Simon Scarrow - Son of Spartacus

Marcus looked at the two men. One was a wiry veteran with dried blood on his left arm where he had been wounded in the ambush. His opponent was a fresh-faced youth, trembling as he stared down at the sword.

‘Pick up your weapons!’ Mandracus bellowed.

At once the youth did as he was told and held the weapon out, its point wavering wildly. The veteran did not move. Then he drew himself up and folded his arms.

‘I don’t take orders from slaves.’

Some in the crowd hooted with derision, but Mandracus simply shrugged and gestured to one of the rebels acting as guards. The man strode behind the veteran and swung a heavy club into the back of his head. The skull gave way with a sharp crack, blood and brains bursting out between the fragments of bone and scalp. The veteran’s jaw sagged open as he stood for a moment before toppling face first to the ground.

Marcus averted his eyes from the gruesome scene. Glancing round the group of prisoners, he wondered who his opponent would be. If only it could be Decimus, or even Thermon.

The rebel tucked the club under his arm and grasped the veteran’s boot to drag the body aside. Mandracus pointed to another prisoner. ‘You. Take his place.’

The legionary scrambled to his feet and as soon as his hands were freed he snatched up the sword and lowered his body into a crouch, prepared to fight for his life.

‘Begin!’

The fight was unlike any Marcus had ever seen during his gladiator training. There was no attempt to size up the other man, decide on tactics and test the opponent’s mettle with a few feints. The two legionaries rushed at each other with grim expressions to hack and parry wildly, and the sharp ringing of their blades filled the air as sparks flew from the clashing metal. With a cry of pain the young recruit staggered back, clutching his spare hand to his thigh where blood seeped out between his fingers. The older man held back, his chest heaving from the exertion. They stared at each other until a voice called out to resume fighting.

The call was taken up and Mandracus gave orders to a group beside one of the fires. ‘Use the heating irons.’

One of the men nodded and leaned down to pick up a metal bar. One end was wrapped in strips of metal; the other led into the heart of the fire. When he raised the bar into the air, it glowed bright yellow, then faded to a lurid red. The man strode behind the wounded young legionary and prodded him with the heated tip. He screamed with pain and lurched forward towards his opponent. Another frenzied exchange of blows followed before the younger man’s leg gave way, forcing him down on his knee as he desperately tried to fend off his former comrade’s attacks. Then his numbed fingers lost their grip and his sword fell to the ground a short distance away. The other man raised his weapon and hesitated.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Finish him! Or you’ll be cut down alongside him.’

The legionary gritted his teeth and shook his head in apology, then thrust the blade into the wounded man’s chest. The young man grunted and flung his head back and arms wide. Then, as the sword was wrenched free, he writhed for a moment on the ground before lying still. The crowd let out a bloodthirsty roar and punched their fists into the chilly air. Two of the rebels approached the winner and one took the sword from his hand while the other steered him to one side of the hut.

Marcus felt sick with worry as Mandracus approached the remaining prisoners and looked over the group. None dared meet his eye to risk being chosen for the next fight.

‘You … Yes, you, and the man next to him. You’re up. Move yourselves!’

There were two more fights and Marcus counted fourteen men left in the group. That meant seven fights, and Decimus was still with them. There was a chance yet to avenge himself. As they dragged the fourth body away, Mandracus scanned his finger across the group and smiled. Then his finger stopped.

‘You … Up!’

Decimus struggled to his feet, shaking his head in mute protest. At once Marcus stood.

‘I’ll fight him! Choose me!’

Mandracus turned. ‘What’s this? A volunteer? The plucky lad wishes to take on a grown man. Looks like we finally found a Roman with the heart to put up a fight. Very well then, boy, he’s all yours.’

‘No!’ Decimus called out. ‘You can’t make me fight!’

‘Oh? Why can’t I?’

Decimus held out his hands. ‘Set me free and I’ll make you a rich man. I have a fortune in Rome. Let me live and I will ensure that all of you are handsomely rewarded. I swear it.’

‘How interesting,’ Mandracus mused. ‘And what amount are we talking about for your ransom?’

‘Half a million sestertii,’ Decimus pleaded, but the rebel did not respond. ‘All right then, a million! A million sestertii!’

‘Hmmm, now that is quite a fortune.’ Mandracus thought briefly. ‘We’ll wait to see what Brixus says. Take this one inside the hut.’

‘Thank you,’ Decimus grovelled. ‘You won’t regret it.’

As he was led away he gave Marcus a smug smile. ‘What did I tell you? Goodbye, boy. Give my regards to Titus when you catch up with him in the afterworld. And apologize to Thermon for me. Tell him it was only ever business between us.’

Marcus gritted his teeth and spat out his reply. ‘Coward!’

Decimus shook his head. ‘No, just a survivor.’

Then he was led away and disappeared through the leather flap into the hut. Mandracus approached Marcus and looked down at him curiously. ‘It’s a shame to put an end to such courage. But you will die with these others. The question is who to pick for your opponent. I’ll be fair so you can put up a decent fight.’

His gaze scrutinized the remaining legionaries and Decimus’s servants. All were tough-looking men, except one.

‘You, tribune. You’re the next youngest, and I dare say you have lived a pampered enough life to provide a poor showing with a sword. Think you’ve got it in you to defeat this boy?’

Quintus stood slowly, his lips curling with contempt. ‘I am not gladiator scum, like you. I will show you how a Roman noble fights.’ At the last moment his lips trembled, betraying his true feelings, and Mandracus chuckled.

‘Nice try. Like all you Roman aristocrats, you have no heart for a real fight. You leave that to others. Well, not tonight. Not here.’ He cut Quintus’s bonds and then did the same for Marcus. ‘Take your positions.’

Two of the rebels dragged them into the open and turned them to face each other. Swords were thrown down in front of them. Quintus picked his up quickly without waiting for the instruction. Marcus noted that his opponent seemed even more nervous than he felt. He had no desire to fight Quintus or any other prisoner, now that Decimus was removed from the grim contest. But while he still breathed he would fight. Aiming to survive, his determination was fuelled by the hope that Brixus would set him free. If he protested now he would only share the fate of the man who had refused to fight earlier.

He bent down to pick up the sword, grasping it tightly and instinctively testing its weight and balance as he had been trained. He experimented with a slash and a few cuts in the air before being satisfied he understood how the weapon would handle in a fight.

‘Begin!’ Mandracus bellowed.

Unlike the previous fights, the two combatants remained still. Marcus forced all thoughts from his mind to concentrate on what lay ahead. Quintus was of average height and slightly built, which meant he had the potential to move fast, but his reach was little better than Marcus’s. Like many other young men, he had a fondness for wine and the good life. Even after days on the road, his reactions might be slow compared to those who had trained at a gladiator school. Marcus tried to recall something from their brief fight in Ariminum that would give him the advantage here.