Colosseum (20 page)

Priscus is sharp-eyed as a hawk, employing his
sica
with skill and making a cut to his opponent's bare leg. When the giant lowers his guard he makes a half-hearted lunge, mindful of Ircius's orders. But as the fight goes on the naked chest of his colossal opponent starts to look like a skewered beefsteak before it is thrown on the broiler. Cosmos does not care—he has other wounds on his mind. But he presses ahead when he should have given up already. The senators have no time to lose.

So Priscus, at a nod from Ircius up on the terraces, takes the situation in hand and tries to bring things to a close.

First a head-butt that sends the giant staggering backwards.

Then a good, firm kick in the balls.

He finally drops his shield and
gladius
. Priscus kneels on his opponent's chest and holds the
sica
to his throat.

Cosmos would like to submit and end things there, but all he manages is to pull off his helmet and vomit a reddish mush onto the ground.

A great idea to get drunk before the show, you damned fool.

And the first fight is over. Polonius holds his nose as he gestures for the next combat.

“It could have been worse,” says Priscus with arms outstretched as he walks past the lanistaon his way out of the arena. But the latter shakes his head.

Cosmos staggers along behind the Gaul, bent double from the pain in his abdomen. He crouches in a corner, far away from prying eyes, and opens his bowels. Thank the gods nobody notices, all eyes are on the next fight.

Ircius clears his voice: “Sergius the provocator against Verus, a magnificent
murmillo
, pride of the Ludus Argentum!”

The senators are not exactly what one would call a passionate crowd, but their women greet the warriors' muscular chests with a few cries that are worthy of note.

Verus is the dark god of war: the burnished iron suits him well, the lion from Ircius's coat-of-arms that adorns his shield roaring hungrily for blood. Greaves and
balteus
are in tip-top condition while the proud plume of his helmet flaps in the wind, greeting the crowd.

Sergius too is quite a sight: the oval helmet confers a mechanical air on his movements. It is polished enough to use it as a mirror, with two round holes for the eyes, protected by a grate of fine mesh. At his neck glints the top of the
cardiophylax
, the bronze chest armor protecting his heart. The short greave on his left shin is made of the same material. A padded fabric sleeve circles his right arm, held together with leather and sweat. A
gladius
as sturdy as an anvil and a very black rectangular shield complete the equipment of the novice who is ready to become a man.

Ircius gives the signal and the adversaries study each other's moves as they begin to circle.

Despite his name, it is not the provocator who unleashes the first attack. The only trace that remains of those condemned men who could appeal to the mercy of the mob by means of a
provocatorio
is the name, which over the years has become one of the most sought-after classes of gladiator.

Normally, provocatorsfight one another. Other times, they face
murmillones
. This kind of encounter is rare though, which is why Ircius has insisted that Verus fight the newcomer. In general, the more exotic the match, the more satisfied the
munerator
.

Polonius's job is more difficult than many might think. At any event, it is he that must justify the choice of entertainments laid on in the arena to the Emperor. If the athletes selected die too quickly, or even worse if they do not give it their all and the crowd gets bored, someone will come to ask the
munerator
and his ridiculous comb-over for an explanation.

Polonius tours the city with his entourage in order to sort the wheat from the chaff. That is why he is so happy when Sergius the novice slices open Verus's bare arm with the edge of his
gladius
. One does not see an attack like that every day.

The Briton's senses are reawakened in an instant. He cries out and rolls to one side,
spatha
held over his head and heavy shield protecting his body. He lands a couple of decent blows, but Sergius is buoyed by that winning lunge and gives him a hard time of it. The boy has some fancy footwork, fast for a provocator, but he has memorized everything Priscus has taught him and is in no rush to finish things. He awaits the Briton's next move.

