Gladiator

by Simon Scarrow

  Marcus stood still and concealed his feelings of hatred and anger as Ferax continued in a louder voice, addressing the rest of the class, ‘When Saturnalia comes, I get first choice from the table. Then my friends, then you lot and lastly him.’ He stabbed his finger at Marcus. ‘If anyone tries to jump the queue, then they’ll have me to answer to, and you all know what happens to those who try to defy me …’

  Hardly any of the boys dared meet his eye and a few glanced nervously at Marcus as they remembered his fate.

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Marcus said firmly, though inside his stomach knotted with anxiety.

  ‘No? Well, you should be.’ Ferax glared at him and then slowly shook his head. ‘Not that you’ll be around to fear me for much longer.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Before Ferax could respond, a voice cut through the air.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Amatus bellowed as he strode back towards them. ‘Hanging around like a bunch of farmhands.’ He shook his cane. ‘Get in line, damn you! Or you’ll feel this across your backs!’

  At once the boys rushed into formation and Amatus led them off to the training ground, where he drilled them hard for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Once the boys were dismissed and had made their way to the kitchen, they talked in excited tones about the coming festival. Marcus knew about Saturnalia from his days on the farm. As the year came to an end, the house would be decorated with garlands made from the branches of pine trees. In the kitchen his mother would labour over special treats. On the day of the festival, Marcus’s father, as head of the household, would act as the host for his family and slaves alike, serving at the table where they had gathered to eat. Afterwards, Aristides would take out his flute and play music for a while, before someone else would tell a story or put on a mime. Then, as night closed in, Marcus would ask Titus to tell them a tale of his years in the army, of the sights that he had seen as General Pompeius’s legions had marched across the known world. Marcus sighed. That was at the time when the farm had been making money and Titus had owned several more slaves. When his fortune had turned, the slaves were sold off one by one and the celebration of Saturnalia became a very quiet affair.

  Marcus smiled as he recalled the happier days that were almost like a dream to him now. A painful dream. He wondered what form the festival would take in the gladiator school. Would Porcino himself come to serve his slaves? It hardly seemed possible. At least there would be a brief break from the usual exhausting daily routine. That was something, he reflected, and he kept his mind on the promise of a stomach filled with good food for the rest of the day’s training session.

  Afterwards, as he helped in the kitchen, Marcus noticed that Brixus was watching him carefully, as if weighing him up. When the evening meal was over and Marcus was about to set off to the latrine to finish his duties for the day, Brixus took his arm as he made to leave the kitchen.

  ‘Marcus,’ he spoke quietly, ‘do you still want to know more about Spartacus?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then come back here, once you have finished in the latrine.’

  ‘All right. I will.’

  Brixus released his grip and Marcus hurried off. As he scrubbed the benches, he could not help wondering at Brixus’s change of heart. When they last spoke of the rebellion, Brixus had ended the discussion abruptly, the moment he felt he had said more than he should. Although Marcus was tempted to rush the cleaning of the latrine, he did not dare to let Taurus find fault with his work, so he refilled the tubs and carefully sluiced the channels as always, then put the brushes and buckets away in the cupboard by the door before leaving. The night was dark and a chilly wind blew across the gladiator school.

  Brixus was sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen when Marcus returned. The room was lit by a single oil lamp at the end of the table. A small jar of wine sat in front of Brixus and he was pouring himself another cup as Marcus entered. Brixus looked round quickly and then relaxed when he saw Marcus.

  ‘Ah, good. Come and sit down, boy.’ He nodded to the stool on the other side of the table and Marcus did as he was told, noticing that there were two cups on the table. Brixus filled the spare cup and pushed it carefully across towards Marcus.

  ‘There, drink it. Helps to keep the cold out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Marcus nodded as he took the cup, a plain clay vessel with a chipped rim. He had drunk wine before, heavily watered down by his mother, but the rough flavour of the drink Brixus had poured for him took him by surprise.

  ‘Not the best stuff.’ Brixus smiled. ‘But wine isn’t so easy to come by in here. I bought this one from the guards.’

