‘Halt! What’s your business here?’
Brixus limped to a stop, fished inside his tunic and brought out a waxed slate. He flipped it open and pointed to the instructions etched into the wax, together with the impression of Porcino’s seal ring. ‘There.’
The guard glanced over the slate. ‘What about the boy?’
‘He’s my assistant.’
The guard looked at Marcus and then stood aside as he nodded to the rest of the section guarding the main gate. ‘Open up.’
The locking bar was removed and the thick door opened just wide enough for Brixus and Marcus to pass through. It closed behind them with a deep thud as the guard waved them towards the villa of Porcino.
‘Come,’ said Brixus as he limped a short distance up the track before turning on to the drive that led to the villa. After the hardships of the gladiator school, Marcus saw that the owner lived very comfortably indeed. The drive to the house was lined with neatly trimmed bushes and every so often a short pillar supported the bust of a man. Marcus thought he recognized some of the faces from the statues he had seen at Nydri and in the towns and ports he had passed through on the way to Capua.
‘Who are they supposed to be?’ he asked Brixus quietly.
‘These?’ Brixus gestured towards the busts. ‘They’re the Roman quality, they are. Consuls, senators, high priests and so on. Our master likes to impress his guests, and at the same time he’s shrewd enough not to pick sides. See there? That’s Marius and directly opposite is Sulla. Bitter enemies in life and their legacy still divides the people of Rome. But Porcino aims to keep both sides happy whenever their supporters happen to pay a visit to the school.’
‘Do they come often?’
‘Often enough. There’s always some politician wanting to buy up some gladiators and put on a show to impress the mob.’
‘What about General Pompeius?’ Marcus asked, trying not to show his excitement. ‘Does he come here?’
‘Not likely!’ Brixus snorted. ‘He’s far too grand to pay us a visit in person. But we had one of his stewards here a while back. He bought four pairs of fighters for a private entertainment at Pompeius’s palace outside Rome.’
Marcus smiled to himself at the prospect, however slim, that such a fate might befall him one day. Perhaps Pelleneus was right. He should concentrate on staying alive long enough for such a chance to be placed before General Pompeius.
Porcino’s villa, like most grand Roman villas, was built with a large courtyard in front, entered through an elaborately decorated arch. Beyond the courtyard lay the main house, built around a neatly kept garden at the centre of which lay a pond into which the water from a fountain tinkled lightly. There was a small door in one corner of the courtyard that led through into the slaves’ quarters. Here was the familiar grim plainness of the school. Bare walls and gloomy rooms with high, barred windows. Brixus continued down a short corridor into a storeroom. The shelves were stacked with brass and silver platters, bowls and goblets. Elsewhere there was a collection of fine Samian ware, glass jugs and a few glass bowls. Brixus pulled up a couple of stools and returned with a small box containing some rags, as well as pots of abrasive powder and a small jar of oil. He muttered as he brought down a stack of brass platters and placed them on the floor between the stools. Handing one to Marcus and taking one for himself, he set to work.
‘So,’ Brixus said, as he mixed some powder and oil in a small dish. ‘What’s your story, young Marcus? How did you come to be a gladiator at the tender age of … what?’
‘I’m eleven,’ Marcus replied, shocked that he had forgotten his birthday over a month earlier.
‘As old as that?’ Brixus mused with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Almost a man, then?’
Marcus had grown used to the ironic banter of adults and did not rise to the bait. ‘I was taken illegally. My mother was also kidnapped, and my father, a retired centurion, was killed.’
‘Ah yes. I had heard that was your claim. Son of a centurion, eh?’
‘It’s true.’
‘If you say so.’ Brixus shrugged. ‘So what was your mother, an exotic eastern princess?’
‘No,’ Marcus replied. ‘My father met her during the slave revolt and married her soon afterwards.’
Brixus paused and glanced at Marcus, rag-wrapped finger poised over the brass platter in his other hand. ‘Your father took part in the campaign against Spartacus?’
