‘I have told you where I came from, and about my family. You know the truth about me. The whole truth.’
‘And I have your word on that?’
‘Yes.’ Marcus forced the word out.
‘Then there’s nothing more to be said. Now get to sleep, Marcus.’
Festus lowered himself and lay flat on his back, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply until he began to snore. Marcus listened with envy, wishing he could put aside his worries and sleep as easily as his older comrade.
His thoughts returned to the words of the Oracle. She had said that his father, Spartacus, had called out to him, that he was the destroyer, and death had come to Rome. Was this the destiny that Brixus had urged him to embrace? It had been a while since the former gladiator who had fought at his father’s side had entered his mind. Marcus recalled how forcefully Brixus had urged him to become the figurehead of a new slave revolt. This time, Brixus promised, they would succeed where Spartacus had failed. Once word that his son was leading the rebellion spread out, runaway slaves would flock to his banner and create such a host as Rome had never seen. This time the legions would be overwhelmed and crushed by sheer weight of numbers, and the scourge of slavery would be lifted from the world that had languished too long in the shadow of the eagle emblem of Rome.
But Marcus had seen that such promises were mere dreams. Brixus had too few men to start a revolt, and Rome would react swiftly and cruelly to any new attempt by slaves to overthrow their masters. The time was not right. Marcus had refused to cooperate with Brixus and the veteran gladiator had been outraged.
Yet now he had been offered a vision of the future, one depicting the death of Rome. Perhaps Marcus was being offered a second chance to continue the work of his father. But it sounded a fearful prospect and Marcus was not convinced he should expose the world to the terrible images conjured up by the Oracle. He needed someone he could talk to about his dilemma; keeping it all to himself was intolerable. Only his mother would understand and offer him the comfort and advice that he sought – one more reason to devote himself to rescuing her.
A soft moan of despair caught in his throat and Marcus clenched his eyes shut, struggling to drive all thought from his mind so that he could get the rest he so desperately craved.
11
They continued on the road to Athens. Sleeping in a cheap inn at Coronea the first night, Marcus resumed training Lupus in the morning and evening while the scribe grumbled about his aching muscles. But the atmosphere had changed between them. Cheerful conversations were now less frequent and they trudged on, each wrapped up in his own thoughts.
As promised, Lupus did not raise the subject of the Oracle’s prophecy again, but that did not stop his searching glances at Marcus, most of which the latter noticed but pretended to ignore. Festus led from the front, seldom looking back at the others as he strode on, setting a fast pace. Only when they stopped for a rest, or to refill their canteens from a mountain stream, did he enter into any exchange. But now Marcus saw a suspicious glint in the man’s eye every time he looked at him. Marcus still felt shame over his deception as well as fear that he would have to guard against Festus in the days to come.
Late in the afternoon on the day after leaving Coronea they came to the modest town of Leuctra. A local religious festival was taking place and all the cheap inns were full. The only rooms left were in a far more expensive inn on the town square and Festus gritted his teeth in frustration as he broke the news.
‘There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to spend another night in the open.’
Lupus looked up at the sky. Clouds had been rolling over the mountains during the afternoon and threatened rain. ‘I had hoped we’d be sheltered tonight.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ Festus replied tersely. ‘Better we go now and see what we can find in the country close to the town.’
Marcus intervened. ‘Or we could place a little wager on ourselves and win enough to cover the accommodation for tonight. What do you think?’
Festus was about to refuse when a distant rumble of thunder echoed off the surrounding mountains. He looked around the town square and saw that although many of the stalls had packed up for the day there were still plenty of people about. He weighed up their options then nodded to Marcus. ‘All right. Same drill as before. Let’s get to it.’ They moved to the base of a statue of Hermes that dominated the square and removed their cloaks, then took out the training weapons from their packs. Lupus stood over the possessions, a thick stave in his hands.
While Marcus stood back a step, Festus raised his hands and began his patter. ‘My friends, hear me! Good people of Leuctra I am honoured to visit your famous town. No doubt there are many men here who are descended from the great warriors who served noble Leuctra in the wars against Persia …’
As Festus continued, Marcus surveyed the crowd and saw the usual bands of youths, as well as a group of thuggish-looking men at a table outside a wine shop. There would be no problem finding contenders among these people, he decided. The men at the wine shop turned to hear Festus.