  ‘You have money?’ Marcus said in surprise. Most slaves he knew of were not allowed to keep money.

  ‘Yes, of course. Porcino allows his most trusted slaves to earn and save money. After all, one day we might have enough to buy our freedom and he’ll make a tidy sum out of it, as well as not having to feed and house us as we grow old. Anyway …’ He took a quick sip and narrowed his eyes a little as he looked across the table at Marcus. ‘You want to know about Spartacus.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, but first let me put things straight between us. I imagine you haven’t forgotten that day when we were polishing brass for the master at his house.’

  ‘I remember it.’

  ‘Yes. And you will also remember that I said I knew Spartacus.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘You said that you knew him very well.’

  ‘So you went away with the impression that I was perhaps a friend of his?’

  Marcus did not know what to say and instead took another sip of the fiery liquid as he waited for Brixus to continue.

  ‘Whatever the truth of it is, young Marcus, I think you must know how dangerous it would be if people got the impression that I was close to Spartacus. Romans have long memories and they are not a forgiving people. I know that you are a Roman, but I also sense that you have a good heart. You are not like some of the boys who pass through the school. Crafty little thieves and bullies, some of them. Especially lads like that Ferax and his thugs. You are not like them. So I trust you, but now I have to know how far I can trust you.’ He stared at Marcus for a moment. ‘You must not breathe a word of what I said to you. Do you promise?’

  Marcus nodded solemnly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Brixus sighed with relief. ‘Now that I have your word, what can I tell you about Spartacus?’

  Marcus looked at him eagerly. ‘Were you one of his bodyguards?’

  ‘No, I was more than that. I was one of his lieutenants. I commanded his scouts.’ Brixus smiled sadly as he gestured to the plain plaster walls surrounding them. ‘This is all that is left to me. I used to be a fine gladiator, then a leader in Spartacus’s army. Now I am just a humble slave.’

  ‘If my father told me the truth, then you are not humble. You fought well. You won your glory.’

  Brixus shook his head. ‘There was no glory in that last battle, Marcus. It was a bloody massacre. We had been on the run for months, always just a few steps ahead of the pursuing legions of Crassus, who defeated us in several battles and skirmishes. Then Pompeius arrived and we were caught between the two armies. We had no choice but to turn and fight. By then we had lost many thousands to sickness and injury and there were barely five thousand men who could still hold a sword or spear. Most of them were cut down in the first charge. But Spartacus and his bodyguards fought their way deep into the Roman lines before they were halted, surrounded and killed. It was all over in less than an hour.’

  Marcus stared at him. ‘But that’s not what my father said. That’s not what people say.’

  ‘Of course not. Too many men had reputations to build for it to be anything other than a great victory against a dangerous enemy. Crassus claimed that he had beaten us, but Pompeius – the Great Pompeius – reported back to Rome that it was really he who had overcome the slave horde. When I was held prisoner in his camp, I
heard him making speeches to his men telling them what heroes they were. He was very generous with his awards and praise, and I dare say your father was one of those who did very well out of it. Small wonder he was content to stick with his general’s version of events.’

  Marcus felt a sour taste in his mouth. He did not want to believe what Brixus was telling him.

  ‘Of course, the one thing that Pompeius could not destroy, or corrupt, was the inspiration that Spartacus gave to us. Even though the rebellion was crushed and Spartacus was killed, his example lives on. Ask almost any slave. He is our secret hero. We live for the day when another Spartacus will rise up and shatter our chains. And perhaps the next time it is we who will be victorious and Rome that will be humbled.’

  He drained his cup and looked directly at Marcus. ‘There. You wanted to know more and now I have said my piece. What I need to know is that you will keep it secret.’

  Marcus nodded slowly. ‘I will. I swear it, on my mother’s life.’

  Brixus watched him closely for a moment. ‘That is good enough for me. Give me your hand, young Marcus.’

  Leaning across the table, Marcus reached out and felt Brixus’s weathered fingers close round his hand. They shook briefly, then Brixus released his grip.

