Gladiator: Street fighter

by Simon Scarrow

  Caesar looked down gravely at Marcus and bowed his head. ‘Once again, I am in your debt. I sincerely hope it’s the last time, for a while at least. Here, a souvenir.’ He handed the knife back.

  As they turned into the street on which Caesar’s house stood, Marcus saw a litter outside the front door. The slaves stood still beside it. An escort of lictors stood around the litter and its bearers.

  ‘There’s only one other man in Rome entitled to such protection,’ Caesar mused. ‘My fellow consul for the year, Bibulus.’

  Sure enough the curtains on the litter parted and Bibulus swung himself out.

  ‘My dear Bibulus.’ Caesar offered his hand with a smile. ‘It’s good to see you abroad. I had begun to wonder if you would ever leave your house, except to make furtive visits to the Aventine from time to time.’

  Bibulus’s expression was frigid and he ignored Caesar’s hand. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve had news that your amendment was forced through.’

  ‘There was a free vote, yes.’

  ‘Free vote? Don’t make me laugh.’

  ‘That is your prerogative.’

  Bibulus ground his teeth. ‘Look here, Caesar, you’ve gone too far. But I’ve come on a different matter - to make you a challenge. I have my spies too, and it seems you have a young gladiator from Porcino’s school. Is that right?’

  ‘It is. In fact, this is the boy himself.’ Caesar stood aside and indicated Marcus. Bibulus stared at him and his jaw sagged.

  ‘I know you. You were at the inn!’ Bibulus exclaimed, then shut his mouth immediately as he realized his mistake.

  ‘And a good thing that he was, eh, Bibulus?’ Caesar commented in a dry tone. ‘Otherwise Rome might have lost one of its consuls a little earlier today.’

  Bibulus’s face flushed bright red. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Besides, I’m not here to discuss that. This boy is your fighter. I have acquired a young gladiator of my own and a fight between younger gladiators would cause more than the usual interest among the public. So, I formally challenge you to a contest between our fighters - to the death, two days from now, in the Forum, outside the Senate House.’

  Caesar looked at him shrewdly. ‘Before the vote. I see.’

  ‘I have already instructed my men to paint advertisements for the fight on walls across the heart of the city. If you failed to have your boy show up, the people wouldn’t like it. They might think you were afraid to accept my challenge.’

  Caesar’s expression showed dark fury at being forced into a corner.

  A sick feeling welled up inside Marcus. The thought of facing an opponent in the arena again filled him with dread. The urge to refuse the challenge was overwhelming. But the price of saving himself would be to lose Caesar’s favour, just when he hoped to gain help for his mother.

  ‘Well, what is your answer?’ Bibulus demanded.

  Marcus took a deep breath to calm his nerves as he saw Caesar fix his eyes on him.

  Caesar turned a look of pure loathing on his fellow consul. ‘You’ll have my answer when I am ready to give it, and not before.’

  26

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Lupus as they sat together in their shared cell that afternoon.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘What can I do? If the master tells me I must fight, then I have no choice. But I would give almost anything not to have to fight as a gladiator ever again.’

  Lupus stared at him and frowned. ‘Why? Surely if you hate being a slave as much as you say this might be the quickest way to win your freedom. Of course, it might be the quickest way to be killed . . .’

  ‘There is that,’ Marcus responded dryly. He paused, then continued. ‘The truth is, the very thought of it fills me with terror.’

  Lupus could not hide his astonishment. ‘You, afraid? I don’t believe it. You risked your life to save Portia, and then you went into The Pit. You’re no coward, Marcus.’

  ‘Really?’ Marcus smiled grimly. ‘I tell you, my stomach feels like it’s tied in a knot, my hands clammy and my limbs tremble at times. It’s one thing to act on the spur of the moment, like when we rescued Portia, but another to know you will fight someone at a set time and place, and to the death.’ Marcus looked away, ashamed. ‘I am afraid, Lupus. I thought it would be easier a second time, but it isn’t. I feel more afraid than when I faced that bully, Ferax, back at the gladiator school.’

