A long hour passed and then Marcus could make out the sounds of light laughter and excited chatter, and he guessed that the spectators were taking their places in the stand above the arena. Sure enough, Taurus returned soon after and stood in the doorway of the armoury. ‘First two pairs! Follow me!’
The four rose up: two heavily armed secutors and two thracians, the latter armed with vicious-looking curved blades. They strode out of the armoury and Marcus heard their boots crunching down the gravel that lined the tunnel towards the arena. All was quiet for a while before the cry of the gladiators reached his ears.
‘We who are about to die salute you!’
There was the faint clatter and clash of metal and some cries of support. The sounds continued for a while and then there was a disappointed groan from the spectators, followed by silence. There were none of the usual sounds of the school. As a fight was on, the rest of the gladiators were locked into their barracks, so as not to distract the spectators from their entertainment.
‘Next pair!’ Taurus bellowed through the door.
It was nearly midday when Marcus and Ferax were called for. Taking up their weapons, they followed Taurus into the tunnel that led from the school a short distance to a stout iron cage beside the arena. The last pair of men were sitting on benches at either side, their shields, swords and helmets close by. Two guards armed with spears stood outside the cage, ready to operate the sliding door that led into the arena. As Marcus and Ferax entered the cage and sat down, Marcus heard a low growl and glanced round to see that there was another cage, slightly hidden by the curve of the arena’s stockade. Inside there was a blur of fur and he heard another growl. Wolves, he realized. Ready for the last act of the show. The sounds of the spectators carried clearly to his ears: the lower tones of adults talking, pierced by the shrill chatter of children.
The four fighters waited, under Taurus’s stern gaze. Then Porcino’s voice called down from the spectators’ stand. ‘Next!’
‘Up!’ Taurus ordered the two men, and they hurriedly rose to their feet, pulling on their helmets and buckling the chin straps. Then they picked up their shields and swords and stood ready. Taurus grasped the edge of the sliding door with his hand and pushed it open. Through the gap Marcus could see the arena, with dark stains in the sand. Beyond lay the audience. Six adults – four men and two women – and three children. Marcus did not have time to register the details of their faces before the two gladiators entered the arena and the door slid back into place.
‘We who are about to die salute you!’ the gladiators chanted.
There was a pause, then the shrill cry of a whistle and the bout began. The clang of sword on sword made Marcus flinch and he shuffled to the edge of the bench so that he could see into the arena through the gaps in the stockade. The forms of the gladiators were hard to make out except as partial fleeting glimpses. Aside from the exchange of blows, delivered with grunts, there was little noise. The audience was watching the fight in rapt attention. Marcus turned away, feeling sick. Any moment now it would be his turn, and he was seized by a sudden conviction that he would lose the fight and die on the sand. Slowly, if Ferax had his way.
There was a hurried scramble of blows and a crash as a body slammed into the front of the cage. The man’s body blocked the light passing through the gaps and Marcus almost jumped from the bench as the bloodied tip of a sword burst between two of the stockade’s posts. The body sagged a little, then there was a deep groan as the blade withdrew and a soft thud as the dead man fell to the sand.
A moment later the door to the cage opened and the survivor stumbled through, in a daze. There was a deep cut on his thigh and he left a trail of spots behind him as he passed between the two boys and out of the cage into the tunnel leading back to the compound. Through the opening Marcus saw two slaves approach the body and drag it away across the arena.
Taurus waited until the body was out of sight before he turned to Marcus and Ferax and gestured towards the arena. ‘It’s your time! Out there, now!’
24
Marcus took a deep breath and then he and Ferax intoned, ‘We who are about to die salute you!’
They stood erect before the spectators, sword arms raised towards the party of richly dressed Romans. Marcus could see that two of the men were seated with the women. One of the others he recognized as the man who had watched the gladiators at Porcino’s side some days earlier. The fourth man was tall and broad-shouldered with dark, receding hair. He sat in the place of honour, in the middle of the couches arranged to look out over the sand. He was appraising the boy fighters with a cold expression. Then his attention was broken as one of the children, a girl roughly the same age as Marcus, sat on the couch beside him.
