Marcus felt his blood go cold. ‘Do you really think so?’
The Spartan nodded, then eased himself back from the ventilation slit and yawned. ‘Nothing we can do about it, boy. Best you get some rest. You’ll need it when you go back to training in the morning.’
Marcus glanced at him and nodded, but stayed by the opening, watching as the hunt inside the compound came to an end and Porcino ordered his men to start searching outside the walls. The Spartan cracked his shoulder joint and turned back towards the stall as he muttered, ‘Anyway, happy Saturnalia, boy.’
But Marcus could not reply. He was too caught up in thoughts of what would happen to his friend if they found him.
For the next few days Marcus lived in dread of hearing the news that Brixus had been recaptured. He and the other boys continued with their training. The winter was cold and the boys shivered each morning as they rose with the dawn to carry out their duties in the kitchen before Amatus led them out to the training ground. As the new year began, he introduced his students to new techniques in swordplay and then had them practise against the posts until he was satisfied that they were ready for the next stage.
It was a cold, bleak morning as Marcus and the others collected their training weapons and formed up in two lines, waiting for Amatus to begin the day’s lesson. He stood before them, examining the slaves with a hard stare. Then he spoke.
‘Today, we put your training to the test for the first time. You’re all a lot fitter, tougher and stronger than you were when you arrived here. You also know how to handle a sword and shield. However, it’s one thing to practise against a post. Quite another to be faced by a real opponent. And that’s what you will be doing from now on.’
Marcus felt his pulse quicken and the boys on either side of him stirred with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.
‘Today you will begin sparring with your comrades. The rules are simple. You will fight when I give the command and you will stop the moment I give the order “Cease!” I want you to fight like you mean it. Like your life depended on it, because it will one day. You will do yourselves no favours by pulling your blows. I know some of you may be friends, but know this: a gladiator cannot afford to have true friends. A true friend you might give your life for. That is not the concern of a gladiator. Anyone you call a friend today may well be matched against you in the arena tomorrow. And then where will your friendship get you? Killed.’ He paused to let his hard words sink in. ‘Now, you need to know where to strike. Ferax!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Step forward, here!’ Amatus pointed to the spot in front of his students. He turned Ferax around to face the other boys. ‘Watch carefully. Lower your shield, Ferax.’
With the Celt standing before them unprotected, Amatus swiftly raised his training sword and pointed it at Ferax’s face. The Celt flinched slightly.
‘A thrust here may kill your opponent if it breaks through his skull. At the very least it will cripple him. However, it’s a difficult blow to strike. But you can use it to distract him, then go for another target.’ He lowered the tip of his sword. ‘Like the throat, for instance. A good strike here will get you a kill. Lower down we have the chest. Best to avoid this area, since many opponents will have armour, a shield, or both. You need to be very close and ram the blade home if you are going to get through the ribs to the heart. Better to aim lower. As we say in the business, the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. A good thrust here has a chance of striking an organ, or if you rip the blade out violently enough you may disembowel him.’ Amatus tapped the tip of the wooden sword against Ferax’s thighs and arms. ‘The limbs make good targets and you should try to cut tendons to cripple your opponent. They won’t bleed out, but at least they won’t move, or strike as fast, and you can pick ’em off at your leisure.’ He lowered his sword. ‘There’s no point in showing you targets to strike on the rear of your opponent, since no gladiator worth his salt will ever turn and run from you. If he does that, then he’s as good as lost the fight already. Is that clear to you all?’
‘Yes, sir!’ the boys called back.
Marcus joined them, even though he was unnerved by the cold-blooded advice that Amatus had just presented to them. It was the first time that the real purpose of all their training had been brought home to them so directly. Marcus wondered how the other boys were reacting to the possibility of one day having to try to kill someone they had trained with. He glanced to either side and noted the intent expressions on people’s faces as they exchanged brief looks with their companions.
‘Very well.’ Amatus nodded to Ferax. ‘Get back to your position.’
Once Ferax had rejoined the others, Amatus pointed to the line of posts. ‘When I give the order, you will wait over there. I’ll call you out two at a time. The rest of you will watch closely. Learn from their mistakes. Go!’
They hefted their shields and quickly trotted over to the stakes. Amatus waited until they were still and then pointed to one of the Nubian boys. ‘You!’ Then he pointed to one of Ferax’s companions, a heavy-set Celt with a spotty complexion. ‘And you! Step forward.’
The two boys emerged uncertainly from the ranks and Amatus clapped his hands together. ‘Quickly! Out here and face each other, ten paces apart.’
They trotted forward to take up their positions and Amatus stood slightly to one side, sword in hand. ‘Make ready!’
The two boys lowered themselves into a crouch, shields raised and swords advanced, slightly to one side.
‘Begin!’
At once they closed on each other, halting just beyond reach, as each sized the other up. The Celt moved first, stepping forward and lunging with a loud cry. The Nubian easily retreated and knocked the blow aside. They both drew off for a moment, then the Celt struck again, running forward and battering the other boy’s shield. The Nubian took the blows, holding his ground, and then, just as the other began to draw back to catch his breath, the Nubian struck. He lashed out at the sword arm, a savage numbing blow that almost caused the Celt to drop his weapon. As he cried out in pain and surprise, the Nubian struck at his knee and then crashed forward, throwing his full weight behind his shield. The blow knocked the Celt back. He stumbled, then tripped and toppled on to his back with a thud and an explosive gasp of breath. The Nubian sprang forward, teeth flashing with a triumphant grin. He stood astride his opponent, sword raised, and then looked towards Amatus for confirmation of his victory. On the ground the Celt seized his chance and kicked up into the Nubian’s groin. With an agonized groan the Nubian doubled up and staggered aside. The Celt scrambled to his feet and punched the other boy on the head, again and again, until his legs gave way and he fell on his knees. The Celt grasped the wooden sword and ripped it from the other boy’s grasp. He didn’t spare the trainer a glance as he whacked the Nubian on the side of the head, sending him sprawling and dazed on the sand. Just as he went to strike again, Amatus intervened.
‘Cease!’
The Celt drew back. Amatus ignored the boy on the ground as he stared round at his students. ‘Lesson one: the fight is not over until you are certain the other man is down and out.’ He turned to the Celt. ‘Help him up and get back over there. Next bout: Petronius and Democrites.’
The sparring went on for the next hour and Marcus watched the fighters closely, noting their mistakes and where they achieved success. He felt increasingly anxious as he waited for his name to be called out, particularly as Ferax had not yet been picked either.
Several bouts had been fought when the gate to the training ground was opened by a guard and two men entered: Porcino and a stranger wearing an embroidered red tunic and fine leather boots that stretched up his calves. As soon as he saw them, Amatus called his class to stand to attention and ordered them to bow their heads.