It was hours later, after his mind had turned over the situation with Crassus, Pompeius and Decimus a hundred times and he was still no closer to coming up with an answer, that Marcus’s weary mind finally began to embrace sleep.
‘Wake up, Marcus, you dozy fool!’ Festus shouted at him, whipping his cane out and flicking the end on to his shoulder. There was a burning pain and Marcus grimaced as he jumped back and held his club out in front of him, ready to parry the next blow. Marcus did not resent his hard treatment. After all, Festus was training him to survive, and he knew he’d been slow this morning, finding it difficult to concentrate after his miserable night. But he had reached a decision — he would bide his time and find out how Decimus fitted into Caesar’s world. Then he could decide how best to act. He focused himself once more on the fight, knowing these skills were needed to protect Portia.
‘That’s it.’ Festus nodded with satisfaction. ‘Much better, Marcus. Now stay alert. You can’t afford to react slowly in the streets. You could face an attack from any direction, at any time. And unless your eyes and ears are razor sharp it’ll be too late to do anything.’ Before he had completed his sentence his cane was lashing out again. This time he aimed it in a wide arc towards Marcus’s other shoulder. It was an obvious move and Marcus instinctively moved to block it. As soon as he did so Festus flicked the cane up and brought it down towards Marcus’s head, hissing through the air. Marcus dropped down on one knee and threw his club up so that the cane cracked against the shaft instead.
‘Good lad,’ Festus grunted approvingly as he stepped back and lowered the cane. Once again they were in the small yard at the side of the house where Festus trained and exercised his men. ‘When you’re outside the house that club will be the first weapon you can use in a fight. Any blades you carry will be tucked in your belt or hidden under your tunic. They’ll be no use if you’re suddenly attacked. They’re only for when you have time to draw them out. Or when it’s you that’s making the attack, or setting an ambush. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Of course, there’s more than one way to use the club,’ Festus continued as he swept his cane above his head. ‘Only an idiot or an untrained fighter, which comes to the same thing on the streets, just swings the thing around.’
He lowered the cane and thrust the tip forward, pulling back the blow at the last moment so the point gently tapped Marcus on the chest. Marcus did not flinch, or even blink, just as he’d been taught. Taurus had once said that a fight between gladiators was half won the moment one of the combatants stared out his opponent.
Festus chuckled approvingly. ‘Perhaps the master was right. There’s a natural warrior inside you. With the right training and provided you live long enough, you might be a fine gladiator one day.’
Marcus felt his blood chill at the thought. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to fight another person to the death just to entertain a bloodthirsty mob — two slaves turned on each other for the pleasure of their masters.
Suddenly he had the unnerving sensation of another person standing at his shoulder, watching over him. He glanced round briefly but saw only the plain weathered plaster on the wall of the yard. Nevertheless, he had felt the presence of something, or someone, and a chill rippled down his spine. Perhaps it was the shade of his father — his real father, Spartacus. What would he think of his son working for one of the most powerful men in Rome, someone who represented everything his father had fought against?
Marcus realized a brief silence had fallen and saw Festus looking at him irritably. He quickly recalled the last words spoken to him and hurriedly cleared his throat.
‘Yes, sir. I hope so. A champion that Caesar will be proud to own.’
Festus’s expression relaxed into a smile. ‘That’s the spirit, boy. You have ambition. I like that. Still, ambition is only a small part of the struggle towards greatness. A gladiator needs strength, self-discipline and skill, and these only come through absolute dedication and training. Is that clear? There are no short cuts.’
Marcus nodded, and Festus continued. ‘Now back to the lesson. It’s vital that you are adept with the club before you guard Mistress Portia. If you fail to protect her, you can be certain the master will make you pay for it with your life. In that case, what have you to lose? If you are forced to fight to save her, you must be prepared to die.’
‘Yes, master.’ Marcus nodded solemnly. He had a brief vision of rescuing Portia again, saving her from some faceless attackers. He pushed the image aside. ‘I understand.’
‘Of course, fighting is a last resort,’ Festus told him. ‘Escape is always the first and best option. A bodyguard must not think like a soldier. If there is a choice between fight or flight, then you must always get the person you are protecting out of danger. But if it comes to a fight, remember you can use the point of the club as well as slashing with it.’ He stabbed the tip of his cane savagely into the wall beside Marcus’s shoulder, cracking the surface and sending chips of plaster flying through the air.
‘See there.’
Marcus turned and saw the depression in the wall with the spidery lines leading out from the impact point. He could easily visualize the damage that blow could have done to flesh and blood.
‘Imagine that was a man’s face, or his chest,’ said Festus. ‘If you were lucky enough to strike him in the eye it would blind him, and perhaps kill him. Either way he would be out of the fight. A slashing blow from a club bruises muscles and might break bones, but it is a crude and clumsy technique and not as effective. Always look to end a fight as quickly as you can. There is no audience to please, no glory to be won. Just get it over with and get Mistress Portia to safety as soon as possible.’
They practised with the club for the rest of the day and Festus did not spare Marcus much pain as they sparred. Marcus gritted his teeth and continued, gradually refining his technique until he could block almost every blow, and anticipate his trainer’s moves. Towards the end of the afternoon he even began to land his own strikes on Festus, making little effort to take the sting out of his cuts, or the power out of his thrusts with the end of the club.
Finally, Festus ended the lesson, rubbing his wrist where Marcus had just landed a sharp blow. He nodded grudgingly. ‘You learn fast. Tomorrow we move on to the stave. Off to the kitchen with you. And get a good night’s sleep. We’ll start at first light.’
6
Dusk had closed over Rome by the time Marcus felt his way into the slave cell and dropped on his bedroll, exhausted. He touched the sore spots on his arms and chest where Festus had struck him during training and winced. There would be many more bruises in the days ahead. He lay on his back and shut his eyes. How he wished for his comfortable bed on the farm, with his mother and Titus asleep in the next room. Free to roam his father’s land and play with Cerberus. He even missed helping the shepherd round up the goats and then sitting and watching over them as Aristides hummed a tune from the shade of an olive tree. At the time he’d found it boring, but how peaceful it had been — he hadn’t even realized his own happiness.
The sound of shuffling steps and low muttering disturbed his sleep and his eyes flickered open. Sitting up with a start, he saw two shadows heading past his bedroll towards the far end of the cell.
‘Sorry,’ Lupus muttered. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’