Colosseum (30 page)

Too many.

Verus's heart kicks out wildly as he empties all of his rage and impossible love onto the girl: “Because of you innocent people are dying, but do you even care? Is this what you people do to get off?”

More heavy breathing, life blowing in and out like a desert wind laden with sand.

Verus swallows spit, his jugular throbbing like a war drum: “Now call your guards and have them kill me, I've had enough of all this shit!”

Julia trembles, mouth sublime, eyes wet with salt. She strokes his face and cradles his head with infinite gentleness, his short hair filling her small hands.

She does not say anything. She does not know what to say.

She only knows that inside her, now, the tumult is real.

That brave boy she thought was just an object, a cheap plaything, has just saved her life. He looked out for her when she had tossed him away; insulted him,
wasted
him, squandered him as one can only squander something precious.

She kisses his mouth, slowly. It tastes of earth and sweat.

Verus responds, because blood will not be commanded.

Lips biting and teeth doing the rest.

Their clothes fall to the ground as if by magic, following the oldest of men's laws. Hands discover breasts and flanks, bodies ready for love. But there is no hurry, this time. A step away from oblivion there is all the time in the world.

Verus is inside Julia, his back against the wall. His buttocks and her knees on the bare floor, she takes him without resistance, flexing her joints to ease him into her.

Heavy breathing swells like a wave of heat, a sublime storm of hips and waists. Rubbing flesh, his hands tracing furrows through the white sea of her back.

Love rolls, like a sublime ocean swell.

Eyes locked to eyes, it could go on forever.

Julia is in ecstasy, and in love. Yes,
in love
, she is sure of it now.

Verus loses himself even more deeply, until his tide cannot help but break against the softness of her cliff.

They come, one after the other.

When it is all over, there is only their embrace. And soft kisses against temples, for the lovers destined to go their separate ways. There is nothing else in the fiery morning heat, just the two of them. Neither of them sees anything else. They certainly do not look up. Where a pair of malevolent eyes watches on silently through the upstairs window.

Domitian had moved from rooftop to rooftop in a desperate search for his lost niece. He saw her enter the building with the Briton, the same god of the arena that put on a show in the Emperor's home.

Jealousy twists his insides as he observes their embrace, hidden from view. But the coward says nothing. He does not shout or yell. He knows that revenge, like all the best platters, must be chilled by the passage of time before it can be properly savored.

Domitian dips his dagger of hatred in burning rage. He looks on in silence, and love does the rest. In the smoky darkness he dreams of revenge and punishment, promising reprisal as he lets out an inaudible sigh.

In the meantime Rome is bleeding, and runs to lick her wounds.

And the Amphitheater, that ghostly womb, intact and silent, is ready to breathe life into its dark wonders.

The big day is just a few dawns away.

The time of the games of death is close at hand.

The People anxiously hope for just two things: bread and circuses

J
UVENAL
,
Satire
,
X, 81

Rome,
AD
80, August

AND THE DAY arrives.

The first of a hundred, beginning of a dream.

The very walls herald it:

TWENTY PAIRS OF GLADIATORS, PROPERTY OF DECIUS LUCRETIUS IRCIUS FLORENTIUS, FLAMEN IN PERPETUITY OF TITUS CASEAR AUGUSTUS, AND TEN PAIRS OF GLADIATORS, PROPERTY OF DAIMON OF CAPUA, WILL INAUGURATE THE HUNDRED DAYS OF GAMES AT THE FLAVIAN AMPHITHEATER IN ROME. THERE WILL ALSO BE THE CUSTOMARY BEAST HUNT AND VELARIUM.

Verus is left stunned as he walks with the rest of the Ludus Argentum, lined up neatly behind Decius Ircius, towards the Amphitheater. The meaning of the handwritten words is quite clear, carved onto wood and painted a sooty black, then hung above the best-known bar in the city like a placard for some barber-surgeon.

A stone's throw from the Forums, people are talking about
them
: the gods of the arena, Ircius's soldiers.

It took Verus a while to learn to read, but by now he knows enough of his letters to manage. Thanks to Priscus, who spent many a sleepless night drawing them on the sand with a piece of wood, expecting Verus to do likewise by the light of the moon.

“What do I need the alphabet for? I'm a slave, a gladiator. My job is killing people, not writing love letters,” the Briton had protested.

But the Gaul was deaf to reason. “You never know. Now, from the beginning: how do you write the first letter of your name?”

He misses Priscus like air in his lungs, there is no use pretending otherwise. Not even now the big day has arrived. Rome is in a holiday mood, and since late last night the preparations have been underway for the mother of all events: the opening of the Amphitheater, the first of a hundred days of games. Titus's crowning glory, watched by the tired and happy eyes of his people.

The eyes of the entire world.

