He could not deny the thrill of his triumph and the giddy joy of having survived the fight. Marcus punched his trident into the air, and again as he yelled his name along with the crowd. He turned and saw Lupus grinning at him. Suddenly the grin faded and Lupus thrust out his hand, pointing behind
Marcus. He was shouting something, but his words were lost in the din.
Marcus frowned, lowering his trident, and turning to follow the direction of Lupus’s finger. He saw a blur of movement, Ferax bare-headed, a ferocious snarl on his face as he snatched up the sword. Marcus just had time to raise his trident before Ferax crashed into him, smashing him back on to the ground. His head cracked against the wet stone and everything went black.
‘Marcus! Marcus. .’
Slowly the black gave way to light, with a blurred face looming over him. He blinked and his vision began to clear. An agonizing pounding filled his head and he winced.
‘Marcus, can you hear me?’
‘Y-yes,’ he muttered. Now he saw a ring of other faces around him, strangers, looking down. Then he recognized Lupus and Festus staring at him anxiously. He was still in the arena. What had happened? Festus gently lifted him to his feet and supported him round the shoulders. ‘Ferax!’ He started in alarm.
‘Easy there,’ said Festus. ‘You’re all right.’
‘Where’s Ferax?’ Marcus demanded.
‘There.’ Festus nodded at the ground.
Ferax lay on his side, his eyes wide open and unblinking. His mouth was firmly closed, pinned into place by the prongs of the trident that had impaled him under the chin and pierced his skull. Marcus stared at his body, feeling empty and sick. Festus saw his expression. ‘He attacked you when your back was turned. It was lucky you raised your trident in time… Anyway, he got what he deserved. Shed no tears for him, Marcus.’
Before Marcus could respond there was another man standing in front of him. Caesar was smiling widely. ‘Well done, my boy! A fine victory. I’m proud of you. And grateful.’
Caesar called one of his slaves over. ‘A purse of silver for my champion. And give the rest to the crowd.’
The slave bowed his head and then fished into his haversack, taking out a small leather purse the size of a pear that he pressed into Marcus’s hands. Then he reached into his bag again and took out a fistful of bronze coins, which he hurled into the air. The crowd cried with excitement as people snatched at the coins, or bent down to retrieve those that had fallen to the
‘Caesar!’ the slave cried out, throwing out a last handful of coins. ‘Caesar!’
The cry spread through the crowd, echoing off the walls.
Marcus watched as Caesar turned back towards the Senate House and climbed the steps at a stately pace. Most of the senators on either side joined the crowd in cheering his name.
Now the fight was over, Marcus felt his limbs tremble with relief as Festus wrapped his cloak over Marcus’s shoulders and steered him away, back in the direction of the Subura. ‘Festus. I didn’t mean to kill him.’
‘You had no choice, boy. Listen, we’re finished here, Marcus. You need rest, and later something to eat. You may want nothing now, but you will later. Trust me.’
Marcus was in no mood to argue. He let himself be guided by Festus, and was almost oblivious to the pats on his shoulder and the ruffling of his hair from those in the crowd who congratulated him as he moved through the throng. He reached up and with trembling fingers unfastened Portia’s scarf. He breathed in the scent, marvelling at how good it smelt. Closing his eyes, he sent a prayer of thanks to the gods. He was still alive.
29
When they returned from the Forum, Festus removed the bloodied dressing from Marcus’s knee, shaking his head at the wound, raw and red where the scabs had opened. He cleaned it up, rinsing away the fresh flow of blood, and then put on a new dressing. After that he brought some porridge from the kitchen, hot and steamy, and made Marcus finish the bowl before he ordered him to get some sleep.
Marcus was content to obey Festus. The hard training of the previous day, the anxiety of a largely sleepless night and the frenzied burst of energy and nerves in the fight had left him utterly exhausted. He slumped back on his bedroll and Festus covered him with a blanket and his cloak, then left the cell, closing the door behind him. Marcus stared up at the ceiling, troubled by flashes of images from the fight. Then he forced the dark visions from his mind and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly until he slipped into unconsciousness.
‘Marcus. .’
He felt a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and opened his eyes a fraction. Lupus was squatting beside his bedroll. The room was filled with shadows and only a weak shaft of light from the window high above pierced the gloom. Marcus sat up slowly, groaning at his aching muscles. Lupus remained silent, regarding Marcus with an admiring expression.
‘What time is it?’ Marcus asked as he rubbed the back of his head.
‘Past the seventh hour. Festus sent me to wake you up. The master’s guests have arrived for the feast.’
‘Did his Land Reform get through?’
‘Yes. It was close, though.’
Marcus wearily ran a hand through his hair. Then the crisis had passed. Pompeius’s veterans would have their reward and the threat of a dictatorship had passed. Marcus had played his part in making that possible, and he took some satisfaction from that. But the prospect of claiming his reward was uppermost in his mind. Only when he was free could he begin his fight to rescue his mother.
Lupus smiled. ‘Caesar always gets what he wants.’
Marcus stared at Lupus, wondering at the other boy’s blind faith in his master. ‘He nearly didn’t, this time.’
Outside the slaves’ quarters came the sound of running feet and shouting as the final preparations for the celebration were made. The waft of rich odours from the kitchen drifted down the corridor. Now that he was rested, Marcus felt ravenously hungry. He stood up and stretched his limbs and Lupus scrambled up beside him, anxious to know more.
‘That Celt you defeated was a giant.’
‘He was bigger than me,’ Marcus replied. ‘But not as fast.’
‘Nor as honourable. Trying to stab you in the back like that.’
Marcus recalled the glare of hatred in Ferax’s eyes and shuddered.
‘It was a low thing to do.’ Lupus shook his head. ‘He deserved to die.’
Marcus stared at the other boy. ‘He was a slave, Lupus, like you and me. Neither of us had any choice. We had to fight, because our masters made us.’ It was not wholly true, Marcus reflected. Caesar had implied that Marcus could turn down the fight, but Marcus wondered what would have happened if he had done so. Perhaps Caesar was shrewd enough to know that Marcus would accept the challenge. And it was better that he went to the fight willingly rather than being forced into it. Marcus smiled to himself, understanding one aspect of his master’s greatness — the ability to bend others to his will while they thought they were making their own choices. Clever. Very clever indeed.
His mind switched back to his earlier train of thought. ‘Lupus, no one deserves to die, just for being a slave.’
Lupus looked at him blankly, then shrugged. ‘I heard it was a good fight. Festus thinks you will be the greatest gladiator in Rome in years to come.’
‘He said that, did he?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Lupus nodded eagerly. ‘He says that he has never seen anyone with such promise.’
Marcus took little pleasure in such praise. He had not chosen to be a gladiator, and had long promised himself he would win his freedom and never again fight for the entertainment of other people. Yet he was aware of something stirring in his heart — a feeling of pride and, perhaps, a sense of destiny. The blood of Spartacus flowed in his veins and the same anger at the injustice of slavery filled his mind. Perhaps the gods had greater plans for him than he supposed.