Gladiator: Vengeance (2 page)

At first no one moved. Marcus and Festus stood back to back, watching their opponents closely, looking for any sign that gave away an imminent attack. Marcus noted that Thrapsus was holding his staff in both hands like a club, half raised, ready to swing at Marcus. By contrast the other youth seemed to have some idea of how to use a staff in a fight and had it grasped with his hands apart so that he could jab with the ends, or block any blows as strongly as possible.

He heard Festus’s sandals scrape over the flagstones and he glanced back to see his companion easing himself upright and laying his staff across a shoulder as he mocked the two men facing him.

‘What’s the problem, my friends? Lost the stomach for an easy fight?’

‘You talk too much,’ Andreas growled. ‘Won’t be so easy when I knock your teeth out, Roman.’

He did not wait for a response but let out a loud roar and charged at Festus, swinging his staff at the latter’s head in a vicious arc. An instant later his three companions also charged in, echoing his cry. Marcus’s gaze snapped back to the two youths as he left Festus to fight his own battle. That was the plan. Each trusted the other to hold his own and guard his comrade’s back. Atticus held back and let his sturdier friend charge in first. Thrapsus raised the stick above his head, fully extending his arms to get as much power into the blow as possible. Marcus shifted his left hand back as he turned the end of the stick towards the Greek boy and punched it forward into his chest, just below his chin. The impact stopped Thrapsus in his tracks and he stumbled back, gasping for breath as he lowered his staff and dropped a hand to clutch at his chest. Marcus took a step forward and lowered the point of his staff and struck again, this time aiming for his opponent’s stomach.

He avoided aiming for the face and groin, just as Festus instructed. The object of the exercise was not to cause any lasting injuries and the bad feeling that went with them. A simple lesson was all that was required; enough to put them out of the fight so that only their dignity would be hurt. Thrapsus staggered
back from the blow, completely winded now and struggling to breathe. Marcus lowered the staff again and stabbed into the ground behind the youth’s heel, then barged forward with his shoulder. Thrapsus lost his balance and fell heavily on to the ground, the staff flying from his grip and clattering a short distance away.

The local boy’s defeat had been so quick that it took a moment for the spectators to grasp what had happened and then many of them groaned with disappointment. There were a few muted cries of support for Marcus and he realized that the thuggish young man was not popular with all of the port’s inhabitants. He recovered his staff and retreated towards Festus, a background of grunts and the clatter of wood sounding in his ears as he concentrated his attention on the second youth. Atticus had looked stunned by the ease with which his companion had gone down and now a cold, ruthless look fixed on his expression as he lowered himself into a crouch and glared at Marcus.

‘A pretty neat move, Roman,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘But you won’t find me as much of a fool as that oaf Thrapsus.’

Marcus shrugged. ‘We’ll see. But a word of advice. Save your breath. You’ll need it.’

Atticus’s dark eyebrows knitted in anger and he leaned down
to snatch up the staff lying on the floor and then advanced, swinging one cane in each hand.
An unusual technique
, Marcus thought quickly to himself,
but not a terribly effective one
. While Atticus would be able to bombard him with a flurry of blows, they would not have as much force behind them as a properly wielded weapon. As he expected, the Greek came on swinging the staffs wildly, swishing through the air as he sought to strike the Roman boy. Marcus held his staff up and flicked it right and left to parry the blows in a succession of sharp cracks as wood struck wood.

He was mindful of the other instruction that Festus had given him: to try and make the fight against his second opponent last a little longer. It would save the crowd from being disappointed. Give them value for money, Festus had said. That’s what a good gladiator does. And, when it was over, the crowd would have had their fill of excitement and the losing fighters would feel that they had put up a decent show and their pride, while dented, would be enhanced by the thought that they had sorely tested their winning opponent.

Marcus mixed a few feints in between his parries, forcing the Greek boy back, and after several more attacks Atticus retreated out of range, breathing hard as he stared at Marcus, his staffs trembling with the effort of holding them out. Hearing a deep
grunt behind, Marcus risked a glance round and saw that Festus had felled one of the men who lay sprawled across the flagstones, out cold. He turned back to Atticus, confident that now it was one-on-one he no longer had to stay so close to Festus. Slipping his left hand back a short distance, Marcus lowered the end of the staff and grasped it like a spear as he stepped forward.

Atticus slashed at the end of the staff, knocking it aside, but, each time, Marcus aimed the point at his face again and took another pace towards him, forcing him back towards the crowd. The Greek youth was weakening and at last he gathered his wits enough to realize he would have more control over a single staff. He drew back his right hand and hurled the staff at Marcus. The length of wood spun through the air and Marcus felt a sharp pain as one end caught him above the ear before he could duck. He felt a warm trickle down the side of his neck and his opponent let out a cry of triumph as he saw the blood, charging forward and slashing from side to side, his remaining staff held in both hands.

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.’

The merchant let out a hiss of bitter frustration and turned to hurry across the market square. The crowd that had gathered to watch the fight had dispersed and Marcus, Festus and Lupus packed away the remaining staffs. Andreas, sitting on the steps of the fountain to nurse his foot, chuckled as the merchant strode away.

‘Ah, forget him. There are plenty of men like Clysto around. They deserve what’s coming to them.’ The Greek stood up slowly to test his weight on his foot and winced.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Festus. ‘But I had to put you down quickly after that blow to the ribs.’

‘On another day I’d have knocked you down, Roman.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do … You and your boys thirsty?’

Festus glanced round and both Lupus and Marcus nodded.

‘Good!’ Andreas approached and rested his hand on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘And as for you, boy, you are just as fierce as your friend Festus. By the Gods, if I had ten of you in my gang I’d rule the streets of this town. Come with me. I know a good place to drink. And I’m paying.’