Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

Once the men had eaten, and the boys had cleared and cleaned the kitchen before hurrying off to join them on the training ground, Brixus gestured to Marcus to follow him. They crossed the compound to the main gate, where one of the guards stepped into their path and raised his hand.

‘Halt! What’s your business here?’

Brixus limped to a stop, fished inside his tunic and brought out a waxed slate. He flipped it open and pointed to the instructions etched into the wax, together with the impression of Porcino’s seal ring. ‘There.’

The guard glanced over the slate. ‘What about the boy?’

‘He’s my assistant.’

The guard looked at Marcus and then stood aside as he nodded to the rest of the section guarding the main gate. ‘Open up.’

The locking bar was removed and the thick door opened just wide enough for Brixus and Marcus to pass through. It closed behind them with a deep thud as the guard waved them towards the villa of Porcino.

‘Come,’ said Brixus as he limped a short distance up the track before turning on to the drive that led to the villa. After the hardships of the gladiator school, Marcus saw that the owner lived very comfortably indeed. The drive to the house was lined with neatly trimmed bushes and every so often a short pillar supported the bust of a man. Marcus thought he recognized some of the faces from the statues he had seen at Nydri and in the towns and ports he had passed through on the way to Capua.

‘Who are they supposed to be?’ he asked Brixus quietly.

‘These?’ Brixus gestured towards the busts. ‘They’re the Roman quality, they are. Consuls, senators, high priests and so on. Our master likes to impress his guests, and at the same time he’s shrewd enough not to pick sides. See there? That’s Marius and directly opposite is Sulla. Bitter enemies in life and their legacy still divides the people of Rome. But Porcino aims to keep both sides happy whenever their supporters happen to pay a visit to the school.’

‘Do they come often?’

‘Often enough. There’s always some politician wanting to buy up some gladiators and put on a show to impress the mob.’

‘What about General Pompeius?’ Marcus asked, trying not to show his excitement. ‘Does he come here?’

‘Not likely!’ Brixus snorted. ‘He’s far too grand to pay us a visit in person. But we had one of his stewards here a while back. He bought four pairs of fighters for a private entertainment at Pompeius’s palace outside Rome.’

Marcus smiled to himself at the prospect, however slim, that such a fate might befall him one day. Perhaps Pelleneus was right. He should concentrate on staying alive long enough for such a chance to be placed before General Pompeius.

Porcino’s villa, like most grand Roman villas, was built with a large courtyard in front, entered through an elaborately decorated arch. Beyond the courtyard lay the main house, built around a neatly kept garden at the centre of which lay a pond into which the water from a fountain tinkled lightly. There was a small door in one corner of the courtyard that led through into the slaves’ quarters. Here was the familiar grim plainness of the school. Bare walls and gloomy rooms with high, barred windows. Brixus continued down a short corridor into a storeroom. The shelves were stacked with brass and silver platters, bowls and goblets. Elsewhere there was a collection of fine Samian ware, glass jugs and a few glass bowls. Brixus pulled up a couple of stools and returned with a small box containing some rags, as well as pots of abrasive powder and a small jar of oil. He muttered as he brought down a stack of brass platters and placed them on the floor between the stools. Handing one to Marcus and taking one for himself, he set to work.

‘So,’ Brixus said, as he mixed some powder and oil in a small dish. ‘What’s your story, young Marcus? How did you come to be a gladiator at the tender age of… what?’

‘I’m eleven,’ Marcus replied, shocked that he had forgotten his birthday over a month earlier.

‘As old as that?’ Brixus mused with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Almost a man, then?’

Marcus had grown used to the ironic banter of adults and did not rise to the bait. ‘I was taken illegally. My mother was also kidnapped, and my father, a retired centurion, was killed.’

‘Ah yes. I had heard that was your claim. Son of a centurion, eh?’

‘It’s true.’

‘If you say so.’ Brixus shrugged. ‘So what was your mother, an exotic eastern princess?’

‘No,’ Marcus replied. ‘My father met her during the slave revolt and married her soon afterwards.’

Brixus paused and glanced at Marcus, rag-wrapped finger poised over the brass platter in his other hand. ‘Your father took part in the campaign against Spartacus?’

Marcus nodded. ‘He was there at the final battle, where the slave army was crushed and Spartacus himself killed. My mother was one of the women captured when the legions sacked the slave camp.’

‘I see.’ Brixus looked down and continued rubbing the powder and oil into the brass platter. ‘I have to tell you, Marcus, I was there too, at the end of the great slave revolt. I was at that battle.’

‘You?’ Now it was Marcus’s turn to pause. ‘You may have known my father. Which legion did you serve with?’

‘I didn’t serve with the legions. I served Spartacus.’

Marcus looked at him in surprise. Brixus returned his gaze with a cold, emotionless expression and Marcus wondered if he was telling the truth. Perhaps this was another of the practical jokes the men in the school seemed so fond of.

‘I thought most of the slaves captured by General Pompeius were put to death.’

‘They were. The day before the battle I was injured when my horse fell down a slope and rolled over me. I was forced to watch the battle from a wagon in the slave camp. Otherwise I would have shared the fate of all the men who were captured under arms. As it was, I was taken when the Romans entered the camp. I was sold on to one of the slave dealers who were following the legions. He sold me to Porcino soon after.’

‘I see.’ Marcus dipped his rag in the mix and began to polish a platter. ‘Did you ever meet Spartacus?’

‘Oh yes, most of the army knew him. He always made a point of walking through the camp each night to talk to his followers.’ Brixus paused and glanced warily at Marcus. ‘I saw him on many occasions. Spoke to him too.’

‘What was he like?’ Marcus asked eagerly.

‘He was a man like me. There were no horns growing out of his head. No fire burning in his eyes and he did not eat his prisoners, as you have no doubt been taught.’

‘But he must have been a great warrior. My father says the slaves fought like demons. Spartacus must have been a giant, like Phyrus.’

Brixus shook his head. ‘Spartacus was not a big man. He was my height and my build. He had dark curly hair and piercing brown eyes, like you. When the revolt broke out he had never killed a man. Never even fought in the arena. But he took to command like a fish to water. In days he had organized us into a formidable fighting force. In months he had gathered tens of thousands of followers, and captured enough weapons to equip us all. The other gladiators took on the job of training the slaves, and we did it well, as the departed spirits of many a Roman soldier will testify.’ Brixus gathered some more of the polish mixture and turned his attention to a new section of the platter. ‘Whenever we went into battle, Spartacus led the way, followed by the men of his personal bodyguard.’

Brixus smiled fondly as he recalled the memory, and Marcus stopped polishing to stare at him, his mouth dropping open slightly.