Gladiator: Vengeance Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Books by Simon Scarrow

  GLADIATOR: FIGHT FOR FREEDOM

  GLADIATOR: STREET FIGHTER

  GLADIATOR: SON OF SPARTACUS

  GLADIATOR: VENGEANCE

  To John O’Leary and Anita Gentry

  who read the very first work …

  1

  ‘Ready?’ asked Festus.

  Marcus nodded and then glanced round the marketplace of Chalcis, a small port on the coast of the Gulf of Corinth. Below the market the ground sloped down to the sea, brilliant blue beneath the clear sky and the glare of early afternoon sun. They had reached the town after a morning’s walk along the coastal road, then stopped for a simple meal of stew in a chop house to one side of the market. A fair-sized crowd was still milling around the stalls and the usual gangs of youths clustered about the fountain, presenting easy pickings to Marcus’s practised eye.

  ‘Do we have to do this?’ asked Lupus, the boy sitting next to Marcus. He was seventeen, four years older than Marcus, but they often passed for the same age. Whereas Lupus was short and thin, Marcus was tall for his years. The hard training he had endured at a gladiator school, and later in the charge of Festus when they had both served Julius Caesar in Rome, had given him a muscular physique.

  Festus turned to Lupus with a weary sigh. ‘You know we do. The money Caesar gave us will not last forever. Better that we make it stretch by earning whatever we can along the way. Who knows how long it will take to find out where Marcus’s mother is being held prisoner.’

  Marcus felt a stab of pain in his heart. It had been over two years since he last saw her, when they were torn apart following the murder of Titus, the man Marcus had thought was his father. They had lived happily, on a farm on the island of Leucas, until the day when Titus could not repay a moneylender. A ruthless gang of men had come to seize the family and sell them into slavery to pay off Titus’s debt. The old soldier had tried to resist but was killed, along with Marcus’s dog, Cerberus, and Livia and Marcus were condemned to slavery. Marcus had escaped and, ever since, had vowed to find his mother and set her free.

  At first it had seemed an impossible task, but, after saving Caesar’s life, the great Roman statesman had given him a small sum of silver and a letter of introduction, together with the services of Festus, Caesar’s most trusted bodyguard, and Lupus, and set him free to save his mother. They had sailed to Greece with two other men, both sent back to Rome by Festus when it became clear that Caesar’s money would run out far too quickly with more mouths to feed.

  After landing in Greece, the three of them took the coast road along the north of the Gulf as they made for Stratos, where Marcus had first encountered Decimus, the moneylender who had caused him so much grief and suffering. Along the route they had paid their way by putting on a small performance in the towns and ports they passed through.

  Festus pushed his empty bowl away and stood up, stretching his shoulders and neck. ‘On your feet, lads. It’s time for the show.’

  Marcus and Lupus rose from the bench and picked up their bags. They contained a few spare clothes and a handful of personal belongings – writing materials in the case of Lupus, and an assortment of weapons for Marcus and Festus. Festus dipped into his purse and tossed a few bronze asses on the table to cover the cost of their meal, then gestured for the two boys to follow him. They emerged from the inn’s weathered canopy into the glare of the sun and made their way across the square to the fountain. It was late April and the mountain streams were full so there was still sufficient flow from the water piped into the port to feed the fountain. A steady rush overflowed the central cupola and splashed down into the round basin beneath, cooling the air immediately around the fountain. Which is why it was the favourite haunt of the gangs of youths, and the toughs who hired their services out to landlords and moneylenders. Just the kind of people Festus was looking for.

  The fountain was surrounded by a shallow flight of steps, just enough for a man standing at the top to be clearly seen above the crowd in the market square. Festus set his bag down and the others followed suit.

  ‘Keep an eye on them,’ Festus told Lupus. Then he turned to Marcus. ‘Let’s do it.’

  They stepped up to the edge of the fountain and Festus raised his hands and drew a deep breath before calling out to the crowd in Greek.

  ‘Friends! Hear me! Hear me!’

  Faces turned towards the fountain as people stopped to stare, their curiosity aroused. The groups of men round the fountain stopped their idle banter and glared at the man and boy who had disturbed their daily routine. There would be no shortage of volunteers to take up the challenge that Festus was about to make.

  ‘Noble people of Chalcis!’ Festus continued. ‘You are the heirs of the proud tradition of the heroic Greeks who once took on and defeated the great empire of Persia. More recently, alas, you have fallen before the might of Rome and they – we – are now your masters.’

  He paused to allow some angry shouts of defiance from the small crowd gathering in front of the fountain. Marcus had grown up among the Greeks and knew how proud they were of their civilization. They bitterly resented being under the thumb of Romans whom they considered their inferiors and Festus was very deliberately playing on this, making sure he spoke with a marked Roman accent when he addressed them again.

  ‘No doubt there are many men here who still hold true to the warrior spirit of their forebears.’

  ‘Yes!’ One of the toughs standing a short distance away shouted back. ‘And you’ll find that out quick enough if you carry on opening your trap!’

  There was a chorus of support from his cronies.

