Simon Scarrow - Gladiator

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Ferax growled. ‘I’ll have you this time, you little runt.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Marcus replied, forcing a sneer on to his lips. ‘You’re too clumsy, Ferax. Too stupid.’

The bigger boy’s face went white with rage and he snarled for a moment before he stopped and laughed. ‘Think you can trick me into losing it? Think again.’

He stepped forward and unleashed a series of blows that Marcus had to desperately block with his sword and buckler. There was no chance to strike back as Ferax had a longer reach. Steadily, Marcus was forced to give ground, edging away towards one of the guards holding a red-hot branding iron. Ferax grinned as he deliberately drove Marcus towards the danger. At the last moment, as he was sure he could sense the burning heat, Marcus threw himself to one side and rolled across the ground before scrambling back on to his feet.

‘Oh! That’s good!’ the man called Julius cried out. ‘Now don’t give any more ground, boy! Hold fast and outfight him!’

As he heard the encouragement, Ferax’s expression darkened and once again he closed menacingly on Marcus, raining a savage series of blows upon him. As he blocked and deflected each one with his buckler, Marcus winced as the shock of the impact jarred his arm painfully. He knew that his shoulder would soon go numb under the onslaught and there was a danger that he would let go of the buckler.

Ferax drew off, breathing heavily. ‘Not… long now, Roman. Want to beg me to make the end quick?’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I want to take my time killing you.’

‘Don’t even try to sound hard,’ Ferax sneered. ‘Mummy’s boy. That’s what you are, aren’t you? That’s what I heard. Puny little weed, too weak to save his mother from slavery.’

Marcus stood quite still, staring back at his tormentor. Inside, he felt his blood turn cold. He stopped thinking about how to win the fight. He stopped thinking at all. The only thing that remained was a murderous rage. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he flew at Ferax. A strange howl tore from his throat as he struck again and again, smashing his blade down on the other boy’s buckler and hammering away at his sword as Ferax stumbled back, his expression stricken with surprise and fear.

Only desire and animal instinct guided Marcus as he hacked and slashed. He heard a cry as the blade bit into the bicep of Ferax’s shield arm. The shield dipped and Marcus struck again, glancing off its rim and laying open his opponent’s forearm. The buckler thudded on to the sand as drops of blood pattered beside it. Ferax turned side on, struggling to defend himself with just his sword now. Marcus struck hard, letting Ferax parry the blade wide. As the swords moved to the side Marcus punched his buckler towards the other boy’s face. There was a crunch as his nose was crushed and Ferax groaned in pain as he staggered back, blood pouring down his lips and chin. Marcus punched again and Ferax threw his sword arm up to block the blow. As he did so, Marcus ducked down and stabbed the Celt’s thigh, ripping the tip free in a fresh welter of blood. In a last, desperate attempt to save his life, Ferax leapt at Marcus, crashing into him, and they both tumbled into the sand. Marcus saw the sky briefly, clear and blue, then he rolled over, away from Ferax. His sword was caught under his body and was wrenched from his fingers as he rolled.

Marcus leapt at Ferax, who was still dazed as he tried to rise up on his knees. The shield smashed the blade from the Celt’s hand, then Marcus hit him again on the side of the head, and again, before Ferax toppled on to his back and lay still, head lolling from side to side as his eyes fluttered.

Marcus struggled on to his feet, swaying from the nervous exertion of his attack. Now that Ferax lay helpless before him, the fighting rage fell away and reason returned to his mind. Marcus looked round, saw his sword and moved to snatch it up. As he returned to Ferax, he realized that his left arm was badly cut below the elbow, even though he could not recall the blow that had caused the wound. A searing jolt of pain ran up it as Marcus waggled his fingers. Then he dropped on to his knees beside Ferax’s head, raised his blade over his opponent’s bared throat and hesitated. Ferax stared up at him, confused and helpless. Marcus brought the edge of the sword to an inch from the Celt’s throat and glanced at Taurus. The head trainer made a quick slicing gesture with his hand and nodded at Marcus. Do it.

Marcus took a deep breath and tried to steel his heart, but still he could not cut Ferax’s throat. Instead he looked up at the stand, towards those watching expectantly. The man in the centre seemed surprised.

‘What are you waiting for?’ asked his companion. ‘Finish him!’

‘Finish him!’ the others echoed, except for the man, and the girl, Portia.

Marcus shook his head and pointed to the leader of the Roman party. ‘Sir, what do you say?’

The man was still for a moment, his brows knitted as he thought. Then he shrugged. ‘I say… kill him.’

For a moment all was still, then Marcus rose to his feet and tossed his sword aside.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ Taurus blazed from the sidelines of the arena. ‘Pick that bloody sword up and kill him!’

‘No,’ Marcus answered firmly. ‘I won’t.’

‘You will and you’ll do it now. Or by the Gods I will kill him myself and then you.’

Marcus shrugged wearily. His body felt cold and his arm hurt terribly as the blood trickled down to the end of his fingertips and dripped on to the sand.

Taurus strode over to Marcus’s sword and scooped it up before he turned towards Ferax. Standing over the dazed Celt, he raised the sword, ready to plunge it into the boy’s throat.

‘Stop!’ the man in the spectator’s box called out, his voice carrying clearly across the arena. ‘The boy lives. His fate has been decided by the victor. So it shall be. However,’ he said, smiling faintly, ‘I will not tolerate any act of defiance by a slave. Porcino, have your men take the Celt away. The other one, from Graecia, stays here.’

Porcino looked puzzled. ‘Stays? Why?’

The man shot him an irritated look. ‘Because Gaius Julius Caesar says so. That is why. He stays and he fights those wolves you have been keeping for the final act. If he loses, then that is the price he pays for defying us. If he lives, then he is favoured by the Gods and I shall not defy their will. Bring on your wolves, Porcino.’

The owner of the gladiator school opened his mouth to protest, then, wary of angering his influential guest, he nodded. ‘As you wish.’

He turned towards the arena. ‘Taurus! Remove the Celt and the guards. Marcus stays where he is. Let him have a sword and -’

‘No,’ Caesar interrupted. ‘He shall fight with a dagger. If I am to put it to the test, then I want the Gods to work to save this one.’

‘Yes, sir. A dagger it is. Taurus, give him yours.’

The chief instructor did as he was ordered, muttering to Marcus, ‘Look after it. Cost me a fortune. Anything happens to it and I’ll hold you responsible.’

‘If anything happens to it, then it’s likely that something would have happened to me, master,’ Marcus replied grimly. ‘Any words of advice on how to fight wolves?’

‘Yes.’ Taurus cracked a rare smile as he ruffled Marcus’s hair. ‘Stay out of their jaws.’

He turned and walked out of the arena, closing the door to the gladiator cage behind him. A moment later he reappeared above the gates leading to the animal pens. A rope was attached to the top of each gate, rising up to a pulley suspended from a frame. He paused and looked down on Marcus. ‘Ready?’