When Festus issued his challenge, their leader, sitting at the end of the table, made a comment and his cronies burst into laughter. He was a powerfully built man with a shock of dark hair and he wore studded leather bracers. Easing himself on to his feet, the man gestured for his gang to follow and approached the small crowd in front of Festus. Four of the local youths had already volunteered and had moved to take up the wooden weapons. The man and his surly-looking followers pushed their way through the crowd.
‘Put those down,’ he ordered the youths.
One of them, a tall, well-built teenager, turned round with an angry expression, fists clenched. But as soon as he saw who had spoken he quailed and Marcus saw his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he stammered.
‘Sorry, Pr-Procrustes. I didn’t know it was y-you.’
‘Well, now you do, you and your boys can shove off.’
‘Y-yes. Of course.’ The youth turned to his companions. ‘Let’s be off, b-boys.’
They hurriedly dropped the training swords and withdrew into the crowd. Caesar’s bodyguard flashed a polite smile at the man called Procrustes.
‘I take it that you are stepping forward to challenge myself and the boy, sir?’
The Greek glared back. ‘No. I’m stepping forward to put the boot in, Roman. You don’t come into my town and play your games without asking for my say-so first. That’s how it works in Leuctra.’
‘I apologize most humbly.’ Festus bowed his head. ‘I was unaware of the protocol.’
‘Protocol?’ Procrustes laughed harshly. ‘Hear that, boys? We’ve got a proper Roman gentleman among us today. Well, Roman, I’ll tell you what. You leave me your baggage and your purse and get out of Leuctra at once, and I’ll let you off the beating I usually hand out to those who don’t abide by the correct, er, protocol.’
Marcus could see Festus’s fingers twitch slightly, a telltale sign that he expected violence to explode at any moment. He glanced at Lupus and nodded discreetly towards Festus’s pack as he whispered, ‘Arm yourself.’
Festus continued smiling as he addressed the Greek. ‘And if I refuse to hand over all our worldly goods? What then?’
‘Then me and my boys will give you a hiding you’ll never forget.’
‘I see.’ Festus looked him up and down. ‘I take it you are the local crime lord.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it. But I see myself as more of an extra-legal businessman.’
Festus forced a quick laugh. ‘You have a ready wit. That is good. But do you have a ready eye for a fight, sir? As I am not prepared to give up our belongings, let me make you an offer. You and three of your men take on me and my lad, Marcus, here. If you win, you take our stake: ten, say twenty, denarii. If we win, you pay us the same.’
Procrustes thrust out a muscular arm and poked Festus in the chest. ‘I will not be insulted by such an easy challenge. I shall take on you alone. And to ma
ke it interesting I’ll take your wager. But let’s fight for a man’s stake. If you lose, you lose everything you have, including those two.’ He nodded towards Lupus and Marcus. ‘They’ll fetch a decent price at the slave market in Athens. If you beat me, and you won’t, then I’ll pay you a hundred denarii. Leaving aside the boys, that’s worth more than twice the value of your kit. What do you say?’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Don’t refuse,’ Procrustes said in a low menacing voice. ‘Not if you want to live to see another day.’
‘Then what choice do I have?’
‘None. And there’s one other thing. It’s just you and me. The boys stay out of it. I want them in good condition once I’ve seen to you.’
Festus considered this for a moment and then nodded. He handed the Greek a wooden sword. ‘Better get your friends to clear some space.’
While Procrustes bellowed the order to his gang, Festus approached Marcus and Lupus and spoke in an urgent undertone as he thrust his purse into Marcus’s hand. ‘If I lose, get out of here as fast as you can. Run and don’t stop for anything. Then make for Athens. The governor there should help you.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘We stay with you. Let’s leave the town. All three of us.’
‘I can’t, Marcus. We make a run for it now, we’ll not get far in the crowd. This way, there’s a chance.’
Marcus looked at Procrustes as the latter swung his sword to test its weight and balance. ‘He knows what he’s doing. This won’t be like the usual fights.’