  Lupus was silent for a moment before he spoke again, in a quiet, thoughtful voice. ‘And yet, you will fight, even if the master offers you the choice.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I must. For my mother’s sake.’

  ‘Then you are no coward, Marcus. Anyone who lives in fear of such a fight, and is prepared to overcome that fear is a hero in my book. That’s what courage is about.’

  Marcus considered this and nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right. Even so, I wish there was a way out of this situation.’

  They heard footsteps approaching and Flaccus appeared in the doorway. ‘The master wants you in his study.’

  Marcus stood up stiffly and flexed his shoulders. He followed Flaccus out of the slave quarters and across the yard to the main part of the house. Flaccus slowed his pace until he fell into step alongside Marcus.

  ‘You’ve become quite the favourite around here,’ Flaccus said sourly.

  There was no mistaking the man’s jealousy, and Marcus thought how absurd it was for slaves to turn on each other when they were all victims of injustice.

  ‘I’m a slave, just like you,’ Marcus replied. ‘Neither of us is special, we’re just property. The only difference that counts for anything is whether you are enslaved or free.’

  ‘Huh,’ Flaccus sneered. ‘There are slaves and there are slaves, boy. Some of us have worked hard and proved our loyalty over many years before we are shown the least sign of favour. But you? You walk in here and you’re instantly Caesar’s pet. It ain’t right.’

  Marcus laughed hollowly and raised his arm to show Flaccus his cuts and bruises. ‘Do I look like some pampered pet?’

  Flaccus glanced at his arm and shrugged. They continued the rest of the way in silence. Marcus could not help feeling angry - what hope was there for slaves while they were divided by petty jealousies and competing for their master’s favour? Unless all those enslaved by Rome recognized their common interest, they would never win their freedom.

  They reached the study and Flaccus cleared his throat before knocking on the door frame. ‘Master, the boy’s here.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  Flaccus bowed his head and waved Marcus forward. As he entered the study, Marcus saw Festus sitting on a bench beside their master’s desk. A decanter of wine and two finely blown glasses sat between them.

  Caesar looked at his steward. ‘How are the preparations for the feast going?’

  There had already been several deliveries of meats and exotic fruits to the house earlier in the day, and Marcus had learned from Lupus that Caesar planned to celebrate the passing of his Land Bill the same evening that he officially announced the coming wedding of Portia to Pompeius’s nephew, provided the vote went in his favour.

  ‘The ingredients for the dishes have been ordered, master. And the wine. I have booked the dancers and the musicians. I am waiting confirmation from the Greek mime company. ’

  ‘Waiting?’ Caesar frowned.

  ‘Yes, master. It seems they might not be able to script and rehearse the outline you provided for them. One of the cast has fallen ill and they’ve had to take on a new man.’

  ‘Then you had better inform them they will do as I require, come what may. You might let them know it is unwise to let down a serving consul, if they ever want to have more work in Rome.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Caesar waved his hand dismissively. ‘You may go, Flaccus. Make sure I am not disappointed. Close the door behind you.’

  Once Flaccus had gone, Caesar gestured Marcus towards the bench. ‘Sit down.’

  Caesar
poured him a small glass of wine, then topped it up with water from a brass jug. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’ Marcus took a sip and found the fruity flavour to his taste.

  ‘Not too much, eh?’ Festus smiled. ‘You’ll need to keep your wits about you for the next few days. How are you feeling, lad?’

  Marcus considered putting a brave face on it, but decided it was more important to be honest in advance of the coming fight. ‘The cuts and grazes are nothing. The bruises hurt, but they won’t hinder me. It’s only the knee that worries me.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Marcus laid his leg along the bench and Festus carefully removed the dressing. A wide, blackened scab had formed over the puckered flesh and clear liquid oozed out from one end. Festus drew a deep breath before he replaced the dressing and told Marcus to lower his leg.

