Sensing victory, Ferax pressed on, cutting at Marcus as hard as he could. Then, with a quick switch in direction, his wooden sword swept round the edge of the shield and struck Marcus’s left arm with a numbing slap. The blow was painful and deadened the senses in his arm so that his grip on the handle of the shield momentarily loosened. Two more blows on the wicker and his fingers lost their hold, the shield slipping from his grasp. Marcus let it fall and scurried back, remaining in a crouch as Ferax snarled triumphantly.
‘There! Now to finish the job!’
He approached steadily, raising his shield to use as a ram, to bludgeon Marcus down. There was too little time to think, but as Ferax drew close Marcus sucked in a breath and launched himself forward. At the last moment he ducked down, rolling under the vicious slice that hissed over his head. In return he hacked at Ferax’s ankle and felt the impact of the blow shoot up his arms as the Celt bellowed in pain and abruptly halted. Ferax’s teeth were gritted and he winced the instant he tried to put any weight on the smarting ankle. Marcus darted round his side, forcing his foe to pivot painfully. The smaller boy moved in quickly and thrust the point into the Celt’s side and then scuttled back out of range.
‘I’ll get you,’ Ferax growled. ‘And I’ll gut you.’
Marcus kept moving, working round his opponent and forcing Ferax to keep putting weight on his injured ankle. At length Ferax slumped down on to his knee and raised his shield, desperately blocking Marcus’s attacks. Unable to find a way past the Celt’s defences, Marcus withdrew five paces and steadily circled his foe, noting that although Ferax could no longer launch an attack, neither could he himself get close enough to strike the decisive blow.
‘A stand-off!’ Amatus announced. ‘Cease!’
‘No!’ Ferax shouted. ‘I can finish him. We fight on!’
‘Suits me,’ Marcus replied coldly.
Amatus stepped in between them with an enraged expression. ‘You dare disobey my order? I’ll see you both flogged for this. Cease, I said. Do it – now!’
Marcus did not respond but sprang forward again, stabbing at Ferax’s side. Once more the wicker shield took the blow and Ferax desperately slashed at Marcus’s shin, just missing it as he fell back.
‘CEASE!’ Amatus yelled at the top of his voice.
This time Marcus reluctantly stepped back to a safe distance and lowered his sword. Amatus stormed up to him, wrenched the training weapon from his hand and turned to Ferax. ‘Drop your kit. You two are in the deepest trouble there ever was. I swear it! I’ll beat you both black and blue. Right here! Right now! Damn you.’
‘That’s enough!’ Porcino interrupted as he and the other man strode up. ‘Leave them be, Amatus.’
The instructor clamped his mouth shut, bowed his head and backed away with as much respect as he could manage to retrieve from his sizzling anger. Marcus stood, chest heaving, blood pulsing through his veins and hands balled into fists.
‘By the Gods,’ Porcino’s companion marvelled. ‘This boy is a fire-eater, make no mistake. And he is well matched by that young bull. Oh, yes! These two will do nicely.’ He turned to Porcino. ‘I’ll have them.’
‘These?’ Porcino looked surprised as he dismissively waved a hand at Marcus and Ferax. ‘Why, they are still in training, my lord.’
‘Their technique is crude, but they have something else. A vital, raw hatred of the other. I can see that as clear as day. Yes. They will do very nicely. A superb display for Varinius’s son.’
Porcino opened his mouth to protest, but the other man cut him short.
‘Naturally, I will pay handsomely for them, on my friend’s behalf.’
Porcino made a quick calculation and responded with a cool smile. ‘I have to say that I have had my eye on these two. Most promising recruits I’ve had in a long time. They’re sure to have fine fighting careers ahead of them. I would be losing quite an investment if they were forced to fight.’
‘Then be sure to ask a fair price of me when we settle our business in your office.’
Porcino nodded, as he inclined his head and gestured towards the gate. ‘If you would go ahead of me, most noble Marcus Antonius, I must speak briefly to their trainer.’
‘Very well,’ the man said, as a faint flicker of frustration crossed his face. ‘But be quick.’