Festus chose a training sword and followed the direction of Marcus’s gaze. It was clear from the way that he carried himself and the ease with which he wielded the double-weight weapon that the gang leader was a seasoned fighter.
‘He’s been in the arena,’ Marcus decided. ‘That, or he’s been a soldier at some time.’
‘Then at least he’ll put up a decent fight for the crowd and present me with a genuine test of my skills,’ Festus said calmly. ‘Something that’s been sorely lacking in the towns we’ve passed through, so far.’
He turned back to Marcus and Lupus. ‘Remember what I said, boys. If I lose, make yourselves scarce. Immediately. Understand?’
Lupus nodded but Marcus did not respond. Festus gripped his arm tightly.
‘Think of your mother. If you don’t do as I say, then you’ll never see her again.’
The thought filled Marcus with pain, but there was no real choice between his comrade and his mother. He nodded.
‘Good. Then wish me luck and pray to Fortuna!’
Festus turned and stepped into the open space cleared by Procrustes’ men, keeping his face to his opponent and easing himself into a balanced crouch. Procrustes took up his position and rolled his head round to loosen his neck. The Greek gave an evil grin, exposing his teeth and revealing gaps that Marcus guessed were caused by fights. His neck, such as it was, seemed to merge head and shoulders seamlessly and his chest was like a barrel. Beneath the hem of his tunic his massive thighs balanced on calves as sturdy as the legs of a vast table. His forearms were like hams and he swung the sword in an easy ellipse in front of him as he called out to the crowd.
‘People of Leuctra, I will give you a show this evening. And a lesson. This is what happens to those who choose to confront Procrustes. Leuctra is my town. Mine. I will crush anyone who forgets that. Now let’s begin the lesson, shall we?’
He strode towards Festus and then slowed as he came within two sword lengths. Marcus saw them size each other up, then Festus stepped forward and extended his arm, touching the end of his training sword against that of his opponent. Procrustes held his weapon firmly and then, with an easy twist of his forearm, he thrust Festus’s sword away. Caesar’s bodyguard came on without hesitation and feinted and stabbed at the Greek, but Procrustes easily blocked each thrust with a speed and dexterity that, while not graceful, was perfectly effective and demonstrated an excellent technique. Marcus knew that his comrade would need every ounce of his skill and experience. ‘Your friend is a fool,’ a voice hissed close by and Marcus turned to see a middle-aged lady swathed in a black cloak. There were streaks of grey in her dark hair and her eyes appeared sunken. ‘Procrustes will break every bone in his body before the fight is over.’
‘How do you know?’
She turned to him with a piercing gaze and her lips trembled. ‘Because that’s what the monster did to my son when he refused to pay protection money on his market stall. He died a few days later.’
Marcus was silent for a moment before he responded softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Save your grief for your friend.’
Marcus turned back to the fight. ‘Festus can handle himself well enough.’
‘Then, if there’s any justice, he will humiliate Procrustes.’
Festus fell back a few paces to open a gap between them and the Greek gang leader sneered. ‘Had enough already? Then it’s my turn.’
He stepped forward in a slight crouch, well poised on his feet, and made a swift series of feints and genuine thrusts at his Roman opponent. The sharp crack of wood on wood echoed around the square and the crowd, which had been silent, began to mutter and let out gasps as Festus easily defended himself.
‘Come on, Procrustes!’ one of his thugs bellowed. ‘Beat his brains out!’
The Greek paused and called back. ‘When I’m ready. I want to play with the scum first.’
Lupus cupped a hand to his mouth and cried out. ‘Get him, Festus! I know you can do it!’
Those in the crowd looked at him in surprise and the woman nudged Marcus. ‘I’d shut that young man up if I were you. If you want to save him a hiding once Procrustes has defeated your friend.’
Marcus took a deep breath and shouted. ‘Go on, Festus! Cut him down to size!’
‘Your funeral,’ said the woman.
Procrustes went forward again, mixing a few brutal cuts into his attacks. Festus nimbly dodged aside to parry the blows away and the Greek drew back again, breathing heavily.
