Gladiator Page 12

  ‘Light group,’ he decided, and moved on to Phyrus.

  ‘By the Gods, this one is built like a bear. Ever killed anyone with those great paws of yours?’

  ‘No, master,’ Phyrus muttered.

  ‘A shame. But you will before long. Heavy group, no question about it.’

  Taurus moved on to examine Pelleneus after a quick glance at the waxed slate Piso held out to him. The Athenian stood still as he was prodded, and then Taurus stepped back, glancing over him shrewdly as he scratched his chin. ‘Good muscle condition. As you would expect from a boxer. And you’ll be light on your feet, I should imagine. Could equally make a good secutor or a retiarius. Hmmm. Put him down in the mixed group for now.’

  Piso nodded and made a quick note, while Taurus moved on to Marcus. Marcus stared straight ahead, not daring to offer any defiance that might be rewarded with a further blow from the training instructor.

  ‘Ah, here’s the centurion’s son again.’ Taurus leaned forward and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder hard in his vice-like fingers as he spoke in a mocking tone. ‘What to do? Make him a heavy fighter, perhaps? Except that he would collapse under the weight of the kit. A retiarius? No, he’d only tangle his feet in the net. Well, then, put him in the youth group. That’s all he’s fit for right now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Marcus felt his face burn with embarrassment and he would dearly have loved to tell Taurus where he could shove his opinions. But he kept his mouth tightly sealed and looked straight ahead as he controlled his anger.

  When Taurus reached the end of the line, he took one quick glance at the Spartan and gave his verdict. ‘Mixed group. If he lives long enough, I doubt that this one will ever be good for anything but fighting animals.’

  ‘I will fight you, master,’ the Spartan replied coldly. ‘Now, if you are brave enough.’

  ‘Fight me?’ Taurus looked amused. ‘I don’t think so. If you were to so much as raise your hand towards me, then I’d have you crucified within the hour. You’d best remember that.’ Taurus paused, then raised his voice so that all of the new recruits to the gladiator school would hear him. ‘That goes for you all. The only fate waiting for any one of you who strikes me, or any member of my training staff, is a slow, agonizing death. There are no second chances for a gladiator. Remember that well and you may live. Fail to, and you will surely die.’ He nodded sombrely. ‘You are dismissed!’

  16

  There were twenty-three other boys in the youth class under the command of a wizened old instructor named Amatus. Thin and sinewy, Amatus had fought as a retiarius for fifteen years. He had won most of his fights, and been spared by the crowds in the handful that he had lost, but had failed to distinguish himself sufficiently to win the favour and rewards that some of his contemporaries had achieved. So he was destined to live out the remainder of his days as a slave, instructing new recruits in the gladiator school of Porcino.

  Marcus was one of the youngest in the class. He may have lacked the years but, having been brought up on a farm and encouraged to exercise regularly by his father, he was fit and strong for his age. The other boys had come from across the empire and had different-coloured skins and features, and Marcus could only understand a handful of them who spoke either Latin or Greek. They had all arrived at the school within the last month and a pecking order had already been established.

  The self-appointed leader of the group was a large Celtic boy, named Ferax, from one of the tribes that lived close to the Alps. He was three or four years older than Marcus, and much taller and broader. He spoke Latin with a coarse accent and walked with a pronounced swagger when he led the youths out on parade each morning. From the outset he had taken a dislike to Marcus, when they first spoke shortly after Marcus had arrived. Marcus had finished using the latrine and was returning to his stall when Ferax and his four cronies blocked his path.

  ‘Son of a Roman centurion, eh?’ Ferax sneered. ‘You look more like the son of a sewer rat to me.’

  His companions laughed. Marcus glared back, bunching his hands into fists. He did not want to fight the larger boy, but at the same time he did not want to take his insults.