He turned away and strode casually towards the gate. Porcino approached Amatus. ‘Have them taken to one side. Find another trainer for the rest of your students. I want you to concentrate on these two. Drill them as thoroughly as you can. They must be ready to fight in five days’ time.’
‘Yes, master.’
Porcino turned to examine Marcus and Ferax. There was a sad expression on his face. Then the sentiment faded as his voice hardened. ‘They are to be kept with the other pairs selected for the event.’
‘Yes, master. A real fight is just what these two need. Will it be a display bout, master?’
Porcino shook his head.
‘First blood, then?’
‘No.’ Porcino shrugged. ‘My customer wants a very special entertainment. He is acting for someone in Rome who wants to celebrate a family birthday. Only the most lavish entertainment will do. When these two go out into the arena, it will be a fight to the death.’
23
The arrival of the party from Rome was marked by a whirl of preparations. Porcino ordered in fine delicacies, wines and the best food of the region, as well as hiring a celebrated cook owned by a wealthy wine merchant in Herculaneum to prepare a banquet for his guests. The arena attached to the gladiator school had a grandstand to one side where spectators had a good view across the sand-covered oval. In the days before the guests arrived Porcino’s slaves repainted the woodwork, erected a goatskin awning over the structure to provide shelter from any rain. The best couches from Porcino’s villa were carefully carried across to the grandstand and arranged in a shallow curve facing the sand. The couches were then covered with fine rugs and cushions before dining tables were laid out before them. Braziers were set up to keep the guests warm.
Marcus saw some of the preparations when he was marched over to the arena for training each morning in the lead-up to the event. As soon as Porcino’s visitor had paid the fee for the two boys to fight, they were immediately separated from the other slaves and moved into a small block of individual cells that backed on to the guards’ quarters. These cells were for those who were being made ready for a fight. Their food was carefully prepared to build up their strength: a thick meaty broth, boiled eggs, cured sausage with a high concentration of garlic and watered wine. The food was good, but Marcus had little appetite and had to force himself to eat, mechanically chewing each mouthful and not savouring the flavour. His mind was filled with a growing sense of dread as each day passed.
The men and boys picked to entertain the Romans were kept isolated from the other gladiators when not training. No talking was permitted in the cells, as each fighter mentally readied himself, forgetting his former companions and focusing his mind on the need to win, and live. Each morning Marcus was roused from his cell by Amatus and taken to the arena to be personally drilled in the use of the weapons he would wield in the bout with Ferax. Porcino’s customer had decided that they would fight with short-swords and small shields called bucklers, with studded leather cuirasses to protect their bodies. Marcus found the armour heavy and uncomfortable and it took a while before he got used to it. Amatus concentrated Marcus’s efforts on sword technique, adding a repertoire of new attacks and defences.
Another instructor was preparing Ferax, working on his fitness in the training ground. At noon the two pairs swapped places and Marcus put aside his sword and shield as he was ordered to run around the boundary, stopping every so often to lift weights. After that Amatus moved him on to the agility training, making him duck and jump as he swiped a long cane at the boy’s arms and head, or his legs. Marcus had to be alert to dodge the slashes, but sometimes he was too slow and winced whenever a stinging blow connect
ed.
‘Let that happen in the arena and you’re dead,’ Amatus warned him.
Marcus nodded and hurriedly readied himself for his trainer to begin again, concentrating hard to avoid the next blows. Once Amatus was done with that exercise, he allowed Marcus a brief rest before he took up his weapons and moved on to the training posts to practise his sword strokes. Afterwards, as Marcus sat on the ground, wearily hugging his knees, he looked up at the trainer and asked, ‘Do you think I can beat Ferax?’
Amatus stared at him for a moment before he replied, ‘The odds are against you, young Marcus. Your opponent is bigger and stronger. If he can bring his weight to bear and knock you down, then you will be at his mercy.’ He paused, scratched his chin and continued in a more kindly tone, ‘But there’s always a chance, no matter what the odds. I’ve seen far more unevenly balanced fights yield a surprise result. The trick of it is not to get too close to him. Avoid direct contact and don’t let him use his size against you. You’re small and fast. Wear him down. A small cut here and there and you might bleed him enough to slow him down for a kill.’
