Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

‘Run!’ she shouted. ‘Save yourself. Find Pompeius. Go!’

She pushed him away again and struggled up on to her knees as she turned to face the driver. Marcus backed away a few paces, then turned and ran. His heart filled with fear for his mother, but at the same time he knew that she was right. If he stayed, they would both be taken. If he escaped, then he might find some way to rescue her. He took one last look back, and saw his mother throw herself at the legs of the driver. She wrapped her arms round the man’s knees and cried out, ‘Run, Marcus.’

Then her voice was cut short as the driver angrily tried to thrust her aside. Marcus ran on, down the slope, heading for a place where the pine trees grew more closely together and would make it harder for the driver to follow him. His mother cried out again, her voice growing more distant and deadened by the forest. ‘Run!’

‘Stop, you little bugger!’ the driver shouted.

Marcus reached the thicket and rushed on, thrusting the slender branches aside and ignoring the scratches to his hands and arms. The shouts behind gradually became more faint and then there were only the sounds of his feet scuffing through the pine needles, the swish of the branches and the deep sobs of despair that were wrenched from him as he fled, further and further away from his mother.

Marcus ran on for a mile or more, his eyes brimming with tears. His heart was beating wildly and the heat of the morning sun beneath the boughs of the pine trees drenched him with sweat. The run through the trees had left his face and hands scratched and bleeding, and his muscles ached from the effort. Yet the pain on his skin and in his limbs was nothing compared to the agony that engulfed his heart. He stopped and leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled for breath. He strained his ears to listen for any sounds of pursuit above the blood pounding through his head, but there was nothing except for the faint caws of crows, swirling across the forest.

As he recovered his breath, Marcus tried to think about his situation, but it was impossible to concentrate while images of his mother, injured and at the mercy of the driver, flooded through his mind. Her shouts to him to run still echoed in his head. Marcus straightened up and turned back to stare uphill towards the road. He felt like a coward. He also felt more afraid of being alone than he did of the driver, and the punishment that the driver had threatened him with. With a sharp intake of breath Marcus decided what he must do. He turned around, searching the ground until he saw what he was looking for. A short distance away was a fallen tree. He ran over and snapped off the largest branch that he could handle. Hurriedly stripping off some of the small twigs, Marcus gripped the end of the branch and swung it round, one way and the other, then he whacked it down on the tree trunk. The blow jarred his arms, but the branch did not snap.

‘That’ll do,’ he muttered to himself, then set off up the slope, climbing back in the direction from which he had fled. He knew that he had little chance against the burly driver, unless he could find some way to surprise him. If Marcus could do that, then he might be able to knock him unconscious, even kill him. Then he could rescue his mother and take the wagon somewhere to find help. His thoughts stilled for a moment. Could he really kill the driver if he had the chance?

‘Yes,’ he growled to himself. He would do it, if he had to.

As Marcus emerged from the thicket of pine trees he had used to escape from the driver, he crouched low and picked his way over the carpet of pine needles, making no noise. His eyes and ears strained to pick up any signs of life ahead. There was no movement, apart from the faint shimmer of light and shadows on the ground. When he reached the place where he had left his mother, Marcus knelt down. The needles were disturbed and there was a smear of blood on a rock. He stared at the blood for a moment as a wave of anxiety gripped his body. Then he swallowed, grasped his makeshift club more tightly and crept up towards the road. As his eyes drew level with the rutted surface Marcus paused and glanced cautiously from side to side. The road was empty.

There was no sign of the wagon.

He climbed on to the road and stood in silence, staring in the direction the wagon had been headed. He did not know what to do. No idea at all. His first instinct was to run after the wagon and see through his plan to attack the driver and rescue his mother. But the panic and fear that had seized him earlier had begun to recede and he was able to think more clearly. He could follow the wagon and wait for the chance to strike, but having been tricked once the driver would be on his guard. If Marcus was caught, then it would all have been for nothing and he and his mother would be condemned to the living death of working in a slave gang on Decimus’s estate. And there was little doubt that the driver would give him a severe beating as well, before throwing him back into the cage.

His mother was right. He must find help. Find someone who would listen to what he had to say and give Marcus and his mother justice, and punish Decimus. A spark of anger ignited in his chest at the thought of the man who had taken away his happy life, and stolen his parents from him. Punishment would not be enough for Decimus. He must pay with his life.

With a heavy heart he turned round and started to walk back in the direction of Stratos. There was no question of entering the town again. If he was recognized, he would be caught and thrown into the auctioneer’s cells while a message was sent to Decimus informing him that the runaway slave was recaptured. Instead, Marcus decided to make his way to the river and then follow that to the sea, where he could find a port. Then he would need to get on board a ship bound for Italia, where he would find General Pompeius and tell him everything. But even as he resolved to make this his plan, Marcus knew that the path ahead of him was difficult and dangerous.

He rested the club on his shoulder and increased his pace as he strode along the rough track. Overhead the sun had risen to its zenith and the heat was scorching, rippling off the baked-hard earth of the road ahead. Once he was clear of the pine trees, Marcus could see Stratos down in the valley below, and the broad silvery ribbon of the river snaking across the valley floor before it passed through some hills in the distance. He left the road and made his way across country towards the river, cautiously passing through several olive groves and a vineyard on his way. Occasionally he saw people but kept he well clear of them. Marcus was not sure if he could risk asking help of anyone who lived close enough to Stratos. They might know of Decimus and hope to claim a reward for returning a runaway slave to him.

By the time he reached the river Marcus’s throat was parched. He found a quiet spot where reeds grew along the riverbank and squatted down to drink, cupping his hands into the cool water. When he was refreshed, he removed his boots and waded into the river. There he removed his tunic and washed it in the gentle current, rubbing out the dirt that had soiled the cloth during the days he had been locked in the cage. When that was done, he lay the tunic out on the riverbank to dry in the sun. He settled nearby, in the shade of a stunted bush, and rested. The strain of the previous days had been eased a little by bathing in the river and Marcus gradually drifted off into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, night had fallen. Around him the shrill sound of cicadas filled the darkness. The air was cool and he reached across for his tunic. It was dry and once he had pulled it over his head Marcus felt more comfortable. As he slipped his boots on and tied the laces he glanced up. A half-moon hung in the sky, bathing the landscape in the faintest of blue hues. Marcus felt hungry and realized that he had had nothing to eat since the previous evening. He squatted down by the river to cup some water into his hands and drank his fill before setting off.