  ‘The joint will be a little stiff,’ Festus reported to Caesar. ‘I doubt that Marcus will have full mobility within the next two days. If he works it too hard, or opens the wound while fighting, he will bleed.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Caesar replied. ‘He must fight. I’ve thought it through and I have to accept Bibulus’s challenge. If I back down, then I will look weak.’ He fixed his eyes on Marcus and gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Marcus, you have to understand my position. I know you are the one called upon to fight, and I trust you will do all you can to win. You will have to, in any case - I dare say Bibulus has ordered his gladiator to show no mercy and ask for no quarter. In all likelihood, it will be a fight to the death, no matter what the spectators want. Be clear about that.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘I understand, master.’

  ‘I would not call on you to fight if I had any choice. My opponents have been clever and forced me into this. They hope you will be defeated, and that it will reflect badly enough on me to sway the mob in their favour, and also the handful of senators needed to defeat my Land Bill.’ Caesar took a mouthful of wine and continued. ‘If that is voted down, then General Pompeius’s veterans will be denied the land they feel is their just reward. They will put pressure on Pompeius to stand up for their interests. I fear that Pompeius may be prepared to throw caution aside and declare himself dictator of Rome. Marcus, the last time there was a dictator, tens of thousands of people were killed. The streets of the city ran with blood - the gang wars we have witnessed these past months are nothing in comparison.’ Caesar winced at the memory. ‘That is why we must win the vote, and why nothing can be left to chance. I need you to win that fight, Marcus. The lives of thousands depend upon you.’ He stared intently across the table. ‘Can you do it?’

  Marcus met his gaze coolly. He wondered if Caesar truly had the interests of his fellow Romans at heart. But whatever the truth might be, Marcus knew the fates of other people hung in the balance and that he must fight for them.

  In a fight to the death he would do all he could to survive. He was a skilled fighter and Festus had taught him a number of new tricks and techniques. Marcus was as well prepared as any gladiator his age could hope to be. But there was always the element of chance. A slip or an unexpected distraction could lose him the fight. And there was the question of his opponent, who might simply be the better gladiator. Too many factors were involved for Marcus to give a definite answer. He turned to Festus. ‘Have they named my opponent on the street notices?’

  Festus shook his head. ‘He is merely described as the champion of a gladiator school in Campania. I’ve asked about, but Bibulus has kept him tucked away.’

  ‘Do we know what type of gladiator he is?’

  ‘No. Not even that,’ Festus replied with a shrug.

  ‘I see.’ Marcus sighed in frustration. He turned back to Caesar. ‘Master, I will do my best. That is all I can promise.’

  Caesar nodded slowly. ‘And that is all I can reasonably ask. I have been more than well served by you, Marcus, and I promise to reward you when our troubles have passed. You shall not find me ungenerous.’

  Marcus thought quickly. Here was his chance. In two days’ time he might be dead, so there was nothing to lose in making his demands now. Even if Caesar was angered by his terms there was little he could do about it. Caesar needed Marcus, he needed him as fit as possible, and so he dare not punish him. Marcus cleared his mind of all but the most important considerations.

  ‘Master, I will fight as well as I can. I want to live. Also, I understand what is at stake for you and your allies in the Senate. If I win then I shall deserve my reward, and I will name it now.’

  Caesar’s eyebrows rose. ‘You would presume to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Marcus swallowed his nerves and continued as boldly as he could. ‘If I win, then you will have your great political victory. I have saved your life, and your niece’s life, twice. I will deserve more than your gratitude.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Festus interrupted, outraged.

  ‘Let him speak!’ Caesar commanded. ‘Now that he has found his tongue, I will hear what he has to say. Continue, Marcus.’

  He nodded his thanks. ‘You know my story, master. You know the great injustice that my family has suffered. My . . . father lies dead, my mother is condemned to a chain gang, and I have endured the hardship of a gladiator’s training. If I win the contest in two days’ time, then I shall want my freedom. I shall want freedom for my mother and I shall want the tax collector Decimus brought to justice. Those are my terms.’