Marcus nodded. ‘He was there at the final battle, where the slave army was crushed and Spartacus himself killed. My mother was one of the women captured when the legions sacked the slave camp.’
‘I see.’ Brixus looked down and continued rubbing the powder and oil into the brass platter. ‘I have to tell you, Marcus, I was there too, at the end of the great slave revolt. I was at that battle.’
‘You?’ Now it was Marcus’s turn to pause. ‘You may have known my father. Which legion did you serve with?’
‘I didn’t serve with the legions. I served Spartacus.’
Marcus looked at him in surprise. Brixus returned his gaze with a cold, emotionless expression and Marcus wondered if he was telling the truth. Perhaps this was another of the practical jokes the men in the school seemed so fond of.
‘I thought most of the slaves captured by General Pompeius were put to death.’
‘They were. The day before the battle I was injured when my horse fell down a slope and rolled over me. I was forced to watch the battle from a wagon in the slave camp. Otherwise I would have shared the fate of all the men who were captured under arms. As it was, I was taken when the Romans entered the camp. I was sold on to one of the slave dealers who were following the legions. He sold me to Porcino soon after.’
‘I see.’ Marcus dipped his rag in the mix and began to polish a platter. ‘Did you ever meet Spartacus?’
‘Oh yes, most of the army knew him. He always made a point of walking through the camp each night to talk to his followers.’ Brixus paused and glanced warily at Marcus. ‘I saw him on many occasions. Spoke to him too.’
‘What was he like?’ Marcus asked eagerly.
‘He was a man like me. There were no horns growing out of his head. No fire burning in his eyes and he did not eat his prisoners, as you have no doubt been taught.’
‘But he must have been a great warrior. My father says the slaves fought like demons. Spartacus must have been a giant, like Phyrus.’
Brixus shook his head. ‘Spartacus was not a big man. He was my height and my build. He had dark curly hair and piercing brown eyes, like you. When the revolt broke out he had never killed a man. Never even fought in the arena. But he took to command like a fish to water. In days he had organized us into a formidable fighting force. In months he had gathered tens of thousands of followers, and captured enough weapons to equip us all. The other gladiators took on the job of training the slaves, and we did it well, as the departed spirits of many a Roman soldier will testify.’ Brixus gathered some more of the polish mixture and turned his attention to a new section of the platter. ‘Whenever we went into battle, Spartacus led the way, followed by the men of his personal bodyguard.’
Brixus smiled fondly as he recalled the memory, and Marcus stopped polishing to stare at him, his mouth dropping open slightly.
‘Were you in his bodyguard?’
Brixus frowned. ‘I did not say that. All I said was that I knew him, along with many who followed him. That’s all. Now ask me no more questions about Spartacus, or you’ll get us both into trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
Brixus lowered his platter and leaned closer to Marcus. ‘If your father was who you say he was, then you must know how much the Romans were terrified of Spartacus. They still are. They know that the spirit of Spartacus lives on in the hearts of every slave in Italy. Our masters want to make us forget. So you can imagine how angry Porcino might be if he overheard our conversation.’
‘But we’re alone,’ Marcus protested. ‘No one can hear us.’
&
nbsp; ‘Walls have ears,’ Brixus replied. ‘I’ve said enough already. Now get back to work, boy, and no talking.’
Marcus sighed, frustrated that he could not learn more about the great Spartacus. He raised his platter and began to rub the brass vigorously. All the same, he could not help wondering about Brixus. There was more to him than Marcus had thought. Much more. Despite his denial, clearly he had known Spartacus well. Well enough to put his life in danger if the truth became known. Marcus carefully looked up at the man from under his eyebrows. Come what may, he was determined to discover more about Spartacus.
19
As soon as he had recovered from Ferax’s beating, Marcus returned to training with the rest of the class. Winter swept across the Campanian countryside, bringing with it wind and cold squalls of rain. Brown, crispy leaves from the trees outside the school swirled over the walls and collected against the sides of the buildings and in the corners. The change in the season had not the slightest effect on the daily routine, however. After breakfast Marcus and the other boys marched out to the training ground, where Amatus instantly set them to work.