‘You’re good, Roman. I’ll give you that. Best I’ve fought in a while. You’re fast with a blade, but there’s no real strength there.’
Festus smiled thinly. ‘Think so? Then maybe you’re in for a surprise.’
He leapt forward and struck out at the Greek’s head. Procrustes instinctively threw up his sword arm to block the blow. Then Festus turned his blade and sent it down. Instantly, Marcus knew he had timed it too early and Procrustes punched his arm out to parry the redirected blow. Then, incredibly, Festus flipped his wrist again and the flat of the sword smacked into the side of the Greek’s head.
The crowd let out a cry of surprise as Procrustes staggered back, desperately warding off more attacks, training swords clattering against each other as they moved across the open space. Festus landed another blow, on the gang leader’s left wrist, and he let out a roar of pain and anger as he snatched his arm back.
‘Hit him again, Roman!’ the lady cried shrilly, waving her bony fist. Her cry was taken up by a few others in the crowd, and the thugs backing Procrustes craned their necks to see who was defying their leader. No doubt they would take their revenge later on, Marcus thought. If their man won.
Festus pressed home his advantage, his training sword moving with blistering speed as it danced round his opponent’s weapon. More blows landed and Procrustes gave ground, falling back towards his gang members as he desperately defended himself. More and more of the crowd were daring to cheer Festus on now and Marcus felt his hopes rise as he joined in, punching his fist into the air.
A fresh attack by the Roman drove Procrustes into the ranks of his followers and Festus stepped forward to finish him off. He never saw the blow coming. Marcus did, but before he could shout a warning it was too late. One of the thugs bunched his fists up, braced his boots against the flagstones and powered into Festus’s side, unleashing a torrent of punches to his chest and head. Festus staggered back in a daze as the crowd shouted angrily. But the i
ncident had given Procrustes a chance to recover the initiative and he charged forward again, hammering away at the Roman’s sword.
Marcus was filled with outrage at the intervention and now his anger turned to dread as he saw Festus shuffle away from his enemy, head rolling as he struggled to recover. Procrustes struck out and gave a roar of triumph as the point of the wooden sword stabbed into the Roman’s thigh, just above his knee. Festus’s expression twisted in agony. At once the Greek struck again, smashing the training sword out of the other man’s hand, and it clattered to the ground some twenty feet away, leaving Festus helpless.
Procrustes’ supporters let out a roar and punched their fists up as they shouted his name over and over. The Greek stretched up to his full height and spat with contempt at his opponent.
‘Let’s finish this lesson the old-fashioned way!’ he called out, grasping his sword in both hands as he raised his knee and placed it behind the blade. With a sudden, powerful movement the wood shattered and splinters flew through the air. The gang leader tossed the ends aside and raised his fists.
‘Marcus!’ He looked round as Lupus plucked his tunic. The scribe jerked his head towards the nearest street leading out of the square. ‘We have to go. Now!’
He was still for a moment, then looked back and saw Festus feebly raising his fists to defend himself. Whatever happened he did not feel he could abandon his comrade. Marcus pulled himself free of Lupus’s grasp. ‘No.’
‘But he told us to go if he lost. We have to run, while we can still get away.’
‘Festus hasn’t lost,’ Marcus replied defiantly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Marcus, don’t be a fool. Let’s go.’
‘I’m staying to the end.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Lupus snapped and turned to ease his way out of the crowd. Marcus felt torn between following his friend and staying, but he could not bear the sense of betrayal that coiled in the pit of his stomach.
In the open space, Procrustes steadily advanced on his Roman opponent, his fists inscribing small circles in the air. Festus shook his head to clear it and clumsily raised his own fists. The odds did not look promising, Marcus conceded. The Greek was at least half as big again as Festus, and his punches would carry great force behind them. Proscrustes shot his right fist out and Festus desperately knocked it to one side before raising his hands to protect his head. Procrustes steadily unleashed a series of jabs, probing his opponent, and although only a handful got through, Marcus winced each time his friend’s head snapped back. Then the Greek stepped up the pace, trying to pummel the Roman’s chest. Again some blows got through and Festus staggered back gasping as blood ran down his face from a cut above his right eyebrow.
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