Ferax sauntered slowly down the length of the latrine as he undid his belt. ‘Well now, boy, it’s time to see just how brave you can be. You ready for it?’
Marcus felt his insides turn to ice as he hurriedly scrambled up and pulled his tunic down. He glanced round quickly, but all the windows were little more than slits high up on the wall and there was only one doorway into the latrine. He was trapped. Marcus snatched up a sponge stick and held it ready in front of him. Ferax stared at him and then chuckled. ‘What, you think you’re going to stop me with a stick?’
‘Leave me alone,’ Marcus said as firmly as he could. ‘I won’t warn you again.’
‘Oooh, you scare me.’ Ferax pretended to tremble. ‘You really do.’
Marcus realized that there was no way out of the confrontation. There was nothing he could say to talk Ferax out of it. As he accepted this, Marcus felt a sense of calm in his mind and heart. He would fight and most likely lose. But he would hurt Ferax as much as possible in the process.
‘Then I’m not the only thing that scares you,’ Marcus responded. ‘I saw you when we were waiting to be branded. I saw how scared you were. I saw you shake like a coward. That’s why you hate me, isn’t it?’
Ferax stopped six feet from Marcus and snapped the belt out between his hands. ‘Does it matter why? The fact is I hate you and I want to hurt you, Roman.’ He began to wrap the belt around his right fist, ending with the buckle across his knuckles. Then he took a wary step towards Marcus, lowering his body as he prepared to spring. Marcus raised the sponge stick and leapt forward before his opponent could get in his attack. The soiled stick, soaked in vinegar, struck Ferax on the cheek and he let out a brief cry of surprise and pain as Marcus stabbed the stick at his face, aiming for the eyes. As he had hoped, Ferax instinctively raised his hands to ward off the blow, and the Celt’s fingers closed round the shaft of the stick and he snatched it away. Marcus released his grip and threw himself forward into the other boy’s body, punching into Ferax’s stomach with all his weight.
‘Ooof!’ Ferax grunted as he bent over.
Marcus punched again, then changed his angle and slammed his fist into Ferax’s nose. The older boy’s surprise quickly passed and now he let loose an animal growl, ignoring the blows Marcus rained on him. Ferax shoved Marcus back with his left hand and then slammed his right into Marcus’s side. The blow was sharp and painful and took his breath away, but he knew that if he stopped fighting, Ferax would pulverize him. Ferax punched him in the side again, then aimed a blow at Marcus’s head, catching him on the jaw. The buckle cut into his flesh and Marcus saw a bright flash of white, then swirling sparks as he staggered back a step. Ferax followed up and hit him again, close to the ear. Marcus felt his legs wobble and he went down on one knee, instinctively raising his hands to protect his head. Ferax hit him again and Marcus fell flat on to the paved floor with a gasp. Above him the vicious expression of the Celt swam in the dim light cast by the brazier as he leaned over Marcus and punched him again and again, until he lost consciousness.
18
‘You’re late,’ Brixus said gruffly as he approached Marcus from behind the following morning. ‘I’ll give you a good hiding if you don’t have those fires ready in time.’
Marcus rose stiffly from where he was arranging the kindling in the hearths. He looked down at Brixus’s boots as he nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Brixus. It won’t happen again.’
His voice was strained and muffled, and Brixus stepped towards him and lifted his chin to raise his face up, then caught his breath.
‘Looks like you’ve been thoroughly worked over, my lad.’
Marcus’s left eye was swollen so much it was closed. His face was cut and bruised and his lips were split and crusted with dried blood. He held one hand protectively over his ribs. Brixus puffed his cheeks out and steered Marcus towards a stool in the corner of the kitchen. ‘You sit there. I’ll find something else for you to do.’
‘I’m all right,’ Marcus mumbled.
‘No, you’re not,’ Brixus replied with a wry smile. ‘You’re a mess. Now do as you are told and sit down.’ He pushed Marcus towards the stool, then turned, looked round the kitchen and clicked his fingers as he pointed at one of the other boys. ‘Bracus! You’re on fire duty this morning. Get ’em laid and lit. And you, Acer, go and fetch Amatus.’
‘Amatus? The drill instructor?’ The boy looked fearful.
Brixus cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do you know another Amatus? No? Then get to it!’
Marcus eased himself down on to the stool and winced as pain stabbed into his side. He breathed as gently as he could until the pain had gone away. Then his thoughts returned to the previous night. The last thing he could recall of the confrontation with Ferax was being beaten while he tried to curl into a protective ball on the ground. Then all was blank until he woke in the night to find Pelleneus mopping his face with a damp cloth, and Phyrus in the background looking on anxiously. The faint glow of a torch lit the scene as Phyrus muttered, ‘It’s my fault. I should have kept an eye out for him.’
Pelleneus shook his head. ‘That’s not possible. You couldn’t have prevented this.’
As Marcus stirred and groaned in agony, Pelleneus leaned forward. ‘Who did this to you? Tell us, Marcus.’
Marcus shook his head.
‘It was the Celt, wasn’t it?’
Marcus did not reply.
‘I thought so.’ Pelleneus nodded. ‘Well, he’s not going to get away with this. I’ll see to him.’
‘No!’ Marcus croaked. ‘Leave him to me. I’ll have my own revenge.’
‘You think so?’ Pelleneus glanced over his injuries. ‘Next time, he’s going to kill you.’
‘I’ll be better prepared,’ Marcus mumbled through his swollen lips.
‘He’s right,’ a voice interrupted, and they turned towards the Spartan, who was standing a short distance away. ‘The boy has to fight his own battles, if he is to become a man.’
Pelleneus glanced round. ‘Another fight will kill him, Spartan. So just leave the philosophy to us Athenians, eh?’
The Spartan shrugged. ‘The boy knows what I say is true. This is his fight and you don’t have the right to take it from him.’ He turned his dark, penetrating gaze on Marcus. ‘I know your mind, boy. You have the blood of a warrior in your veins. You must not shame yourself by avoiding this fight.’
‘I won’t.’ Marcus nodded as he closed his eyes again. ‘I will beat him.’
Pelleneus let out a sigh of frustration. ‘It’s your funeral, Marcus. And thank you, Spartan. You are as helpful as ever…’
When dawn came, Marcus had taken a while to get back on to his feet. Every movement was agony as he made his way from the cell block to the kitchen. Now he looked across the counters to where Ferax and his cronies were joking with each other as they filled the cauldrons with ground barley, oil, salt and animal fat. He felt a yearning for revenge. Come what may, he would face Ferax again. But next time he would be prepared. He would be stronger and he would learn how to fight well. When he was ready, Marcus would teach the Celt a lesson he would never forget. At that moment Ferax looked up and caught his eye. The two boys stared at each other, then Ferax winked and pursed his lips in an expression of mock pity.
Marcus felt a dreadful wave of rage and hatred sweep through his body. The desire for revenge even eclipsed the feeling of hatred he had for Decimus, who had caused all this to happen in the first place.
Amatus entered the kitchen and looked round until he saw Brixus and then strode up to him. ‘You asked for me?’
‘Yes, it’s the boy there.’ Brixus nodded towards Marcus. ‘He’s been beaten – badly. I doubt he will be able to train today and I thought you should know.’
‘Beaten?’ Amatus came over to Marcus and looked at him, noting the injuries. ‘Who did this to you, boy?’