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Marcus retreated two steps and held his ground, deflecting the wild blows, sensing the trembling in the other boy’s limbs as it transmitted itself from staff to staff. Atticus was tiring, and desperate to put an end to the fight. There was another sharp exchange of blows, the clatter echoing off the tall walls of a temple standing close to the fountain. Then Marcus leapt forward, bunching his muscles as he made a vicious cut at the knuckles of the Greek. The wood smacked down on the bone and Atticus let out a cry of agony and snatched his injured hand back, releasing his grip. At once the balance of his weapon was lost and the end wavered. Marcus pressed his staff against it and then swirled the end round and flicked his arms up, snatching the staff from the other boy’s hand and sending it up into the air, end over end. The crowd let out a gasp of surprise and admiration, but the contest wasn’t over yet. Marcus had to put his opponent down.

Atticus was as shocked as the spectators, too shocked to react as Marcus rushed up to him, planted his boot down behind the other boy’s leg and thrust his staff hard into his midriff. Just like his stockier comrade, Atticus went flying, landing heavily on his back. At once Marcus punched his staff into the air and cried out.

‘Victory!’

‘No!’ Atticus gasped painfully and began to struggle up.

Marcus quickly lowered his staff and poked the end into the other boy’s chest, just below his throat, pressing him back. ‘A word of advice. When you are down, stay down. Or face the consequences.’ He gave the staff an extra nudge to emphasize his point. With a fierce scowl, Atticus nodded and raised his hands in defeat.

Marcus turned round to see how Festus was doing. He was squaring up to Andreas, and the Greek, in turn, was standing, legs braced as he held his staff in a firm two-handed grip, ready to counter any move that Festus made.

‘Need any help?’ asked Marcus.

‘No. This one’s all mine.’

Andreas snorted and shook his head. ‘By the Gods, you must fancy yourself! Typical bloody Roman.’ His chest was heaving as he gasped for breath. He was a big man, Marcus observed. But he was out of condition, unlike Festus who exercised every day and whose body was as quick as his mind. Festus shaped to make a fresh attack and lunged with his staff, aiming for the other man’s stomach. But Andreas, heavy and unfit as he was, had the reflexes of a cat and knocked the staff aside before countering with a jab at the Roman, which caught him a glancing blow off the ribs. Festus drew back and winced as he felt his side. He bowed a quick salute to his opponent, then took a long, deep breath and grasped his staff firmly again.

Marcus felt a stab of concern for his friend but knew better than to intervene. Festus was a proud man, and any attempt to help him would only incur his anger. So Marcus lowered his staff and stood aside. Since he was the first to complete his fight there was one other task that fell to him. He looked around for the merchant who had taken the bet but could not see him immediately. Then he noticed a flash of blue and saw him edging towards the rear of the crowd. Returning his staff to his pack, Marcus drew out a dagger and tucked it inside the wide leather belt fastened round his midriff. He took another glance at Festus and saw him moving forward to renew the fight. Andreas raised his staff high, aiming for the Roman’s face, but Festus did not flinch. He thrust at the Greek and as his opponent moved to parry the blow, Festus cut under his staff, angled his weapon down and jabbed it at the Greek’s foot, crushing his toes.

Andreas bellowed in pain and instinctively lifted his injured foot to hop back, while still keeping his staff held up to counter his Roman opponent. It was too much for the heavy-set man to coordinate and he stumbled and fell, grunting as the air was driven from his lungs. Festus whacked the staff out of his hands and then pressed the end into the other man’s guts. Many in the crowd let out whoops of laughter as they saw the tough’s clumsy fall and Andreas flushed angrily.

‘Yield,’ Festus demanded.

The Greek’s expression darkened and then he glanced quickly round the crowd and realized that most were cheering for Festus and laughing in good humour. He forced himself to smile as he struggled painfully to his feet and held out his hand.

‘You won fairly, Roman. Chalcis has rarely seen a fighter like you. It is no dishonour to be bested by a professional fighter. A gladiator, perhaps?’

‘Once,’ Festus conceded, shifting his staff to his left hand and cautiously clasping hands with the Greek. ‘Now, I am merely a traveller in your land.’

‘And the boy? Surely too young to be a gladiator as well?’

‘No. He was a gladiator before he won his freedom.’

‘Really?’ Andreas looked round, and frowned. ‘Now where in Hades has he got to?’

Already halfway through the crowd, most of whom ignored him as their attention was occupied by Festus, Marcus was heading steadily in the direction of the blue tunic he had seen a moment earlier. The crowd began to thin out as he reached the rows of stalls and he saw the merchant walking quickly towards a street that led away from the market. Marcus ducked into a parallel street a short distance away and broke into a run. When he reached the first junction, he turned towards the street the merchant had gone down, then sprinted down a narrow alley towards the next corner where he stopped and pressed himself against the rough plaster of the wall. He drew his dagger from his belt and tried to breathe as quietly as possible when he heard the soft slap of sandals approaching. A moment later the merchant passed by him and Marcus stepped out, pressing the point of his knife into the small of the man’s back.

The merchant let out a yelp of surprise and turned as he backed against the building opposite.

‘You have a wager to honour, if I’m not mistaken,’ Marcus smiled. ‘Now let’s go back to the market to settle the matter. Ten pieces of silver. You’d better be good for it or my friend Festus is going to be unhappy.’

The merchant swiftly recovered from his surprise and his lips curled in contempt as he stared at Marcus. ‘You’re nothing more than a boy. Get out of my way.’

Marcus stepped to the side to block his path. ‘I’m the boy who just beat two of your street thugs in a fight. I’m also the boy who is holding a knife no more than a foot from your stomach. Now, you have a debt to pay. Back to the market. Move.’

‘That’s nine … Ten.’ The merchant counted the silver coins into Festus’s palm.

‘I thank you,’ Festus smiled. ‘And next time it might be an idea not to try and slip away.’

‘There won’t be a next time, I trust,’ the merchant replied sourly. ‘I hope I never set eyes on you, or your nasty little sidekick, ever again.’

‘You’d better hope that you don’t.’ Festus rested his hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Or next time I think my friend Marcus might not feel so willing to hold back with his dagger.’

‘He wouldn’t dare!’ The merchant spat in contempt.

Marcus tilted his head to the side. ‘No? Want to put it to the test?’

The merchant retreated and then hurriedly recovered his composure. ‘Bah! A bunch of petty con men, the pair of you. I’ve a good mind to report you to the town magistrates.’

‘Why don’t you?’ Festus dared him. ‘I’m sure they’d be interested in a man who tried to avoid paying a bet he made witnessed by everyone in the market of Chalcis.’