Colosseum (36 page)

Those looking down from above can make out nothing more than an indistinct mass covering half the ship: it is the very belly of Pluto, churned from within by the souls of the departed, a black sack filled with writhing cockroaches.

The effect is terrible and magnificent. Every so often a blade tears through the fabric and a head emerges for an instant, only to be instantly skewered by those left outside the sail.

Filth's move has undeniably given Corinth the advantage.

Now that half of the enemy ship has been covered, the surviving sailors lift their siege and return to their own trireme to target the wounded vessel from a distance.

There is no distinction now between oarsmen and hoplites now, crushed together in a pitiless assault: arrows, spears, swords, ramps, hooks and splinters of the enemy's ship. It seems that no one, or almost no one, has survived the infernal rain by the time it lets up, down beneath the battered sail.

But the blow that brings the battle to its conclusion comes not from the Corinthian ship. Once again, it is the Empire that decides the fate of the downtrodden.

Titus has watched the contest carefully. Deep down he was rooting for the whites' ship, for the simple fact that it cost him a fortune to have it painted. But that was the way it went and what matters now is a fantastic finale.

He need not even get to his feet to give the command; it is enough for him to raise his right hand. When, on the other side of the Amphitheater, a wise master at arms seated among the senators and the vestal virgins spies the signal, he nods and hurriedly prepares himself. He fishes a curved horn of polished brass out of the sack on his lap and sounds it three times, then waits with arms crossed over his chest. The long, deep notes are almost lost in the din of aquatic combat, but those they are intended for hear them loud and clear.

In the second row, hidden until now in black cloaks among the equestrians and nobles, a dozen or so hounds of the Praetorian Guard get to their feet. The soldiers quickly rid themselves of their dark capes, revealing sparkling breastplates and murderous gazes. They all have a long bow and a quiver filled with special arrows. They form up, glancing down at the Corcyran ship; the longer the fight goes on, the more it looks like a caterpillar curled up in its cocoon, a hybrid condemned never to emerge in adult form. The imperial arrowheads are quilted with rags and dipped in tar, and a slave passes before each archer to light the tip, much to the wonder of the gawping crowd. The master at arms, who has overseen the operation with a watchful eye, lowers his right arm, held aloft since the soldiers notched their arrows.

The salvo of twelve darts slices through the sky of the Amphitheater, stabbing into the black sail that boils with pierced death. The flames do not take long to gain a foothold. The mob on the terraces falls silent for a couple of seconds. Then, as the blaze chews into wood and flesh, puffing out its chest like a wild beast, it is greeted by a roar from the crowd, like rain in the desert.

Up in their niche, side by side with his companions, Verus's broken heart gives a start. He has barely drawn breath since the ships entered the arena, up to his neck in aquatic ecstasy. Engulfed.

But with the first flicker of flame his feet are back firmly on the ground: the god of fire demands his attention.

The curse of the flames dies hard.

Red on the dirty water, black smoke staining the blue of the heavens.

The imperial intervention has decided the outcome of the
naumachia
, but the Corinthians must act quickly if they do not wish to come to an equally sticky end. The blond man, Filth, and the rest of the victorious vanguard rush to get back on board their ship. Despite the pyre and the loss of half its crew, the Corcyrans continue to acquit themselves with honor: the hoplites intend to go through Pluto's gates still brandishing their weapons.

The Corinthians retreat en masse, cutting ropes and pulling up ramps and anchor, the oars and arms of a hundred desperate men proving just sufficient to escape the fury of the pyre.

Now there is only hush and sighs, as Vulcan gets the better of Neptune, shredding through wood and life.

The spectacle is horrible and incredible: the survivors, on the craft that flies the colors of Corinth, watch as their enemies burn.

They look like maddened demons, twisting in the flames like dry leaves. One hoplite seems possessed, eyes crazed and skin ablaze. He throws himself into the water, laden with iron, a fiery star in free fall. The flames are quenched and his eyes now thirst for revenge, roasted eyelids unable to conceal his homicidal gaze.

The white ship is a fireball, its timbers giving way beneath the weight of lifeless bodies, while the melting tar used to caulk the seams serves only to feed the flames. Leaks spring open and water spurts up impetuously while the shroud that was once a sail soaks up water and blood.

