Porcino made a quick calculation and responded with a cool smile. ‘I have to say that I have had my eye on these two. Most promising recruits I’ve had in a long time. They’re sure to have fine fighting careers ahead of them. I would be losing quite an investment if they were forced to fight.’
‘Then be sure to ask a fair price of me when we settle our business in your office.’
Porcino nodded, as he inclined his head and gestured towards the gate. ‘If you would go ahead of me, most noble Marcus Antonius, I must speak briefly to their trainer.’
‘Very well,’ the man said, as a faint flicker of frustration crossed his face. ‘But be quick.’
He turned away and strode casually towards the gate. Porcino approached Amatus. ‘Have them taken to one side. Find another trainer for the rest of your students. I want you to concentrate on these two. Drill them as thoroughly as you can. They must be ready to fight in five days’ time.’
‘Yes, master.’
Porcino turned to examine Marcus and Ferax. There was a sad expression on his face. Then the sentiment faded as his voice hardened. ‘They are to be kept with the other pairs selected for the event.’
‘Yes, master. A real fight is just what these two need. Will it be a display bout, master?’
Porcino shook his head.
‘First blood, then?’
‘No.’ Porcino shrugged. ‘My customer wants a very special entertainment. He is acting for someone in Rome who wants to celebrate a family birthday. Only the most lavish entertainment will do. When these two go out into the arena, it will be a fight to the death.’
23
The arrival of the party from Rome was marked by a whirl of preparations. Porcino ordered in fine delicacies, wines and the best food of the region, as well as hiring a celebrated cook owned by a wealthy wine merchant in Herculaneum to prepare a banquet for his guests. The arena attached to the gladiator school had a grandstand to one side where spectators had a good view across the sand-covered oval. In the days before the guests arrived Porcino’s slaves repainted the woodwork, erected a goatskin awning over the structure to provide shelter from any rain. The best couches from Porcino’s villa were carefully carried across to the grandstand and arranged in a shallow curve facing the sand. The couches were then covered with fine rugs and cushions before dining tables were laid out before them. Braziers were set up to keep the guests warm.
Marcus saw some of the preparations when he was marched over to the arena for training each morning in the lead-up to the event. As soon as Porcino’s visitor had paid the fee for the two boys to fight, they were immediately separated from the other slaves and moved into a small block of individual cells that backed on to the guards’ quarters. These cells were for those who were being made ready for a fight. Their food was carefully prepared to build up their strength: a thick meaty broth, boiled eggs, cured sausage with a high concentration of garlic and watered wine. The food was good, but Marcus had little appetite and had to force himself to eat, mechanically chewing each mouthful and not savouring the flavour. His mind was filled with a growing sense of dread as each day passed.
The men and boys picked to entertain the Romans were kept isolated from the other gladiators when not training. No talking was permitted in the cells, as each fighter mentally readied himself, forgetting his former companions and focusing his mind on the need to win, and live. Each morning Marcus was roused from his cell by Amatus and taken to the arena to be personally drilled in the use of the weapons he would wield in the bout with Ferax. Porcino’s customer had decided that they would fight with short-swords and small shields called bucklers, with studded leather cuirasses to protect their bodies. Marcus found the armour heavy and uncomfortable and it took a while before he got used to it. Amatus concentrated Marcus’s efforts on sword technique, adding a repertoire of new attacks and defences.
Another instructor was preparing Ferax, working on his fitness in the training ground. At noon the two pairs swapped places and Marcus put aside his sword and shield as he was ordered to run around the boundary, stopping every so often to lift weights. After that Amatus moved him on to the agility training, making him duck and jump as he swiped a long cane at the boy’s arms and head, or his legs. Marcus had to be alert to dodge the slashes, but sometimes he was too slow and winced whenever a stinging blow connected.
‘Let that happen in the arena and you’re dead,’ Amatus warned him.
Marcus nodded and hurriedly readied himself for his trainer to begin again, concentrating hard to avoid the next blows. Once Amatus was done with that exercise, he allowed Marcus a brief rest before he took up his weapons and moved on to the training posts to practise his sword strokes. Afterwards, as Marcus sat on the ground, wearily hugging his knees, he looked up at the trainer and asked, ‘Do you think I can beat Ferax?’
Amatus stared at him for a moment before he replied, ‘The odds are against you, young Marcus. Your opponent is bigger and stronger. If he can bring his weight to bear and knock you down, then you will be at his mercy.’ He paused, scratched his chin and continued in a more kindly tone, ‘But there’s always a chance, no matter what the odds. I’ve seen far more unevenly balanced fights yield a surprise result. The trick of it is not to get too close to him. Avoid direct contact and don’t let him use his size against you. You’re small and fast. Wear him down. A small cut here and there and you might bleed him enough to slow him down for a kill.’
Marcus felt a shiver go down his spine at the mention of the word. Even though a deep hatred of Ferax burned in his heart, he still felt that he was not sure that he could kill the Celt if the time came. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I’ve heard some of the veterans say that if a gladiator fights well enough, then even if he loses he is spared by the crowd.’
‘Fat chance.’ Amatus snorted. ‘Not with the lot you will be fighting in front of.’
Marcus frowned. ‘Why?’
‘They’ve paid for eight of Porcino’s best men, some of his animals and you two boys. A small fortune. You can be sure that they will want value for money. It’s not the same as a fight in a public arena. The mob are happy to watch a good fight and generous to a man who puts up a decent struggle before he loses. That’s because they haven’t paid for it. With aristocrats it’s different. They part with a fortune and aren’t happy unless blood is shed. If they have paid for a fight to the death, then that is what they expect.’ Amatus leaned forward and punched Marcus lightly on the shoulder. ‘So, when you get in that arena with Ferax, only one of you is coming out of it alive. Have that fixed in your head. Clear?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Then on your feet. There’s work to do.’
Marcus did not sleep the night before the fight. He sat propped up against the cold wall in his cell. Occasionally he could hear a sound from one of the other cells as a man shifted on his straw-filled mattress or muttered in his sleep. Once he could hear the sound of crying, and a thin keening whine, before a guard strode down the corridor in front of the cells and bawled at the man to be quiet. Marcus had never felt so lonely or afraid, even through all he had endured since the day that a happy life had been murderously stolen from him and his mother. He tried to force all such thoughts aside and concentrate on the coming fight. Amatus was right – his opponent would try to rush him and use his superior momentum to defeat Marcus. He would need to focus all his wits and be ready to evade Ferax’s attacks. At the same time he could not afford to get close enough to strike a killing blow. After a while, Marcus found himself wondering about Ferax. What would the Celt be thinking? Was he awake as well, planning his fight, tormented by fear and utterly unable to sleep?
At last the thin light of the coming dawn filled the barred window high on the wall, casting a weak beam on the door to the cell. As the shadows of the window bars grew more distinct and the room became brighter, Marcus rose from his bedroll and stretched himself, easing the stiffness out of his muscles. He felt tired, but knew that the months of gruelling training, and the advice that Amatus had given him in the past few days, meant that he was no longer the small, innocent child who had run through the olive groves of his father’s farm. He was a fighter. Today he would put his skills to the test. If he was killed, then all was lost. His mother would die alone and forgotten. If he won, then there was hope for them both.