‘Careful, Portia!’ the man called out. ‘You’ll have my wine over!’
‘Sorry, uncle. I just wanted to thank you for bringing me with you.’ She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, then rose quickly and rejoined the two boys, who were noisily discussing which of the young gladiators in the arena would win the last fight.
‘It has to be the Celt. Look at the size of him!’
‘To be sure – he’ll pulverize the other boy.’
‘He’s much more powerfully built.’
‘What odds will you offer on the small one?’
‘Five to one. But you’ll be wasting your stake. Take my word for it.’
Marcus and Ferax were still standing with swords raised and Porcino glanced at his customers, waiting for the signal to begin. However, the man seated in the centre of the stand was talking in low tones to one of his companions. Porcino frowned slightly and then cleared his throat. The man looked up, glanced at the two boys in the arena and gave Porcino a curt nod.
The lanista took a deep breath and called out, ‘Fighters! To your places!’
Marcus lowered his sword and turned towards Ferax. He backed away until they were ten paces apart. There was a sudden movement at one of the gates to the arena as two guards entered and trotted round to opposite sides of the arena to where the wooden handles of branding rods protruded from small braziers. The guards took up the rods and raised the glowing tips as they stood by the wooden posts, ready to use the heated irons to spur the boys on if they looked reluctant to lock swords.
‘I won’t need a rod to make me fight,’ Ferax spoke in a low voice as he readied himself in a crouch, sword and buckler raised. ‘But you might.’
Marcus gritted his teeth and stood balanced, waiting for the signal to begin.
‘The final bout of the day!’ Porcino announced. ‘The Celt, Ferax, versus Marcus, from our Greek territories.’
For a flickering instant Marcus wondered if he should turn to the spectators and claim that he was a Roman citizen. He could make his appeal for justice before the fight began. He might be saved and even freed. Before his thoughts ran any further, Porcino cupped a hand to his mouth and called out, ‘Fight!’
With a roar Ferax rushed forward, sprinting across the sand. Marcus braced his boots and held up his buckler. At the last moment he skipped to one side and Ferax hurtled past. Marcus slashed desperately at his arm, but the tip of the blade hissed through the air without striking. At once Marcus spun round to face his opponent, stepping forward as he had been trained. Ferax scrambled round just in time to parry a blow aimed at his shoulder. For a moment the two exchanged a series of sword blows with a sharp ringing clatter and then Ferax backed off. They stood, poised, staring at each other. Marcus felt his heart pounding against his ribs and there was a peculiar sense of elation in his mind.
‘I told you!’ The man who had chosen them for the fight gripped the arm of the commanding figure on the middle seat. ‘I knew that these two would provide good sport, Julius!’
The other man stroked his chin and then responded, ‘What odds will you give me on the smaller one?’
‘Him? … Let’s see. Seven to one.’
‘Done! I’ll wager fifty gold pieces.’
‘Fif
ty? Very well.’
Their voices were lost as Ferax let out another bellow and strode towards Marcus, watching him carefully. As Marcus feinted to one side, Ferax moved to cut off his escape and then corrected himself as Marcus dodged back in the other direction.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Ferax growled. ‘I’ll have you this time, you little runt.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Marcus replied, forcing a sneer on to his lips. ‘You’re too clumsy, Ferax. Too stupid.’
The bigger boy’s face went white with rage and he snarled for a moment before he stopped and laughed. ‘Think you can trick me into losing it? Think again.’
He stepped forward and unleashed a series of blows that Marcus had to desperately block with his sword and buckler. There was no chance to strike back as Ferax had a longer reach. Steadily, Marcus was forced to give ground, edging away towards one of the guards holding a red-hot branding iron. Ferax grinned as he deliberately drove Marcus towards the danger. At the last moment, as he was sure he could sense the burning heat, Marcus threw himself to one side and rolled across the ground before scrambling back on to his feet.
‘Oh! That’s good!’ the man called Julius cried out. ‘Now don’t give any more ground, boy! Hold fast and outfight him!’