Verusputs his faith in brute force, an integral part of his warlike nature: he backs Sergius into a corner, pushing hard with his shield, and starts to hammer at his body with his fists. Sergius takes the blows, feints a right hook and then lands a punch that could put a bull out cold. Verus loses his helmet and ends up on the ground, dropping his shield. He is now only muscle and blade.

In the meantime a curious little group claws its way through the crowd of senators to acclaim the new hero, just as he is raising his arms. It is Fosca, Sergius's young wife, together with their three wild pups. They look like a family of smiling mice, very white and ragged, like certain granary rodents.

“Well done Dad!” they exclaim in unison, while Verus spits on the ground and readies himself for his comeback.

Sergius is proud and courageously jerks off his helmet as well. He wants to prove his worth by fighting with the same handicap.

Ircius shakes his head on the terraces, whereas the Briton shoots the youth a malevolent glance. “Pick it up,” he warns him, and as Sergius shrugs carelessly, a head-butt arrives without warning that neatly breaks the curly haired warrior's nose with a crack.

One of the children begins to cry and his brother shouts at him. Fosca bites her lip—maybe coming here was not such a good idea.

Sergius is not intimidated, and fights with a steady blade. The clash of iron against iron that ensues is ferocious, sparks rain down onto the sand.

Now Polonius is really interested: that provocator has courage to spare, and the
murmillo
too is proving a formidable fighter.

Sergius nicks Verus's chest with a couple of perfect jabs. The Briton answers with a series of kicks, putting his opponent's ligaments to the test.

The low-hanging sun makes the gladiators sweat, their foreheads are caked in dust and their hair sticks to their faces. Both are wheezing from the effort.

Verus throws himself forward and Sergius twists away to one side. The Briton attempts a double-handed blow as he executes a one hundred and eighty degree spin, but his opponent blocks it with his
spatha
: the impact is strong enough to rattle the teeth in his jaw. The shock unsteadies him and he falls to his knees, knowing defeat is close at hand.

Sergius slashes his shoulder and the Briton is forced to back up. The younger man has victory in his grasp and winks to his family on the terrace. Fosca clutches their smallest daughter to her chest, so tightly she lets out a cry. The two boys are shouting and howling like excited wolf-cubs, attracting a sea of disapproving stares from the impeccable, bejeweled noblewomen.

Sergius is on top of Verus, right hand brandishing the
gladius
and left held up high, signaling to the Briton not to be a hero. As usual, the panting Verus has miscalculated. He let enthusiasm get the better of him and underestimated the novice. Now his companions will make fun of him and the humiliation will weigh heavily on his shoulders for weeks to come. He will arrive at the inaugural games demotivated, and all because of this arrogant youngster.

Verus grits his teeth, the jumble of thoughts twisting his guts. Fire bites his tendons and the pain of his wounds saps his strength.

He is angry, furious. A wild beast is raging through his insides.

Sergius walks quickly towards him and delivers the knockout blow from on high, with the flat of his sword.

All Verus need do is await the blow that will lay him out cold.

Game over, everyone back home to lick their wounds.

But anger is a bitch, thirsting for vengeance.

Fire plays dirty tricks, consuming and burning without so much as a by-your-leave.

An instant before the sword strikes, putting an end to the fight, Verus sticks the point of his
spatha
in the boy's belly.
A low blow
.

He is rapid and precise; he has learnt from the best.

Rubius, may the gods have mercy on his filthy soul, was the fucking king of low blows. He taught them to his pupils as a way of gaining a breathing space. Or to end a fight when things were going badly. He also taught them how to dodge that sort of thing—Verus and Priscus started out with sideswipes before they learned how it was done.

But Sergius is just a novice. A novice who thinks he is a man.

And his instructoris just an Egyptian thug, who has not had enough time to show him how things really work, out there in the world.

Verus lunges, but the moment the tip of his sword enters his victim's liver, he realizes he has done something horrible. Then Sergius's strike lands and someone turns the lights out.

Ircius goes pale: he knows his trade too well not to understand what has just happened.