The Corcyran trireme sinks, as much as it is possible to sink in a puddle of water. It settles, broken, onto the bottom and is consumed by the flames, filling the air with a dark mist. The basin is filled with corpses and detritus, the black stain expanding outwards.

Rome heaps the wretched victors with liberating praise.

Corinth, the survivor, paddles its way to the exit.

Titus, infinite in his greatness, has filled the popular craw with surprise, he has broken hearts and conquered souls with the surprise he hid so well.

He is satisfied.

Satisfied rotten.

The acclaim echoes long and avid, while the attendants are already working to set the next phase of the wonder in motion. The noise from the terraces is too great to hear the clanging of pipes, but the belly of the beast is changing its form once again, and the water that stunned an entire city is slowly draining away.

The basin empties, the fire peters out, the corpses are picked up and tossed into carts that crisscross the soggy sand, spraying it all over the place, including onto the spectators in the front rows. The members of the crowd stretch their legs in anticipation of the final act, the part that will ensure this day goes down in history: the gladiator fights will begin shortly. Just the time it takes to put out a fire and drag the wreckage of a majestic boat to oblivion.

Even the feverish activity of the assistants and slaves, intent on clearing the arena beneath the wrathful sun, puts Caesar Augustus in a good mood. Titus watches calmly as the lanistasget up off their terraces and lead their teams back down to the belly of the Amphitheater. To get ready.

Verus and Priscus find themselves walking side by side down an endless corridor. Ircius and Daimon have just informed them that they wish to speak with both of them.

“Meet us in the dressing room next to the cells. But not right away. First we have some business to discuss.”

“Yes, master,” the Gaul and the Briton answered together, slowing their pace to let the rest of their gang past, still busy discussing the most exciting parts of the
naumachia
and landing tremendous slaps across each other's shoulders.

Verus and Priscus know there is no escape. In that stone silence, immersed in the lingering humidity that still fills the air, there is a whole life, or rather two. Priscus's passion for Verus, a pure and unspeakable love. Torn by affection and hungry for his touch, but also blinded by rage and jealousy at what was snatched away from him. Rancor, remorse. And still that crazy desire, now that the fire is so close. The ice-man's heart is in his throat, Verus's breath a stiletto to his heart.

But nor can the Briton stand the forced silence in the narrow corridor. He wants to ask forgiveness, to talk.

To explain that he
knows
what lies at the bottom of his companion's heart. That he has thought about it over and over, stirring his soul like some infernal soup, dredging up thoughts burned and broken. He gets it, and has stood aside. He has struggled against the thought of running away, against unthinking anger. He has missed his friend. He has missed him so much it hurts. And it does not matter if the son of the Island does not have the same fire in his heart that burns inside the Gaul's chest. It does not matter because now he is here, just inches away.

And yet the words do not come, damn it. They walk together in silence, at moments brushing against one another, hearts pounding so hard in their chests they seem almost audible.

His dry throat is a torment, his forehead pearled with sweat.

Verus stops. He decides it is time for this to end.

“Priscus…”

He turns around.

They are standing eye-to-eye, now. A moment without end, time stretching away, chewing through air and life.

As their gazes meet worlds die and are born, sunsets pass, galaxies explode. An impossible love is wrung dry, ignited and quenched all at once.

Silence.

Until no sound breaks the echoes of the monster's belly except for that of their breathing.

Then Priscus takes a step forward and places his hands on Verus's chest. It looks like a clumsy caress, but it is a push, an attack.

Verus steps back, incredulous and grateful, he does not understand. In a moment his shoulders are against the wall, Priscus's face again up close.

Very close.

There is no attack; the message in the Gaul's fond gaze is clear enough.

Priscus kisses Verus. A real kiss, thick as honey.

Verus responds, for as long as it lasts.

The Gaul's hands brush against the Briton's face.

Eyes closed until reality, the bitch, returns to knock at the door.

The two warriors carry on staring at one another; the veil has been lifted.

Spines tingle with infinite tenderness.

It is Verus who speaks first. Sincere tears roll down his cheeks.

“Brother, I don't…”

Priscus smiles. He seals the Briton's mouth with his finger. “I know. I've always known: you don't feel what I feel, you never will. I don't care. I always thought it mattered, but it doesn't. Not now.”

Verus squeezes his companion's shoulders. He cannot stop crying.

“I'm sorry, Priscus. For everything…”

The man of ice has tears in his eyes as well. He strokes his friend's face, rough of beard against calloused fingers, salve for a broken soul: “So am I.”

