Simon Scarrow - Street fighter

Marcus nodded as Flaccus bellowed his name again and he hurried from the sheltered corner along the path at the side of the garden. Emerging into the shaded colonnade that ran across the end of the house, he caught sight of the steward — a short, overweight man in a green tunic. Flaccus was bald, except for a heavily oiled fringe that ran around his head, and his heavy cheeks wobbled as he turned towards the sound of Marcus’s light footsteps.

‘Where in Hades have you been?’ he scowled.

‘Here in the garden, sir,’ Marcus replied as he stopped in front of the man.

‘Well, don’t let me catch you at it again. When you’re not needed you stay in the slave quarters until you’re called for. Understand?’ He shot out a hand and cuffed Marcus’s ear.

The blow knocked Marcus’s head to one side and his ears filled with a dull ringing. He blinked and glared back at the steward. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘See that you do, or next time I’ll give you a hiding you won’t forget.’ The steward rested his fat fingers on his hips and stared coldly down at Marcus.

‘I know what you did at that gladiator school, and I know the master favours you, but don’t think that makes you special. You’re no better than the rest of us slaves. I’m the steward here. You answer to me. And if you cross me, you’ll regret it. I’ll treat you no differently from the kitchen boys. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Flaccus stabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Now then. The master is heading to the Senate. He’s given instructions you’re to join his retinue. You’re to take a cape from the slop chest and wait for him at the main entrance. Well, what are you waiting for, lad — get moving!’

Marcus stood with a party of other slaves and servants in the entrance hall while they waited for their master to appear. The cloak Marcus had chosen from those heaped in the kitchen slop chest was the least rancid one he could find. Even so, it stank of sweat and he’d taken care to push the hood well back, deciding he would only wear that if he absolutely had to. The other men wore a mixture of tunics and cloaks that indicated their status. The slaves were dressed as drably as Marcus, while Festus, a freedman, wore a clean red tunic and brown cape, as did the men he had hired to act as Caesar’s personal bodyguards. Marcus noted their hard expressions, weathered faces and thick muscled arms and guessed that they must be gladiators or former legionaries, like his father.

But he wasn’t my father, Marcus reminded himself. He thrust memories of Titus aside, together with the grief in his heart. He must be strong. He must not give in to feelings. He could not be weak if he wanted to save his mother. Only the ruthless training he’d received at Porcino’s gladiator school mattered now.

‘Here, boy, take this.’

Marcus looked up to see Festus holding out a thick stave. The wooden shaft was tapered from its heavy end and bound with strips of leather to provide a firm grip. Marcus took the club and hefted it experimentally to test its weight. He took a step away from Festus and swung it to and fro, sensing that it was well balanced and would be a useful weapon. Festus looked on approvingly.

‘Good to see that you’re familiar with the tools of the trade.’

Marcus looked round and noticed the other men had either stuck the clubs in their belts, or were carrying them by the thick end, as if they were walking sticks. He turned back to Festus.

‘Why aren’t they carrying swords?’

Festus raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, yes. You’re a newcomer to Rome. Well, lad, the law says no one is allowed to carry a sword within the city limits. No one pays too much attention to that, but it doesn’t look good for anyone in the public eye to break the law. That’s why we carry the clubs, and a few other things besides. You used a club before?’

‘In training,’ said Marcus. ‘In the first month before we were allowed to use a real weapon.’

‘This is a real weapon,’ Festus growled as he hefted his own club. ‘Almost as good as any sword if it comes to a fight. And not quite so messy. Last thing Caesar and the other great men of Rome want is for blood to flow in the streets. Mind you, break a man’s skull open with a club and there’s a mess all right.’ He paused and narrowed his eyes at Marcus. ‘One last thing. You call me “sir” when you speak to me. Got it?’

‘Yes. . sir.’

‘That’s better. Mind you hold that club like a walking stick, and you keep it that way up unless I give the order to lay into anyone. Understand?’

Marcus nodded and Festus patted him on the shoulder.

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘Master’s coming!’ a voice called out.

Festus and the others quickly formed up in two lines, each side of the entrance to the house. Marcus joined the end of one and stood beside Festus, staring directly ahead as the others did. The clack of boots on the floor tiles echoed off the walls as Caesar swept into the room, his arm round his niece’s shoulder. Behind them came Lupus, the satchel containing his note slates hanging from his shoulder. Marcus risked a quick glimpse and saw that his master was wearing a spotless white tunic with a broad purple stripe running down one edge. His boots were fine red leather with tassels dangling from the tops. His hair was neatly arranged with little ringlets around the fringe. Marcus couldn’t help being struck by his ornate appearance. It was as if Caesar was setting out to dazzle his audience. Caesar paused before he reached his retinue and turned to face Portia.

‘How do I look, my dear?’

She smiled with delight. ‘Every inch a consul, Uncle. I’m proud of you.’

Marcus could see what Portia meant about running rings round her uncle.

‘As I am of you.’ Caesar beamed and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. He turned away and at once his expression hardened as he faced the waiting men. ‘As you know, I have my enemies, but until now they’ve had the sense not to lay a finger on a consul of Rome. That may well change. It is my intention to propose a new law before the Senate this morning. It’s sure to divide members of the Senate and there may be trouble. Although my enemies might be cowards, I most certainly am not. It’s important that the people of Rome see I am not afraid. Therefore you will at all times keep position some ten feet behind me. You will only come to my aid if I call for you. And you will not raise so much as a finger against anyone unless I give the order, no matter how rowdy the crowd gets. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Caesar!’ the men chorused, and Marcus joined in.

Caesar strode down each line, examining his men, then stood back and nodded towards the doorway. ‘Lead ’em outside, Festus. I’ll join you in a minute. You go with them too, Lupus.’

Marcus turned to follow the others when a hand pressed on his shoulder.

‘Not you, boy. Wait behind.’

Marcus stepped to the side as the others descended the stairs into the street outside. His heart beat with alarm. What did his master want with him? Caesar watched them file out and when the last of them had gone he turned to his niece. ‘Portia, you may go.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’ She nodded, then shot a quick glance at Marcus and raised an eyebrow before gliding off towards the rear of the house.

Caesar stared at Marcus long enough for him to become uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze. He looked down as a satisfied smile flickered on the consul’s lips.

‘As far as anyone apart from you, me and Festus knows, I have brought you to Rome to protect my niece. You will carry out that duty day to day. However, as I have mentioned, I will have other uses for you. That is why I want you to join me at the Senate today, Marcus. It’s important that you know the faces of the men who call themselves my friends, as well as those of my enemies.’ He paused. ‘You have a good mind and think on your feet. You also have raw courage. I have every intention of making a great gladiator out of you at one of my schools in Campania when your work is done here in Rome.’