Verus is beside himself with excitement: for days now, an electric current has been running through the
ludus.
And the thought of Priscus pushes its way to the forefront. The words he just read came as a real shock: ten pairs of gladiators from Capua! If destiny played fair, it would do him this one damned favor after a lifetime of hardships. But what does a slave know of the power of destiny? Verus resigns himself to the fact that he will never see his friend's face again. He is learning to live
without
, although he also made himself a promise. That when he has nothing before him but thousands upon thousands of miles of empty road, when he has spilt the blood of a hundred enemies and finally won back his freedom, he will go in search of Priscus. He will look him straight in the eye and tell him everything. Everything he has to say.

It is a mad dream that fills the Briton's head, but in the life of a man condemned to die, what else does he have if not dreams? Hope warms his soul and the distant finishing post lights up his gaze.

Ircius falls into step beside him and has no need to read his mind to know what is in his heart.

“Capua! You read it, right?”

Verus smiles: the lanistamisses nothing.

“You will probably meet him again,” the master of the
ludus
states, without a trace of emotion. Then he runs on ahead to catch up with Aton, whispering the final arrangements in his ear.

Verus keeps walking, but nobody can take that damned smile off his face.

Careful what you wish for, boy. Because you might get it…

Verus thought he knew, that he had had the privilege of seeing inside the monster before the crowds. After all, he helped build it. The Amphitheater was his home for many months…

But no one can
truly
be prepared for the spectacle that Titus has put together for Rome.

Verus and Ircius's team of champions approach the oval arena from the east, passing the
ludus
barracks and reaching the rooms assigned to the fighters who will perform during the afternoon. It is the first light of dawn and Rome should be dozing, but that is not how it is. Not today.

The throng is superhuman, a sumptuous spectacle of flesh and anticipation. Fifty thousand people—the full capacity of the stadium, perhaps a few more—press in disorderly lines against the gates, watched over by guards in shining armor. Silence still reigns within, broken only by the deep roars of beasts chained up in the dungeons and the orderly scraping of a hundred rakes across the arena sand. The imperial family has been walking around the stone palace since first light: Titus could not resist, today is
his
day. He compelled Julia, Domitian, and his retinue to come with him. Nobody objected, but the pale faces of his daughter and brother are smeared with tiredness, like a perfumed ointment from across the seas.

Titus, standing in the Emperor's box, casts his eye once more across the breathtaking void before him. The handmaidens invite Julia to take her place at her father's side while Domitian, in great form with his freshly-mussed hair, seats his behind next to his young niece.

Things are not going well between them. Since the fire and what happened with Verus, Julia has seemed confused, distant. She refuses her uncle's attentions, turning him down politely but denying him all the same. She will not even allow the blond son of the She-wolf to hold her hand. And to think that until a few weeks ago they were a single being, especially beneath the sheets.

But the heart is a fickle thing, and that of a sixteen-year old girl is a rose petal caught in a tempest.

Titus is pleased, that much is certain: not so much with his daughter's apathy as with her newfound distance from his hated brother. But today is not the day for family dramas. As much as his sweet, paternal heart worries for his daughter, the master of the world's thoughts are elsewhere.

Titus savors the final moments of calm as the shouts of the crowd, pressing against the entrances, echo through his head. He can feel the breath of the grateful subjects on his eardrums, the vulgar masses already heedless of their sorry lives.

Today Rome wants to enjoy itself. And it wants to go on enjoying itself for a hundred days in a row, one after another.

The Emperor commands the last rake-bearer to leave the arena. Then he gives the order.

“Open the gates!”

Now it begins
.

The sun has just risen on the perfect day.

The assault at the entrances is so forceful that even Verus can feel it, down in the belly of the beast with his companions, the instructor,and the lanista. A hundred thousand feet trampling over marble, stone and travertine as they surge into the arena.

As one
.

No one pays today: they are all guests of the Emperor.

Still, that does not mean people can sit where they like. Senators and vestal virgins fill the front rows and equestrians behind them. Ordinary male citizens sit on the endless terraces, while foreigners, slaves and women are corralled in the galleries at the top of the circle.

And it is this group that is making the most noise: women, the perfume of Rome. The female lovers of the games can barely contain themselves before the death and spectacle of the arena. But it is the gladiators that really get them going. Verus knows it well, because during the last year his life has changed a dozen times on the whim of some high-born woman. He knows, because he has seen it in the eyes of the noblewomen at the dinners Ircius has held in their honor. He recognizes the scent and the desire, knows that even the most sober of mistresses is prepared to get down on all fours and be fucked on the flagstones like a beast, if it means being taken by the man of her dreams. The erotic fantasies of the Eternal City are shot through with the swordsand
sicae
of the gods of the arena. Not even Apollo or Mars turn the women of Rome on in quite the same way. Because they have never seen either of them in action, gutting some poor wretch or fucking their best friend until she screams for her mother.