  ‘That’s all for tonight. You must be tired.’

  ‘Very.’ Marcus slid off his stool. ‘Thank you for the wine.’

  Brixus smiled and waved a hand towards the door.

  Outside, Marcus hunched his head down into his tunic and marched quickly up the short route from the kitchen to the cell block. The guards let him inside and locked the door behind him. When he reached his stall in the gloom, Marcus slipped off his boots and crawled on to his pile of straw, pulling his spare tunic over him to keep him warm. Sleep came easily, despite thoughts about what Brixus had told him swimming around in his head. The sleep was deep and dreamless.

  Until he was kicked sharply in the ribs. ‘Get up! Get up, you thief.’

  Marcus stirred, his mind drowsy. He squinted up as a torch blazed over him. The man who had woken him now wrenched him up on to his feet. Now Marcus could see that it was Amatus who was holding the torch, and the man who had kicked him painfully was Taurus, the chief instructor of the school.

  ‘What have you done with it, thief?’

  Marcus blinked and shook his head. ‘Done? Done with what, master?’

  ‘The venison joint you stole from the storeroom.’

  ‘What?’ Marcus glanced from one to the other. ‘What venison, master? I swear I haven’t taken anything.’

  ‘Liar!’ Taurus held up a boot. The ties had snapped and the leather uppers flapped as he shook it. ‘This is yours.’

  Marcus stared at it and shook his head. ‘My boots are over there, master. At the entrance to the stall.’

  ‘Three of them are. This one was found, a short while ago, when the watch was changed. Guess you must have abandoned it in your rush to escape before you were seen, eh? It was found in the storeroom used for the festival of Saturnalia. The lock had been smashed. Some wine had been drunk and the venison stolen.’ He frowned and sniffed Marcus suddenly. ‘You smell of wine!’

  Marcus felt a ripple of icy terror sweep down his spine. ‘It wasn’t me! That’s not my boot. I swear it.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, thief!’ Taurus held the sandal up to the torch. ‘LVIII. See it? That’s one of a pair issued to you. So, no more lies, thief. You’ll pay for this. Do you know what we do to thieves?’ He clenched his fist in Marcus’s tunic. ‘Well?’

  ‘N-no, master.’

  ‘We get them to run the gauntlet.’ His lips twisted into a cruel smile. ‘Your comrades will form two lines. Each slave has a club and when the word is given the thief has to run down the entire length of the gauntlet, being beaten as they go.’ Taurus chuckled. ‘The thing is, I’ve rarely ever known a slave survive long enough to reach the end.’

  Marcus felt his guts turn to ice. He wanted to deny it, to claim his innocence, but from the look on Taurus’s face, the man would not want to hear a word of it. The raised voices had woken some of the others and by the dim light of the brazier at the end of the barracks Marcus could see their faces peering at him over the sides of the stalls. He saw Ferax and their eyes locked on each other as a crafty smile slowly formed on the Celt’s lips.

  20

  In the pale light of dawn Marcus was dragged out of the windowless cell that Taurus had thrown him into the previous night. The air was cold and he fought down the instinct to shiver. He was determined not to let anyone see that he was afraid. More afraid than he had ever been in his life. The fear was not just for himself, but for his mother, and he cursed himself for failing her. Amatus fastened his hand round Marcus’s arm in a powerful grip and led him past the barracks and through the gate into the training compound. Taurus stood waiting for him.

  ‘Still say you’re innocent, boy?’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I stole nothing, master. It was someone else who made it look as if it was me. I swear it, by all the Gods.’

  Taurus frowned. ‘Careful, lad. The Gods are not inclined to show much mercy to those who swear falsely.’

  ‘I know, master.’

  ‘Whatever the Gods think, you’re in my hands now and you’ll take your punishment. Understand?’

  Marcus hesitated before he gave a resigned shrug. ‘Yes, master.’

  There was a brief silence and then Taurus spoke again. ‘Look here, Marcus, if it wasn’t you who stole the meat, then who was it, eh?’

