Gladiator

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Mother?’ He swallowed nervously. ‘I’ll look after you. I swear it. On my life.’

  ‘You’re a boy. My little boy,’ she muttered. ‘I should be looking after you. Yet, what can I do? I am a slave … There’s nothing I can do.’ She raised her head and he saw the grief in her eyes. ‘After all that the Gods have done to me, I thought that they had finally given me some peace on that farm. Peace where I could grow old with Titus and raise a fine son who would never know the terrible burden of slavery.’

  ‘We won’t be slaves for long, mother. Decimus can’t do this to us.’ He frowned with determination. ‘I won’t let him get away with it.’

  She stared into his eyes with pity, then gently pulled him into her arms and held him tightly. ‘Marcus. You are all that I have left.’

  Her tears began to flow again, and Marcus felt his own eyes burn with a similar urge to cry. He gritted his teeth as he looked over her shoulder at the other slaves in the cage, fighting back his tears. They looked back with blank faces, too weary or despairing to react. Marcus silently swore a sacred oath that he would never accept slavery. Never.

  6

  It took another four long days before the wagon reached its destination, but finally, at dusk on the last day, they entered the town of Stratos.

  Set astride one of the main trade routes across the mountainous interior of Graecia, the town had long outgrown the walls that dated back to the days of the small city-states that were almost constantly at war with one another. Nowadays the walls of the town surrounded a maze of narrow streets where the wealthier families lived and did their business. Beyond the walls sprawled the ramshackle buildings of the poor.

  During the journey, Marcus and his mother had little to do with the others inside the cage. Their fellow slaves knew only a handful of words in Greek, had no understanding of Latin and spoke in unknown barbarian tongues.

  The wagon rattled down the main road into the heart of the town, making for the slave market.

  For Marcus, who had been raised on a farm for all his life, and who had only ever known the fishing village at Nydri, the town was unnerving. The shrill cries of street vendors and beggars assaulted his ears, while the stench of rubbish and sewage filled the air. He wrinkled his nose as he breathed in.

  ‘Ughh! Do all towns stink like this?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ his mother replied with a look of equal distaste.

  The wagon entered a large market square in the centre of Stratos and then turned through a gate into a narrow courtyard. Two burly guards stood just inside, armed with cudgels. It had been a stable once, but now there were iron grilles across the entrance to each stall and Marcus could see the ragged forms of men, women and children of all ages huddled behind the bars. Beneath them was a thin spread of filthy straw.

  ‘Whoah!’ the driver of the wagon called out as he pulled sharply on the reins. The mules clopped to a halt. A large man in a plain brown tunic waddled out of a doorway and approached the wagon. He nodded a greeting to the driver as he climbed stiffly down from his bench and stretched his back.

  ‘What’s this lot then?’ The man jerked his thumb at the prisoners in the cage.

  ‘Slaves.’ The driver yawned. ‘Property of Decimus. Wants them put into the next auction.’

  Marcus grabbed the bars and pulled himself up. ‘We’re not slaves!’

  ‘Shut it, you!’ The driver whirled round and slashed his coiled whip at Marcus’s knuckles. Marcus fell back with a cry of pain. ‘One more word out of turn and I’ll beat you black and blue.’

  The driver turned to the other man with a laugh. ‘The boy’s a born liar. Like all slaves. Just ignore him and his mother there. They go into the auction, as I said. All right?’

  The auctioneer nodded and then pointed to the only remaining empty cell. ‘Put ’em in there. I’ll add them to the sale inventory for tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’

  As the auctioneer waddled back to his office, the driver made his way to the end of the wagon and loosened the coils of his whip. Reaching for the key that hung round his neck, he unlocked the door and backed off a pace as he swung it open.

  ‘Get out!’ He gestured to the ground to make sure that all the prisoners understood his meaning.

  One by one they climbed out, Marcus and his mother last of all. The driver pointed to a cell and pushed one of the others towards it. They were all hungry and stiff after living in the cramped confines of the cage for several days, except for a short break every other day to change the soiled straw. They had been fed twice daily with stale bread and water. The prisoners slowly made their way into the cell. The driver thrust Marcus inside so that he stumbled against his mother, then slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock before striding off to join the auctioneer.

