Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

He turned and rapped on the door. When the guard opened up, he handed a couple of coarsely made sacks to Piso.

‘Your evening meal!’ Piso grinned and chucked one bag towards the Thracians and the other at Phyrus, who fumbled the catch. Pelleneus picked the bag up for him. ‘Good night, boys.’

The door closed behind him, then the lock clanked. As Marcus followed his companions to the stall Piso had indicated, he saw the other inmates eyeing them warily. There was no attempt to greet the new arrivals, no sign that they were regarded as comrades in any way. Just a sullen, brooding silence and empty expressions. Outside the rain battered the tiles on the roof, and where it found a way through, it dripped on to the slaves in a steady, miserable rhythm. When they reached the stall allotted to them, Marcus and the others slumped down on to the straw. Pelleneus opened the bag and reached in to find several hunks of stale bread, hard and unappetizing. He shared them out and then Marcus slumped back into the corner of the stall and chewed slowly as his teeth chattered and his wet body shivered uncontrollably.

He would have to get out of here, he resolved. There must be some way to escape, some means to get away from this dreadful place and continue his quest to reach Rome and find General Pompeius. Before it was too late to save his mother.

A harsh clattering sound shattered Marcus’s sleep. He jerked upright and winced as he felt the stiffness in his limbs and neck. Blinking, he looked round and saw that his companions were also stirring.

‘What in Hades is that racket?’ Phyrus grumbled as he sat up, rubbing his face.

Marcus looked round and saw the other occupants of the building tumbling from their stalls and rushing to the main door. With a clank from the lock the door groaned on its hinges as the guards outside opened it. One of them was holding up a metal chime and beating it with the flat of his sword.

‘Move yourselves!’ he bellowed. ‘The last man out gets a beating!’

‘Come on!’ Pelleneus leapt up, dragging Marcus on to his feet behind him. ‘Hurry, Phyrus!’

They rushed out of the stall, into the scrambling tide of bodies making for the door. Most of the other prisoners were men, but there were a few boys among them, Marcus’s age and older. He saw the Thracians just ahead, thrusting through the crowd that was packed in around the door. Then they were lost amid the tall figures of adults pressing round him. Marcus felt a stab of fear. What if he fell over now? He was sure to be crushed underfoot. He grabbed Phyrus’s tunic and pushed in beside his bulk.

‘What the -?’ Phyrus looked over his shoulder with a scowl. Then he saw Marcus and tucked his arm protectively around the boy’s body. ‘Stay close and keep on your feet,’ he growled as he edged forward. ‘I’ll look out for you, lad.’

Together, they moved slowly towards the door. Packed close to the others, Marcus could smell their sweat and dirt and he sensed their fear as they strove not to be the last man out of the door. Then the timber frame loomed ahead, outlining the pale morning sky. There were only a handful of men behind them, and as Marcus passed through the door he glanced back and saw the Spartan standing outside the stall, staring at the last of those struggling to get out. He had a contemptuous expression on his face as he slowly walked towards the door.

‘Don’t just stand there, lad!’

Phyrus pushed him forward and Marcus turned to see that the rest of the slaves were forming a line in front of the cell block. A tall, severe-faced man with a lean, muscular build stood glaring at the slaves as they formed up. He wore a leather jerkin over a red tunic, leather armguards and heavy military boots like those Marcus’s father had favoured. He carried a vine cane in one hand and tapped it against his heel as he stood and watched. Piso came trotting up with a large waxed tablet and stood at the man’s shoulder. Marcus looked at the man warily as he followed Phyrus into position alongside Pelleneus and stood waiting as the last occupants hurried to join the end of the line. There was a brief pause before the Spartan emerged from the door and strolled calmly towards the line.

The man who had been watching them assemble came striding over with a furious expression. He stopped right in front of the Spartan and thrust his face forward so that they were almost nose to nose.

‘What kind of a hurry do you call that?’ he bellowed in Latin. ‘When the morning call is sounded, you run out here as fast as you can. Do you understand me?’

The Spartan just stared back without any sign of fear, or even interest.

The other man whirled round. ‘Piso! Over here, at the double!’

Piso scurried over. ‘Yes, Centurion Taurus?’

‘Who is this ’orrible little man?’ He jabbed his finger at the Spartan. ‘Is he one of the new batch Porcino brought in?’

‘Yes, sir. They make up the last batch of the new intake. The master bought this one from an auction in Sparta. Name’s Patroclus.’

‘Sparta, eh?’ Taurus turned fully to the man and rested one hand on his hip as he clutched his cane tightly in the other. ‘Must think he’s a hard man. Does he speak Latin?’

Piso nodded. ‘That was my understanding, sir. But he’s barely spoken a word to me since the master bought him, and then only in Greek.’

‘I see.’ Taurus sneered at the Spartan. ‘So, I imagine you think you must be King-bloody-Leonidas reborn, the way you ponced out of the cell block like that. Well?’

The Spartan stared straight ahead, in total silence. Taurus suddenly slammed the head of his cane into the man’s stomach. Patroclus doubled over with an explosive grunt.

‘How dare you refuse to reply!’ Taurus bellowed. ‘How dare you walk out on to my training ground without a care in the world. It will not do!’ He lashed out with his cane, striking the Spartan across the shoulders. Marcus flinched as he heard the crack of the blow just a few feet to the right of where he stood. He risked a glimpse sideways and saw that the Spartan was on his knees. Patroclus gritted his teeth, then rose slowly to his feet and faced his attacker again.

‘Not had enough?’ Taurus slapped his face with a vicious backhanded blow and followed it up with a forehand.

Patroclus blinked, but his face remained impassive as he opened his mouth and spat out some blood.

‘Bah!’ Taurus snarled. ‘I’ll break you down to size soon enough, my friend. You’ll see. Now then…’ He took a pace back and ran his eyes along the line. Marcus was just too slow in looking away and caught the man’s eye. In an instant Taurus sprang towards him and poked his vine cane into Marcus’s chest, forcing him back a step.

‘What’s this?’ He glanced round at Piso. ‘Is Porcino planning on a fight between pygmies?’

Piso and the other guards laughed dutifully, while Taurus turned his attention back to Marcus. ‘Name?’

‘Marcus Cornelius, sir,’ he replied, then thinking quickly he added, ‘son of Centurion Titus Cornelius of the Sixteenth Legion.’

Taurus frowned. ‘Your father was a soldier?’

‘A centurion, sir.’

‘And now you’re a slave, eh?’ Taurus tutted. ‘The Gods will play their games. Tough luck, boy. From now on you are plain and simple Marcus. That is the only name you will have until we find a fighting name for you, if you live that long.’

He was about to move on and Marcus could not believe his chance to explain the injustice of his situation was slipping away.

‘Wait!’

Taurus froze. ‘What? Did you say something?’

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Marcus said quickly. ‘I was taken illegally and sold as a slave.’