  ‘In case you don’t know, my name is Ferax.’ The Celt thumbed his chest. ‘This is my gang. These two are Celts like me.’ He indicated the tall blond boys to one side. Then Ferax nodded at the other two, who were swarthy and slim. ‘And these two were plucked from the slum of the Subura in Rome. Hard cases.’ He stepped forward and jutted his head out, face to face with Marcus. ‘Let me tell you my rules, sewer rat. My mates and I take the first share of the rations. Also, if I want, you and the others will do our duties for us once the day’s training is done, such as fetching water or cleaning our kit.’

  ‘You can fetch your own water,’ Marcus replied.

  ‘Oh!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘We’ve got a tough one here, lads! I’d better warn you that the last lad who refused to do what I say had a good beating. Once word got round about what happened to him, all the other boys have been as good as gold. So, you do what I say and you won’t have any trouble. Otherwise …’ Ferax took a step back and clenched his fist in front of Marcus’s face. ‘You’ll be feeling this breaking your nose. Understand?’

  Marcus stood quite still and stared back in silence. Ferax nodded, then turned to his cronies. ‘Right, the greeting’s over. Let’s leave him.’

  As they strode away, Marcus pressed his lips together. Ferax was a bully. He would have to be watched carefully and avoided as far as possible. Even so, Marcus felt a powerful urge to confront him.

  But not yet. Later, when he had been trained to fight and knew how to handle an opponent. Then he’d see just how tough the Celt really was.

  While the men trained all day, the youths were tasked with cooking and cleaning duties before and after their training sessions. Marcus was assigned to the kitchen. It was hard and demeaning work, but he carried it out without any complaint, and all the time his mind remained fixed on the need to escape from the school and make his way to Rome. He also thought of his mother, condemned to toil on the estate of Decimus. It made his heart heavy to think of her, and he knew that she would be worrying about him in turn.

  Not that she would easily recognize him any more, he reflected ruefully. Like all the others who had been trooped out of the cell block that first morning, Marcus had been issued with two grey tunics and two pairs of boots, each one bearing an identifying numeral burned into the heel of each boot. All their existing clothing had been taken away – the best of it sold to a local merchant, the rest to be burned. Marcus’s head had been crudely shaved. Now all the trainees looked hard and brutal and difficult to distinguish from each other, like the chain-gangs of convicted men sent to the mines. Marcus had hated having his head shaved. The slave who did it handled his cutting shears with little care, scraping his scalp in a number of places. But even that torment was nothing compared to what came next.

  Once the boys had emerged from the caged pen where they had been sheared, dazed and bleeding from the cuts and scrapes on their scalps, Amatus had led them into the forge in the corner of the compound. A dozen of the school’s guards were waiting for them, and beyond stood a slave, sweat running down his face as he worked a small furnace out of which a long iron handle extended.

  ‘First boy, come forward,’ Amatus ordered, gesturing to one of the Nubians. The boy flinched, but before he could try to edge back into the ranks of his comrades, two of the guards grabbed his arms and pinned him between them. Then they dragged him towards the forge as he struggled wildly in their grasp. Amatus took a dampened rag and grasped the end of the iron handle. As he drew out the branding iron, the shaped symbol at the end – a large letter P above two crossed swords – glowed orange and the heated air around it wavered. He approached the Nubian boy, who was now writhing desperately in the grip of the two guards.

  ‘Hold him still,’ Amatus ordered, and the guards braced themselves and kept the boy from moving. Amatus pulled back the bo
y’s tunic and pressed the branding iron on to his chest, just above the heart. The boy screamed as there came a sizzling noise and the air filled with the acrid scent of burning flesh. A moment later it was over, and Amatus stepped back as the boy fell limp. The guards dragged him outside the forge and dropped him on the ground.

  ‘Next one!’ Amatus called out.

  One by one they were taken forward and branded with the symbol of Porcino’s gladiator school. As they waited, the boys glanced at each other nervously, some shuffling away from the front of the crowd in a bid to put off the torment. But that was as far as they got, as the other guards herded them back. Marcus’s terror at the prospect of being branded was made worse by every cry of fear and scream of agony that came out of the forge. But he kept silent and did not attempt to try to move to the back of the group. He glanced round and met the gaze of Ferax.

