Gladiator: Street fighter

by Simon Scarrow

  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.

  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!’

  30

  Marcus’s warning was drowned out by the deep booming of drums as the actors ran into the centre of the garden. Caesar paused, as if he thought he might have heard something, then moved the cup to his lips. Marcus hurled himself across the couch and thrust the cup away, so that the wine slopped over and stained the white linen cover of the couch in spatters of red.

  ‘What on earth!’ Caesar spluttered.

  Marcus firmly took the cup from his hand and set it down carefully on the table. ‘It’s poisoned, master.’

  ‘Poison?’ Caesar stared at the cup in horror. He looked up at Marcus. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Marcus pointed at Thermon, still standing beside the wine tubs. The Greek was watching them intently. ‘I saw him put something in the wine. He’s the one who was plotting with Milo and Bibulus. His name is Thermon.’

  Caesar glanced down the garden. The rest of the guests were watching the mime artists and only those closest to the host were aware of what had happened. Caesar turned back to Marcus. ‘By the gods, you had better be sure about this.’

  He sat up and caught the attention of Festus. ‘Take that man, the Greek, standing beside the wine tubs. Do it quietly, and put him in the cellar in chains and watch over him. I’ll come to you as soon as the party is over.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Festus turned and walked quickly round the line of tables, gesturing to the men he had placed around the garden to join him.

  But they were too late. Thermon had seen Festus heading for him and he suddenly made a run for it, towards the wall of the garden.

  ‘Stop him!’ Caesar cried out. ‘Festus! Don’t let him escape!’

  Faces turned towards Caesar and the actors paused in their performance. Marcus watched as Thermon sprinted for the wall, wondering how he hoped to scale it. But as Thermon rounded the corner and struck out towards the stacked benches, it was obvious. Festus broke into a sprint. But he was too late. Thermon reached the benches, clambered up and swung himself on to the wall, kicking the benches away as he did so. He rolled over the top and was lost from view.

  Festus abandoned any idea of pursuing him over the wall and shouted orders to his men to get out into the street to try to block the Greek’s escape. They raced out of the garden, leaving the guests staring after them. Caesar hurriedly called for their attention and assured them there was nothing to worry about. A petty thief had been caught in the act, he said, before calling on his guests to continue the feast. After a moment the mime performance continued. Once he was certain the incident wouldn’t disrupt the celebration, Caesar turned to Marcus with a cold expression. ‘Go to my study at once. Wait for me there.’

  Marcus sat in the gloomy light cast by a single oil lamp. He was trying to think through what thi
s all meant. Thermon was the servant of Decimus, who in turn was the friend of Crassus, one of Caesar’s closest allies. Why would Thermon have tried to kill Caesar - twice now? It didn’t seem to make any sense.

  The feast ended late in the evening and Marcus heard the guests begin to leave, talking noisily as they passed by the door of the study. Gradually the sounds died away and there was a long delay before footsteps sounded outside the door. Festus opened it and stood aside to let his master, Pompeius and Crassus enter the study. Marcus rose up from the stool. Caesar and his two political allies sat themselves down on the more comfortable chairs round his desk, while the two slaves remained on their feet.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked Crassus. ‘Why have you called us in here?’

  ‘There’s been another attempt on my life tonight,’ Caesar replied tonelessly.

  ‘Ah!’ Pompeius slapped a hand on his thigh. ‘I wondered what that fracas was. Did you catch the man?’

  ‘No. He got away. But I have his name. Thermon. That’s right, isn’t it, Marcus?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’

  ‘And what exactly do you know of him?’

  Marcus pursed his lips. ‘Not much. He was the man who killed my father and kidnapped my mother and me from our farm on Leucas.’

  ‘Then what is he doing here?’ asked Pompeius. ‘Why would he want to kill Caesar? Who is he working for?’

  ‘I can’t say. He used to work for a tax collector by the name of Decimus.’ Marcus glanced at Crassus. ‘The same Decimus I saw you with outside the Senate House earlier this year, sir.’ Marcus turned to Caesar. ‘And the same Decimus who gave the signal for the attempt on your life, master.’

  Caesar stared at him intently. ‘Are you certain?’

  Marcus knew he had no firm evidence, but he had to tell Caesar his fears - if Crassus was in league with Decimus and Thermon, he was also in league with Bibulus and Milo. Caesar’s life was still in danger, and Crassus wasn’t really an ally at all. He was a deadly enemy. ‘It was Decimus, master. I am sure of it.’