Verus looks straight into Priscus's soul: “You are my brother. And you always will be.”

The Gaul would like to answer, but Ircius and Daimon are calling for them at the tops of their voices.

“Let's go, our masters are waiting…” he cuts short.

They begin to walk; never have they felt so unburdened.

Not a thought in their heads, a future without any answers and, finally, without any questions.

Feelings of gratitude float in the air.

Verus and Priscus, twin sons of a bewildered destiny, have just found one another again, safe and sound.

Shine, O sun of hope, shine now that the night is near.

When they reach the doorway of the changing room, Decius Ircius and Daimon put on their best smiles and greet them with a clasp of the elbow. They cast another glance over the two young men standing on the threshold. They are smiling too, but in an instant thelanistas' faces have darkened.

Ircius gulps: he does not want to say the words he is about to. But he must, may the gods be merciful.

“Men, today you are granted a great honor. You will fight one another in the last match of the inaugural day of the games. The most prestigious of all:
murmillo
against Thra—”

Daimon steals the scene. He has no problem sticking the knife in.

“—and only one of you will live. So commands Titus Flavius Vespasianus, Emperor of Rome.”

That is the exact instant when the sky falls in.

Priscus's heart bleeds.

Verus's misses a beat.

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

Ircius cannot bring himself to look the gladiators in the eye. He limits himself to muttering, “Go and get ready,” his head hung low.

He watches as they walk heavily away, slow steps towards a cursed destiny.

Only when the shields were laid down and the finger was raised would the fight be over

M
ARTIAL,
Liber de spectaculis
,
XXIX

Rome,
AD
80, August

THE FINAL ACT, the end of the road.

It will all end right in the middle of the arena. Where it was always written this damned story would finish.

Brother against brother, to the death. Only one will be leaving here alive; both Verus and Priscus are well aware there is no getting around that law.

They trained hard for this moment. It had to arrive sooner or later. At the bottom of their hearts they hoped it would never be their turn, but things never go as you expect them to.

Ever.

A moment after mending the unhealable rift, the Gaul and the Briton are enemies once more, their futures reduced to nothing, like a fortune inherited and blown in the space of a single day.

Verus's heart is pounding; he can feel his breaths coming faster beneath the iron of his helm.

On the other side of the Amphitheater, in a dressing room identical to the one he is standing in, Priscus feels the same emotions.

But there is no more time for tears or remorse.

At a nod from their respective masters, the two gladiators step outside.

Beneath the dying sun appears a mystical vision of two heroes, both decked out for death.

The crowd, having shouted itself into a frenzy moments before, suddenly falls silent at the sight of the warriors' splendid breastplates.

Ircius and Daimon have outdone themselves. Each has prepared something special for his champion.

Despite not knowing the two would face one another, each has fitted out the representative of his
ludus
in a sparkling masterpiece of art and gladiatorial technology.

First-rate metal, decorative engravings. Just the sort of armor a man would want to be buried in.

The lords of the
ludi
rub their hands together: they know that the myth of these warriors, thanks partially to the armor they are wearing, will live on forever.

Verus's is crimson red: the Briton, genuine fire, has never felt himself burn like today, beneath the eyes of fifty thousand Romans thirsting for glory. His bronze shield, with its characteristic tile shape, is decorated with painted flames and embossed shapes: at the center is Ircius's silver lion, jaws spread wide in a savage roar. His shin guard and helmet are of matching color, with leaping flames hugging the form of his calf and head. His crests, an artisan's masterpiece: skillfully woven robins' feathers flutter in the baking August wind. The visor of his Corinthian helmet is the epitome of finely polished metal, filled with expertly made fissures.

Even his
manica
and the leather and chord protectors have been dyed by master
tintores
, transforming the son of Britannia into a genuine god of light. But the
gladius
is the true jewel in the crown of his equipment: the blade, hammered a thousand times over and tempered in the icy waters of the springs that lie to the north of the Eternal City; the bronze hilt coated in silver, a reminder that the house of Decius Ircius fears no rival.

Priscus, on the other hand, is the god of eternal snow: cold as a December dawn, ice blue from head to toe.