Sergius takes it like a man. He does not manage to avoid the stab—nor did he expect it, at some shitty demonstration—but he does not fall to the ground when Verus's blade pierces his belly. He stays firmly on his knees and covers the wound with his hand, stanching it with his
balteus
. The lanistaruns up to the victor to support him, and keeps him from falling. He kicks Verus, sprawled on the ground, who awakens from his torpor.

Ircius shakes his head, staring down at the Briton as he raises Sergius's arm to proclaim the victor.

Priscus and Cosmos rush over to help the Briton up, and Sergius blows a kiss to his family in an attempt to reassure them, the color visibly draining from his face. The children do not understand what is happening. They shout their love for him at the tops of their voices while Fosca, his wife, is too anxious to keep her sweaty hands in one place.

They move quickly—Decius is the master of illusions. He orders his men to take Sergius back to the
ludus
. Ezius will take care of him. Polonius cannot watch the boy bleed to death. Not now that his eyes are glowing with contentment at what he has seen.

The senator approaches the lanistaand clasps him at the elbow, giving a satisfied shake.

“I must congratulate you. A
superb
demonstration. The provocator still has a thing or two to learn, but that
murmillo
is
outstanding
,” he of the greasy mop enunciates his words very clearly. “He will be quite something at the inaugural games of the Amphitheater. The contract is yours. From today, the Ludus Argentumis officially signed up.”

Ircius thanks him. He promises that the rookie Sergius will return to the bench for a while, and that Verus and the rest of the team will prove themselves worthy of the faith the Empire is placing in them.

The senators smile, the noblewomen titter. Only Fosca is left in a daze, looking for her husband, who has been taken out of view.

Verus follows the rest of the iron procession with his head hung low. Priscus squares up to him with an air of disgust.

“What on earth were you thinking? Have you forgotten how to lose? And to think it always came naturally to you…”

Verus is distraught.

He did not want to.

Truly.

And he will not stand by while his friend talks to him like that.

It is because of the rage, the fire. Those cursed flames in his head. And his heart, damn it.

The handful of men is leaving and Verus tries to keep up step with them.

Sergius is coughing up blood, in a bad way but still smiling. He is not angry with Verus, perhaps he does not truly understand.

“I wh-whipped your ass…” he dribbles red as he turns to the red-cheeked Briton.

Verus has tears in his eyes. He nods. “Strength and honor, veteran. Strength and honor.”

Cosmos quickens his step, loading the boy onto his shoulders. Priscus keeps behind him and has no desire to hear the Briton out. But the Briton speaks up anyway: “I only wanted to wreck something beautiful…” Even he does not know why he said it.

Priscus looks at him, as though seeing him for the first time. He hates and loves this man so much that he would tear his own heart out if it would ease the suffering the Briton causes him every single day.

But right now there is nothing but bile and bitterness.

Priscus claps his hands twice in mock applause, disappointed.

Verus falls to his knees as Priscus recedes into the dust.

The world is an ugly place. Tomorrow will be worse. Rome has frozen over, even with the end of spring in the air and the sun warming his skin.

The voice of the abyss fills his ears.

All the fire in the world would not be enough to melt the ice around Verus's soul.

He died.

And there is nothing more to say.

He died, far from his wife's arms.

He died in silence, without even the noise of the crowd to mark his passing.

He died hidden away, so that no one would spoil the party that is now about to start.

Sergius had a heart and balls of iron. Now he is only trash to be disposed of, meat wrapped up in a faded shroud, all ready for the flames.

No one blamed Verus.

“These things happen, in this damned job…” That was what Cosmos told him, before slapping him on the shoulder and offering him a drink.

Verus gulped down the flask of warm wine, while Ircius held out his arms: “My fault. I should never have made a novice fight a veteran. I was too hasty, and the youth died. The price of ambition is always too high…”

He speaks in clichés, but even as he does so his heart sings because he has secured the contract for the August games.