Every day it was the same set of exercises repeated over and over. The boys were exhausted and, having completed their duties for the day, collapsed on to the straw in their stalls and fell asleep at once. Marcus was the last to sleep, having been tasked with latrine-cleaning duties. Only when the wooden benches had been scrubbed, the vinegar tubs emptied and refilled, and the channels beneath the latrine benches sluiced clear could he rest. It took weeks before the stiffness in his muscles wore off by the next morning. But as winter set in he began to feel stronger. He could lift far heavier weights than when he arrived. His stamina was also steadily increasing, so that he no longer felt exhausted by the day’s labour and he rose each morning alert and ready to begin training.
In the last month of the year Amatus decided that they were ready to begin weapons training. As the boys marched into the training compound, they saw a small cart loaded with wooden swords and wicker shields. Marcus felt his pulse quicken at the sight. At last they were going to be taught how to fight! Even though he knew that this was another step on the way to the deadly combat of the arena, Marcus was keen to learn the skills his father had once had. He had already realized that there was little chance of escape while the guards watched the slaves closely from the towers. One day, perhaps soon, he would win his freedom. Then he would be better able to find his mother, set her free and protect her.
‘Right, you lot!’ Amatus shouted as he stood by the cart. ‘Each boy take a sword and a shield and stand in a line in front of the training posts!’
Marcus joined his companions as they pressed close to the edge of the cart and waited their turn to be equipped. He felt a sharp poke in his side as Ferax leaned towards him. ‘Wooden swords for now. But let’s see what damage they can do, eh?’
Marcus turned to look up at the Celt. ‘Wood or steel, either way, I will cut you down to size.’
‘Oho!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Silence there!’ Amatus bellowed. ‘One more word from you, Ferax, and you’re on latrine duty.’
Ferax bowed his head quickly and pushed himself in front of Marcus and the others to take his training weapons from Amatus. When it was Marcus’s turn he was surprised by the weight of the shield and the sword. He experimented with a few loose swings of the sword as he made his way over to one of the training posts – stout lengths of wood, standing as high as a man and battered and chipped from years of enduring blows from the gladiator school’s students. When all the boys were in position, Amatus approached a post in the middle of the line. He turned to face them.
‘I’ve spent the last months making you fit enough for what lies ahead. Now the real work begins. You will continue your exercises, carrying this kit. You will also be trained in basic fighting techniques. Today we will cover the absolute basics: the thrust, the recover and the block. Watch me closely.’
Amatus raised his shield and placed his left foot forward. ‘See this? You keep your weight evenly balanced and then lower your body so that you are ready to throw your weight forward or back as necessary. Always lead with your left foot and follow with your right. It’s not like normal walking.’ He looked round at the boys. ‘Got that? I don’t want to see any of you crossing your legs over. You do that in a real fight, your opponent can catch you off balance and knock you down in a flash. Learn to move properly now and it’ll become second nature. Right, adopt the stance and when I advance, you retreat, keeping the same distance between us. When I fall back, you follow up. Clear? Then into position.’
Marcus advanced his leading foot, held his shield up and glanced to either side to make sure he was in the correct posture. Amatus paced down the line, nodding approval and barking sharp criticism as he inspected his students. He paused in front of Marcus.
‘What the hell are you doing with that sword? It’s a sword, not a bloody walking stick! Hold it up, level with the ground, tip just in front of the shield! You have to be ready to strike or block at any moment.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus did as he was told.
‘That’s better.’ Amatus moved on.
When he was satisfied that everyone was ready, Amatus began to drill them in movement, gradually increasing the pace and testing their reactions with occasional swift advances and retreats. Those who were slow to react were bawled at and made to run around the training compound before rejoining their comrades. As the hours passed, the weight of the equipment began to tell and Marcus felt his muscles burning under the strain. But he gritted his teeth and continued, watching Amatus closely and matching his movements as swiftly as he could.