  Inside the cell Marcus and his mother sat down on the straw and leaned against the dirty plaster wall. While his mother stared at the opposite wall, Marcus’s mind was filled with frightening thoughts about the next day’s auction. What if they were bought by a mine owner? He had heard terrifying stories about the conditions slaves endured in the mines. It was little more than a living death. Then the worst of all possibilities occurred to him. He turned to his mother with a horrified expression.

  ‘What happens if we are sold to different owners tomorrow?’

  His mother stirred, as if from a troubled sleep, and looked at him. ‘Sorry, Marcus, what did you say?’

  ‘What happens if we are split up, at the auction?’

  She stared at him and forced a smile. ‘I don’t think that will happen. The auctioneers don’t like to separate families. It makes for discontent.’

  ‘But what if they do?’ Marcus felt a stab of fear. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll stay together. You’ll see. Now try to sleep. Here, put your head in my lap.’

  He wriggled round and lowered his head into the folds of her long tunic and she began to gently run her fingers through his dark curls. She had comforted him this way for as long as he could remember, and had once remarked that Marcus had his father’s hair. Marcus recalled that he had laughed at the time, since his father’s scalp had only a thin crop of wiry hair. As she stroked him now, his body began to relax and for a while his mind drifted back to dreamy memories of the farm with Aristides and Cerberus, as if they were still alive. Most of all he thought of his father, strong and proud. Marcus wished Titus was there to protect him and his mother. An image of his father lying dead in the rain filled his mind and it was a long time before he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

  During the night, he was woken up by a loud outburst. Shouts and yells came from another cell as a fight broke out. The auctioneer and his guards turned up with flaring torches and clubs, and then all Marcus could hear was them beating the prisoners back into silence. He tried to get back to sleep, but he was unsettled by the violence, and his thoughts once again turned to the grim situation he and his mother were in. What would become of them?

  There was a deafening clatter as the guard ran his club along the iron bars and Marcus was startled into wakefulness.

  ‘On your feet, slaves!’ the guard bellowed, then moved on to the next cell. ‘Wakey, wakey!’

  Starting with the cells nearest the main gate, the prisoners were chained together by their ankles and then escorted out of the courtyard into the market. Marcus estimated that there were at least a hundred other people waiting to be sold and the morning dragged on as they were taken out in batches to be auctioned off. All the time he felt his guts knot with anxiety over the terrible prospect of being parted from his mother.

  At last a guard came to their cell with a club in one hand and a heavy length of chain with ankle irons in the other. He let them out one at a time, clamping the iron collars round each prisoner’s ankle and then hammering home the locking pin. When Marcus and his mother had joined the short line, the last six slaves were led out of the yard. The market square was crow
ded and people pressed round Marcus and the others as they shuffled towards the stage a short distance away, where the auctioneer stood waiting. Marcus felt hands squeeze his arms as he passed, and one man forced Marcus’s mouth open to look at his teeth before being thrust back by the guard.

  ‘You’ll get to examine the goods soon enough, once you’ve bought ’em.’

  They were led up a short flight of steps and made to stand in a line at the rear of the stage. Then the guard took his small hammer and knocked out the pin on the ankle fetter of the first prisoner, one of the black men. The guard dragged him forward, to the side of the auctioneer. It had been a busy morning and the sun was high in the sky. Sweat rolled down the fat man’s cheeks and his hair was plastered to his skull. Drawing a deep breath, he raised his arms to attract the attention of the crowd and called out.

  ‘I have the honour to be selling six slaves on behalf of Decimus, a town father of Stratos and known throughout the province. The first two are Nubians. Both are young, healthy and strong.’ He grasped the man’s arm and held it up. ‘Look at those muscles! With a bit of training, they’ll make exotic house slaves. Or, if you want to make full use of those muscles, perhaps field hands, or boxers. Perhaps even gladiators! Bound to be a fine investment all round. So, come now! What am I bid?’

