Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

His companions laughed. Marcus glared back, bunching his hands into fists. He did not want to fight the larger boy, but at the same time he did not want to take his insults.

‘In case you don’t know, my name is Ferax.’ The Celt thumbed his chest. ‘This is my gang. These two are Celts like me.’ He indicated the tall blond boys to one side. Then Ferax nodded at the other two, who were swarthy and slim. ‘And these two were plucked from the slum of the Subura in Rome. Hard cases.’ He stepped forward and jutted his head out, face to face with Marcus. ‘Let me tell you my rules, sewer rat. My mates and I take the first share of the rations. Also, if I want, you and the others will do our duties for us once the day’s training is done, such as fetching water or cleaning our kit.’

‘You can fetch your own water,’ Marcus replied.

‘Oh!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘We’ve got a tough one here, lads! I’d better warn you that the last lad who refused to do what I say had a good beating. Once word got round about what happened to him, all the other boys have been as good as gold. So, you do what I say and you won’t have any trouble. Otherwise…’ Ferax took a step back and clenched his fist in front of Marcus’s face. ‘You’ll be feeling this breaking your nose. Understand?’

Marcus stood quite still and stared back in silence. Ferax nodded, then turned to his cronies. ‘Right, the greeting’s over. Let’s leave him.’

As they strode away, Marcus pressed his lips together. Ferax was a bully. He would have to be watched carefully and avoided as far as possible. Even so, Marcus felt a powerful urge to confront him.

But not yet. Later, when he had been trained to fight and knew how to handle an opponent. Then he’d see just how tough the Celt really was.

While the men trained all day, the youths were tasked with cooking and cleaning duties before and after their training sessions. Marcus was assigned to the kitchen. It was hard and demeaning work, but he carried it out without any complaint, and all the time his mind remained fixed on the need to escape from the school and make his way to Rome. He also thought of his mother, condemned to toil on the estate of Decimus. It made his heart heavy to think of her, and he knew that she would be worrying about him in turn.

Not that she would easily recognize him any more, he reflected ruefully. Like all the others who had been trooped out of the cell block that first morning, Marcus had been issued with two grey tunics and two pairs of boots, each one bearing an identifying numeral burned into the heel of each boot. All their existing clothing had been taken away – the best of it sold to a local merchant, the rest to be burned. Marcus’s head had been crudely shaved. Now all the trainees looked hard and brutal and difficult to distinguish from each other, like the chain-gangs of convicted men sent to the mines. Marcus had hated having his head shaved. The slave who did it handled his cutting shears with little care, scraping his scalp in a number of places. But even that torment was nothing compared to what came next.

Once the boys had emerged from the caged pen where they had been sheared, dazed and bleeding from the cuts and scrapes on their scalps, Amatus had led them into the forge in the corner of the compound. A dozen of the school’s guards were waiting for them, and beyond stood a slave, sweat running down his face as he worked a small furnace out of which a long iron handle extended.

‘First boy, come forward,’ Amatus ordered, gesturing to one of the Nubians. The boy flinched, but before he could try to edge back into the ranks of his comrades, two of the guards grabbed his arms and pinned him between them. Then they dragged him towards the forge as he struggled wildly in their grasp. Amatus took a dampened rag and grasped the end of the iron handle. As he drew out the branding iron, the shaped symbol at the end – a large letter P above two crossed swords – glowed orange and the heated air around it wavered. He approached the Nubian boy, who was now writhing desperately in the grip of the two guards.

‘Hold him still,’ Amatus ordered, and the guards braced themselves and kept the boy from moving. Amatus pulled back the boy’s tunic and pressed the branding iron on to his chest, just above the heart. The boy screamed as there came a sizzling noise and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh. A moment later it was over, and Amatus stepped back as the boy fell limp. The guards dragged him outside the forge and dropped him on the ground.

‘Next one!’ Amatus called out.

One by one they were taken forward and branded with the symbol of Porcino’s gladiator school. As they waited, the boys glanced at each other nervously, some shuffling away from the front of the crowd in a bid to put off the torment. But that was as far as they got, as the other guards herded them back. Marcus’s terror at the prospect of being branded was made worse by every cry of fear and scream of agony that came out of the forge. But he kept silent and did not attempt to try to move to the back of the group. He glanced round and met the gaze of Ferax.

The Celt stared back, and Marcus saw that he too was afraid. Ferax had been shaking as their eyes had met, but now he looked angry, glaring at Marcus. Taking a deep breath, he pushed through to the front of the crowd and stood as tall as he could. He crossed his arms and waited to be called for. When the latest victim had been carried out, Amatus thrust the iron back into the furnace to heat it again. Then he turned to the remaining boys. ‘Next!’

Ferax advanced a step, but then Marcus blurted out, ‘Me! I’ll go next.’

Amatus nodded and the guards stepped forward to take his arms. Marcus felt his heart pounding as he stepped towards the forge. He had no idea why he was doing this, other than that it seemed to prove something to Ferax and the others, not to mention Amatus and the guards. As he approached the forge, he pulled his tunic down from the collar to expose his chest.

Amatus nodded to the guards. ‘Hold him.’

Marcus let them take his arms, but stood still, muscles tensed and teeth gritted so hard his jaw hurt. Amatus looked surprised and paused a moment before taking the brand out of the forge again.

‘Well, looks like one of you at least has got some backbone.’ He smiled faintly at Marcus. ‘Brace yourself, lad. This is going to hurt like nothing you’ve ever known.’

He raised the branding iron. Marcus’s eyes widened as he beheld the glowing orange shape. Amatus placed his left hand on Marcus’s chest to steady it and brought the branding iron up. At the last moment Marcus clenched his eyes tightly shut. There was an instant when he felt the heat, then his world exploded in a torrent of burning agony and horror. It felt as if he had been struck by a ram, then a searing, stabbing shaft of agony pierced his body. He smelt his flesh burning, sharp and acrid, making him feel dizzy and sick. The hiss and sizzle continued for a moment. Then the pressure eased as Amatus drew back the brand. But the agony only increased. Tears pricked out in the corner of Marcus’s eyes and a keening moan forced its way between his clamped teeth.

‘Easy with that one,’ he heard Amatus say. ‘The lad’s got guts, I’ll say that for him.’

As they stepped out into the open, the guards eased Marcus down on to the ground and gently pushed him back against the plastered wall. He opened his eyes and stared around at the others. His heart was still beating fast, and the pain consumed his mind as he sat stiffly and gritted his teeth. The cries and whimpers of the boys who had gone before him sounded in his ears. Marcus shifted his eyes to the side and saw Ferax looking at him. The Celt was furious and his lips curled into an expression of hatred. Then the guards took him and hauled him towards the forge as he began to struggle in their grip. Marcus did not watch – but he heard the animal groan of rage and agony as Amatus branded Ferax. Suddenly the pain was too much for Marcus and he just had time to lean to one side before he vomited. And again, until there was nothing in his stomach. Then he slumped back against the wall and passed out.