‘No one,’ Marcus said quietly, meeting his gaze defiantly. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware that Ferax was watching them closely. He cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as he could, so that all in the kitchen would hear. ‘I slipped over in the latrine.’
‘Is that so?’ Amatus could not help smiling slightly. ‘How many times? I had no idea taking a dump was so dangerous. Look here, boy, there’s no point in trying to pull the wool over my eyes, I’ve heard it all before. Someone attacked you. That’s against the rules and they’re going to have to be punished. Master Porcino does not take kindly to people mishandling his property. So tell me, who did this?’
‘I told you, I was in the latrine block and I slipped over, sir. That’s all.’
‘And that’s a lie, boy.’ Amatus frowned and poked his finger into Marcus’s chest. ‘I don’t like being lied to. Tell me, or it’ll be you I punish.’
‘I slipped over, sir,’ Marcus replied flatly.
‘On your head be it, then.’ Amatus turned to the cook. ‘Can’t afford for him to have any complications. He’s off training for two days.’
‘No, I can still do it.’ Marcus struggled on to his feet, only for Amatus to push him back down as he continued speaking to Brixus. ‘You’ve got yourself a full-time helper for a while. Make the most of it.’
‘There’s plenty of work he can do here.’ Brixus nodded. ‘I’ll keep him out of trouble.’
‘Better had.’ Amatus lowered his voice. ‘I can’t let this sort of thing happen again. Next time there will be consequences for those involved.’ He turned back to Marcus. ‘As for you, since you have such a problem keeping on your feet in the latrine, then the latrine obviously needs a good clean. That’ll be your job from now on. You’re off the evening kitchen detail. Instead you’ll scrub and wash down the latrine block each night. Maybe that’ll teach you not to lie to me.’
Amatus strode off, out of the kitchen and back towards the instructor’s mess to finish his morning meal. Once he had disappeared from view, Brixus looked round the kitchen and took a deep breath. ‘What are you all standing still for and gawping like fools? Get back to work!’
The boys instantly returned to their tasks, heads lowered as they avoided his gaze. Brixus stared at them a moment to ensure they were concentrating on their duties, then returned to Marcus. ‘You ever polished brass before?’
Marcus recalled the medallions on his father’s chest harness, each one awarded for an act of bravery. During the winter, the old centurion used to take out his kit and show Marcus how to keep it clean and gleaming through the use of an abrasive powder mixed with olive oil, rubbed in with an old cloth before being wiped away and buffed until it glinted. He looked up at Brixus. ‘I know how to polish.’
‘Good, because the master wants his table brass ready for a banquet in five days’ time. You can help me with the job.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
Once the men had eaten, and the boys had cleared and cleaned the kitchen before hurrying off to join them on the training ground, Brixus gestured to Marcus to follow him. They crossed the compound to the main gate, where one of the guards stepped into their path and raised his hand.
‘Halt! What’s your business here?’
Brixus limped to a stop, fished inside his tunic and brought out a waxed slate. He flipped it open and pointed to the instructions etched into the wax, together with the impression of Porcino’s seal ring. ‘There.’
The guard glanced over the slate. ‘What about the boy?’
‘He’s my assistant.’
The guard looked at Marcus and then stood aside as he nodded to the rest of the section guarding the main gate. ‘Open up.’
The locking bar was removed and the thick door opened just wide enough for Brixus and Marcus to pass through. It closed behind them with a deep thud as the guard waved them towards the villa of Porcino.
‘Come,’ said Brixus as he limped a short distance up the track before turning on to the drive that led to the villa. After the hardships of the gladiator school, Marcus saw that the owner lived very comfortably indeed. The drive to the house was lined with neatly trimmed bushes and every so often a short pillar supported the bust of a man. Marcus thought he recognized some of the faces from the statues he had seen at Nydri and in the towns and ports he had passed through on the way to Capua.
‘Who are they supposed to be?’ he asked Brixus quietly.
‘These?’ Brixus gestured towards the busts. ‘They’re the Roman quality, they are. Consuls, senators, high priests and so on. Our master likes to impress his guests, and at the same time he’s shrewd enough not to pick sides. See there? That’s Marius and directly opposite is Sulla. Bitter enemies in life and their legacy still divides the people of Rome. But Porcino aims to keep both sides happy whenever their supporters happen to pay a visit to the school.’
‘Do they come often?’
‘Often enough. There’s always some politician wanting to buy up some gladiators and put on a show to impress the mob.’
‘What about General Pompeius?’ Marcus asked, trying not to show his excitement. ‘Does he come here?’
‘Not likely!’ Brixus snorted. ‘He’s far too grand to pay us a visit in person. But we had one of his stewards here a while back. He bought four pairs of fighters for a private entertainment at Pompeius’s palace outside Rome.’
Marcus smiled to himself at the prospect, however slim, that such a fate might befall him one day. Perhaps Pelleneus was right. He should concentrate on staying alive long enough for such a chance to be placed before General Pompeius.
Porcino’s villa, like most grand Roman villas, was built with a large courtyard in front, entered through an elaborately decorated arch. Beyond the courtyard lay the main house, built around a neatly kept garden at the centre of which lay a pond into which the water from a fountain tinkled lightly. There was a small door in one corner of the courtyard that led through into the slaves’ quarters. Here was the familiar grim plainness of the school. Bare walls and gloomy rooms with high, barred windows. Brixus continued down a short corridor into a storeroom. The shelves were stacked with brass and silver platters, bowls and goblets. Elsewhere there was a collection of fine Samian ware, glass jugs and a few glass bowls. Brixus pulled up a couple of stools and returned with a small box containing some rags, as well as pots of abrasive powder and a small jar of oil. He muttered as he brought down a stack of brass platters and placed them on the floor between the stools. Handing one to Marcus and taking one for himself, he set to work.
‘So,’ Brixus said, as he mixed some powder and oil in a small dish. ‘What’s your story, young Marcus? How did you come to be a gladiator at the tender age of… what?’
‘I’m eleven,’ Marcus replied, shocked that he had forgotten his birthday over a month earlier.
‘As old as that?’ Brixus mused with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Almost a man, then?’
Marcus had grown used to the ironic banter of adults and did not rise to the bait. ‘I was taken illegally. My mother was also kidnapped, and my father, a retired centurion, was killed.’
‘Ah yes. I had heard that was your claim. Son of a centurion, eh?’
‘It’s true.’
‘If you say so.’ Brixus shrugged. ‘So what was your mother, an exotic eastern princess?’
‘No,’ Marcus replied. ‘My father met her during the slave revolt and married her soon afterwards.’
Brixus paused and glanced at Marcus, rag-wrapped finger poised over the brass platter in his other hand. ‘Your father took part in the campaign against Spartacus?’
Marcus nodded. ‘He was there at the final battle, where the slave army was crushed and Spartacus himself killed. My mother was one of the women captured when the legions sacked the slave camp.’
‘I see.’ Brixus looked down and continued rubbing the powder and oil into the brass platter. ‘I have to tell you, Marcus, I was there too, at the end of the great slave revolt. I was at that battle.’