  Marcus had a clear idea of who had framed him. If anyone was behind this, it had to be Ferax. But Marcus had no evidence to support any accusation against Ferax, and in any case, with the discovery of his boot, and the smell of Brixus’s wine on his breath, it was natural for Taurus to assume that he was guilty. All that Marcus could do was to resolve that he would have his revenge on Ferax, if he survived his punishment. He looked up bleakly and met the gaze of the chief trainer. ‘I can’t say who it was. Only that it was not me, master.’

  ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ Taurus straightened up and switched his steely gaze to Amatus. ‘Summon every slave to bear witness.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Amatus released his grip, bowed his head curtly and turned to hurry back towards the barracks. Marcus stood stiffly and stared straight ahead as Taurus tapped the tip of his vine cane against the side of his boot. A short time later the first of the gladiators trooped through the gate and formed a line opposite Marcus. The men barely cast a glance over the young boy as they stood waiting. Once the last of them had arrived, next came the boys from Marcus’s group. Most were curious, but some seemed to regard him with dread as they imagined themselves in his place. Ferax and his cronies watched him with faint mocking smiles as they strode by, and Marcus felt his rage flare up inside him. Last of all came the serving slaves of the gladiator school, Brixus among them. There was a surprised expression on his face when he saw Marcus. Then he and the others hurriedly formed up to one side.

  When the last of them was in place, Taurus took a deep breath as he paced to the middle of the training ground. ‘For those who don’t yet know, you have been summoned here to bear witness to the punishment of this thief. The boy stole food from the kitchen last night. Thanks to his foolishness he was caught. By now you should all know the punishment for theft. Let this morning be a warning to you all.’ He turned to Amatus. ‘Bring your class forward. Form two lines across the centre of the training ground!’

  Amatus bellowed at the boys, who quickly trotted forward and formed an avenue in front of Marcus. The other end, fifty paces away, was by the stockade on the far side of the excercise ground. The boys stood six feet apart, facing the opposite line. Once they were in place, Amatus strolled over to a wicker basket containing a stack of stout wooden staves. He took out a large bundle of them, holding them up against his chest, and then returned to his waiting class.

  ‘Take one each!’ he ordered, stopping in front of every boy as they arme
d themselves. Ferax hefted his staff and gave it a vicious experimental swing that thudded down into the gravel in front of him. Then he glanced at Marcus and winked. When the last staff had been issued, Amatus took up a position at the far end of the gauntlet.

  Taurus turned to Marcus. ‘Take off your tunic.’

  Marcus faced the man, with his back to Brixus and the other slaves, and then reached down and pulled the hem of his tunic up, over his waist, before shuffling it over his shoulders. Taurus took the bundle away from him and Marcus stood in his boots and loincloth. There was a faint gasp of surprise and Marcus glanced round to see Brixus staring at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘Quiet there!’ Taurus roared. ‘Those on the gauntlet make ready! I don’t want to see anyone slacking off. As the boy passes in front of you, you will do your utmost to strike him, hard. Anyone who fails to land a blow, or strikes too softly, will be the next one to pass through the gauntlet. Is that clear?’ He grasped Marcus by the shoulder and steered him towards the pair of boys at the head of the gauntlet. ‘When I give the word, you begin.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Best to run like hell. Keep your arms up to protect your head. Don’t hesitate and don’t fall down. If you do, then you’re dead. Understand?’

  Marcus nodded, his body trembling in the grip of naked terror.

  ‘Then get ready. On the count of three. One! Two! …’

  ‘Stop!’

  Taurus spun round with a furious expression. ‘Who the hell said that?’

  Marcus looked over his shoulder and saw the slaves glancing at Brixus. The old cook swallowed nervously and then shuffled forward a pace. ‘It was me, master.’

  ‘Brixus? How dare you? How dare you intervene?’ Taurus bunched his fist around the head of his vine cane as he strode up to the cook, his expression as black as night. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Brixus rose to his full height and faced the drill master squarely. ‘The boy is innocent, master. I know him. Marcus is not the thief.’