  ‘Two hundred sestertii!’ a voice cried out.

  ‘Two hundred?’ The auctioneer turned towards the voice. ‘Is that you, there, sir? Yes. Two hundred then!’

  ‘Two fifty!’ another voice cried out.

  ‘Three!’ came the reply.

  The bidding continued in a frenzy, one shouted price after another, with the auctioneer hard put to keep up with the pace. Then finally the bidding stopped, at twelve hundred sestertii.

  ‘Twelve hundred … Is that the final offer? Twelve hundred? Honoured ladies and gentlemen, fine specimens like this rarely come on the market. Come now, surely someone with a good eye for a bargain must be prepared to raise the bid?’ He looked round hopefully but there was no response. The auctioneer waited a moment longer and then clapped his hands together. ‘Sold!’

  The man was led off the stage to a small pen where a scribe noted the details of the sale on a waxed tablet and collected payment from the buyer. The second Nubian went for a similar price and then the two teenage boys were bought for much less by a tall thin man with neatly oiled hair and kohl around his eyes. The auctioneer mopped his brow with a rag and then indicated Marcus and his mother.

  ‘The final lot in this morning’s sale, honoured ladies and gentlemen. A mother and son. The woman is not yet thirty. She can cook and weave and should be fertile enough to breed for some years yet. The boy is ten and in good health. He has been taught to read, write and count. With a little training he could be useful in a trade.’

  Marcus lowered his head in shame. To hear himself and his mother described in this way made him feel no better than an animal.

  ‘I am sure you’ll agree, they make a fine deal together,’ the auctioneer continued. ‘Of course, any buyer with a shrewd eye for a bargain might consider selling the boy on when he is a little older. And if the woman is productive, who knows what profits she might yield from breeding?’

  ‘No!’ Marcus yelled out. ‘You can’t do this! We were kidnapped!’

  The auctioneer nodded quickly to the guard, who slapped Marcus hard about the face, knocking him down on to the stage. The crowd roared with laughter. The guard clenched his fist in Marcus’s hair and pulled him back on to his feet, hissing into his ear, ‘One more word from you and it’ll be your mother I hurt, not you. Understand?’

  Marcus nodded, trying not to cry as his scalp burned with pain. The guard held him by the hair a moment longer before releasing him.

  ‘The boy just needs a firm hand, as you can see,’ the auctioneer said, grinning falsely. ‘So who will open the bidding?’

  There was a brief pause as the audience considered the two desperate-looking figures and then a large man with a cruel face started to raise his hand. Before he could speak, there was a shout from near the back of the crowd.

  ‘Stop there! They are not for sale!’

  The auctioneer and the crowd turned towards the voice. Marcus, too, tried to see who had spoken, as a faint hope kindled in his breast. Perhaps this was it. The moment he had prayed for. Perhaps they were saved.

  A figure pushed through the crowd and, as the man approached the stage, Marcus recognized him, and his heart sank like a stone.

  Thermon.

  He climbed on to the stage as the auctioneer regarded him crossly, arms on his fleshy hips. ‘What is the meaning of this? What do you mean, they’re not for sale?’

  ‘I speak for Decimus. I am his steward,’ Thermon replied haughtily. ‘My master says that these two will not be sold after all.’

  ‘Not sold?’ The auctioneer raised his eyebrows. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t need to explain the reason to you. It is the will of my master. Understand?’

  The auctioneer nodded. ‘As you wish.’ He turned to the guard. ‘Remove them. Back to the cell.’

  As the crowd fell to mumbling at the surprise turn of events, Thermon approached Marcus and his mother.

  ‘Decimus has changed his mind.’ He smiled coldly and Marcus felt the hairs tingle on the back of his neck as Thermon continued, ‘He’s got something else in mind for you two.’