At length Amatus straightened up and lowered his shield. He looked over the class with a slight sneer. ‘That – was – pathetic. I’ve never seen such a bunch of losers in all my born days. So, we’ll just have to keep at it, until you thick-headed farmboys get it. Take position! Begin!’
The movement drill continued for the rest of the day, and the next morning. Amatus increased the pace of their movements, letting out a deafening ‘HA!’ each time that his right hand punched forward. The boys responded by raising their shields and swords, ready to parry direct attacks, as well as overhead blows and slashes from the side. When Amatus drew back and lowered his sword, they made their thrusts at an imagined foe and let out their own shrill cry of ‘HA!’
‘What the hell was that?’ Amatus responded furiously to their first effort. ‘You trying to make me laugh? When you strike, you give me a roar like a lion. There’s more to winning than using a blade well. You have to scare your opponent. You have to make ’em think you’re some wild barbarian warrior whose blood is on the boil. Make ’em fear you and the fight’s half won. Let’s try it again.’
He dropped into a crouch, paused, stepped back twice and pointed his sword towards the sand to signal his students to attack. Marcus thrust out his wooden sword with all his strength, at the same time as a cry ripped out of him, from the bottom of his lungs, adding to the din of the rest of the students.
Amatus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Better, but you still don’t scare me. Work on it.’
For the next few days they continued the drills. Then Amatus moved them on to the basic sword strokes and they spent hours thrusting and cutting at the training posts, the air filled with the sharp crack of wood on wood and the yells as each boy struck.
All the time Marcus watched Ferax closely in case he tried anything while Amatus was not looking their way. For his part the Celt regarded Marcus with contempt and had let it be known that he had beaten Marcus up. Now the other boys regarded Ferax with fear and did all that they could to avoid his attention. So none of them befriended Marcus, or even spoke to him. He tried not to care, as he still had the two Athenians for company, as well as Brixus, who treated him well and saved some extra scraps of food for him at the end of most days. However, Marcus felt the despair slowly building in his heart. He was no closer to fi
nding General Pompeius and regaining his freedom and that of his mother. Nor would he ever have his revenge on Decimus while he was imprisoned in this gladiator school.
His misery was compounded by the cruel tricks that Ferax played on him whenever Amatus had his back turned. Some days he would deliberately position himself close to Marcus and then trip him up as they were running circuits of the training ground. Or he would shove Marcus when they were using weights, causing Marcus to drop them on the sand, and Amatus would spin round and bellow abuse into his face and strike him with his cane. Marcus bore it all with a grim determination to bide his time, build his strength and wait for the day when he was ready to turn on his tormentor.
The year drew to an end and still no opportunity for escape presented itself, as the slaves were kept inside the walls. The gladiator school began to make preparations for the annual festival of Saturnalia. One morning, wagons trundled into the school laden with jars of wine, fine bread, haunches of cured meat and baskets of pastries. They were unloaded by Marcus and the others, under the watchful gaze of Amatus and a section of the school’s guards, to prevent anyone stealing anything. Once the supplies for the feast had been placed in one of the storerooms, Amatus locked the door and took the key to Taurus.
While they waited for Amatus to return, Ferax stepped towards the door and sniffed. ‘Smell that, boys? Smell all that good food? In five days we’ll be eating our way through it.’
One of the guards laughed. ‘If the master is not happy with your progress then you’ll get what’s left over after the men have finished eating, my lad. That’s what you’ll be feasting on.’
Ferax scowled. ‘That ain’t fair. We’ve as much right to it.’
‘You’re just at the bottom of the pecking order.’ The guard cuffed Ferax round the ear. ‘And you call me “master” when you address me.’
‘Yes, master.’ Ferax bowed his head. He saw Marcus and grinned. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing, master. I ain’t at the bottom of the pecking order. He is, that one there.’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘The son of a centurion.’
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