It was hot in the hold, and as he lay there and waited for the loading to continue Marcus felt sweat prick out all over his body. Very soon he felt thirsty, but he fought the temptation to take a drink from his waterskin. He must make the water last. If it ran out, or he began to starve and his situation became too uncomfortable for him, then he decided that he would just have to give himself up to the crew and hope that they did not return him to Graecia or, worse still, hand him back to Decimus once they discovered his identity.
After the best part of an hour, as far as he could guess the passage of time, Marcus heard the thud of feet on the deck above as the crew rose to continue their duties.
‘Back to work!’ the captain bellowed. ‘And you there! You porters, get the last of the cargo aboard. The ship has to sail before dusk. Move yourselves!’
A short time later Marcus watched, through the narrow gap he had left himself, as two of the crewmen climbed down into the hold and began to pack the last bales of material into position. Overhead, he heard the steady thud of feet on the deck. A few wooden cases and several crates of large amphorae were lowered into the hold, completing the loading, and then the men climbed on to the deck. There was a deep rumble as the grating was heaved over the cargo hatch. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief that he had not been discovered, and stretched out in the small hiding space he had made for himself. At least with the fine material surrounding him, he would have a comfortable surface to rest on. The main problems were going to be the discomfort of the heat in the hold and the thirst that was already building up in his throat.
Once the Fair Wind was loaded, the captain bellowed orders for his crew to prepare to sail. The gangway was hauled aboard, the sail lowered and then the oars were thrust over the side to push the ship away from the quay. With a regular creak and splash, the long oars propelled the ship out into the harbour, through the waiting shipping, and then out into the open sea. Marcus felt the sudden shift in the ship’s motion as it encountered the light swell in the unprotected waters outside the harbour. At once his stomach lurched and he felt a horrible dizziness sweep through his body. He clapped a hand to his mouth and tried not to be sick. The last thing he wanted was to spend the voyage surrounded by his own vomit.
Outside his hiding place he could hear the muffled shouts as the captain ordered his crew to brace up the sail and settle the ship on her course across the expanse of sea that separated Graecia from Italia. As the Fair Wind began to ride the swell, in long, swooping motions, Marcus curled into a ball and groaned. His stomach felt very unsettled and he had to use every bit of his self-control to stop himself throwing up. At length he could resist the urge no longer. He eased the bale of wool aside, leaned out into the hold and was sick. The nausea came again and again and soon Marcus had nothing left inside him. Yet still he retched, his stomach clenching painfully, until the urge passed and left him sweating. Marcus knew that the vomit was bound to be seen when the ship put into port, but he hoped that it would be put down to one of the crew who had not been able to make it to the side of the vessel in time.
As dusk fell, he took a sip of water, rinsed his mouth and spat it out, before taking a fresh mouthful to drink. Then, after making sure he had covered the entrance to his hiding place, Marcus curled up again and tried to take his mind off his sickness by planning his next moves. Once the ship reached Brundisium, he would need to find his way off the vessel without being spotted. Then he would have to make his way to Rome and find the house of General Pompeius.
For a moment he was seized by the horrible fear that he had set himself an impossible task. After all, he was only a small boy, entirely on his own. He had been born and raised on his father’s farm, and had never travelled any further than twenty miles from his home until recently. He still had a long way to go before he reached Rome, and even then he would need to find some way to speak to General Pompeius. If the general was as great and powerful as his father had said, then it would not be easy. As these doubts and fears worked their way into his mind, the image of his mother suddenly burned into his thoughts. Marcus clenched his fists, angrily shook off his worries and told himself that he was being a coward. His father would have been ashamed of him. He edged himself into the corner of his hiding place and closed his eyes, then tried to fight off the anxieties over his future and the nausea that rose along with the motion of the ship.
He spent the night and the whole of the next day in his hiding place, only emerging to empty his bladder into the bilges, while taking care not to be seen through the grating that covered the hold. By the following night Marcus had begun to get over the worst of his seasickness, but his waterskin was empty and his stomach grumbled with hunger. He lay on the wool bale for some hours in the darkness, unable to sleep, and then in the early hours he heard the captain’s voice as he stood by the mast, just in front of the cargo hatch.
‘Damn this foul wind … First mate!’
Footsteps padded over the deck and then the crewman replied, ‘Yes, sir?’
‘The wind’s veered again. Rouse the watch. I want the sail sheeted tight in. Tell the steersman to keep as near to the wind as he can hold the ship. Unless this wind changes, we’re going to lose a day, maybe two, before we reach port.’
‘Aye, sir. I think so.’
‘Carry on.’
The mate turned away to summon the watch and Marcus heard shouting and the thud of feet on the deck, then a short while later the ship heeled over a little more. The motion became less settled as the bows slammed into the waves. Marcus felt his heart sink as he thought over the brief exchange he had heard. The ship was delayed. If the captain was right, then it might be some days before they reached port. Marcus knew that he must have water and food before then if he was going to survive and have the strength to continue his quest for General Pompeius. There was only one thing for it. He would have to leave the hold and try to find something to eat and drink. Better to do it now, while it was dark and there was less chance of being seen.