Marcus felt a shiver go down his spine at the mention of the word. Even though a deep hatred of Ferax burned in his heart, he still felt that he was not sure that he could kill the Celt if the time came. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I’ve heard some of the veterans say that if a gladiator fights well enough, then even if he loses he is spared by the crowd.’
‘Fat chance.’ Amatus snorted. ‘Not with the lot you will be fighting in front of.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Why?’
‘They’ve paid for eight of Porcino’s best men, some of his animals and you two boys. A small fortune. You can be sure that they will want value for money. It’s not the same as a fight in a public arena. The mob are happy to watch a good fight and generous to a man who puts up a decent struggle before he loses. That’s because they haven’t paid for it. With aristocrats it’s different. They part with a fortune and aren’t happy unless blood is shed. If they have paid for a fight to the death, then that is what they expect.’ Amatus leaned forward and punched Marcus lightly on the shoulder. ‘So, when you get in that arena with Ferax, only one of you is coming out of it alive. Have that fixed in your head. Clear?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Then on your feet. There’s work to do.’
Marcus did not sleep the night before the fight. He sat propped up against the cold wall in his cell. Occasionally he could hear a sound from one of the other cells as a man shifted on his straw-filled mattress or muttered in his sleep. Once he could hear the sound of crying, and a thin keening whine, before a guard strode down the corridor in front of the cells and bawled at the man to be quiet. Marcus had never felt so lonely or afraid, even through all he had endured since the day that a happy life had been murderously stolen from him and his mother. He tried to force all such thoughts aside and concentrate on the coming fight. Amatus was right – his opponent would try to rush him and use his superior momentum to defeat Marcus. He would need to focus all his wits and be ready to evade Ferax’s attacks. At the same time he could not afford to get close enough to strike a killing blow. After a while, Marcus found himself wondering about Ferax. What would the Celt be thinking? Was he awake as well, planning his fight, tormented by fear and utterly unable to sleep?
At last the thin light of the coming dawn filled the barred window high on the wall, casting a weak beam on the door to the cell. As the shadows of the window bars grew more distinct and the room became brighter, Marcus rose from his bedroll and stretched himself, easing the stiffness out of his muscles. He felt tired, but knew that the months of gruelling training, and the advice that Amatus had given him in the past few days, meant that he was no longer the small, innocent child who had run through the olive groves of his father’s farm. He was a fighter. Today he would put his skills to the test. If he was killed, then all was lost. His mother would die alone and forgotten. If he won, then there was hope for them both.
There was a clank as the door at the end of the corridor was opened and the sound of feet shuffling along as each cell door was opened and then closed. A short while later the bolt on the outside of Marcus’s door grated and the door swung open. A guard entered, carrying a bowl of porridge and a jug of water. He set them down beside Marcus’s bed and paused a moment.
‘Best get that inside you.’ He smiled gently. ‘You’ll need all your strength today.’
Marcus reluctantly reached down for the bowl. ‘Thank you.’
Once the guard had left the cell and the bolt had been thrust back into place, Marcus gazed at the glutinous grey mass in the bowl, then picked up the spoon and forced himself to eat. The porridge was thick and salty, but he relished the feeling of warmth it left in his stomach and soon finished it.
An hour after dawn the door to the cell opened again and Amatus ducked his head in. ‘On your feet. Time for you to kit up.’
Marcus felt his body tremble as he followed the trainer out of the cell, down the corridor and outside. The other gladiators were waiting for him in a line. Eight well-built men in plain tunics and sandals, and Ferax. None met his eye as they stared ahead. Taurus stood to one side, tapping his vine cane into the palm of his free hand.
‘Last boy! In place, quickly!’
Marcus hurried to the end of the line and stood as tall as he could. He stared fixedly at the wall in front of him. Taurus strode along the line, scrutinizing those chosen to fight. Satisfied that they were not showing any obvious signs of fear, he nodded to himself and began to address them in his customary parade-ground bellow.
