Son of Spartacus

‘You … Up!’

Decimus struggled to his feet, shaking his head in mute protest. At once Marcus stood.

‘I’ll fight him! Choose me!’

Mandracus turned. ‘What’s this? A volunteer? The plucky lad wishes to take on a grown man. Looks like we finally found a Roman with the heart to put up a fight. Very well then, boy, he’s all yours.’

‘No!’ Decimus called out. ‘You can’t make me fight!’

‘Oh? Why can’t I?’

Decimus held out his hands. ‘Set me free and I’ll make you a rich man. I have a fortune in Rome. Let me live and I will ensure that all of you are handsomely rewarded. I swear it.’

‘How interesting,’ Mandracus mused. ‘And what amount are we talking about for your ransom?’

‘Half a million sestertii,’ Decimus pleaded, but the rebel did not respond. ‘All right then, a million! A million sestertii!’

‘Hmmm, now that is quite a fortune.’ Mandracus thought briefly. ‘We’ll wait to see what Brixus says. Take this one inside the hut.’

‘Thank you,’ Decimus grovelled. ‘You won’t regret it.’

As he was led away he gave Marcus a smug smile. ‘What did I tell you? Goodbye, boy. Give my regards to Titus when you catch up with him in the afterworld. And apologize to Thermon for me. Tell him it was only ever business between us.’

Marcus gritted his teeth and spat out his reply. ‘Coward!’

Decimus shook his head. ‘No, just a survivor.’

Then he was led away and disappeared through the leather flap into the hut. Mandracus approached Marcus and looked down at him curiously. ‘It’s a shame to put an end to such courage. But you will die with these others. The question is who to pick for your opponent. I’ll be fair so you can put up a decent fight.’

His gaze scrutinized the remaining legionaries and Decimus’s servants. All were tough-looking men, except one.

‘You, tribune. You’re the next youngest, and I dare say you have lived a pampered enough life to provide a poor showing with a sword. Think you’ve got it in you to defeat this boy?’

Quintus stood slowly, his lips curling with contempt. ‘I am not gladiator scum, like you. I will show you how a Roman noble fights.’ At the last moment his lips trembled, betraying his true feelings, and Mandracus chuckled.

‘Nice try. Like all you Roman aristocrats, you have no heart for a real fight. You leave that to others. Well, not tonight. Not here.’ He cut Quintus’s bonds and then did the same for Marcus. ‘Take your positions.’

Two of the rebels dragged them into the open and turned them to face each other. Swords were thrown down in front of them. Quintus picked his up quickly without waiting for the instruction. Marcus noted that his opponent seemed even more nervous than he felt. He had no desire to fight Quintus or any other prisoner, now that Decimus was removed from the grim contest. But while he still breathed he would fight. Aiming to survive, his determination was fuelled by the hope that Brixus would set him free. If he protested now he would only share the fate of the man who had refused to fight earlier.

He bent down to pick up the sword, grasping it tightly and instinctively testing its weight and balance as he had been trained. He experimented with a slash and a few cuts in the air before being satisfied he understood how the weapon would handle in a fight.

‘Begin!’ Mandracus bellowed.

Unlike the previous fights, the two combatants remained still. Marcus forced all thoughts from his mind to concentrate on what lay ahead. Quintus was of average height and slightly built, which meant he had the potential to move fast, but his reach was little better than Marcus’s. Like many other young men, he had a fondness for wine and the good life. Even after days on the road, his reactions might be slow compared to those who had trained at a gladiator school. Marcus tried to recall something from their brief fight in Ariminum that would give him the advantage here.

The crowd had become quiet, sensing that this bout would be a different, more subtle kind of contest.

Marcus raised his sword and turned so that he presented his side to Quintus, limiting the size of the target the tribune could strike at. Then he steadily advanced. Quintus lowered himself into a crouch and adopted the same stance, but held his ground and waited for Marcus. The tips of their swords touched and Marcus applied a gentle pressure as he slid his point a short distance down his opponent’s blade. Quintus dropped the point, cut under and tapped Marcus’s sword aside. Then he feinted with a little jump forward, straightening his arm. Marcus pretended to parry the blow and correctly anticipated that the tribune would cut under his sword again. He knocked it aside, forcing the other sword back with the length of the blade close to his guard, stepping in to Quintus as he did so. The move forced the young man to back off quickly, to prevent Marcus getting too near, and he swept his sword from side to side to block any attacks to his body. Marcus contented himself with flicking his sword so that it nicked the flesh of his opponents forearm, opening a long shallow gash that looked worse than it was as the blood began to flow. Then he stepped back out of reach and stared at Quintus, trying to gauge his next move.

The tribune backed off and looked anxiously at the cut as the more knowing members of the crowd murmured their approval of the initial exchange. Marcus had won control of the centre of the makeshift arena, a move that he knew would undermine his opponent’s confidence. Sure enough, there was no mistaking the glimmer of fear in Quintus’s expression as he lowered himself into a crouch again, determined to seize back the initiative.

It was obvious that he would attack even before he began to move, his legs bracing for the explosive charge across the hard ground. Marcus let him come, then ducked to one side as the blade passed harmlessly by his head. The momentum carried Quintus forward, and Marcus lowered his sword to slash it across his thigh as he passed. Both turned to face each other and now there was no hiding the fear in the tribune’s eyes. Marcus forced himself to keep his face like a mask: cold, ruthless and unreadable.

Quintus licked his lips and spoke in a low voice. ‘Marcus, you can’t kill me. Think of Portia … She considers you her friend. She trusts you. Would you betray her trust, her affection, by striking down her husband? I love her, Marcus. If I am lost she will be alone in the world.’ As he spoke he edged forward, his sword tip lowered, his tone genuine.

Marcus struggled to push the memory of Portia from his mind, but could think only of the words she had spoken to him, and the soft touch of her lips.

With a blur, Quintus charged, his sword sweeping in a clumsy but deadly arc. Marcus backed off as he blocked the blow and sparks flew. Quintus continued his assault with a vicious flurry of strokes as he growled, ‘I will not die! I will win! Win!’

Marcus cleared his mind of everything but the reaction to each attack, and met it with a block or parry, conserving his strength as his opponent wasted energy. Then, as Quintus swung again, Marcus counter-attacked before the tribune could reverse the stroke. Stabbing the blade with all his strength, Marcus went for the hamstring above and behind Quintus’s knee. His aim was true but the cold and exhaustion had left him weak, and instead of a crippling blow the sword cut deep into the flesh and muscle without severing it.

Quintus let out a cry of pain and staggered away, bleeding freely. The advantage won, Marcus pushed ahead, feinting and thrusting to force his opponent backwards. Then Quintus’s boot slipped on the icy ground. He stumbled and fell on to his back, throwing his arms wide. Marcus leapt forward and stamped his foot on the wrist of the tribune’s sword arm, so that his fingers spasmed and the sword fell from his grasp. Marcus kicked it away, then stood over the tribune and touched the point of his blade to Quintus’s throat.