Simon Scarrow - Gladiator - Vengeance

‘Ready?’ asked Festus.

Marcus nodded and then glanced round the marketplace of Chalcis, a small port on the coast of the Gulf of Corinth. Below the market the ground sloped down to the sea, brilliant blue beneath the clear sky and the glare of early afternoon sun. They had reached the town after a morning’s walk along the coastal road, then stopped for a simple meal of stew in a chop house to one side of the market. A fair-sized crowd was still milling around the stalls and the usual gangs of youths clustered about the fountain, presenting easy pickings to Marcus’s practised eye.

‘Do we have to do this?’ asked Lupus, the boy sitting next to Marcus. He was seventeen, four years older than Marcus, but they often passed for the same age. Whereas Lupus was short and thin, Marcus was tall for his years. The hard training he had endured at a gladiator school, and later in the charge of Festus when they had both served Julius Caesar in Rome, had given him a muscular physique.

Festus turned to Lupus with a weary sigh. ‘You know we do. The money Caesar gave us will not last forever. Better that we make it stretch by earning whatever we can along the way. Who knows how long it will take to find out where Marcus’s mother is being held prisoner.’

Marcus felt a stab of pain in his heart. It had been over two years since he last saw her, when they were torn apart following the murder of Titus, the man Marcus had thought was his father. They had lived happily, on a farm on the island of Leucas, until the day when Titus could not repay a moneylender. A ruthless gang of men had come to seize the family and sell them into slavery to pay off Titus’s debt. The old soldier had tried to resist but was killed, along with Marcus’s dog, Cerberus, and Livia and Marcus were condemned to slavery. Marcus had escaped and, ever since, had vowed to find his mother and set her free.

At first it had seemed an impossible task, but, after saving Caesar’s life, the great Roman statesman had given him a small sum of silver and a letter of introduction, together with the services of Festus, Caesar’s most trusted bodyguard, and Lupus, and set him free to save his mother. They had sailed to Greece with two other men, both sent back to Rome by Festus when it became clear that Caesar’s money would run out far too quickly with more mouths to feed.

After landing in Greece, the three of them took the coast road along the north of the Gulf as they made for Stratos, where Marcus had first encountered Decimus, the moneylender who had caused him so much grief and suffering. Along the route they had paid their way by putting on a small performance in the towns and ports they passed through.

Festus pushed his empty bowl away and stood up, stretching his shoulders and neck. ‘On your feet, lads. It’s time for the show.’

Marcus and Lupus rose from the bench and picked up their bags. They contained a few spare clothes and a handful of personal belongings — writing materials in the case of Lupus, and an assortment of weapons for Marcus and Festus. Festus dipped into his purse and tossed a few bronze asses on the table to cover the cost of their meal, then gestured for the two boys to follow him. They emerged from the inn’s weathered canopy into the glare of the sun and made their way across the square to the fountain. It was late April and the mountain streams were full so there was still sufficient flow from the water piped into the port to feed the fountain. A steady rush overflowed the central cupola and splashed down into the round basin beneath, cooling the air immediately around the fountain. Which is why it was the favourite haunt of the gangs of youths, and the toughs who hired their services out to landlords and moneylenders. Just the kind of people Festus was looking for.

The fountain was surrounded by a shallow flight of steps, just enough for a man standing at the top to be clearly seen above the crowd in the market square. Festus set his bag down and the others followed suit.

‘Keep an eye on them,’ Festus told Lupus. Then he turned to Marcus. ‘Let’s do it.’

They stepped up to the edge of the fountain and Festus raised his hands and drew a deep breath before calling out to the crowd in Greek.

‘Friends! Hear me! Hear me!’

Faces turned towards the fountain as people stopped to stare, their curiosity aroused. The groups of men round the fountain stopped their idle banter and glared at the man and boy who had disturbed their daily routine. There would be no shortage of volunteers to take up the challenge that Festus was about to make.

‘Noble people of Chalcis!’ Festus continued. ‘You are the heirs of the proud tradition of the heroic Greeks who once took on and defeated the great empire of Persia. More recently, alas, you have fallen before the might of Rome and they — we — are now your masters.’

He paused to allow some angry shouts of defiance from the small crowd gathering in front of the fountain. Marcus had grown up among the Greeks and knew how proud they were of their civilization. They bitterly resented being under the thumb of Romans whom they considered their inferiors and Festus was very deliberately playing on this, making sure he spoke with a marked Roman accent when he addressed them again.

‘No doubt there are many men here who still hold true to the warrior spirit of their forebears.’

‘Yes!’ One of the toughs standing a short distance away shouted back. ‘And you’ll find that out quick enough if you carry on opening your trap!’

There was a chorus of support from his cronies.

‘Push off, Roman!’ the tough continued with a menacing grin. ‘And take your little runts with you.’

Festus turned to the man with a beaming smile. ‘Ah! I see that I was right about the people of Chalcis. There are still one or two real men living here.’

‘More than that, Roman!’ another heavy-set man responded. ‘Now do as he says, and get out of here, before we make you.’

Festus raised his hands and called for quiet. It took a while before those in the crowd hurling insults and threats fell silent. But most of the townspeople were keen to see what would come next and they hushed the others.

‘I meant no offence!’ Festus called out. ‘We are merely travellers passing through your lands. My name is Festus. I have angered you, and for that I apologize most humbly. But it seems that there are some here for whom an apology is not enough.’

‘How right you are, Roman!’ the first tough shouted back as his companions cheered him.

Festus faced the man directly. ‘In which case, it only seems fair that I give you a chance to teach us a lesson.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘Time for the training staffs.’

Marcus nodded and bent to open his goatskin pack, taking out a small bundle of wooden staffs, each five foot in length and thicker than a man’s thumb. He passed one to Festus who held it up for all to see.

‘Who will take on me and the boy in a contest to see who can stay on their feet longest?’

‘Me!’ The tough thumped his chest, and several others joined in as they stepped towards Festus. ‘Andreas is my name. And I’ll give you such a hiding that you will never forget it!’

‘Very good!’ Festus replied. ‘A contest we shall have. But let’s keep it fair. Four of you against the two of us.’

The tough laughed scornfully. ‘Done! It’s time you stuck-up Romans were taught a hard lesson. Four against you, and your runt. You’ll take a beating and no mistake. Of course, if you want to beg my forgiveness, then I might just let you walk out of Chalcis in one piece. Providing you hand your packs over to us first. Spoils of war, Roman. You’d know all about that, I’m sure.’