As he heard the encouragement, Ferax’s expression darkened and once again he closed menacingly on Marcus, raining a savage series of blows upon him. As he blocked and deflected each one with his buckler, Marcus winced as the shock of the impact jarred his arm painfully. He knew that his shoulder would soon go numb under the onslaught and there was a danger that he would let go of the buckler.
Ferax drew off, breathing heavily. ‘Not … long now, Roman. Want to beg me to make the end quick?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I want to take my time killing you.’
‘Don’t even try to sound hard,’ Ferax sneered. ‘Mummy’s boy. That’s what you are, aren’t you? That’s what I heard. Puny little weed, too weak to save his mother from slavery.’
Marcus stood quite still, staring back at his tormentor. Inside, he felt his blood turn cold. He stopped thinking about how to win the fight. He stopped thinking at all. The only thing that remained was a murderous rage. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he flew at Ferax. A strange howl tore from his throat as he struck again and again, smashing his blade down on the other boy’s buckler and hammering away at his sword as Ferax stumbled back, his expression stricken with surprise and fear.
Only desire and animal instinct guided Marcus as he hacked and slashed. He heard a cry as the blade bit into the bicep of Ferax’s shield arm. The shield dipped and Marcus struck again, glancing off its rim and laying open his opponent’s forearm. The buckler thudded on to the sand as drops of blood pattered beside it. Ferax turned side on, struggling to defend himself with just his sword now. Marcus struck hard, letting Ferax parry the blade wide. As the swords moved to the side Marcus punched his buckler towards the other boy’s face. There was a crunch as his nose was crushed and Ferax groaned in pain as he staggered back, blood pouring down his lips and chin. Marcus punched again and Ferax threw his sword arm up to block the blow. As he did so, Marcus ducked down and stabbed the Celt’s thigh, ripping the tip free in a fresh welter of blood. In a last, desperate attempt to save his life, Ferax leapt at Marcus, crashing into him, and they both tumbled into the sand. Marcus saw the sky briefly, clear and blue, then he rolled over, away from Ferax. His sword was caught under his body and was wrenched from his fingers as he rolled.
Marcus leapt at Ferax, who was still dazed as he tried to rise up on his knees. The shield smashed the blade from the Celt’s hand, then Marcus hit him again on the side of the head, and again, before Ferax toppled on to his back and lay still, head lolling from side to side as his eyes fluttered.
Marcus struggled on to his feet, swaying from the nervous exertion of his attack. Now that Ferax lay helpless before him, the fighting rage fell away and reason returned to his mind. Marcus looked round, saw his sword and moved to snatch it up. As he returned to Ferax, he realized that his left arm was badly cut below the elbow, even though he could not recall the blow that had caused the wound. A searing jolt of pain ran up it as Marcus waggled his fingers. Then he dropped on to his knees beside Ferax’s head, raised his blade over his opponent’s bared throat and hesitated. Ferax stared up at him, confused and helpless. Marcus brought the edge of the sword to an inch from the Celt’s throat and glanced at Taurus. The head trainer made a quick slicing gesture with his hand and nodded at Marcus. Do it.
Marcus took a deep breath and tried to steel his heart, but still he could not cut Ferax’s throat. Instead he looked up at the stand, towards those watching expectantly. The man in the centre seemed surprised.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked his companion. ‘Finish him!’
‘Finish him!’ the others echoed, except for the man, and the girl, Portia.
Marcus shook his head and pointed to the leader of the Roman party. ‘Sir, what do you say?’
The man was still for a moment, his brows knitted as he thought. Then he shrugged. ‘I say … kill him.’
For a moment all was still, then Marcus rose to his feet and tossed his sword aside.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Taurus blazed from the sidelines of the arena. ‘Pick that bloody sword up and kill him!’
‘No,’ Marcus answered firmly. ‘I won’t.’
‘You will and you’ll do it now. Or by the Gods I will kill him myself and then you.’
Marcus shrugged wearily. His body felt cold and his arm hurt terribly as the blood trickled down to the end of his fingertips and dripped on to the sand.
Taurus strode over to Marcus’s sword and scooped it up before he turned towards Ferax. Standing over the dazed Celt, he raised the sword, ready to plunge it into the boy’s throat.