  ‘Push off, Roman!’ the tough continued with a menacing grin. ‘And take your little runts with you.’

  Festus turned to the man with a beaming smile. ‘Ah! I see that I was right about the people of Chalcis. There are still one or two real men living here.’

  ‘More than that, Roman!’ another heavy-set man responded. ‘Now do as he says, and get out of here, before we make you.’

  Festus raised his hands and called for quiet. It took a while before those in the crowd hurling insults and threats fell silent. But most of the townspeople were keen to see what would come next and they hushed the others.

  ‘I meant no offence!’ Festus called out. ‘We are merely travellers passing through your lands. My name is Festus. I have angered you, and for that I apologize most humbly. But it seems that there are some here for whom an apology is not enough.’

  ‘How right you are, Roman!’ the first tough shouted back as his companions cheered him.

  Festus faced the man directly. ‘In which case, it only seems fair that I give you a chance to teach us a lesson.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘Time for the training staffs.’

  Marcus nodded and bent to open his goatskin pack, taking out a small bundle of wooden staffs, each five foot in length and thicker than a man’s thumb. He passed one to Festus who held it up for all to see.

  ‘Who will take on me and the boy in a contest to see who can stay on their feet longest?’

  ‘Me!’ The tough thumped his chest, and sev
eral others joined in as they stepped towards Festus. ‘Andreas is my name. And I’ll give you such a hiding that you will never forget it!’

  ‘Very good!’ Festus replied. ‘A contest we shall have. But let’s keep it fair. Four of you against the two of us.’

  The tough laughed scornfully. ‘Done! It’s time you stuck-up Romans were taught a hard lesson. Four against you, and your runt. You’ll take a beating and no mistake. Of course, if you want to beg my forgiveness, then I might just let you walk out of Chalcis in one piece. Providing you hand your packs over to us first. Spoils of war, Roman. You’d know all about that, I’m sure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of denying you the pleasure of humbling us,’ Festus replied smoothly. ‘But let’s make this even more interesting.’

  He reached down and took out his purse and held it up. ‘I’ll wager ten pieces of silver that the boy and I win. Who’ll take the bet?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation as the townspeople took in the new development and then a well-dressed merchant in a blue tunic raised his arm. ‘I’ll take the bet. I’ll match your silver if you take on Andreas and his comrades.’ He pointed to the tough.

  The latter nodded eagerly. ‘Done! Here, Eumolpus, you’re with me.’ He turned to look at the nearest gang of youths and stabbed his finger at two of the larger boys. ‘Thrapsus and you, Atticus. You deal with the Roman whelp while we give this loudmouth a hiding. Now let’s have those little sticks of yours, Roman, and set to it!’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Festus nodded to Marcus, who stepped forward and held out the staffs for the Greeks to select their weapons. Andreas took the first to hand and then three more, which he passed to the men he had selected. Marcus and Festus took the remaining two from the bundle that Festus had prepared with wood cut from trees along the road for this purpose.

  ‘Clear a space there!’ Festus stepped down from the fountain into the square and swept his staff out to urge the crowd back. They shuffled away and when he had cleared a space thirty feet across Festus stepped into the middle, hefting his staff, as Marcus strode over and took up his position, back to back. Raising his staff, Marcus held it out in both hands, horizontally. As always before a fight, he felt his heart quicken and his muscles tense. Andreas and his comrades spread out round them, the men facing Festus, and the two youths taking on Marcus. He cast his eyes over them quickly, assessing each boy.

  The one called Thrapsus was thickset with lank hair tied back by a leather thong. His face was mottled with angry spots and when he bared his teeth they were stained and crooked. His companion, Atticus, was taller, and took rather more care of his appearance. His hair was neatly cut and his tunic, while plain, was clean and fitted his sinewy body neatly. His features were fine, like one of the many statues of young athletes that Marcus had seen in the towns they had passed through since landing in Greece. No doubt he fancied himself as something of a ladies’ man, Marcus guessed.

  ‘Same as before,’ Festus growled over his shoulder. ‘We cover each other’s back and make it look good. Give the crowd a bit of a show before we put these thugs down on the ground. Got that?’

  ‘I know what I have to do,’ Marcus muttered back. ‘You’ve trained me well enough. Let’s just get on with it.’

  Festus turned to wink at him. ‘Always spoiling for a fight, ain’t you? That’s the spirit.’

  Marcus pressed his lips together. In truth he hated fighting. He hated the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The only thing that drove him on was the thought of rescuing his mother. That was why he fought. That was the only reason.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Festus.

  ‘Ready.’

  Festus looked at the tough. ‘Let’s begin!’

  2

  At first no one moved. Marcus and Festus stood back to back, watching their opponents closely, looking for any sign that gave away an imminent attack. Marcus noted that Thrapsus was holding his staff in both hands like a club, half raised, ready to swing at Marcus. By contrast the other youth seemed to have some idea of how to use a staff in a fight and had it grasped with his hands apart so that he could jab with the ends, or block any blows as strongly as possible.

  He heard Festus’s sandals scrape over the flagstones and he glanced back to see his companion easing himself upright and laying his staff across a shoulder as he mocked the two men facing him.

