Gladiator: Vengeance by Simon Scarrow Page B

necks to see who was defying their leader. No doubt they would take their revenge later on, Marcus thought. If their man won.
    Festus pressed home his advantage, his training sword moving with blistering speed as it danced round his opponent’s weapon. More blows landed and Procrustes gave ground, falling back towards his gang members as he desperately defended himself. More and more of the crowd were daring to cheer Festus on now and Marcus felt his hopes rise as he joined in, punching his fist into the air.
    A fresh attack by the Roman drove Procrustes into the ranks of his followers and Festus stepped forward to finish him off. He never saw the blow coming. Marcus did, but before he could shout a warning it was too late. One of the thugs bunched his fists up, braced his boots against the flagstones and powered into Festus’s side, unleashing a torrent of punches to his chest and head. Festus staggered back in a daze as the crowd shouted angrily. But the incident had given Procrustes a chance to recover the initiative and he charged forward again, hammering away at the Roman’s sword.
    Marcus was filled with outrage at the intervention and now his anger turned to dread as he saw Festus shuffle away from his enemy, head rolling as he struggled to recover. Procrustes struckout and gave a roar of triumph as the point of the wooden sword stabbed into the Roman’s thigh, just above his knee. Festus’s expression twisted in agony. At once the Greek struck again, smashing the training sword out of the other man’s hand, and it clattered to the ground some twenty feet away, leaving Festus helpless.
    Procrustes’ supporters let out a roar and punched their fists up as they shouted his name over and over. The Greek stretched up to his full height and spat with contempt at his opponent.
    ‘Let’s finish this lesson the old-fashioned way!’ he called out, grasping his sword in both hands as he raised his knee and placed it behind the blade. With a sudden, powerful movement the wood shattered and splinters flew through the air. The gang leader tossed the ends aside and raised his fists.
    ‘Marcus!’ He looked round as Lupus plucked his tunic. The scribe jerked his head towards the nearest street leading out of the square. ‘We have to go. Now!’
    He was still for a moment, then looked back and saw Festus feebly raising his fists to defend himself. Whatever happened he did not feel he could abandon his comrade. Marcus pulled himself free of Lupus’s grasp. ‘No.’
    ‘But he told us to go if he lost. We have to run, while we can still get away.’
    ‘Festus hasn’t lost,’ Marcus replied defiantly. ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Marcus, don’t be a fool. Let’s go.’
    ‘I’m staying to the end.’
    ‘Suit yourself,’ Lupus snapped and turned to ease his way out of the crowd. Marcus felt torn between following his friend and staying, but he could not bear the sense of betrayal that coiled in the pit of his stomach.
    In the open space, Procrustes steadily advanced on his Roman opponent, his fists inscribing small circles in the air. Festus shook his head to clear it and clumsily raised his own fists. The odds did not look promising, Marcus conceded. The Greek was at least half as big again as Festus, and his punches would carry great force behind them. Proscrustes shot his right fist out and Festus desperately knocked it to one side before raising his hands to protect his head. Procrustes steadily unleashed a series of jabs, probing his opponent, and although only a handful got through, Marcus winced each time his friend’s head snapped back. Then the Greek stepped up the pace, trying to pummel the Roman’s chest. Again some blows got through and Festus staggered back gasping as blood ran down his face from a cut above his right eyebrow.
    ‘Ha!’ Procrustes reared up, fists held out and high as he prepared to claim victory. He turned slowly so the crowd couldclearly see him. Although his gang members were cheering at the