Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

‘Were you in his bodyguard?’

Brixus frowned. ‘I did not say that. All I said was that I knew him, along with many who followed him. That’s all. Now ask me no more questions about Spartacus, or you’ll get us both into trouble.’

‘Trouble?’

Brixus lowered his platter and leaned closer to Marcus. ‘If your father was who you say he was, then you must know how much the Romans were terrified of Spartacus. They still are. They know that the spirit of Spartacus lives on in the hearts of every slave in Italy. Our masters want to make us forget. So you can imagine how angry Porcino might be if he overheard our conversation.’

‘But we’re alone,’ Marcus protested. ‘No one can hear us.’

‘Walls have ears,’ Brixus replied. ‘I’ve said enough already. Now get back to work, boy, and no talking.’

Marcus sighed, frustrated that he could not learn more about the great Spartacus. He raised his platter and began to rub the brass vigorously. All the same, he could not help wondering about Brixus. There was more to him than Marcus had thought. Much more. Despite his denial, clearly he had known Spartacus well. Well enough to put his life in danger if the truth became known. Marcus carefully looked up at the man from under his eyebrows. Come what may, he was determined to discover more about Spartacus.

As soon as he had recovered from Ferax’s beating, Marcus returned to training with the rest of the class. Winter swept across the Campanian countryside, bringing with it wind and cold squalls of rain. Brown, crispy leaves from the trees outside the school swirled over the walls and collected against the sides of the buildings and in the corners. The change in the season had not the slightest effect on the daily routine, however. After breakfast Marcus and the other boys marched out to the training ground, where Amatus instantly set them to work.

Every day it was the same set of exercises repeated over and over. The boys were exhausted and, having completed their duties for the day, collapsed on to the straw in their stalls and fell asleep at once. Marcus was the last to sleep, having been tasked with latrine-cleaning duties. Only when the wooden benches had been scrubbed, the vinegar tubs emptied and refilled, and the channels beneath the latrine benches sluiced clear could he rest. It took weeks before the stiffness in his muscles wore off by the next morning. But as winter set in he began to feel stronger. He could lift far heavier weights than when he arrived. His stamina was also steadily increasing, so that he no longer felt exhausted by the day’s labour and he rose each morning alert and ready to begin training.

In the last month of the year Amatus decided that they were ready to begin weapons training. As the boys marched into the training compound, they saw a small cart loaded with wooden swords and wicker shields. Marcus felt his pulse quicken at the sight. At last they were going to be taught how to fight! Even though he knew that this was another step on the way to the deadly combat of the arena, Marcus was keen to learn the skills his father had once had. He had already realized that there was little chance of escape while the guards watched the slaves closely from the towers. One day, perhaps soon, he would win his freedom. Then he would be better able to find his mother, set her free and protect her.

‘Right, you lot!’ Amatus shouted as he stood by the cart. ‘Each boy take a sword and a shield and stand in a line in front of the training posts!’

Marcus joined his companions as they pressed close to the edge of the cart and waited their turn to be equipped. He felt a sharp poke in his side as Ferax leaned towards him. ‘Wooden swords for now. But let’s see what damage they can do, eh?’

Marcus turned to look up at the Celt. ‘Wood or steel, either way, I will cut you down to size.’

‘Oho!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Silence there!’ Amatus bellowed. ‘One more word from you, Ferax, and you’re on latrine duty.’

Ferax bowed his head quickly and pushed himself in front of Marcus and the others to take his training weapons from Amatus. When it was Marcus’s turn he was surprised by the weight of the shield and the sword. He experimented with a few loose swings of the sword as he made his way over to one of the training posts – stout lengths of wood, standing as high as a man and battered and chipped from years of enduring blows from the gladiator school’s students. When all the boys were in position, Amatus approached a post in the middle of the line. He turned to face them.

‘I’ve spent the last months making you fit enough for what lies ahead. Now the real work begins. You will continue your exercises, carrying this kit. You will also be trained in basic fighting techniques. Today we will cover the absolute basics: the thrust, the recover and the block. Watch me closely.’

Amatus raised his shield and placed his left foot forward. ‘See this? You keep your weight evenly balanced and then lower your body so that you are ready to throw your weight forward or back as necessary. Always lead with your left foot and follow with your right. It’s not like normal walking.’ He looked round at the boys. ‘Got that? I don’t want to see any of you crossing your legs over. You do that in a real fight, your opponent can catch you off balance and knock you down in a flash. Learn to move properly now and it’ll become second nature. Right, adopt the stance and when I advance, you retreat, keeping the same distance between us. When I fall back, you follow up. Clear? Then into position.’

Marcus advanced his leading foot, held his shield up and glanced to either side to make sure he was in the correct posture. Amatus paced down the line, nodding approval and barking sharp criticism as he inspected his students. He paused in front of Marcus.

‘What the hell are you doing with that sword? It’s a sword, not a bloody walking stick! Hold it up, level with the ground, tip just in front of the shield! You have to be ready to strike or block at any moment.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus did as he was told.

‘That’s better.’ Amatus moved on.

When he was satisfied that everyone was ready, Amatus began to drill them in movement, gradually increasing the pace and testing their reactions with occasional swift advances and retreats. Those who were slow to react were bawled at and made to run around the training compound before rejoining their comrades. As the hours passed, the weight of the equipment began to tell and Marcus felt his muscles burning under the strain. But he gritted his teeth and continued, watching Amatus closely and matching his movements as swiftly as he could.

At length Amatus straightened up and lowered his shield. He looked over the class with a slight sneer. ‘That – was – pathetic. I’ve never seen such a bunch of losers in all my born days. So, we’ll just have to keep at it, until you thick-headed farmboys get it. Take position! Begin!’

The movement drill continued for the rest of the day, and the next morning. Amatus increased the pace of their movements, letting out a deafening ‘HA!’ each time that his right hand punched forward. The boys responded by raising their shields and swords, ready to parry direct attacks, as well as overhead blows and slashes from the side. When Amatus drew back and lowered his sword, they made their thrusts at an imagined foe and let out their own shrill cry of ‘HA!’

‘What the hell was that?’ Amatus responded furiously to their first effort. ‘You trying to make me laugh? When you strike, you give me a roar like a lion. There’s more to winning than using a blade well. You have to scare your opponent. You have to make ’em think you’re some wild barbarian warrior whose blood is on the boil. Make ’em fear you and the fight’s half won. Let’s try it again.’