‘The master’s guests have already arrived at the villa. Porcino is treating them to a light meal while he briefs them on each of you, giving details of your strengths and weaknesses for when they bet between themselves. For those of you unlucky enough to be the favourites, I have a few words of advice: don’t lose. They’ll not thank you for it and will be sure to turn down any appeal for mercy. The first bout will take place at the fourth hour, with an interval of half an hour to permit the guests to eat and talk between fights. The boys will fight last. There’ll be a few animal fights afterwards to end the day.’ He paused to stare hard at them. ‘Porcino’s customers have paid for a good show. I don’t want to see any kid gloves stuff. Nor do I want to see any quick kills. Show them some sword skills first. Give them some drama before you make it serious, understand? Right, that’s it. You know what you have to do. Time to sort out the kit. Follow me!’
Taurus abruptly turned and marched towards the armoury as the gladiators and Amatus followed on behind. The weapons and armour were kept in a securely locked building with small windows, each fronted by a solid iron grille. Inside there were racks of spears, tridents, swords and knives, as well as helmets, body armour, arm padding, greaves and the weighted nets used by those gladiators training to become retiarii – the men who also fought with tridents and nets. Marcus looked at the weapons as he tried to suppress a shudder. Taurus ordered them to form a line in front of a sturdy table while he and Amatus issued the kit.
‘First man, Hermon!’
The tall Nubian at the head of the line stepped forward. Taurus scrutinized him briefly. ‘You’ll fight as a secutor. Helmet, large cuirass, shield, right greave and gladius.’
Amatus nodded and selected the weapons and armour from where they were stored and brought them back to the table. While the Nubian began to fasten the straps of his armour, Marcus glanced at his opponent. Ferax stood rigid, facing forward. Although he seemed perfectly still and in control of himself, Marcus saw a bead of sweat trickle down the Celt’s neck. The fingers of his left hand twitched slightly and his legs trembled. So, Marcus thought, his opponent was just as scared as he was. That might even things up.
One by one, the fighters stepped forward to receive their equipment, and the quiet in the room was broken only by the curt commands of Taurus, the clink of metal and fumbling as the men adjusted their buckles. As soon as
the gladiators had put on their armour, they found some space to heft their swords, carefully noting how well the weapons were balanced.
Ferax took his kit and then it was Marcus’s turn. He picked up the pile of arms and armour, noting the cuts in the leather cuirass and surface of the shield. Moving to one of the benches lining the wall, Marcus set his equipment down and then, after a short pause, he lifted the breast- and back-plates and began to buckle them around his body. Amatus watched him with a critical eye and then sighed and stepped over to him.
‘That won’t do.’ He tugged the breastplate. ‘Too loose, Marcus.’
While Amatus adjusted the buckle and tested the fit again, Ferax snorted with derision. Marcus tried to ignore him and nodded to his trainer. ‘Thanks.’
Amatus shrugged. ‘Just do as you were taught, lad. If I had caught you making such a slovenly job of it on the training ground, I’d have boxed your ears. Make sure you do it properly next time.’ He paused and smiled faintly. ‘Assuming there is one.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marcus took up his buckler and tested its weight. The small shield was light and the metal of the boss was thick enough to protect his hand from any blows. The sword was lighter than those he had used in training and the edge had been honed to a lethal sharpness. He grasped the hilt tightly and experimented with a few quick thrusts and cuts, feeling the weight and balance.
Once the gladiators had finished arming themselves, Taurus rapped his vine cane on the table. ‘Sit down! Each pair on opposite sides!’
The fighters did as they were told, taking their places on the benches either side of the armoury, sitting in silence. Taurus nodded to the other trainer.
‘Stay here and watch this lot. There’s no ceremony today, the guests just want the fights. I’ll send for these men once the show begins.’
When Taurus had gone, Marcus and the others sat still, waiting, not making a sound. He looked sidelong at the other fighters, wondering how they could look so composed in the face of death. Opposite him, Ferax glared back, eyes wide and boring into Marcus. After a while Marcus looked away, fixing his gaze on a helmet on the shelf above his foe. A shaft of light from outside caught the bronze cheekguard and it blazed with colour.
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