  ‘What’s the problem, my friends? Lost the stomach for an easy fight?’

  ‘You talk too much,’ Andreas growled. ‘Won’t be so easy when I knock your teeth out, Roman.’

  He did not wait for a response but let out a loud roar and charged at Festus, swinging his staff at the latter’s head in a vicious arc. An instant later his three companions also charged in, echoing his cry. Marcus’s gaze snapped back to the two youths as he left Festus to fight his own battle. That was the plan. Each trusted the other to hold his own and guard his comrade’s back. Atticus held back and let his sturdier friend charge in first. Thrapsus raised the stick above his head, fully extending his arms to get as much power into the blow as possible. Marcus shifted his left hand back as he turned the end of the stick towards the Greek boy and punched it forward into his chest, just below his chin. The impact stopped Thrapsus in his tracks and he stumbled back, gasping for breath as he lowered his staff and dropped a hand to clutch at his chest. Marcus took a step forward and lowered the point of his staff and struck again, this time aiming for his opponent’s stomach.

  He avoided aiming for the face and groin, just as Festus instructed. The object of the exercise was not to cause any lasting injuries and the bad feeling that went with them. A simple lesson was all that was required; enough to put them out of the fight so that only their dignity would be hurt. Thrapsus staggered back from the blow, completely winded now and struggling to breathe. Marcus lowered the staff again and stabbed into the ground behind the youth’s heel, then barged forward with his shoulder. Thrapsus lost his balance and fell heavily on to the ground, the staff flying from his grip and clattering a short distance away.

  The local boy’s defeat had been so quick that it took a moment for the spectators to grasp what had happened and then many of them groaned with disappointment. There were a few muted cries of support for Marcus and he realized that the thuggish young man was not popular with all of the port’s inhabitants. He recovered his staff and retreated towards Festus, a background of grunts and the clatter of wood sounding in his ears as he concentrated his attention on the second youth. Atticus had looked stunned by the ease with which his companion had gone down and now a cold, ruthless look fixed on his expression as he lowered himself into a crouch and glared at Marcus.

  ‘A pretty neat move, Roman,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘But you won’t find me as much of a fool as that oaf Thrapsus.’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘We’ll see. But a word of advice. Save your breath. You’ll need it.’

  Atticus’s dark eyebrows knitted in anger and he leaned down to snatch up the staff lying on the floor and then advanced, swinging one cane in each hand. An unusual technique, Marcus thought quickly to himself, but not a terribly effective one. While Atticus would be able to bombard him with a flurry of blows, they would not have as much force behind them as a properly wielded weapon. As he expected, the Greek came on swinging the staffs wildly, swishing through the air as he sought to strike the Roman boy. Marcus held his staff up and flicked it right and left to parry the blows in a succession of sharp cracks as wood struck wood.

  He was mindful of the other instruction that Festus had given him: to try and make the fight against his second opponent last a little longer. It would save the crowd from being disappointed. Give them value for money, Festus had said. That’s what a good gladiator does. And, when it was over, the crowd would have had their fill of excitement and the losing fighters would feel that they had put up a decent show and their pride, while dented, would be enhanced by the thought that they had sorely tested their winning opponent.

  Marcus mixed a fe
w feints in between his parries, forcing the Greek boy back, and after several more attacks Atticus retreated out of range, breathing hard as he stared at Marcus, his staffs trembling with the effort of holding them out. Hearing a deep grunt behind, Marcus risked a glance round and saw that Festus had felled one of the men who lay sprawled across the flagstones, out cold. He turned back to Atticus, confident that now it was one-on-one he no longer had to stay so close to Festus. Slipping his left hand back a short distance, Marcus lowered the end of the staff and grasped it like a spear as he stepped forward.

  Atticus slashed at the end of the staff, knocking it aside, but, each time, Marcus aimed the point at his face again and took another pace towards him, forcing him back towards the crowd. The Greek youth was weakening and at last he gathered his wits enough to realize he would have more control over a single staff. He drew back his right hand and hurled the staff at Marcus. The length of wood spun through the air and Marcus felt a sharp pain as one end caught him above the ear before he could duck. He felt a warm trickle down the side of his neck and his opponent let out a cry of triumph as he saw the blood, charging forward and slashing from side to side, his remaining staff held in both hands.

  Marcus retreated two steps and held his ground, deflecting the wild blows, sensing the trembling in the other boy’s limbs as it transmitted itself from staff to staff. Atticus was tiring, and desperate to put an end to the fight. There was another sharp exchange of blows, the clatter echoing off the tall walls of a temple standing close to the fountain. Then Marcus leapt forward, bunching his muscles as he made a vicious cut at the knuckles of the Greek. The wood smacked down on the bone and Atticus let out a cry of agony and snatched his injured hand back, releasing his grip. At once the balance of his weapon was lost and the end wavered. Marcus pressed his staff against it and then swirled the end round and flicked his arms up, snatching the staff from the other boy’s hand and sending it up into the air, end over end. The crowd let out a gasp of surprise and admiration, but the contest wasn’t over yet. Marcus had to put his opponent down.