Gladiator: Street fighter

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘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!’

  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 t
housands 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.’