Simon Scarrow - Gladiator - Vengeance

It was after they had eaten and rested that Festus suggested they start Lupus’s training. They began with strengthening exercises, making the scribe hold a large rock as he performed squats. Then they made him raise the rock overhead, again and again, until at last Lupus dropped it and bent forward, hands resting on his knees as he gasped for breath.

‘A good start,’ said Festus. ‘But you’ll need to do that every day from now on. Dawn and dusk, until your muscles are toned. And then as often as necessary to stay that way. After you’ve had a breather, Marcus will introduce you to the sword.’

Now, as he watched his friend try out a few cuts and thrusts, Marcus could only wonder at Lupus’s poor technique. Then he relented. It was not fair to pass judgement so easily. After all, Marcus had spent most of the last two years training to fight and only that had made fighting techniques second nature to him. Before that he had been no more aware of the art than Lupus. There had been no call for it in the peaceful farm where he grew up.

Recalling his childhood, Marcus felt a deep, wounding sense of loss. He had been raised in a loving home, and ranged freely over the surrounding farm as he played sometimes with the children from the nearest village. At the end of the day he would return home, with Cerberus panting at his heels, and the smell of woodsmoke and food from the kitchen would waft across the small courtyard. Invariably Titus would be sitting on the small stone bench, greeting him with a smile on his craggy face as he ruffled his hair and asked what his little soldier had been up to that day. Then they would go in to eat and later, as night fell over the farm, Marcus would go to bed where his mother told him a story while lightly stroking his brow, and sometimes sang to him -

‘Marcus!’ Festus called from the side of the clearing where he sat, rubbing linseed oil into the Parthian bow he had taken out of his weapons pack. ‘You can’t leave him to wave the sword around like that forever. You’re supposed to be teaching him. Not daydreaming.’

‘Sorry.’ Marcus stepped forward as Lupus lowered his wooden sword. His face was beaded with sweat and he was breathing hard.

‘Heavier than … I thought.’

Marcus nodded. ‘The training weapons are designed that way. Helps build muscle and confidence for when you move on to a real weapon. Right then, we’ll start working on your technique. Let’s go over here.’

He led Lupus to the trunk of a pine tree he had chosen earlier. There were no branches for the first eight feet of its height and the trunk was about the thickness of a man’s torso.

‘In gladiator school we practise against stakes. This will have to do. I want you to imagine that this is a man. Try and picture a face at the same height as yours. Think of it as a man desperate to kill you. But you have to kill him first. That means that you must strike hard and strike quickly. Understand?’

Lupus nodded and made to strike.

‘Stop!’ Marcus commanded. ‘You wait until I give the word. I want you like this.’

He stood a sword’s length away from the tree and lowered himself into a half-crouch with his weight distributed evenly over his boots. ‘Keep balanced on the balls of your feet and your toes so you can move quickly in whichever direction you need to.’

Marcus demonstrated with a few springs to the side, as well as forward and back, each time returning to the same position in front of the trunk. Then he gestured to Lupus to give it a try. The scribe did his best but was not nearly as agile and swift as his friend. But Marcus nodded encouragingly and then took the training sword and lowered himself in front of the trunk, making ready to strike.

‘There are three basic blows. The thrust, and then cut to the left and to the right.’

He sprang at the trunk and hit it in the centre, withdrew, attacked again, both sides with sharp cracks as the wooden weapon struck the bark. He repeated the moves and handed the sword back to Lupus.

‘You try.’

Lupus settled himself into place and then tried to do as Marcus had shown him. The blows were roughly on target but did not land heavily and the sound of the impacts was merely a muffled thud.

‘No!’ Marcus snapped at him. ‘That won’t do. This isn’t a bloody game, Lupus. You’re learning how to fight for your life. A sword is not a toy. You can’t break it. You must treat it like an extension of your arm. When you strike, you are the one making the blow and you’ll throw all your weight behind it. If not, then you’ll barely scratch your opponent. And he will kill you. Put down the sword.’

Lupus did as he was told and Marcus stood directly in front of him, in a crouch. He raised his right hand and placed his palm on Lupus’s chest. ‘This is what you are doing at the moment.’

He gave a firm shove and Lupus lurched back slightly and recovered.

‘And this is what you need to do.’ Marcus braced himself and punched his hand out, twisting slightly as he threw all his weight behind the blow. Lupus went flying back and thudded to the ground. He lay there a moment, gasping, and then struggled up on to his elbow and stared at Marcus with a hurt expression.

‘What did you do that for?’

‘To teach you a lesson,’ Marcus replied sternly. ‘If you don’t strike properly in a fight then you will lose. You will die. Better to learn that here and now. Get up and have another go. This time strike the target like you mean it. That trunk is Decimus. Him or any other person that has ever given you cause to hate them. Hit it hard, with your whole body thrusting through the sword. Pick it up and get to work.’

Lupus rose to his feet and looked at Marcus with a flash of hurt pride and anger in his eyes. He reached down for the wooden sword and resumed his place in front of the tree.

‘Begin!’ Marcus ordered.

‘Hah!’ Lupus grunted as he stabbed forward and the point struck the tree loudly. He drew the blade back and hacked at the side with a sharp thwack. Then the other side, then another thrust, grunting each time with the effort.

‘That’s it.’ Marcus nodded. ‘Keep doing it just like that until I say stop.’

He watched a moment longer and then moved off to stand beside Festus who had been looking on.

‘What do you think?’ he asked quietly.

Festus was silent a moment before he replied. ‘I think you would have made a formidable gladiator instructor, young Marcus. You might want to think about that when this is all over.’

Marcus shot him a surprised look. ‘No. I’ll never train a person to fight another to the death just to entertain a crowd. I swear it by all that’s sacred.’

The earnestness with which he spoke seemed to amuse Festus and he chuckled and shook his head. ‘A pity.’

Marcus did not think so. Inside his stomach churned as he recalled the terror that had gripped him each time he’d been called upon to fight for his life. No one should have to endure that just to amuse other people. No one. He felt disappointed in Festus for even suggesting that he might want to be a part of the dark world of the professional gladiators. And a slight doubt crept into his regard for the man. Over the last few months he had come to assume that Festus believed in the same things as he did. He reminded himself that Festus had been Caesar’s man long before Marcus knew him, so his first loyalty would always be to the Roman aristocrat. There was a fundamental difference in outlook between Festus and himself. One that could prove very dangerous if ever Festus discovered that Marcus was the son of Spartacus.

He drew a deep breath and forced himself to turn his thoughts to more immediate matters. ‘I meant, what do you think of Lupus? Has he got the right stuff?’