Simon Scarrow - Gladiator - Vengeance

‘I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure of humbling us,’ Festus replied smoothly. ‘But let’s make this even more interesting.’

He reached down and took out his purse and held it up. ‘I’ll wager ten pieces of silver that the boy and I win. Who’ll take the bet?’

There was a moment’s hesitation as the townspeople took in the new development and then a well-dressed merchant in a blue tunic raised his arm. ‘I’ll take the bet. I’ll match your silver if you take on Andreas and his comrades.’ He pointed to the tough.

The latter nodded eagerly. ‘Done! Here, Eumolpus, you’re with me.’ He turned to look at the nearest gang of youths and stabbed his finger at two of the larger boys. ‘Thrapsus and you, Atticus. You deal with the Roman whelp while we give this loudmouth a hiding. Now let’s have those little sticks of yours, Roman, and set to it!’

‘Be my guest.’ Festus nodded to Marcus, who stepped forward and held out the staffs for the Greeks to select their weapons. Andreas took the first to hand and then three more, which he passed to the men he had selected. Marcus and Festus took the remaining two from the bundle that Festus had prepared with wood cut from trees along the road for this purpose.

‘Clear a space there!’ Festus stepped down from the fountain into the square and swept his staff out to urge the crowd back. They shuffled away and when he had cleared a space thirty feet across Festus stepped into the middle, hefting his staff, as Marcus strode over and took up his position, back to back. Raising his staff, Marcus held it out in both hands, horizontally. As always before a fight, he felt his heart quicken and his muscles tense. Andreas and his comrades spread out round them, the men facing Festus, and the two youths taking on Marcus. He cast his eyes over them quickly, assessing each boy.

The one called Thrapsus was thickset with lank hair tied back by a leather thong. His face was mottled with angry spots and when he bared his teeth they were stained and crooked. His companion, Atticus, was taller, and took rather more care of his appearance. His hair was neatly cut and his tunic, while plain, was clean and fitted his sinewy body neatly. His features were fine, like one of the many statues of young athletes that Marcus had seen in the towns they had passed through since landing in Greece. No doubt he fancied himself as something of a ladies’ man, Marcus guessed.

‘Same as before,’ Festus growled over his shoulder. ‘We cover each other’s back and make it look good. Give the crowd a bit of a show before we put these thugs down on the ground. Got that?’

‘I know what I have to do,’ Marcus muttered back. ‘You’ve trained me well enough. Let’s just get on with it.’

Festus turned to wink at him. ‘Always spoiling for a fight, ain’t you? That’s the spirit.’

Marcus pressed his lips together. In truth he hated fighting. He hated the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The only thing that drove him on was the thought of rescuing his mother. That was why he fought. That was the only reason.

‘Ready?’ asked Festus.

‘Ready.’

Festus looked at the tough. ‘Let’s begin!’

At first no one moved. Marcus and Festus stood back to back, watching their opponents closely, looking for any sign that gave away an imminent attack. Marcus noted that Thrapsus was holding his staff in both hands like a club, half raised, ready to swing at Marcus. By contrast the other youth seemed to have some idea of how to use a staff in a fight and had it grasped with his hands apart so that he could jab with the ends, or block any blows as strongly as possible.

He heard Festus’s sandals scrape over the flagstones and he glanced back to see his companion easing himself upright and laying his staff across a shoulder as he mocked the two men facing him.

‘What’s the problem, my friends? Lost the stomach for an easy fight?’

‘You talk too much,’ Andreas growled. ‘Won’t be so easy when I knock your teeth out, Roman.’

He did not wait for a response but let out a loud roar and charged at Festus, swinging his staff at the latter’s head in a vicious arc. An instant later his three companions also charged in, echoing his cry. Marcus’s gaze snapped back to the two youths as he left Festus to fight his own battle. That was the plan. Each trusted the other to hold his own and guard his comrade’s back. Atticus held back and let his sturdier friend charge in first. Thrapsus raised the stick above his head, fully extending his arms to get as much power into the blow as possible. Marcus shifted his left hand back as he turned the end of the stick towards the Greek boy and punched it forward into his chest, just below his chin. The impact stopped Thrapsus in his tracks and he stumbled back, gasping for breath as he lowered his staff and dropped a hand to clutch at his chest. Marcus took a step forward and lowered the point of his staff and struck again, this time aiming for his opponent’s stomach.

He avoided aiming for the face and groin, just as Festus instructed. The object of the exercise was not to cause any lasting injuries and the bad feeling that went with them. A simple lesson was all that was required; enough to put them out of the fight so that only their dignity would be hurt. Thrapsus staggered back from the blow, completely winded now and struggling to breathe. Marcus lowered the staff again and stabbed into the ground behind the youth’s heel, then barged forward with his shoulder. Thrapsus lost his balance and fell heavily on to the ground, the staff flying from his grip and clattering a short distance away.

The local boy’s defeat had been so quick that it took a moment for the spectators to grasp what had happened and then many of them groaned with disappointment. There were a few muted cries of support for Marcus and he realized that the thuggish young man was not popular with all of the port’s inhabitants. He recovered his staff and retreated towards Festus, a background of grunts and the clatter of wood sounding in his ears as he concentrated his attention on the second youth. Atticus had looked stunned by the ease with which his companion had gone down and now a cold, ruthless look fixed on his expression as he lowered himself into a crouch and glared at Marcus.

‘A pretty neat move, Roman,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘But you won’t find me as much of a fool as that oaf Thrapsus.’

Marcus shrugged. ‘We’ll see. But a word of advice. Save your breath. You’ll need it.’

Atticus’s dark eyebrows knitted in anger and he leaned down to snatch up the staff lying on the floor and then advanced, swinging one cane in each hand. An unusual technique , Marcus thought quickly to himself, but not a terribly effective one . While Atticus would be able to bombard him with a flurry of blows, they would not have as much force behind them as a properly wielded weapon. As he expected, the Greek came on swinging the staffs wildly, swishing through the air as he sought to strike the Roman boy. Marcus held his staff up and flicked it right and left to parry the blows in a succession of sharp cracks as wood struck wood.

He was mindful of the other instruction that Festus had given him: to try and make the fight against his second opponent last a little longer. It would save the crowd from being disappointed. Give them value for money, Festus had said. That’s what a good gladiator does. And, when it was over, the crowd would have had their fill of excitement and the losing fighters would feel that they had put up a decent show and their pride, while dented, would be enhanced by the thought that they had sorely tested their winning opponent.

Marcus mixed a few feints in between his parries, forcing the Greek boy back, and after several more attacks Atticus retreated out of range, breathing hard as he stared at Marcus, his staffs trembling with the effort of holding them out. Hearing a deep grunt behind, Marcus risked a glance round and saw that Festus had felled one of the men who lay sprawled across the flagstones, out cold. He turned back to Atticus, confident that now it was one-on-one he no longer had to stay so close to Festus. Slipping his left hand back a short distance, Marcus lowered the end of the staff and grasped it like a spear as he stepped forward.