All of the metal used was deliberately smoked while it was being quenched in order to obtain a million different shades of azure: an endless job that saw a mere blacksmith become an authentic creator, turning inanimate material into a work of art. The high shin guards, covering half his thighs, carry the symbol of Daimon's trident on the knees, sculpted in relief, enthroned on a sea of cobalt blue embedded with lapis lazuli. His greaves, the product of countless strikes of chisel and graver as they were worked over on the lathe, have been purposely shaped to lend the Gallic warrior the appearance of the god of the sea, leaving powerful calves and thighs on show. The segmented
manica
on his right arm recalls a merman's tail, winding sinuously down from shoulder to wrist in a succession of glinting scales, bluish waves of superb workmanship. Every individual piece looks sharper than a razor blade. The
manica
is fastened to the Thracian's powerful body with dark blue leather straps. Even his
subligaculum
had been dyed to match, while the steel belt securing it around his waist also bears the Lord of Capua's trident. The jagged edge of his dark iron
sica
brings to mind the curving crest of a seahorse. With the hilt crafted to look like the animal's eyes and mouth, this blade would be fit to hang at the side of a conqueror of worlds. The shield is small and rectangular, firmly anchored to his left arm; it boasts every different shade to be found in the Romans'
mare nostrum
, oxidized many times over and polished like a mirror. Beneath Apollo's rays, salty sea green glitters alongside the hues of the heavens; the color of the abyss blends with that of the northern tribes' eyes.

And lastly, the helmet: wide brim and curved crest, a double mask of openwork covering his eyes. Decorated with peacock feathers and made from bronze with a coarse-grained, sandblasted effect, it looks to have come straight from Neptune's personal armory.

Priscus is a freezing wind blowing from the Arctic.

Verus is incandescent lava.

When they are standing before one another, divided only by the referee's white tunic, the terraces acclaim them, overflowing with uncontrollable excitement.

Only one will remain.

Up in the Emperor's box, Titus seems satisfied with his choice. He complements Domitian on his good advice.

“The lanistas have outdone themselves…magnificent costumes! Let us hope that Verus and Priscus live up to their fame.”

Domitian gives a lewd smile, not deigning to throw even a glance at Julia. The steely taste of revenge fills his palate, and it is deliciously cold.

She starts nervously when she hears her father name the two champions who fill her heart to bursting. Shaken by a tremor, confused, dazed. Now she understands.

Verus and Priscus, the men she has fallen head over heels for, forced to fight to the death, to gamble their lives in the arena for the pleasure of the Empire, never sated with death.

And it is her fault.

If only she had not involved Verus, if she had forgotten about Priscus, if she had steered clear of the city after the fire, if she had been kinder with that snake, Domitian…

But no, death has chosen for everyone.

It has arrived uninvited, urged onwards by the fire of revenge, welcomed by cold profit. It has danced for hours in the arena of blood and now it demands a concrete tribute.

The last sacrifice, a merciless offering to the gods of the underworld.

You win or you die.

Verus and Priscus know it all too well.

The referee raises his
rudius
, symbol of the highest authority on the circle of sand.

He awaits a sign from the master of the world.

Titus blinks, the referee smiles. He gives the signal.

The final stretch; iron will decide who lives. Beneath a low, cruel sun, there is no more time for talk.

The match has begun.

And it will not be over quickly.

It begins with fire; that is in the nature of things.

Inside Verus's head there is no peace: he knows he will have to fight as never before. He will have to sweat to save his skin. Give it his all, breathe in violence and breathe out terror. He will have to kill his own brother, only to regret it for the rest of his days.

It is the life you chose, boy.

It is as though he can hear Cormac's voice in his head, together with those of Marcius, Rubius, Aton, and Ircius. The masters speak as one, echoing noisily through his soul.

The life you chose.

The first lunge comes straight from the heart, a right-hander, a little stronger than Priscus was expecting.

Verus's
gladius
takes a gash out of the Gaul's shield. It eats through metal and paint, the blade cutting deep and throwing out sparks.

An explosion of sparks.

The crowd holds its breath. The cheering is respectful, the mob crackling with tension.

Verus tries again, not wanting to lose his advantage: he launches an attack with his shield and strikes his opponent's face, who takes the blow in a dignified manner. Priscus is in no rush: for now he is studying his adversary. He knows Verus better than anyone, he trained with him, saw him grow into the gladiator he is today. He has been watching his flaws long enough to fall hopelessly in love with them. Still, he notes a new light in the scorching heat of the Briton before him; he has become a man. He is fighting
for
something, now. Not just
against
someone.

