Marcus advanced his leading foot, held his shield up and glanced to either side to make sure he was in the correct posture. Amatus paced down the line, nodding approval and barking sharp criticism as he inspected his students. He paused in front of Marcus.
‘What the hell are you doing with that sword? It’s a sword, not a bloody walking stick! Hold it up, level with the ground, tip just in front of the shield! You have to be ready to strike or block at any moment.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus did as he was told.
‘That’s better.’ Amatus moved on.
When he was satisfied that everyone was ready, Amatus began to drill them in movement, gradually increasing the pace and testing their reactions with occasional swift advances and retreats. Those who were slow to react were bawled at and made to run around the training compound before rejoining their comrades. As the hours passed, the weight of the equipment began to tell and Marcus felt his muscles burning under the strain. But he gritted his teeth and continued, watching Amatus closely and matching his movements as swiftly as he could.
At length Amatus straightened up and lowered his shield. He looked over the class with a slight sneer. ‘That – was – pathetic. I’ve never seen such a bunch of losers in all my born days. So, we’ll just have to keep at it, until you thick-headed farmboys get it. Take position! Begin!’
The movement drill continued for the rest of the day, and the next morning. Amatus increased the pace of their movements, letting out a deafening ‘HA!’ each time that his right hand punched forward. The boys responded by raising their shields and swords, ready to parry direct attacks, as well as overhead blows and slashes from the side. When Amatus drew back and lowered his sword, they made their thrusts at an imagined foe and let out their own shrill cry of ‘HA!’
‘What the hell was that?’ Amatus responded furiously to their first effort. ‘You trying to make me laugh? When you strike, you give me a roar like a lion. There’s more to winning than using a blade well. You have to scare your opponent. You have to make ’em think you’re some wild barbarian warrior whose blood is on the boil. Make ’em fear you and the fight’s half won. Let’s try it again.’
He dropped into a crouch, paused, stepped back twice and pointed his sword towards the sand to signal his students to attack. Marcus thrust out his wooden sword with all his strength, at the same time as a cry ripped out of him, from the bottom of his lungs, adding to the din of the rest of the students.
Amatus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Better, but you still don’t scare me. Work on it.’
For the next few days they continued the drills. Then Amatus moved them on to the basic sword strokes and they spent hours thrusting and cutting at the training posts, the air filled with the sharp crack of wood on wood and the yells as each boy struck.
All the time Marcus watched Ferax closely in case he tried anything while Amatus was not looking their way. For his part the Celt regarded Marcus with contempt and had let it be known that he had beaten Marcus up. Now the other boys regarded Ferax with fear and did all that they could to avoid his attention. So none of them befriended Marcus, or even spoke to him. He tried not to care, as he still had the two Athenians for company, as well as Brixus, who treated him well and saved some extra scraps of food for him at the end of most days. However, Marcus felt the despair slowly building in his heart. He was no closer to finding General Pompeius and regaining his freedom and that of his mother. Nor would he ever have his revenge on Decimus while he was imprisoned in this gladiator school.
His misery was compounded by the cruel tricks that Ferax played on him whenever Amatus had his back turned. Some days he would deliberately position himself close to Marcus and then trip him up as they were running circuits of the training ground. Or he would shove Marcus when they were using weights, causing Marcus to drop them on the sand, and Amatus would spin round and bellow abuse into his face and strike him with his cane. Marcus bore it all with a grim determination to bide his time, build his strength and wait for the day when he was ready to turn on his tormentor.
The year drew to an end and still no opportunity for escape presented itself, as the slaves were kept inside the walls. The gladiator school began to make preparations for the annual festival of Saturnalia. One morning, wagons trundled into the school laden with jars of wine, fine bread, haunches of cured meat and baskets of pastries. They were unloaded by Marcus and the others, under the watchful gaze of Amatus and a section of the school’s guards, to prevent anyone stealing anything. Once the supplies for the feast had been placed in one of the storerooms, Amatus locked the door and took the key to Taurus.
While they waited for Amatus to return, Ferax stepped towards the door and sniffed. ‘Smell that, boys? Smell all that good food? In five days we’ll be eating our way through it.’
One of the guards laughed. ‘If the master is not happy with your progress then you’ll get what’s left over after the men have finished eating, my lad. That’s what you’ll be feasting on.’
Ferax scowled. ‘That ain’t fair. We’ve as much right to it.’
‘You’re just at the bottom of the pecking order.’ The guard cuffed Ferax round the ear. ‘And you call me “master” when you address me.’
‘Yes, master.’ Ferax bowed his head. He saw Marcus and grinned. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing, master. I ain’t at the bottom of the pecking order. He is, that one there.’ His lips twisted into a sneer. ‘The son of a centurion.’
Marcus stood still and concealed his feelings of hatred and anger as Ferax continued in a louder voice, addressing the rest of the class, ‘When Saturnalia comes, I get first choice from the table. Then my friends, then you lot and lastly him.’ He stabbed his finger at Marcus. ‘If anyone tries to jump the queue, then they’ll have me to answer to, and you all know what happens to those who try to defy me…’
Hardly any of the boys dared meet his eye and a few glanced nervously at Marcus as they remembered his fate.
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Marcus said firmly, though inside his stomach knotted with anxiety.
‘No? Well, you should be.’ Ferax glared at him and then slowly shook his head. ‘Not that you’ll be around to fear me for much longer.’
Marcus frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Before Ferax could respond, a voice cut through the air.
‘What’s all this?’ Amatus bellowed as he strode back towards them. ‘Hanging around like a bunch of farmhands.’ He shook his cane. ‘Get in line, damn you! Or you’ll feel this across your backs!’
At once the boys rushed into formation and Amatus led them off to the training ground, where he drilled them hard for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Once the boys were dismissed and had made their way to the kitchen, they talked in excited tones about the coming festival. Marcus knew about Saturnalia from his days on the farm. As the year came to an end, the house would be decorated with garlands made from the branches of pine trees. In the kitchen his mother would labour over special treats. On the day of the festival, Marcus’s father, as head of the household, would act as the host for his family and slaves alike, serving at the table where they had gathered to eat. Afterwards, Aristides would take out his flute and play music for a while, before someone else would tell a story or put on a mime. Then, as night closed in, Marcus would ask Titus to tell them a tale of his years in the army, of the sights that he had seen as General Pompeius’s legions had marched across the known world. Marcus sighed. That was at the time when the farm had been making money and Titus had owned several more slaves. When his fortune had turned, the slaves were sold off one by one and the celebration of Saturnalia became a very quiet affair.
Marcus smiled as he recalled the happier days that were almost like a dream to him now. A painful dream. He wondered what form the festival would take in the gladiator school. Would Porcino himself come to serve his slaves? It hardly seemed possible. At least there would be a brief break from the usual exhausting daily routine. That was something, he reflected, and he kept his mind on the promise of a stomach filled with good food for the rest of the day’s training session.