  7

  Soon after they were returned to their cell, a man entered the courtyard. He was slightly built and tall, and his narrow face made him look taller still. Except for a fringe of silvery hair he was completely bald and his scalp gleamed as if it had been polished. Marcus noticed that he walked with a limp that he tried to conceal as far as he could by walking slowly. He wore a silk tunic with pale leather boots and there was a gold torc around each of his wrists.

  The man smiled thinly as he approached the bars of the cell. ‘The delightful wife of Centurion Titus and his young boy, if I am not mistaken. I imagine that you can guess who I am.’

  Marcus’s mother kept her expression fixed as she regarded the man. He shrugged and tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Well, I am disappointed. I had hoped that the wife of one of General Pompeius’s finest centurions would be more polite. Never mind. So, then, I am Decimus. Town father of Stratos and a duly appointed tax collector of Graecia.’ He bowed his head in a mock greeting. He regarded them for a moment in silence before his expression turned into a sneer. ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you? Neither you, nor that fool Titus. Arrogant as ever, thinking that he could ignore his debt and send my men packing. It’s been a long time coming, but now I have paid him back, in his own coin as it were.’

  He suddenly pretended to look surprised and clicked his fingers. ‘Oh! But I imagine that you didn’t know that your husband and I were old friends. Perhaps not friends, but certainly comrades.’

  Marcus looked up at his mother, but she still refused to speak.

  ‘We served in the glorious Sixteenth Legion in Spain. Under Pompeius. We were optios. Do you know what that means? We were the men waiting for the chance to be promoted to centurion. Then the chance came. One of the centurions was killed in a skirmish and good old Titus and I were waiting to see which of us would get the promotion. It should have been me. I was the better soldier, without a doubt. Everyone knew it. Anyway, the day before the General made his choice, Titus and I had a little drink. Then another, and one thing led to the next, and then he suggested we have a little mock swordplay, to prove who was the better swordsman. Just for fun, you understand. Only it wasn’t just for fun. Titus wasn’t even drunk, he was pretending to be. We feinted and parried and then he seemed to slip, tripping forward, and his sword tore through my thigh.’

  Decimus moved closer to the bars. He seemed to have forgotten Marcus’s mother and was now looking intensely at Marcus. ‘An accident, you see? So I didn’t tell on him.’ Decimus smiled bitterly. ‘The wound was bad enough for the legion to discharge me. There I was,
out on my ear, and Titus got the promotion. He always claimed it was an accident, of course. Wait, I’ll show you.’

  Decimus lifted the corner of his tunic and raised it to reveal his right thigh. Marcus sucked in his breath as he saw a thick, white, knotted length of scar tissue stretching up from the knee.

  ‘Quite a scar, isn’t it, my boy?’ Decimus lowered the tunic. ‘I suppose your father did me a favour in a way. If I had stayed in the army, I would have ended up on a miserable little farm on the side of some obscure island, just like him. As it was, I made my fortune in supplying grain to the legions. I bribed the right people and won the contract for tax collection in this province. You can imagine my surprise, and then my joy, when Titus approached me for a loan. I expect he thought that “time was a great healer”. Not for me it wasn’t. So I loaned him some money, on easy terms – easy enough to encourage him to borrow more, and before too long he was deeply in debt and I had a legal right to take my revenge.’ He held up his hands. ‘You know the rest of the story.’

  Marcus’s mother cleared her throat and spoke firmly. ‘You may have had the legal right to recover your debt, but not to murder Titus and enslave his family.’

  ‘Really? I merely sent my men to collect what was owed to me. The fact that your husband resisted violently and unfortunately died as a consequence is not my fault. As any court in this town would agree.’

  ‘I wonder if General Pompeius will agree when he hears of this outrage?’

  ‘General Pompeius will never find out. I am not a fool, Livia. If word ever got to Pompeius that one of his veterans had suffered such a fate, he would visit his anger on the man responsible, sure enough. That’s why you were pulled out of the auction.’ Decimus smiled. ‘That was just a little performance for my benefit, so that I could wring another drop of revenge out of the situation. I could never afford to let you be bought by someone who might well listen to your story and believe that you had been wronged.’