Each blow is more powerful than the last. The armor softens their impact a little, but Priscus realizes that the time for action cannot be put off indefinitely.

Whatever happens, today we die.

Whether he wins or loses, Priscus knows his heart will be left here to rot in the sand. Might as well get it over with.

He flexes his knees to dodge the latest thrust. He grasps the
sica
in his left hand and pivots on his right leg, combining a spin with a slashing blow from the side. Verus's back is cut cleanly open.

Time crystallizes in an unrepeatable, infinite moment: it seems to slow to half speed. Red droplets hang in the air, the serrated teeth of the blade biting into firm flesh.

First blood.

For a long and perfect moment, all is silence.

Then the frenzied mob explodes, while up above, in the nest of power, Julia's heart shatters.

While Verus's begins hammering uncontrollably. Red fury bursts his veins, a ferocious beast writhing through his innards: the Briton is elsewhere now, maddened eyes behind the roasting visor.

Forehand follows backhand, the
gladius
tears into the shield, breaking through it and reaching what lies behind. It finds the Gaul's chest, sups warm life from the gashes, punishes the defenseless stomach muscles.

They are superficial wounds, barely scratches, but all the while Priscus is giving ground, eventually finding himself up against the wall with Verus up against him. Head to head, his fire is a mountain splitting in two, the shuddering force of a boulder rolling downhill.

The
murmillo
shouts and launches a clumsy punch from the inside outwards. The other blocks it as best he can, but loses his grip on the shield which is thrown to one side, tracing a handsome arc through the air before it crashes to the ground, too far away for the Gaul to reach it without putting himself at huge risk.

Advantage Verus.

The slaughterhouse calls for violence, the shouting from the terraces is insane.

The Briton is snorting like a maddened bull, ready to pierce Priscus's unprotected flesh, but the Gaul does not shrink from the challenge: he sets his jaw and grasps his
sica
with both hands. But a moment before the sparks fly, the Emperor raises his index finger. The referee, attentive as a hunting dog, does not need to see the signal twice. He obeys, raising his
rudius
to stop the duel. He approaches the two adversaries and taps the staff on Verus's shield.

“A fair fight,” he exclaims without emotion.

The
murmillo
is happy to be rid of his shield—he hates having an advantage—but the people in the crowd demand drama and he knows how to give it to them. At the referee's signal he unties the strap holding the wood and iron bulwark to his forearm and hurls it angrily to the ground. Then he raises his fists to the heavens and basks in the embrace of fifty thousand voices.

Priscus tests the edge of his saber and smiles: the Briton was
born
for this crap.

When the shouting finally dies down, the referee in the snow-colored tunic leads the two killers back to the center of the arena.

Blade against blade.

May the massacre continue.

The tumult of iron is nothing next to that in their hearts. Verus and Priscus have not said a word to one another in long months, and now that they are finally back together, now that they want to talk for days on end and
find
one another again, they are forced to let their swords do the talking, locked in a lethal dance that looks like love but smells of dead flesh.

Verus slices into the Gaul's shoulder with a flat stabbing motion, old school, as Rubius taught them.

Priscus responds with a back-hander that rips through the
murmillo
's thigh; four inches to the right and it would have nicked his femoral artery.

The two champions of Rome are panting like hounds. Brute force is their shared tongue, blood better than sex and, after the first wounds, their desire swells. Verus is parched by the red thirst; he has never felt anything like it. He wants to cut Priscus, dig into his splendid flesh one palm at a time. Tear him to pieces.

It is the only way to honor him: warriors show their respect by killing one another.

The Thracian launches another pirouette and aims for his elbow, but Verus sidesteps and wounds the Gaul: his
gladius
stabs through his adversary's calf and the pain is excruciating.

Priscus cries out and falls to his knee, but regains his feet immediately. He has lost his blade in the confusion and the Briton has the chance to capitalize on it, slicing his head off his shoulders or at least trying to do so with a thrust to the base of his neck, now that the Gaul has been floored.

But he does not want to.

He does not want to at all, damn it.

The Gaul gets back up, knuckles vermillion and sticky. The helmet of ice is a furnace; he pulls it off and slings it onto the sand. Panting, eyes bulging out of their sockets, Verus has never seen him like this; the man who is ready for anything, even falling in love with his own murderer, will go on to the bitter end, you can bet on that.