Multiply the desire, the anticipation, the excitement. Add the heat and the crush, the hurry to grab a place with a decent view. Dust it all with a handful of impatience, and you will have some idea of the high-pitched hubbub that drowns out every other sound, saturating the air in the basement where Verus and his companions are elbowing one another like pals queuing up for the brothel.

“Well, you ready to drive them crazy?” Ircius asks his men.

Verus smiles: “We're ready, my lord!”

The shout fills the belly of the Amphitheater. It is time for the solemn parade, the
pompa triumphalis.

The Emperor himself, wrapped in the purple vestments reserved for great events, delicately crafted Greek sandals on his feet, and laurel leaves of undying victory on his head, leads the procession into the arena, crossing the threshold of the main entrance.

The whole world is reflected in Titus's eyes: the crowd's embrace is exuberant, the people love him. There can be no doubt. As they wait for the games to begin, the wastrels sitting on the terraces have already started playing
morra
, dice and
capita aut navia
, whereby someone tosses a coin and puts their faith in the blindfolded goddess by choosing heads or tails, in this case the coin's “tail” aptly picturing a ship.

There is great excitement among the professional gamblers, but when they see the golden silhouette of the Emperor appear, they stop whatever they were doing, called to order by the invisible horsewhip of power. Meanwhile, the noblewomen arrange the cushions beneath their flaccid behinds, that they might better enjoy the spectacle, as Titus Flavius Vespasianus makes his entrance, one step at a time.

Before him the
lictores
take up their positions in a display of primordial authority, bronze
fasces
resting on their shoulders, symbols of the just and brutal power of the Eagle for the benefit of anyone who might dare disobey. Leather straps for tying up dissenters circle their waists. They represent the stick, ready to strike.

The king of the world is proud of them.

Dead proud.

Behind the purple throng winds a host of artists: musicians playing tambourines and openwork flutes, dancers, reed pipers. Skins of ebony and ivory daubed with powders and gold leaf, quilted in precious oriental silks and cloaked in music. The attendants in their light tunics announce the day's program to the crowd: first will come the beasts, then the convicts, and lastly the gladiators. In the middle will come a surprise that is not to be mentioned, a magic trick that the Emperor has had up his sleeve for years now.

The monarch reaches the center of the arena and continues along the imaginary line across the sand, towards the terraces on the opposite side. As he does so the assistants enter, blue tunics symbolizing the city authorities draped neatly to their knees. They carry powerful weapons in their arms.

The essence of a merciful death.

It is the quiet before the hurricane: the officials test the burnished iron of the Ludus Argentumand the sharpened bronze of the Tridensof Capua with grandiloquent gestures. They discard the more harmless specimens, not many if truth be told, and pick out the most lethal.

And then, finally,
their
moment arrives.

Greeted by a riot of boorish shouting, the gladiators make their entrance.

Arranged in two neat lines, greased with oil and vigor, and nothing on but the
subligaculum
at their waists.

Practically naked, ready for anything.

Decius Ircius and Daimon lead the lines, both of them scrubbed and dressed up for the occasion. The first is wearing bright violet Tuscia cloth, dyed in the
violarii
of the Field of Mars: he has been keeping this miracle of tailoring, made from the finest thread and colored with the juices of orchella weeds and rock snails, for some time now. On his feet are a pair of striking sandals, dripping with silver and decorated with miniscule, hand-crafted lilies. His short hair and the shadow of a salt-and-pepper beard on his handsome, well-rested face complete the picture.

Daimon, on the other hand, has his
own
idea of elegance: a red, green, and black-checked shirt from the North, woven in the style of the island Verus came from, accompanied by baggy, brown burlap pants. His beard has been tamed with the aid of laces and strings into three neat braids like Poseidon's trident, inexorably pointing down to the Underworld. Hair tied into a pony tail and heavy gold rings on his earlobes. Eyes heavily made up with black powder. Despite the infernal heat – August, real bitch of a month – Daimon wears a pair of goatskin boots on his feet.

But the furious applause is not directed at the captains.

The deafening wave of noise, the rain of kisses, whistles, shouts and bodily fluids that washes over the hungry lips of the Amphitheater is not for them, and nor is it for the Emperor.

Rome screams its impatience in the face of the gladiator army. And the two columns of warriors drink up every syllable, every yell, every shrieking comment with gusto.

The women are
literally
tearing their hair out. Horny girls and middle-aged women scream the names of their favorites: “Verus! Priscus! Tigris!”

It is only in that moment that Verus understands. His mind opens like a rosebud, transfixed by two eternal insights.

The first: this is what
devotion
means.

Women, Verus. Women…What do you know of charm or of love, of passion and what it can do? You thought you knew it all, just because your heart was lost between the thighs of the daughter of the Empire. But look around you: Rome loves you, it calls your name. It has thrown open its doors to let you in.