‘You?’ Now it was Marcus’s turn to pause. ‘You may have known my father. Which legion did you serve with?’
‘I didn’t serve with the legions. I served Spartacus.’
Marcus looked at him in surprise. Brixus returned his gaze with a cold, emotionless expression and Marcus wondered if he was telling the truth. Perhaps this was another of the practical jokes the men in the school seemed so fond of.
‘I thought most of the slaves captured by General Pompeius were put to death.’
‘They were. The day before the battle I was injured when my horse fell down a slope and rolled over me. I was forced to watch the battle from a wagon in the slave camp. Otherwise I would have shared the fate of all the men who were captured under arms. As it was, I was taken when the Romans entered the camp. I was sold on to one of the slave dealers who were following the legions. He sold me to Porcino soon after.’
‘I see.’ Marcus dipped his rag in the mix and began to polish a platter. ‘Did you ever meet Spartacus?’
‘Oh yes, most of the army knew him. He always made a point of walking through the camp each night to talk to his followers.’ Brixus paused and glanced warily at Marcus. ‘I saw him on many occasions. Spoke to him too.’
‘What was he like?’ Marcus asked eagerly.
‘He was a man like me. There were no horns growing out of his head. No fire burning in his eyes and he did not eat his prisoners, as you have no doubt been taught.’
‘But he must have been a great warrior. My father says the slaves fought like demons. Spartacus must have been a giant, like Phyrus.’
Brixus shook his head. ‘Spartacus was not a big man. He was my height and my build. He had dark curly hair and piercing brown eyes, like you. When the revolt broke out he had never killed a man. Never even fought in the arena. But he took to command like a fish to water. In days he had organized us into a formidable fighting force. In months he had gathered tens of thousands of followers, and captured enough weapons to equip us all. The other gladiators took on the job of training the slaves, and we did it well, as the departed spirits of many a Roman soldier will testify.’ Brixus gathered some more of the polish mixture and turned his attention to a new section of the platter. ‘Whenever we went into battle, Spartacus led the way, followed by the men of his personal bodyguard.’
Brixus smiled fondly as he recalled the memory, and Marcus stopped polishing to stare at him, his mouth dropping open slightly.
‘Were you in his bodyguard?’
Brixus frowned. ‘I did not say that. All I said was that I knew him, along with many who followed him. That’s all. Now ask me no more questions about Spartacus, or you’ll get us both into trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
Brixus lowered his platter and leaned closer to Marcus. ‘If your father was who you say he was, then you must know how much the Romans were terrified of Spartacus. They still are. They know that the spirit of Spartacus lives on in the hearts of every slave in Italy. Our masters want to make us forget. So you can imagine how angry Porcino might be if he overheard our conversation.’
‘But we’re alone,’ Marcus protested. ‘No one can hear us.’
‘Walls have ears,’ Brixus replied. ‘I’ve said enough already. Now get back to work, boy, and no talking.’
Marcus sighed, frustrated that he could not learn more about the great Spartacus. He raised his platter and began to rub the brass vigorously. All the same, he could not help wondering about Brixus. There was more to him than Marcus had thought. Much more. Despite his denial, clearly he had known Spartacus well. Well enough to put his life in danger if the truth became known. Marcus carefully looked up at the man from under his eyebrows. Come what may, he was determined to discover more about Spartacus.
19
As soon as he had recovered from Ferax’s beating, Marcus returned to training with the rest of the class. Winter swept across the Campanian countryside, bringing with it wind and cold squalls of rain. Brown, crispy leaves from the trees outside the school swirled over the walls and collected against the sides of the buildings and in the corners. The change in the season had not the slightest effect on the daily routine, however. After breakfast Marcus and the other boys marched out to the training ground, where Amatus instantly set them to work.
Every day it was the same set of exercises repeated over and over. The boys were exhausted and, having completed their duties for the day, collapsed on to the straw in their stalls and fell asleep at once. Marcus was the last to sleep, having been tasked with latrine-cleaning duties. Only when the wooden benches had been scrubbed, the vinegar tubs emptied and refilled, and the channels beneath the latrine benches sluiced clear could he rest. It took weeks before the stiffness in his muscles wore off by the next morning. But as winter set in he began to feel stronger. He could lift far heavier weights than when he arrived. His stamina was also steadily increasing, so that he no longer felt exhausted by the day’s labour and he rose each morning alert and ready to begin training.
In the last month of the year Amatus decided that they were ready to begin weapons training. As the boys marched into the training compound, they saw a small cart loaded with wooden swords and wicker shields. Marcus felt his pulse quicken at the sight. At last they were going to be taught how to fight! Even though he knew that this was another step on the way to the deadly combat of the arena, Marcus was keen to learn the skills his father had once had. He had already realized that there was little chance of escape while the guards watched the slaves closely from the towers. One day, perhaps soon, he would win his freedom. Then he would be better able to find his mother, set her free and protect her.
‘Right, you lot!’ Amatus shouted as he stood by the cart. ‘Each boy take a sword and a shield and stand in a line in front of the training posts!’
Marcus joined his companions as they pressed close to the edge of the cart and waited their turn to be equipped. He felt a sharp poke in his side as Ferax leaned towards him. ‘Wooden swords for now. But let’s see what damage they can do, eh?’
Marcus turned to look up at the Celt. ‘Wood or steel, either way, I will cut you down to size.’
‘Oho!’ Ferax chuckled. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘Silence there!’ Amatus bellowed. ‘One more word from you, Ferax, and you’re on latrine duty.’
Ferax bowed his head quickly and pushed himself in front of Marcus and the others to take his training weapons from Amatus. When it was Marcus’s turn he was surprised by the weight of the shield and the sword. He experimented with a few loose swings of the sword as he made his way over to one of the training posts – stout lengths of wood, standing as high as a man and battered and chipped from years of enduring blows from the gladiator school’s students. When all the boys were in position, Amatus approached a post in the middle of the line. He turned to face them.
‘I’ve spent the last months making you fit enough for what lies ahead. Now the real work begins. You will continue your exercises, carrying this kit. You will also be trained in basic fighting techniques. Today we will cover the absolute basics: the thrust, the recover and the block. Watch me closely.’
Amatus raised his shield and placed his left foot forward. ‘See this? You keep your weight evenly balanced and then lower your body so that you are ready to throw your weight forward or back as necessary. Always lead with your left foot and follow with your right. It’s not like normal walking.’ He looked round at the boys. ‘Got that? I don’t want to see any of you crossing your legs over. You do that in a real fight, your opponent can catch you off balance and knock you down in a flash. Learn to move properly now and it’ll become second nature. Right, adopt the stance and when I advance, you retreat, keeping the same distance between us. When I fall back, you follow up. Clear? Then into position.’