In a fight to the death he would do all he could to survive. He was a skilled fighter and Festus had taught him a number of new tricks and techniques. Marcus was as well prepared as any gladiator his age could hope to be. But there was always the element of chance. A slip or an unexpected distraction could lose him the fight. And there was the question of his opponent, who might simply be the better gladiator. Too many factors were involved for Marcus to give a definite answer. He turned to Festus. ‘Have they named my opponent on the street notices?’
Festus shook his head. ‘He is merely described as the champion of a gladiator school in Campania. I’ve asked about, but Bibulus has kept him tucked away.’
‘Do we know what type of gladiator he is?’
‘No. Not even that,’ Festus replied with a shrug.
‘I see.’ Marcus sighed in frustration. He turned back to Caesar. ‘Master, I will do my best. That is all I can promise.’
Caesar nodded slowly. ‘And that is all I can reasonably ask. I have been more than well served by you, Marcus, and I promise to reward you when our troubles have passed. You shall not find me ungenerous.’
Marcus thought quickly. Here was his chance. In two days’ time he might be dead, so there was nothing to lose in making his demands now. Even if Caesar was angered by his terms there was little he could do about it. Caesar needed Marcus, he needed him as fit as possible, and so he dare not punish him. Marcus cleared his mind of all but the most important considerations.
‘Master, I will fight as well as I can. I want to live. Also, I understand what is at stake for you and your allies in the Senate. If I win then I shall deserve my reward, and I will name it now.’
Caesar’s eyebrows rose. ‘You would presume to tell me?’
‘Yes, master.’ Marcus swallowed his nerves and continued as boldly as he could. ‘If I win, then you will have your great political victory. I have saved your life, and your niece’s life, twice. I will deserve more than your gratitude.’
‘How dare you!’ Festus interrupted, outraged.
‘Let him speak!’ Caesar commanded. ‘Now that he has found his tongue, I will hear what he has to say. Continue, Marcus.’
He nodded his thanks. ‘You know my story, master. You know the great injustice that my family has suffered. My. . father lies dead, my mother is condemned to a chain gang, and I have endured the hardship of a gladiator’s training. If I win the contest in two days’ time, then I shall want my freedom. I shall want freedom for my mother and I shall want the tax collector Decimus brought to justice. Those are my terms.’
‘I can promise the first, and I will do what I can for your mother,’ Caesar replied. ‘But as for the third, I shall need evidence I can use against Decimus.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Marcus replied firmly. ‘I will have my revenge. One way or another.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Caesar could not help looking slightly amused.
Marcus did not feel a shred of humour in his body as he replied. ‘It is a promise.’
Caesar was quiet for a moment before he nodded. ‘Very well, I agree to your terms.’
‘Then swear an oath to guarantee it, master. With Festus as witness.’
Caesar sucked in a sharp breath and spoke in a low, cold tone. ‘Be careful, young man, you may push me too far.’
‘Master, I have nothing to lose.’
Festus shifted uncomfortably in his chair but dared not pass any comment. There was a deadpan expression on Caesar’s face. Marcus had seen that look before. . when Caesar was contemplating some ruthless deed.
All three were still and silent. The tension was almost as much as Marcus could bear. He feared he had gone too far, and Caesar might well have him flogged, but there was no turning back now. There was a deep frown on Caesar’s brow when he finally spoke.
‘I swear it, by the most sacred gods of my family.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Who would have believed it? A consul of Rome held to account by a mere slave boy. That I have lived to see this. .’
27
They arrived early in the morning, a full hour before the appointed time for the duel. It had rained hard during the night and the flagstones in the Forum were slick and gleamed dully in the pale light. The air, usually heavy with the stink of the city, was fresh and had a slight musty tang as the morning sun evaporated the puddles on the dirty streets.
Marcus was accompanied by Festus and a handful of his body-guards who carried Marcus’s weapons and equipment, as well as a small litter to take him back to his master’s house if he should lose the fight. Caesar had yet to set out for the Senate House, and was conferring with Pompeius, Crassus and the rest of his closest political allies. Regardless of how the duel turned out, the vote over the Land Bill would go ahead and they had to be ready for any last-moment switches in allegiance.
A large crowd of people had already claimed the best vantage points to watch the contest. Once Festus’s men had set down the equipment they began to rope off an area in front of the steps of the Senate House to form a makeshift arena, a square of roughly sixty feet on each side.
Marcus stood by the equipment as Festus oversaw them. He was filled with the same dread he had felt at his last fight in an arena — at Porcino’s school, months ago now. He felt sick to his stomach and the tension heightened his senses so the world around him seemed drenched with colour, light and shade, and the sounds of the city were more keen and rich in tone. Even his sense of smell detected subtle odours he had not been aware of before. His limbs felt light and tense and they trembled a little.
‘Here, take my cloak,’ said Festus, wrapping it around Marcus. ‘Better?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Try not to think about the fight itself. Concentrate on your preparation.’
Not knowing what weapons the other gladiator would be using, Festus had opted to play safe and have Marcus fight as a retiarius — a net man. This meant he was protected by a shoulder guard and a studded leather stomach belt, and armed with a short trident with cruelly barbed points, as well as the net itself. This was eight foot across, weighted at the edges and attached to Marcus’s wrist by a leather loop, which he could easily slip off if the need arose. Although he would have hardly any protection, Marcus would be able to move and strike quickly.
They had spent the previous day practising in the yard. During the morning, Festus had taken the role of a heavily armed Samnite, constantly trying to rush Marcus and force him into a corner. But Marcus had learned to avoid that trap and darted aside, casting his net to trip Festus, or throwing it high in an attempt to tangle him in its folds. Marcus had been careful to favour his wounded knee and had been knocked down twice, much to Festus’s irritation. In turn, he had brought down his trainer three times and Festus had been grudgingly satisfied. In the afternoon, Festus had sparred as a retiarius and it had become a fierce and focused duel in which Festus had used his greater size and speed to hold his own. They had ended the day hot, tired and sweating, with equal honours.
Although he still felt a little stiff, Marcus was ready to face his opponent. His knee had been carefully bound to protect the wound while giving him as much mobility as possible. He felt confident about his weapons and had carefully chosen the most balanced trident from the small armoury at Caesar’s house.
‘Best get you limbered up,’ said Festus. He took a pot of garlic oil from his leather satchel and poured some into the palm of his hand. ‘Take off the cloak.’
Marcus did as he was told and shivered in the cool air as Festus gently kneaded his shoulders, arms and legs, easing the tension out of the muscles. Once he had finished he handed the cloak back to Marcus — just as Caesar and his closest political allies strode up. Lupus followed a short distance behind his master and offered Marcus a nervous smile as they approached.