He turned back to Marcus and Lupus. ‘Remember what I said, boys. If I lose, make yourselves scarce. Immediately. Understand?’
Lupus nodded but Marcus did not respond. Festus gripped his arm tightly.
‘Think of your mother. If you don’t do as I say, then you’ll never see her again.’
The thought filled Marcus with pain, but there was no real choice between his comrade and his mother. He nodded.
‘Good. Then wish me luck and pray to Fortuna!’
Festus turned and stepped into the open space cleared by Procrustes’ men, keeping his face to his opponent and easing himself into a balanced crouch. Procrustes took up his position and rolled his head round to loosen his neck. The Greek gave an evil grin, exposing his teeth and revealing gaps that Marcus guessed were caused by fights. His neck, such as it was, seemed to merge head and shoulders seamlessly and his chest was like a barrel. Beneath the hem of his tunic his massive thighs balanced on calves as sturdy as the legs of a vast table. His forearms were like hams and he swung the sword in an easy ellipse in front of him as he called out to the crowd.
‘People of Leuctra, I will give you a show this evening. And a lesson. This is what happens to those who choose to confront Procrustes. Leuctra is my town. Mine. I will crush anyone who forgets that. Now let’s begin the lesson, shall we?’
He strode towards Festus and then slowed as he came within two sword lengths. Marcus saw them size each other up, then Festus stepped forward and extended his arm, touching the end of his training sword against that of his opponent. Procrustes held his weapon firmly and then, with an easy twist of his forearm, he thrust Festus’s sword away. Caesar’s bodyguard came on without hesitation and feinted and stabbed at the Greek, but Procrustes easily blocked each thrust with a speed and dexterity that, while not graceful, was perfectly effective and demonstrated an excellent technique. Marcus knew that his comrade would need every ounce of his skill and experience. ‘Your friend is a fool,’ a voice hissed close by and Marcus turned to see a middle-aged lady swathed in a black cloak. There were streaks of grey in her dark hair and her eyes appeared sunken. ‘Procrustes will break every bone in his body before the fight is over.’
‘How do you know?’
She turned to him with a piercing gaze and her lips trembled. ‘Because that’s what the monster did to my son when he refused to pay protection money on his market stall. He died a few days later.’
Marcus was silent for a moment before he responded softly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Save your grief for your friend.’
Marcus turned back to the fight. ‘Festus can handle himself well enough.’
‘Then, if there’s any justice, he will humiliate Procrustes.’
Festus fell back a few paces to open a gap between them and the Greek gang leader sneered. ‘Had enough already? Then it’s my turn.’
He stepped forward in a slight crouch, well poised on his feet, and made a swift series of feints and genuine thrusts at his Roman opponent. The sharp crack of wood on wood echoed around the square and the crowd, which had been silent, began to mutter and let out gasps as Festus easily defended himself.
‘Come on, Procrustes!’ one of his thugs bellowed. ‘Beat his brains out!’
The Greek paused and called back. ‘When I’m ready. I want to play with the scum first.’
Lupus cupped a hand to his mouth and cried out. ‘Get him, Festus! I know you can do it!’
Those in the crowd looked at him in surprise and the woman nudged Marcus. ‘I’d shut that young man up if I were you. If you want to save him a hiding once Procrustes has defeated your friend.’
Marcus took a deep breath and shouted. ‘Go on, Festus! Cut him down to size!’
‘Your funeral,’ said the woman.
Procrustes went forward again, mixing a few brutal cuts into his attacks. Festus nimbly dodged aside to parry the blows away and the Greek drew back again, breathing heavily.
‘You’re good, Roman. I’ll give you that. Best I’ve fought in a while. You’re fast with a blade, but there’s no real strength there.’
Festus smiled thinly. ‘Think so? Then maybe you’re in for a surprise.’
He leapt forward and struck out at the Greek’s head. Procrustes instinctively threw up his sword arm to block the blow. Then Festus turned his blade and sent it down. Instantly, Marcus knew he had timed it too early and Procrustes punched his arm out to parry the redirected blow. Then, incredibly, Festus flipped his wrist again and the flat of the sword smacked into the side of the Greek’s head.
The crowd let out a cry of surprise as Procrustes staggered back, desperately warding off more attacks, training swords clattering against each other as they moved across the open space. Festus landed another blow, on the gang leader’s left wrist, and he let out a roar of pain and anger as he snatched his arm back.
‘Hit him again, Roman!’ the lady cried shrilly, waving her bony fist. Her cry was taken up by a few others in the crowd, and the thugs backing Procrustes craned their necks to see who was defying their leader. No doubt they would take their revenge later on, Marcus thought. If their man won.
Festus pressed home his advantage, his training sword moving with blistering speed as it danced round his opponent’s weapon. More blows landed and Procrustes gave ground, falling back towards his gang members as he desperately defended himself. More and more of the crowd were daring to cheer Festus on now and Marcus felt his hopes rise as he joined in, punching his fist into the air.
A fresh attack by the Roman drove Procrustes into the ranks of his followers and Festus stepped forward to finish him off. He never saw the blow coming. Marcus did, but before he could shout a warning it was too late. One of the thugs bunched his fists up, braced his boots against the flagstones and powered into Festus’s side, unleashing a torrent of punches to his chest and head. Festus staggered back in a daze as the crowd shouted angrily. But the incident had given Procrustes a chance to recover the initiative and he charged forward again, hammering away at the Roman’s sword.
Marcus was filled with outrage at the intervention and now his anger turned to dread as he saw Festus shuffle away from his enemy, head rolling as he struggled to recover. Procrustes struck out and gave a roar of triumph as the point of the wooden sword stabbed into the Roman’s thigh, just above his knee. Festus’s expression twisted in agony. At once the Greek struck again, smashing the training sword out of the other man’s hand, and it clattered to the ground some twenty feet away, leaving Festus helpless.
Procrustes’ supporters let out a roar and punched their fists up as they shouted his name over and over. The Greek stretched up to his full height and spat with contempt at his opponent.
‘Let’s finish this lesson the old-fashioned way!’ he called out, grasping his sword in both hands as he raised his knee and placed it behind the blade. With a sudden, powerful movement the wood shattered and splinters flew through the air. The gang leader tossed the ends aside and raised his fists.
‘Marcus!’ He looked round as Lupus plucked his tunic. The scribe jerked his head towards the nearest street leading out of the square. ‘We have to go. Now!’
He was still for a moment, then looked back and saw Festus feebly raising his fists to defend himself. Whatever happened he did not feel he could abandon his comrade. Marcus pulled himself free of Lupus’s grasp. ‘No.’
‘But he told us to go if he lost. We have to run, while we can still get away.’
‘Festus hasn’t lost,’ Marcus replied defiantly. ‘Not yet.’
‘Marcus, don’t be a fool. Let’s go.’
‘I’m staying to the end.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Lupus snapped and turned to ease his way out of the crowd. Marcus felt torn between following his friend and staying, but he could not bear the sense of betrayal that coiled in the pit of his stomach.