Simon Scarrow - Street fighter

‘Best get you limbered up,’ said Festus. He took a pot of garlic oil from his leather satchel and poured some into the palm of his hand. ‘Take off the cloak.’

Marcus did as he was told and shivered in the cool air as Festus gently kneaded his shoulders, arms and legs, easing the tension out of the muscles. Once he had finished he handed the cloak back to Marcus — just as Caesar and his closest political allies strode up. Lupus followed a short distance behind his master and offered Marcus a nervous smile as they approached.

‘All ready, Marcus?’ asked Caesar.

‘Yes, master.’

General Pompeius looked over Marcus and sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Are you certain about this, Caesar? Our hopes are riding on this boy and, well, he doesn’t look much like a champion gladiator to me. Isn’t he the one who allowed two gang members to kidnap my future daughter-in-law?’

‘I know this boy well,’ Caesar countered. ‘He has the heart of a lion and can strike with the speed of a panther. Trust me, Pompeius. I know what I’m doing.’

‘I hope so, for all our sakes.’

As his companions mounted the steps to find a place to watch the fight, Caesar waited behind. He placed his hand on Marcus’s shoulder and smiled.

‘What I would have given for a son like you. . May the gods protect you, Marcus. And there’s something else.’ He reached inside his toga to pull out a small silk scarf. ‘Portia sent this to you — for luck.’

Marcus felt his spirits rise as he took the scarf. A sweet scent rose from the material. He carefully folded the scarf into a loose band and tied it securely about his neck. Caesar nodded with satisfaction, then patted Marcus’s shoulder affectionately and strode off to join the others. Marcus wondered if the gesture was real, or whether it was merely one of Caesar’s tricks to win the loyalty of those who served him.

By now the crowd had swelled and Caesar’s lictors joined Festus’s men to keep people back from the rope perimeter. Shortly before the fight was to begin, Lupus stood on tiptoe, craning his neck as he stared across the Forum.

‘Here they come.’

Bibulus and his bodyguards appeared through the crowd, leading a small procession of allies, including Cato, as well as his fighter and trainer. The crowd parted before them as people tried to catch sight of the other gladiator and assess his form before making bets on the outcome. Marcus strained for his first sight of his opponent, but there were too many people in the way.

Bibulus waited while the rope was lowered, then crossed the open space and raised his hand in greeting to Caesar. No words passed between them, but Bibulus stopped in front of Marcus and shook his head mockingly. ‘Is this the gladiator who will save Caesar’s honour?’

Those close enough to hear grinned or laughed at the comment, and Marcus felt a flush of rage. He quickly checked the feeling. Bibulus was trying to unsettle him — what had he been taught? He must not let his anger throw him. Instead, he raised his voice as he replied. ‘I wonder what this senator even knows about honour?’

The crowd laughed again, some of them cheering, and Bibulus’s amused expression turned to anger. He leaned closer to Marcus. ‘We’ll see who is laughing when my boy smashes you to the ground and plunges his blade into your throat.. ’ He turned round abruptly to address the crowd. ‘To honour the noble people of Rome, and as a blood offering to the gods to guide the judgement of those about to vote on the most important legislation in a generation, I offer you this fight between two of the finest young gladiators in the republic! Fighting for Caesar, we have Marcus, from the school of Porcino in Campania. Opposed to him, I give you my champion, from the same school

He gestured towards the group of men who had accompanied him, and they parted to allow the gladiator to step forward. He was taller than Marcus and well built. He already wore his equipment and was armed as a Samnite, with leg guard, heavy square shield, and a gleaming bronze helmet with two red plumes rising on either side of its crown. Marcus was desperate for a look at him, but his face was obscured by the helmet’s grille. He hardly dared think the name he suspected, but Bibulus had said his opponent was from the same school. .’

The gladiator stopped, ten feet from Marcus, leaned his shield against his thigh and reached up, undoing the strap to lift the helmet from his head, just as his master announced his name.

‘Ferax, the Celt!’

Of course. Marcus smiled grimly at the sneering boy who had made his life a misery at Porcino’s gladiator school. Who else would be so determined to defeat and kill him? Bibulus had made a cunning choice of opponent.

‘My old friend,’ Ferax chuckled. ‘It’s been a long time, and not a day has passed when I haven’t prayed to the gods for a chance to face you again. Only this time, I win, and you die.’

‘Ferax. .’ Marcus whispered to himself. Why did it have to be Ferax?

The memory of their last meeting in the arena sent a tremor of fear down Marcus’s spine. Ferax had lost and Marcus had spared him, leaving the Celt humiliated.

Festus leaned close to Marcus and whispered urgently, ‘Control your fear. Don’t show him you are afraid.’

Marcus nodded. He took two steps towards his opponent, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘You’re still all mouth, Ferax. I beat you last time we met. I should never have let you live.’

‘That was a mistake you’re about to pay for,’ Ferax sneered. ‘With your life.’

Realizing there was more to this confrontation than two strangers fighting, the crowd fell quiet and tried to catch every word of the brief exchange. But before Marcus could reply to Ferax, Bibulus raised his hands.

‘Let the contest begin! Gladiators, prepare!’

Ferax replaced his helmet, drew his sword and stood waiting while Festus securely fastened Marcus’s flanged shoulder guard and, once Marcus had dusted his hands with chalk to ensure a good grip, handed him the net and trident. As he shook his limbs and rolled his neck, Marcus noticed a disturbance at the side of the roped-off area. A small group of boys had squeezed to the front, and almost at once there was a surprised cry. ‘Look, it’s Junius!’

Marcus looked over to see Kasos staring at him in astonishment. He smiled faintly and nodded a greeting.

‘To your marks!’ came a voice. The official overseeing the fight stepped forward and used his staff to mark two flagstones, ten feet apart.

Ferax sauntered into place, and turned to tap the side of his blade against the rim of his shield. With a last deep, calming breath, Marcus took up his position and raised his left hand to lift most of the net from the ground. He gripped the shaft of the trident tightly in his right and lowered himself into a well-balanced crouch.

The official glanced from side to side, then thrust his staff into the air as he stepped away quickly.

‘Begin!’

Marcus stood his ground, watching Ferax like a hawk. At first, Ferax did not move, aside from continuing to tap the rim of his shield. Then he walked forward casually until he had halved the distance between them. Suddenly he lunged forward, and before he could help himself, Marcus flinched back.

Ferax laughed contemptuously. ‘Go on, little man, jump!’

Marcus gritted his teeth. He recalled the fear he had lived under as he endured the Celt’s endless torments at the gladiator school. Enough! Marcus fumed at himself. He was playing into his enemy’s hands. He had to shake off the past. He must think of Ferax as his opponent of the moment, and forget anything that affected his concentration.