  The Celt stared back, and Marcus saw that he too was afraid. Ferax had been shaking as their eyes had met, but now he looked angry, glaring at Marcus. Taking a deep breath, he pushed through to the front of the crowd and stood as tall as he could. He crossed his arms and waited to be called for. When the latest victim had been carried out, Amatus thrust the iron back into the furnace to heat it again. Then he turned to the remaining boys. ‘Next!’

  Ferax advanced a step, but then Marcus blurted out, ‘Me! I’ll go next.’

  Amatus nodded and the guards stepped forward to take his arms. Marcus felt his heart pounding as he stepped towards the forge. He had no idea why he was doing this, other than that it seemed to prove something to Ferax and the others, not to mention Amatus and the guards. As he approached the forge, he pulled his tunic down from the collar to expose his chest.

  Amatus nodded to the guards. ‘Hold him.’

  Marcus let them take his arms, but stood still, muscles tensed and teeth gritted so hard his jaw hurt. Amatus looked surprised and paused a moment before taking the brand out of the forge again.

  ‘Well, looks like one of you at least has got some backbone.’ He smiled faintly at Marcus. ‘Brace yourself, lad. This is going to hurt like nothing you’ve ever known.’

  He raised the branding iron. Marcus’s eyes widened as he beheld the glowing orange shape. Amatus placed his left hand on Marcus’s chest to steady it and brought the branding iron up. At the last moment Marcus clenched his eyes tightly shut. There was an instant when he felt the heat, then his world exploded in a torrent of burning agony and horror. It felt as if he had been struck by a ram, then a searing, stabbing shaft of agony pierced his body. He smelt his flesh burning, sharp and acrid, making him feel dizzy and sick. The hiss and sizzle continued for a moment. Then the pressure eased as Amatus drew back the brand. But the agony only increased. Tears pricked out in the corner of Marcus’s eyes and a keening moan forced its way between his clamped teeth.

  ‘Easy with that one,’ he heard Amatus say. ‘The lad’s got guts, I’ll say that for him.’

  As they stepped out into the open, the guards eased Marcus down on to the ground and gently pushed him back against the plastered wall. He opened his eyes and stared around at the others. His heart was still beating fast, and the pain consumed his mind as he sat stiffly and gritted his teeth. The cries and whimpers of the boys who had gone before him sounded in his ears. Marcus shifted his eyes to the side and saw Ferax looking at him. The Celt was furious and his lips curled into an expression of hatred. Then the guards took him and hauled him towards the forge as he began to struggle in their grip. Marcus did not watch – but he heard the animal groan of rage and agony as Amatus branded Ferax. Suddenly the pain was too much for Marcus and he just had time to lean to one side before he vomited. And again, until there was nothing in his stomach. Then he slumped back against the wall and passed out.

  When he came to, he was lying on straw and staring up into the rafters of the cell block. At once he felt the sharp sting of the burn on his chest and groaned as he struggled to rise to his elbows.

  ‘Easy there,’ a voice said comfortingly, and Pelleneus loomed over him. He had a wet rag in his hand and offered it to Marcus. ‘Try this. It helps ease the pain … a little.’

  Marcus took the rag and looked down. The burn was red and dotted with pale blisters that wept. He dabbed at the burn as gently as he could and felt a fresh wave of pain. ‘Ahhhhhh …’

  The dampened rag only seemed to make the torment worse and he had to fight off waves of nausea before he handed it back and forced himself to nod his thanks.

  ‘Hurts like Hades, doesn’t it?’ Pelleneus said, and took a sharp breath.

  ‘You too?’ asked Marcus, gesturing towards the Athenian’s breast.

  ‘All of us. Though some went with a fight.’ He nodded towards Phyrus, who sat against the other side of the stall, glowering. Marcus could see that his face was bruised and one eye was badly swollen.

  ‘It took six of us to hold him down.’ Pelleneus smiled faintly. ‘The lad doesn’t know his own strength.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘You held him down? You helped them to brand Phyrus?’

  ‘We had to. If it had been left to the guards and the instructors, then our boy here would have struck them down. You heard what they do to any of us trainees who turn on one of Porcino’s staff. I’d sooner Phyrus knocked me cold than one of them, and go and get himself crucified.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Marcus shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem right, though.’