He waited a while to give the crew time to settle back down, then wriggled out of his hiding place. The hold was filled with the sounds of creaking timbers and the slosh of water in the bilges. Above him Marcus could just make out the thick crossed lines of the grating that covered the hold, except for one corner where there was a square gap. It was just large enough for a man to climb through and Marcus guessed it was there in case the crew needed to check the hold without having to remove the grating. Creeping carefully across the wool bales and jars that were packed tightly together, Marcus approached the gap. The hold was sufficiently full for him to reach it without any difficulty. He stretched up and gripped the edge of the hatch and then, muscles tensed and straining, he lifted himself up. As his eyes came level with the rim of the hatch, Marcus looked around the deck.
The first glimmer of dawn was filtering across the horizon. At the stern of the ship there stood a man clasping the tiller that controlled the huge steering oar. A handful of men lay on the deck in front of him. Closer to the hatch, some more figures sat hunched together against the ship’s side. One of them shifted and Marcus heard the clink of a chain. They must be slaves, he realized. Part of the ship’s cargo. No one seemed to have seen him and Marcus let out a long, low sigh of relief. Then his eyes fixed on some baskets and a barrel at the base of the mast.
Marcus eased himself up, over the edge of the hatch and on to the deck. Then, staying low, he slid across the weathered and worn planks until he reached the foot of the mast. His fingers groped over the edge of the nearest basket and came across some hard, round objects. Apples. He smiled to himself and helped himself to four, tucking them inside his tunic. Even though he was pleased with his find, Marcus knew that apples alone would not satisfy his hunger.
A sudden snore made him jump and he glanced round in terror. Only a few feet away, curled up on the deck, was one of the crew. The man muttered something and began to breathe heavily. Marcus was about to turn his attention back to the baskets when he saw a h
alf-eaten loaf of bread and some sausage on the deck beside the man. He licked his lips at the thought of making a meal of the crewman’s unfinished food. With a quick look round to satisfy himself that no one was paying him any attention, Marcus edged towards the snoring sailor. He paused a short distance away and stealthily reached out a hand to pick up the bread and then the sausage. With a slight smile of relief that the man was still asleep, Marcus turned back towards the cargo hatch. He was keen to return to his hiding place, and feast, before the light got any stronger and gave him away. He had almost reached the hatch when the steersman’s deep voice boomed out across the deck.
‘Change the watch! Change the watch! Morning watch, unreef the mainsail.’
The crew began to stir, and the man whose food Marcus had helped himself to snorted and then began to sit up wearily, his hand groping towards where the food had been. He opened his eyes and looked straight at Marcus. He blinked and frowned, then he saw the sausage and bread in Marcus’s hand and his eyes widened in surprise.
‘Thief!’ he cried out, scrambling across the deck towards Marcus.
11
Marcus lashed out with his boot, the nailed leather striking the sailor in the face. The man cried in pain and clasped his hands to his nose as the blood began to run. The sound alerted others nearby, who turned to look.
‘Who’s that boy?’ someone called out.
‘Well, he’s no passenger!’ another voice responded, and some of the men on deck laughed. ‘Seems we have ourselves a stowaway, lads.’
Marcus backed away from the man he had kicked, then rose to a crouch. He bit a chunk off the sausage and chewed furiously. Watching the men on the deck carefully, he backed against the opposite side of the ship. More of the crew edged forward curiously, while at the rear of the vessel the captain emerged from the hatch leading to the handful of small cabins at the stern. He was followed by a large man in a red tunic who climbed up beside the steersman for a better view.
‘What is all this nonsense?’ the captain bellowed. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Stowaway, captain,’ one of the sailors replied, pointing towards Marcus. ‘Must have been in the hold and got hungry. That’s why he’s gone and nicked Spiro’s food.’
The man Marcus had kicked wiped the blood from his face and rose to his feet with a growl.
‘Right then, boy,’ he hissed. ‘You are going to pay for that. Thought you could take Spiro’s ration and get away with it, eh?’
He reached to his side and drew out a dagger from his wide leather belt. Marcus quickly weighed him up. The sailor was not quite as old as his father had been, with unkempt dark hair hanging loosely around his face. His lips parted in a cruel sneer, revealing a handful of crooked teeth. As he raised his knife he swayed slightly and Marcus guessed that he must have had rather more to drink last night than was wise. He took another bite at the sausage as he watched the sailor closely.
The man’s sneer turned into a snarl of rage. ‘Thief!’
He ran at Marcus, his knife gleaming dully in the pale dawn light. At the last moment Marcus ducked to the left and the sailor stumbled into the rail along the ship’s side. Some of the other men laughed, and Spiro glared round the deck before he fixed his eyes on Marcus again.
‘Think you’re clever, boy? Well, I’m going to cut you good for that.’
From the tone of the man’s voice Marcus knew that he was in grave danger. The man might even kill him if he had the chance. For a moment it felt as if an icy hand had clamped around the back of his neck. Marcus was more afraid than he had ever been in his life. He let the bread and the sausage drop from his fingers and crouched low, ready to spring aside. Already he was thinking about his next moves, his wits quickened by the knowledge that he was engaged in a fight to survive.
