‘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.
Marcus relaxed as he watched them go. He nodded to Phyrus. ‘Thanks.’
Phyrus shrugged and scratched his chin. ‘Don’t like bullies. They’re scum. Let me know if that boy gives you any more trouble.’
He returned to his corner. Despite his gratitude, Marcus knew that Ferax was right. He could afford to bide his time. Marcus could not escape and the time would come when he must face the Celt on his own.
17
The last days of summer passed in a relentless routine of training and kitchen duties. Marcus and the other boys were roused at first light and they marched over to the kitchen block to help prepare the morning meal. Marcus was tasked with lighting the kitchen fires on the blackened iron grates below the cooking grilles. A small brazier was kept permanently lit in one corner of the kitchen and once Marcus had laid the kindling he carefully carried over some of the glowing embers and inserted them into the fireplace. Then, puffing his cheeks, he gently blew to make the embers catch and direct the small licks of flame into the kindling. There were three fires to be lit and maintained, and Marcus had to make sure that he kept an eye on each of them. Fresh wood had to be brought continually from the store outside the kitchen and laid by the hearth ready for use.
The slave in charge of the kitchen was a former gladiator named Brixus who had been badly injured five years ago. The hamstring in his left leg had been almost severed by a sword blow. Although the crowd had spared him, it was the end of his career in the arena. Porcino had transferred him to the kitchen, where he might still be of some use to his owner. Brixus was solidly built and looked the same age as Marcus’s father. Except that his hair was thick and dark with not a hint of grey in it. He made his way around his kitchen with a very pronounced limp that gave him a rolling gait.
Ferax and his friends made fun of Brixus behind his back, silently gesturing to each other and doing quick imitations of his walk. When he glanced round, or turned suddenly, they would instantly go back to their duties overseeing the large cauldrons of thick barley meal that bubbled and hissed faintly as the boys stirred the steadily thickening breakfast with stout wooden paddles.
An hour after Marcus and the others had risen to prepare their meal, the new trainees trooped into the mess hall next to the kitchen. The men picked up their bowls and wooden spoons and then waited in line to be served from the steaming cauldrons. They sat on long benches in silence and ate from the bowls in their laps. The drill instructors slowly walked up and down between the benches, ready to lash out with their vine canes at any man who talked. Only when the men had finished eating and been marched off to begin their morning training were the boys allowed to eat. Then they washed the bowls and spoons and waited for Amatus to lead them to the training ground.
The large open space in the centre of the school was surrounded by a ten-foot-high timber stockade. Inside, the earth had been beaten flat and covered with dark sand from the shores of the Bay of Neapolis. It was here that the new intake of slaves began their training for the hard and dangerous life that lay ahead of them. The instructors bellowed their orders as each of the four groups took turns at running around the perimeter, lifting weights and making their way through a simple obstacle course, all designed to increase their stamina, strength and agility.
Amatus followed his class round the training ground, his vine cane ready to strike at any boy who lagged too far behind the rest, or did not put enough effort into lifting weights, or stumbled clumsily. Marcus was mindful that Amatus had admired his courage when he had been branded, so did his best to keep the instructor’s respect. No matter how hard his lungs burned with the effort of his exertions, or how leaden his limbs felt, Marcus drove himself on. Some of his companions were not so determined and soon carried bruises and welts from Amatus’s cane. Only one other boy showed the same determination as Marcus and that was Ferax. While Marcus had more stamina, Ferax had the strength, and they more or less matched each other in terms of agility.
Although their rivalry was unspoken during the training, Amatus was experienced enough to spot it at once and he goaded them on gleefully.
‘Come on, Ferax! That boy is half your size! What’s the matter? Can’t keep up with him? You will, my lad, or you’ll feel the end of my vine cane! Move those legs, you lazy Celtic swine!’
Or, when Marcus was grimacing as he struggled to raise one of the heaviest weights up to his chin, Amatus would come and stand by him and roar in his ear, ‘Call that a weight? I have seen maggots lift heavier rocks than those! How the hell do you expect to grow as big as Ferax if you don’t work at it? Come on, Marcus, show that bloody Celt what a Roman can do!’
Marcus felt the gaze of the other boys on him and knew that he must impress them if Ferax was not to win them over to his side. At the same time he was aware of the simmering hatred the Celt directed at him. For a while there was nothing Ferax could do about it. The days were too strictly organized for him to find the time to take out his wrath on Marcus, and once the boys retired to their stalls at night, they were too tired for anything but sleep. Marcus would curl up in the straw, while Pelleneus and Phyrus would talk in low voices for a while before they too fell asleep. The Spartan still kept aloof for the most part, but occasionally contributed a comment to the conversation if he felt it necessary to correct an opinion.
It was a month after Marcus arrived that Ferax found his opportunity. It was after the evening meal, and Marcus was the last to leave the kitchen and make his way back to the cell block. On the way, he stopped, as usual, in the latrine that stood in the corner of the school wall. The season was turning and the evening air was chilly as the nights drew in. A single small brazier burned at the far end of the latrine block when Marcus entered and by its wan glow he made his way to the two wooden benches opposite each other. There was only one other occupant, a Nubian boy, who had finished his chores only a short time before Marcus. They nodded a casual greeting to each other since the Nubian could still speak only a handful of Latin words, though he understood a good deal more, thanks to Amatus’s vine cane.
Marcus pulled up his tunic and sat down on the wooden bench, which was worn smooth through many years of use. The faint trickle of running water came up from the channel that carried the waste away, out under the wall into a small stream that passed close by the gladiator school. He had nearly finished his business when he heard the crunch of footsteps approaching the latrine entrance.
‘Oi, Nubian, outside!’ Ferax jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I want a word with the centurion’s son.’
The Nubian nodded, then stood up and reached for the handle of the sponge stick in the nearest of the tubs of vinegar that stood between the two benches. He applied it quickly, then lowered his tunic and hurried from the latrine, casting a wary glance at Ferax as he dashed past.