Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

When he came to, he was lying on straw and staring up into the rafters of the cell block. At once he felt the sharp sting of the burn on his chest and groaned as he struggled to rise to his elbows.

‘Easy there,’ a voice said comfortingly, and Pelleneus loomed over him. He had a wet rag in his hand and offered it to Marcus. ‘Try this. It helps ease the pain… a little.’

Marcus took the rag and looked down. The burn was red and dotted with pale blisters that wept. He dabbed at the burn as gently as he could and felt a fresh wave of pain. ‘Ahhhhhh…’

The dampened rag only seemed to make the torment worse and he had to fight off waves of nausea before he handed it back and forced himself to nod his thanks.

‘Hurts like Hades, doesn’t it?’ Pelleneus said, and took a sharp breath.

‘You too?’ asked Marcus, gesturing towards the Athenian’s breast.

‘All of us. Though some went with a fight.’ He nodded towards Phyrus, who sat against the other side of the stall, glowering. Marcus could see that his face was bruised and one eye was badly swollen.

‘It took six of us to hold him down.’ Pelleneus smiled faintly. ‘The lad doesn’t know his own strength.’

Marcus frowned. ‘You held him down? You helped them to brand Phyrus?’

‘We had to. If it had been left to the guards and the instructors, then our boy here would have struck them down. You heard what they do to any of us trainees who turn on one of Porcino’s staff. I’d sooner Phyrus knocked me cold than one of them, and go and get himself crucified.’

‘I suppose so.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem right, though.’

‘It was that or watch him die,’ Pelleneus replied tersely. ‘What would you have done?’

Marcus wanted to say that he would have refused to help subdue Phyrus, that he would have fought at the giant’s side to resist the agony and the shame of being branded as the property of Porcino. But however much he might want to fight back, he knew that Pelleneus was right. There was nothing he could have done. Nothing any of them could have done. He looked down at his lap in despair.

Pelleneus took pity on him. ‘Marcus, you’re a slave now. You’d better get used to the idea as soon as you can. If you sit there dreaming of resistance and escape, then you will only make life even more miserable for yourself. It will start to drive you mad.’ He paused for a moment. ‘That’s what happened to me. I refused to accept slavery. I disobeyed my masters and even tried to run away once. They recaptured me a few days later and beat me black and blue. That’s what resisting your master gets you – pain and more suffering. Take it from me, best thing you can do is accept that the past is dead to you. Look to the future. Stay alive and, one day, win your freedom. That’s all that matters to you now,’ Pelleneus concluded before he left to find some more water.

Marcus nodded slowly, as if accepting the advice. But deep inside he could not do what Pelleneus told him to. It went against every fibre of his being, and betrayed the memory of his father and the duty he owed his mother. Marcus silently swore an oath that he would never forget the past. Besides, it was the memory of all that he had lost, and all that he had to avenge, that filled him with the determination to endure the terrible situation he found himself in.

‘Ah, so the centurion’s brat is stirring at last!’

Marcus looked up and saw Ferax standing in the entrance to the stall. Behind him were his cronies. All of them were stripped to the waist so that their chests were bared, exposing the blistered emblem of the school’s brand.

The Celt regarded Marcus with a sneer. ‘Last I saw of you was when you fainted outside the forge.’

Marcus swallowed nervously and rose to his feet. ‘At least they didn’t have to drag me in there.’

‘What?’ Ferax frowned. ‘You calling me a coward? I took the branding like a man.’ He puffed up his chest and rested his hands on his hips. ‘I stood it like a warrior.’

‘Yes.’ Marcus smiled thinly. Even though Ferax was far bigger than him, and his heart was pounding in his chest, he recalled the fear he had seen in the Celtic boy’s face before he was branded, and it gave Marcus some courage to face up to him. ‘I heard your, er, war cry. So did everyone else, I imagine. Still, it was quite painful.’

‘At least I didn’t faint, like some girl.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Marcus conceded. ‘You just sounded like one.’

Ferax’s nostrils flared. ‘You’ll pay for that, you Roman runt.’ He balled his hands into fists and entered the stall.

Marcus stood his ground, bracing his feet as he raised his hands and held them ready to grab his foe, or clench them to strike back. His face contorted into a snarl.

Ferax paused to look at him and then laughed. ‘By the Gods, just look at him. He must think he’s Mars, the war god!’

His friends laughed with him and then Ferax turned back to face Marcus, all trace of humour gone from his face. All that Marcus could see there now was a cruel determination to cause him as much pain and humiliation as possible. He felt his guts turn to ice, but still he stood his ground, prepared to take a beating before he would ever ask for mercy.

‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ Ferax growled. ‘I’m going to tear you apart.’

‘Oh no you don’t,’ a deep voice rumbled. Marcus turned in surprise and saw Phyrus rising to his feet. The giant stepped between the two boys and glared at Ferax. ‘If you hurt him, I hurt you. I hurt you bad. You and those others.’ Phyrus raised a huge fist and smacked it down into the palm of his other hand. ‘See?’

Ferax flinched at the sound. He stared at Phyrus with a mixture of awe and frustration, then backed away to the entrance of the stall. There he turned his attention back to Marcus.

‘You’re safe for now, brat. But you’ll have to fight your own battles some time. When you do, I’ll be there, waiting. You hear? Come on, lads.’ He waved to his followers and moved away towards the other end of the cell block.

Marcus relaxed as he watched them go. He nodded to Phyrus. ‘Thanks.’

Phyrus shrugged and scratched his chin. ‘Don’t like bullies. They’re scum. Let me know if that boy gives you any more trouble.’

He returned to his corner. Despite his gratitude, Marcus knew that Ferax was right. He could afford to bide his time. Marcus could not escape and the time would come when he must face the Celt on his own.

The last days of summer passed in a relentless routine of training and kitchen duties. Marcus and the other boys were roused at first light and they marched over to the kitchen block to help prepare the morning meal. Marcus was tasked with lighting the kitchen fires on the blackened iron grates below the cooking grilles. A small brazier was kept permanently lit in one corner of the kitchen and once Marcus had laid the kindling he carefully carried over some of the glowing embers and inserted them into the fireplace. Then, puffing his cheeks, he gently blew to make the embers catch and direct the small licks of flame into the kindling. There were three fires to be lit and maintained, and Marcus had to make sure that he kept an eye on each of them. Fresh wood had to be brought continually from the store outside the kitchen and laid by the hearth ready for use.

The slave in charge of the kitchen was a former gladiator named Brixus who had been badly injured five years ago. The hamstring in his left leg had been almost severed by a sword blow. Although the crowd had spared him, it was the end of his career in the arena. Porcino had transferred him to the kitchen, where he might still be of some use to his owner. Brixus was solidly built and looked the same age as Marcus’s father. Except that his hair was thick and dark with not a hint of grey in it. He made his way around his kitchen with a very pronounced limp that gave him a rolling gait.