. Even so, he continued his training, grimly determined to master the weapons of his trade. He knew that one day Portia’s life might depend on it.

After the knives, Festus moved him on to the sling, bolass and knuckledusters. Landing blows with the latter was a painful business, but Festus drove him for an hour at a time. Marcus threw his weight into the blows, landing on a tough, leather-covered post in the yard. Each time Festus would call out the targets in a monotonous tone. ‘Head. . Gut. . Head. . Gut. . Head. .’ Marcus found the training brutal and relentless, but at least it forced him to forget his problems.

It was late one afternoon and they had nearly completed training for the day when the sound of a commotion in the street outside carried over the wall of the yard. There were desperate shouts amid the baying and jeering of a mob and the crash of stalls being overturned. The sounds quickly passed along the side of the house and were followed by a hammering at the front door.

‘Come on!’ Festus commanded and they ran back into the house and down the short corridor to the entrance hall. Caesar had just returned from his duties at the official residence in the Forum and was already standing by the door as a handful of his bodyguards spilled out of their quarters, armed with swords and clubs. He looked round as Festus and Marcus joined him.

‘Better prepare for a fight!’

Festus drew a knife from his belt and nodded as Marcus clenched his fist tightly round the grip of the knuckledusters, lowering himself into a crouch.

The hammering on the door increased in intensity and someone cried out, ‘For pity’s sake, open up!’

‘By the gods, I know that voice!’ Caesar exclaimed. He stepped up to the door and shot open the viewing slot, peering cautiously through it. ‘Crassus!’

He grabbed the locking bar, shoved it into the receiver and raised the latch. At once the door pressed inwards and Senator Crassus stumbled into the entrance hall, swiftly followed by a handful of men and the slaves who’d been carrying his litter. All of them were bruised and blood oozed from cuts on their arms and heads. Crassus had lost his toga and his finely patterned purple tunic was torn in several places. Behind them came three of the senator’s bodyguards, burly ex-gladiators, fighting off the mob outside with thick staves that they thrust into the shouting faces of their pursuers.

‘Help me shut the door!’ Festus ordered as he braced his shoulder against the heavy studded timbers. Some of the body-guards hurried to his side and braced their feet on the tiled floor. Festus shifted to the side and raised his knife. Marcus joined him.

Together they swung home the heavy timbers and the door closed with a deep thud. At once Caesar snatched at the locking bar and wrenched it across into the bracket. For a moment the other men continued to press against the door, as if they feared it might suddenly lurch open, but the pounding on the far side and the angry shouts came to nothing as the door held firm.

Caesar hurried to help Crassus up from the floor. ‘My dear friend, are you all right?’

‘I am now.’ Crassus smiled weakly. ‘But that was close. I’m sure they would have killed me if they could.’

Caesar shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

‘Really?’ Crassus cocked an eyebrow and nodded towards his men. ‘I’ve lost five of my bodyguards, and most of the litter bearers.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was on my way to confer with Pompeius. We had just crossed the Forum and were by the edge of the Subura when a crowd blocked the route ahead. Before we could react, another group had blocked the street behind us. That’s when they started throwing the rocks. There was nothing my litter bearers could do to protect themselves. They had to set the litter down. As soon as I got out I could see we were trapped. There was only one way out, an alley leading into the Subura. Your house was the closest safe shelter I could think of, and here we are — what’s left of us.’

Crassus was trembling as Caesar took his arm and steered him gently away from the front door.

‘We need to talk. Come to my study. Festus!’

‘Yes, master?’

‘See to these men. Have their wounds treated.’

‘Yes, master.’ Festus bowed his head then turned towards Marcus. ‘You can help me, Marcus. It’s time you learned how to treat wounds as well as inflict them. Better take those knuck-ledusters off first, though, or you’ll do more harm than good.’