‘Go on, Spiro!’ a sailor called out. ‘Show the boy what a man you are.’
There was more laughter, but Marcus saw that the comment had caused the sailor to become even more enraged. He sprang towards Marcus, slashing out with his blade as he did so. Marcus leapt to the side, hearing a faint hiss close to his ear as the blade cut through the cool dawn air. He ran to the middle of the deck and turned back to face Spiro as the sailor strode towards him, hunched forward.
‘Keep running, boy. I’ll corner you. Sooner or later.’
Marcus glanced to the side and saw the dark lines of the mast’s shrouds sweeping down towards a series of heavy wooden pins. He glanced back just in time to see Spiro make another attack, leaning forward and thrusting the point of his blade out. Marcus dodged aside, then was forced to back away again as Spiro slashed at his face. The small crowd of onlookers melted away on either side as the sailor pursued his prey towards the stern.
‘Here, young ’un!’ a voice cried out, and there was a clatter on the deck close by Marcus as a knife landed on the planking. ‘Take it!’
Marcus snatched the knife up and scrambled away from yet another attack. This time some of the sailors cheered him on, admiring the agile way he was avoiding Spiro’s attacks. But Marcus knew that time was on the sailor’s side. He would find a way to corner Marcus and then it would be over. The sailor would cut him down where he stood and dump his body over the side into the sea.
Marcus ducked round the man and sprinted back towards the side of the vessel where the shrouds curved down, and there he turned to face the man again. Spiro paced steadily towards him, breathing heavily from the strain of his exertions. He shook his head mockingly, flicking aside a thick strand of hair that had fallen over one eye.
‘You’ve got a knife, but do you know how to use it?’
Marcus swallowed nervously. ‘Why don’t you come closer and find out?’
Spiro feinted with his blade. Marcus thrust out the knife with both hands to parry the attack and stepped back against the ship’s side. Shifting the knife to his left hand, he let his right hand drop, felt behind him for one of the pins and lifted it out of its hole.
The sailor stood before him, an arm’s length away. He held his arms wide, as if to catch Marcus whichever way he tried to run.
‘Time to pay old Spiro the price for stealing,’ the sailor sneered.
Marcus swallowed nervously. The time had come to strike, yet he knew he must divert the sailor’s attention at the critical moment. He lowered his left hand.
‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ he pleaded softly. ‘I give in.’
He tossed the knife on to the deck to one side, just behind the sailor. The man instinctively glanced round and down, his hair flopping across his face like a curtain. Marcus snatched out the pin, jumped forward and smashed its heavy wooden bulk against the side of Spiro’s head. The sailor dropped to his knees with a groan, head rolling back as his mouth sagged open. His blade fell from his hands and he fixed Marcus with a dazed expression before he collapsed unconscious at his feet.
There was a brief silence before one of the crew let out a low whistle. Then another man cheered, and more joined him in a ragged chorus of shouts of approval. Marcus looked round at their faces and saw the amused admiration in their expressions. Many of them were smiling at him, and he felt a surge of elation and triumph flood his heart and mind. Then he looked down at the man lying at his feet. A moment ago the sailor had been set on killing Marcus, without mercy. Marcus regarded him with a cold hatred. Then he leaned down and picked up the knife that had been tossed towards him.
For a moment he paused, not sure what to do. From somewhere inside him a dark urge to seek revenge seeped out. It was not just revenge against this sailor, but a desire for vengeance against all those who had caused Marcus to be at this point, separated from his mother, his home and the warm, loving embrace of the idyllic life he had lived on the farm. He took a sharp breath and raised the knife, ready to plunge it down into the sailor’s heart.
‘No you don’t!’ a voice growled, and a hand seized his wrist in a powerful grip. ‘Drop the knife.’
Marcus twisted round to see the captain towering over hi
m. He tried to pull his arm free, but the man was far too strong for him. The captain let him struggle for a moment and then, with a look of contempt, he lifted Marcus off his feet so that he was dangling above the deck. He felt a burning pain in his shoulder as the joint and muscles stretched and could not help letting out a sharp cry of agony.
The captain leaned forward so that his face was close to Marcus’s. There was no pity in the man’s eyes as he growled, ‘I said, drop the knife. Last warning, boy.’
Marcus knew that his position seemed hopeless, but the captain had made a mistake lifting him off the deck. Swinging his leg back, Marcus kicked out with his boot, striking the captain’s knee. His foot connected with a solid blow and the captain winced and bent forward as he let out a groan. At once Marcus tried to pull himself free again, but the man kept his grip, even as he shut his eyes briefly to fight off the pain. When he had caught his breath and opened his eyes again, there was no mistaking the captain’s fury.
‘Little swine …’ the captain spat. ‘You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.’
He strode towards the side of the ship, still holding Marcus off the deck, at arm’s length.
‘You can swim the rest of the way,’ he sneered at Marcus as they reached the side-rail.
Gladiator Page 8
