Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

Marcus stayed as close to the river as he could, following it downstream. At first he found it unnerving, and every sudden rustle in the grass or crackle of a twig caused him to duck down and keep still. His heart beat quickly and he strained eyes and ears for any sign that he was being hunted. Only when he was satisfied that the noise had been made by some animal did Marcus warily continue on his way.

Twice during the night he came across small villages nestled on the riverbank. He crept carefully round the dark masses of the small houses and hovels, but no oil lamps glimmered in the darkness and no one stirred, except for a dog in the second village that barked briefly and let out a low howl before falling silent. As the first pale glow of dawn crept over the horizon, Marcus came across a third village. There was a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach and he reluctantly decided that he must risk finding something to eat. He had no idea how the people of the village would react to finding a young Roman boy on their doorstep. He would have to try to steal some food. The thought of stealing concerned him for a moment. It had been drummed into him by his father that theft was dishonourable and that a man who stole from his comrades should be severely disciplined. Yet now Marcus was hungry, so hungry that it was painful and distracting. A year ago he had been ill and unable to keep any food down and hadn’t eaten for days, so he knew that if he did not eat soon he would feel light-headed, faint and weak. There was no avoiding it. He must have food, however he came by it.

Marcus carefully approached a large house on the edge of the village. Outside the entrance a small flame flickered in a brazier. By its light Marcus could see a man curled up on the ground. He paused long enough to satisfy himself that the man was asleep and then crept closer. There were two low buildings extending either side of the house and the acrid smell of goats wafted on the night air. Marcus guessed that these were the sheds where the livestock and other foodstuffs were kept. He reached the end of the nearest shed and flattened himself against the roughly plastered wall.

He was still for a moment, listening for any movement, but there was nothing apart from the shuffling of one of the goats on their straw bedding – then silence. Marcus felt his way along the wall until he came to a door. He eased the latch up slowly, wincing as it grated. The door was mounted on heavy wooden hinges and creaked as he opened it enough for him to squeeze inside. A thin shaft of moonlight fell across the floor of the shed. By its light he could see another door on the far wall. Next to it stood racks filled with stoppered jars. Marcus moved further inside and came to some shelves. His fingers lightly felt across the objects stored there. There were some root vegetables, then bags filled with grain. Then he found some hard-surfaced objects the size of large stones. He pressed harder and they yielded. Marcus picked one up. It was light and, as he raised it to his nose, he smiled. Bread. He quickly picked up a few more of the small loaves and carried on searching. The next shelf had some cheeses and he took the largest one that he could manage, then helped himself to an empty waterskin lying next to the shelves. He could fill it from the river, he decided, as he started back towards the door, happy with his finds.

But as he walked quickly away, his foot caught on something heavy. There was a grating sound and an instant later a heavy jar smashed on to the flagstones. Liquid splashed up against his legs and the air was filled with the aroma of olive oil. An icy jolt of fear shot down his neck. The sound had been enough to alert the farmhands, he was sure of it.

He made to run to the door but the spilled oil made the flagstones slippery and he was forced to tread carefully. Marcus heard a shout from the main farm building and he emerged from the shed into the moonlight to see that the man by the fire had risen to his feet and was sounding the alarm. Marcus ducked down behind a pile of firewood beside the shed to keep out of sight. Even though it was night, the moonlight would provide enough illumination for the man to spot him. A door crashed open just inside the entrance and a moment later two more men joined the first.

‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked.

‘Heard something breaking in one of the storerooms.’

‘Animal?’

‘We’ll soon find out! Come on.’

The first man lowered a torch into the brazier and the flames quickly carried to the oil-soaked rag binding the end of the torch together. The three of them started towards the shed, lit by a wavering pool of orange light from the flame of the torch. Marcus realized that they would see him in a matter of moments. He would not be able to outrun them laden down with the food he had taken, but equally he was starving and he knew that he would not be able to go on without something to eat. He glanced round desperately, then his eyes fixed on the oil gleaming in the entrance to the storeroom.

Rising up from behind the logs, he ran back to the door.

‘There!’ The man with the torch thrust out his arm. ‘That boy!’

‘Little thief! Let’s have him!’

They burst into a run. Marcus glanced round and then ducked back into the shed.

‘Ha! He’s trapped now,’ one of the men shouted with glee. ‘We’ve got him.’

Marcus carefully made his way across the pool of oil to the door on the far side. It was fastened with a simple bolt, but it was stiff and squealed faintly as he struggled to draw it back. There was a glow in the room as the man with the torch reached the entrance. Trying not to panic, Marcus struggled again with the bolt. His heart pounded with terror at the thought of being captured. Just then the bolt shot back and he thrust the door open.

‘Stand still, you!’ the man shouted across the room.

Marcus glanced back. ‘Make me.’

Then he ran off into the night. Behind him he heard the men enter the shed and there was a cry of alarm and a soft thud, then another, as they slipped and lost their footing in the slick of olive oil.

‘Watch that torch, you fool!’ a voice cried.

Marcus ran on, away from the village, making for the safety of the shadows under the nearest olive grove, a hundred paces away. He did not dare look back as his pursuers shouted in panic. Only when he reached the trees did Marcus pause and glance over his shoulder. The door was clear to see, lit by a strengthening glow of red and orange from within the shed. One of the men came stumbling out, silhouetted by the glare within. The torch must have set fire to something in the shed and now the flames were spreading quickly. The shouts of the men had roused more people from the house. Marcus’s chest heaved as he caught his breath and watched for a moment, content that no one was pursuing him. He tore at one of the loaves and chewed quickly. The first of the flames licked through the roof of the shed as several figures began to throw buckets of water on to the fire.

Marcus felt a surge of guilt at the sight. He had only wanted to eat and was shocked by the growing blaze. Once the fire was put out, the people who owned the farm would be sure to send men to look for the culprit. He had to move on quickly and get as far away from here as possible before daylight. Biting off some more bread, Marcus turned away and hurried through the olive grove. He strode as quickly as he could, not daring to run for fear of tripping and twisting his ankle in the dark. After he had put a mile between himself and the farm, Marcus turned back towards the river and continued following it downstream.

At first light he saw that the river was flowing through a narrow gorge and he was forced to follow a steep path leading up the hill to the side. When Marcus reached the crest, puffing from the effort, he stopped dead. On the far side of the hill the ground fell away to a narrow strip of coastal plain. Below, a large port lay in the shadow of the hill. Beyond the thick stone walls lay a confusing maze of dull red-tiled roofs stretching out towards the coast, where there was a wide bay. Twenty or thirty ships were moored beside the quay, and many more lay at anchor.