  ‘I can promise the first, and I will do what I can for your mother,’ Caesar replied. ‘But as for the third, I shall need evidence I can use against Decimus.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘I will have my revenge. One way or another.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Caesar could not help looking slightly amused.

  Marcus did not feel a shred of humour in his body as he replied. ‘It is a promise.’

  Caesar was quiet for a moment before he nodded. ‘Very well, I agree to your terms.’

  ‘Then swear an oath to guarantee it, master. With Festus as witness.’

  Caesar sucked in a sharp breath and spoke in a low, cold tone. ‘Be careful, young man, you may push me too far.’

  ‘Master, I have nothing to lose.’

  Festus shifted uncomfortably in his chair but dared not pass any comment. There was a deadpan expression on Caesar’s face. Marcus had seen that look before . . . when Caesar was contemplating some ruthless deed.

  All three were still and silent. The tension was almost as much as Marcus could bear. He feared he had gone too far, and Caesar might well have him flogged, but there was no turning back now. There was a deep frown on Caesar’s brow when he finally spoke.

  ‘I swear it, by the most sacred gods of my family.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Who would have believed it? A consul of Rome held to account by a mere slave boy. That I have lived to see this . . .’

  27

  They arrived early in the morning, a full hour before the appointed time for the duel. It had rained hard during the night and the flagstones in the Forum were slick and gleamed dully in the pale light. The air, usually heavy with the stink of the city, was fresh and had a slight musty tang as the morning sun evaporated the puddles on the dirty streets.

  Marcus was accompanied by Festus and a handful of his body-guards who carried Marcus’s weapons and equipment, as well as a small litter to take him back to his master’s house if he should lose the fight. Caesar had yet to set out for the Senate House, and was conferring with Pompeius, Crassus and the rest of his closest political allies. Regardless of how the duel turned out, the vote over the Land Bill would go ahead and they had to be ready for any last-moment switches in allegiance.

  A large crowd of people had already claimed the best vantage points to watch the contest. Once Festus’s men had set down the equipment they began to rope off an area in front of the steps of the Senate House to form a makeshift arena, a square of roughly sixty feet on each side.

  Marcus stood by the equipment as Festus oversaw the
m. He was filled with the same dread he had felt at his last fight in an arena - at Porcino’s school, months ago now. He felt sick to his stomach and the tension heightened his senses so the world around him seemed drenched with colour, light and shade, and the sounds of the city were more keen and rich in tone. Even his sense of smell detected subtle odours he had not been aware of before. His limbs felt light and tense and they trembled a little.

  ‘Here, take my cloak,’ said Festus, wrapping it around Marcus. ‘Better?’

  Marcus nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Try not to think about the fight itself. Concentrate on your preparation.’

  Not knowing what weapons the other gladiator would be using, Festus had opted to play safe and have Marcus fight as a retiarius - a net man. This meant he was protected by a shoulder guard and a studded leather stomach belt, and armed with a short trident with cruelly barbed points, as well as the net itself. This was eight foot across, weighted at the edges and attached to Marcus’s wrist by a leather loop, which he could easily slip off if the need arose. Although he would have hardly any protection, Marcus would be able to move and strike quickly.

  They had spent the previous day practising in the yard. During the morning, Festus had taken the role of a heavily armed Samnite, constantly trying to rush Marcus and force him into a corner. But Marcus had learned to avoid that trap and darted aside, casting his net to trip Festus, or throwing it high in an attempt to tangle him in its folds. Marcus had been careful to favour his wounded knee and had been knocked down twice, much to Festus’s irritation. In turn, he had brought down his trainer three times and Festus had been grudgingly satisfied. In the afternoon, Festus had sparred as a retiarius and it had become a fierce and focused duel in which Festus had used his greater size and speed to hold his own. They had ended the day hot, tired and sweating, with equal honours.

  Although he still felt a little stiff, Marcus was ready to face his opponent. His knee had been carefully bound to protect the wound while giving him as much mobility as possible. He felt confident about his weapons and had carefully chosen the most balanced trident from the small armoury at Caesar’s house.