‘Stop!’ the man in the spectator’s box called out, his voice carrying clearly across the arena. ‘The boy lives. His fate has been decided by the victor. So it shall be. However,’ he said, smiling faintly, ‘I will not tolerate any act of defiance by a slave. Porcino, have your men take the Celt away. The other one, from Graecia, stays here.’
Porcino looked puzzled. ‘Stays? Why?’
The man shot him an irritated look. ‘Because Gaius Julius Caesar says so. That is why. He stays and he fights those wolves you have been keeping for the final act. If he loses, then that is the price he pays for defying us. If he lives, then he is favoured by the Gods and I shall not defy their will. Bring on your wolves, Porcino.’
25
The owner of the gladiator school opened his mouth to protest, then, wary of angering his influential guest, he nodded. ‘As you wish.’
He turned towards the arena. ‘Taurus! Remove the Celt and the guards. Marcus stays where he is. Let him have a sword and –’
‘No,’ Caesar interrupted. ‘He shall fight with a dagger. If I am to put it to the test, then I want the Gods to work to save this one.’
‘Yes, sir. A dagger it is. Taurus, give him yours.’
The chief instructor did as he was ordered, muttering to Marcus, ‘Look after it. Cost me a fortune. Anything happens to it and I’ll hold you responsible.’
‘If anything happens to it, then it’s likely that something would have happened to me, master,’ Marcus replied grimly. ‘Any words of advice on how to fight wolves?’
‘Yes.’ Taurus cracked a rare smile as he ruffled Marcus’s hair. ‘Stay out of their jaws.’
He turned and walked out of the arena, closing the door to the gladiator cage behind him. A moment later he reappeared above the gates leading to the animal pens. A rope was attached to the top of each gate, rising up to a pulley suspended from a frame. He paused and looked down on Marcus. ‘Ready?’
Marcus glanced round the arena. There were dark patches in the sand where blood had soaked in. Other than the braziers there was nothing else in the arena but himself. The bleeding from the wound on the left arm had slowed and was alr
eady congealing over the torn flesh. But the arm hurt every time he tried to move it and would be no use to him. He would have to make do with the dagger. Marcus took a deep breath and looked up. ‘Ready.’
Taurus took hold of the rope above one of the gates and hauled on it. The pulley squealed under the load and the bottom of the gate slowly lifted clear of the sand. At once Marcus saw the paws and black snout of a wolf thrusting to get out of the cage. The gate had barely risen knee-high before the wolf squirmed under it and into the arena. It rose into a crouch, head lowered and cold eyes fixed on Marcus. Up until now Marcus’s mind had been reeling with the relief at having defeated Ferax, the pain of his wound, the hope that he might survive to save his mother. The thought of taking on a pair of wolves had not made him afraid. If they were anything like the wolves he had known in the hills above the farm, then they would be pitiful creatures, afraid of their own shadows.
But the wolf that faced him now was something altogether different. It was much larger and had a shaggier coat. It had also been starved and goaded, as the burn marks on the pelt clearly showed. As it watched Marcus, the flesh on each side of its muzzle crinkled, revealing the fangs. The wolf snarled. It would show him no mercy, Marcus realized. When the time was right, it would pounce and tear his throat out. It was this prospect that unleashed the flood of terror that swept through his body. His legs trembled.
Taurus released the rope and the gate thudded down. Moving over to the next rope, he hauled on that one, raising the gate and letting out the second wolf. The animals turned to face each other and snarled. For a moment Marcus hoped that they might turn on themselves, but the bond of their nature, the scent of blood and the prospect of the hunt instinctively united them. The first wolf padded out along the perimeter of the arena, eyes fixed on Marcus. It paused at a patch of bloodstained sand to sniff and then lick the surface. He watched it in fascinated horror, and so missed the movement of the other wolf as it crept closer, almost on its belly. When Marcus turned towards it he saw, with a start, that it was no more than fifteen feet away. He retreated a pace, and a snarl behind him made him glance over his shoulder. The other beast had also moved closer.
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