  ‘It was that or watch him die,’ Pelleneus replied tersely. ‘What would you have done?’

  Marcus wanted to say that he would have refused to help subdue Phyrus, that he would have fought at the giant’s side to resist the agony and the shame of being branded as the property of Porcino. But however much he might want to fight back, he knew that Pelleneus was right. There was nothing he could have done. Nothing any of them could have done. He looked down at his lap in despair.

  Pelleneus took pity on him. ‘Marcus, you’re a slave now. You’d better get used to the idea as soon as you can. If you sit there dreaming of resistance and escape, then you will only make life even more miserable for yourself. It will start to drive you mad.’ He paused for a moment. ‘That’s what happened to me. I refused to accept slavery. I disobeyed my masters and even tried to run away once. They recaptured me a few days later and beat me black and blue. That’s what resisting your master gets you – pain and more suffering. Take it from me, best thing you can do is accept that the past is dead to you. Look to the future. Stay alive and, one day, win your freedom. That’s all that matters to you now,’ Pelleneus concluded before he left to find some more water.

  Marcus nodded slowly, as if accepting the advice. But deep inside he could not do what Pelleneus told him to. It went against every fibre of his being, and betrayed the memory of his father and the duty he owed his mother. Marcus silently swore an oath that he would never forget the past. Besides, it was the memory of all that he had lost, and all that he had to avenge, that filled him with the determination to endure the terrible situation he found himself in.

  ‘Ah, so the centurion’s brat is stirring at last!’

  Marcus looked up and saw Ferax standing in the entrance to the stall. Behind him were his cronies. All of them were stripped to the waist so that their chests were bared, exposing the blistered emblem of the school’s brand.

  The Celt regarded Marcus with a sneer. ‘Last I saw of you was when you fainted outside the forge.’

  Marcus swallowed nervously and rose to his feet. ‘At least they didn’t have to drag me in there.’

  ‘What?’ Ferax frowned. ‘You calling me a coward? I took the branding like a man.’ He puffed up his chest and rested his hands on his hips. ‘I stood it like a warrior.’

  ‘Yes.’ Marcus smiled thinly. Even though Ferax was far bigger than him, and his heart was pounding in his chest, he recalled the fear he had seen in the Celtic boy’s face before he was branded, and it gave Marcus some courage to face up to him. ‘I heard your, er, war cry. So did everyone else, I imagin
e. Still, it was quite painful.’

  ‘At least I didn’t faint, like some girl.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Marcus conceded. ‘You just sounded like one.’

  Ferax’s nostrils flared. ‘You’ll pay for that, you Roman runt.’ He balled his hands into fists and entered the stall.

  Marcus stood his ground, bracing his feet as he raised his hands and held them ready to grab his foe, or clench them to strike back. His face contorted into a snarl.

  Ferax paused to look at him and then laughed. ‘By the Gods, just look at him. He must think he’s Mars, the war god!’

  His friends laughed with him and then Ferax turned back to face Marcus, all trace of humour gone from his face. All that Marcus could see there now was a cruel determination to cause him as much pain and humiliation as possible. He felt his guts turn to ice, but still he stood his ground, prepared to take a beating before he would ever ask for mercy.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ Ferax growled. ‘I’m going to tear you apart.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ a deep voice rumbled. Marcus turned in surprise and saw Phyrus rising to his feet. The giant stepped between the two boys and glared at Ferax. ‘If you hurt him, I hurt you. I hurt you bad. You and those others.’ Phyrus raised a huge fist and smacked it down into the palm of his other hand. ‘See?’

  Ferax flinched at the sound. He stared at Phyrus with a mixture of awe and frustration, then backed away to the entrance of the stall. There he turned his attention back to Marcus.

  ‘You’re safe for now, brat. But you’ll have to fight your own battles some time. When you do, I’ll be there, waiting. You hear? Come on, lads.’ He waved to his followers and moved away towards the other end of the cell block.