Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

He dropped into a crouch, paused, stepped back twice and pointed his sword towards the sand to signal his students to attack. Marcus thrust out his wooden sword with all his strength, at the same time as a cry ripped out of him, from the bottom of his lungs, adding to the din of the rest of the students.

Amatus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Better, but you still don’t scare me. Work on it.’

For the next few days they continued the drills. Then Amatus moved them on to the basic sword strokes and they spent hours thrusting and cutting at the training posts, the air filled with the sharp crack of wood on wood and the yells as each boy struck.

All the time Marcus watched Ferax closely in case he tried anything while Amatus was not looking their way. For his part the Celt regarded Marcus with contempt and had let it be known that he had beaten Marcus up. Now the other boys regarded Ferax with fear and did all that they could to avoid his attention. So none of them befriended Marcus, or even spoke to him. He tried not to care, as he still had the two Athenians for company, as well as Brixus, who treated him well and saved some extra scraps of food for him at the end of most days. However, Marcus felt the despair slowly building in his heart. He was no closer to finding General Pompeius and regaining his freedom and that of his mother. Nor would he ever have his revenge on Decimus while he was imprisoned in this gladiator school.

His misery was compounded by the cruel tricks that Ferax played on him whenever Amatus had his back turned. Some days he would deliberately position himself close to Marcus and then trip him up as they were running circuits of the training ground. Or he would shove Marcus when they were using weights, causing Marcus to drop them on the sand, and Amatus would spin round and bellow abuse into his face and strike him with his cane. Marcus bore it all with a grim determination to bide his time, build his strength and wait for the day when he was ready to turn on his tormentor.

The year drew to an end and still no opportunity for escape presented itself, as the slaves were kept inside the walls. The gladiator school began to make preparations for the annual festival of Saturnalia. One morning, wagons trundled into the school laden with jars of wine, fine bread, haunches of cured meat and baskets of pastries. They were unloaded by Marcus and the others, under the watchful gaze of Amatus and a section of the school’s guards, to prevent anyone stealing anything. Once the supplies for the feast had been placed in one of the storerooms, Amatus locked the door and took the key to Taurus.

While they waited for Amatus to return, Ferax stepped towards the door and sniffed. ‘Smell that, boys? Smell all that good food? In five days we’ll be eating our way through it.’

One of the guards laughed. ‘If the master is not happy with your progress then you’ll get what’s left over after the men have finished eating, my lad. That’s what you’ll be feasting on.’

Ferax scowled. ‘That ain’t fair. We’ve as much right to it.’

‘You’re just at the bottom of the pecking order.’ The guard cuffed Ferax round the ear. ‘And you call me “master” when you address me.’

‘Yes, master.’ Ferax bowed his head. He saw Marcus and grinned. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing, master. I ain’t at the bottom of the pecking order. He is, that one there.’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘The son of a centurion.’

Marcus stood still and concealed his feelings of hatred and anger as Ferax continued in a louder voice, addressing the rest of the class, ‘When Saturnalia comes, I get first choice from the table. Then my friends, then you lot and lastly him.’ He stabbed his finger at Marcus. ‘If anyone tries to jump the queue, then they’ll have me to answer to, and you all know what happens to those who try to defy me…’

Hardly any of the boys dared meet his eye and a few glanced nervously at Marcus as they remembered his fate.

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Marcus said firmly, though inside his stomach knotted with anxiety.

‘No? Well, you should be.’ Ferax glared at him and then slowly shook his head. ‘Not that you’ll be around to fear me for much longer.’

Marcus frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Before Ferax could respond, a voice cut through the air.

‘What’s all this?’ Amatus bellowed as he strode back towards them. ‘Hanging around like a bunch of farmhands.’ He shook his cane. ‘Get in line, damn you! Or you’ll feel this across your backs!’

At once the boys rushed into formation and Amatus led them off to the training ground, where he drilled them hard for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Once the boys were dismissed and had made their way to the kitchen, they talked in excited tones about the coming festival. Marcus knew about Saturnalia from his days on the farm. As the year came to an end, the house would be decorated with garlands made from the branches of pine trees. In the kitchen his mother would labour over special treats. On the day of the festival, Marcus’s father, as head of the household, would act as the host for his family and slaves alike, serving at the table where they had gathered to eat. Afterwards, Aristides would take out his flute and play music for a while, before someone else would tell a story or put on a mime. Then, as night closed in, Marcus would ask Titus to tell them a tale of his years in the army, of the sights that he had seen as General Pompeius’s legions had marched across the known world. Marcus sighed. That was at the time when the farm had been making money and Titus had owned several more slaves. When his fortune had turned, the slaves were sold off one by one and the celebration of Saturnalia became a very quiet affair.

Marcus smiled as he recalled the happier days that were almost like a dream to him now. A painful dream. He wondered what form the festival would take in the gladiator school. Would Porcino himself come to serve his slaves? It hardly seemed possible. At least there would be a brief break from the usual exhausting daily routine. That was something, he reflected, and he kept his mind on the promise of a stomach filled with good food for the rest of the day’s training session.

Afterwards, as he helped in the kitchen, Marcus noticed that Brixus was watching him carefully, as if weighing him up. When the evening meal was over and Marcus was about to set off to the latrine to finish his duties for the day, Brixus took his arm as he made to leave the kitchen.

‘Marcus,’ he spoke quietly, ‘do you still want to know more about Spartacus?’

He nodded.

‘Then come back here, once you have finished in the latrine.’

‘All right. I will.’

Brixus released his grip and Marcus hurried off. As he scrubbed the benches, he could not help wondering at Brixus’s change of heart. When they last spoke of the rebellion, Brixus had ended the discussion abruptly, the moment he felt he had said more than he should. Although Marcus was tempted to rush the cleaning of the latrine, he did not dare to let Taurus find fault with his work, so he refilled the tubs and carefully sluiced the channels as always, then put the brushes and buckets away in the cupboard by the door before leaving. The night was dark and a chilly wind blew across the gladiator school.

Brixus was sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen when Marcus returned. The room was lit by a single oil lamp at the end of the table. A small jar of wine sat in front of Brixus and he was pouring himself another cup as Marcus entered. Brixus looked round quickly and then relaxed when he saw Marcus.

‘Ah, good. Come and sit down, boy.’ He nodded to the stool on the other side of the table and Marcus did as he was told, noticing that there were two cups on the table. Brixus filled the spare cup and pushed it carefully across towards Marcus.