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 imagine. 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.