The Killing Sands
Page 3
hours. I flinched and instinctively brought my sword up to block the garish assault. I hastily brought it down and squinted into the beyond, willing my senses to battle to enter the light of day.
I made my way forward again, passing under the gate as the new colours slowly relinquished their blinding sharpness. And then the sweeping structure filled my view, stating its claim with the same arrogance that it showed anyone else who might stride out to meet it; Emperor or plebeian, freeman or slave. The sands were spread out in a great oval space, laid there to soak up the blood and the piss of men and beasts. Amongst the gleam of yellow, there were patches and streaks where the ground took on a fouler shade, lingering remnants of the slaughter that went before; of animals, of convicts, of gladiators. I took a dozen paces towards the centre and then stopped short, ignoring the figures on the peripheral of my eye. I would rather challenge an impatient man, than an assured one. Let him wait.
Breathing in as much of the fresh heat as the gagged, mouthless helmet would allow, I kept my eyes on the soaring scope of the Colosseum. When I had watched the final months of its making, from the Ludus Magnus that stood not much more than an arm’s stretch away, the sight was imposing. The Colosseum overshadowed all the buildings that had the misfortune of being near it, each of its yawning arches rising to the height of four grown men, and the evening sun cast a vast swathe of the surrounding expanse into darkness. But now it was impossibly larger. A bustling sea of Romans sat on steps that rose sharply from beyond the walls encircling the sands, climbing hundreds of feet in their steep ascent, striving to touch the towering blue sky that wrapped itself around the earth. Giant awnings were spread over the highest tier, protecting a few from the sun’s searing brilliance. This was the amphitheatre of the Flavians, a decade of men toiling in their thousands. A strange wavy sensation washed through me as my eyes wandered up the precipitous heights, and I felt an urge to take a step back, to find the balance that had deserted me. The sheer number of people, the inconceivable audacity of the structure, it was overwhelming. This was more than an arena, this was a temple. The dirt was its altar, and I stood ready to be the sacrifice.
A cheer went up from some as the crowd noticed my diminutive presence against the sandy stretches, and a spray of hyacinths and tulips fell near my feet. The booming roar and the shattering drum of Roman feet that had invaded my solitude below, that lay dormant for now, however the short the moment. They must like an underdog in the arena. The bravery, the courage and contempt shown to a likely death. The philosophers of the bloody sword. In all acts, even death, I had been taught by my ageing father to seek the best move that stood within a human’s reach. My sacrifice, leaving my family behind, was that the most I could have done? I might never know. That act was now shrouded under antiquity, while this lay on the open ground, naked beneath the sun, waiting for my approach.
I held my weapon to the skies in salute, and the serried masses answered. I pictured my family high in the stands above, a world apart from the rabble that thronged around them. Aurelia, Lucretia, Priscilla; beaming down, made radiant by the sun that inched closer to the awnings above them. Victory would take me one step closer to them. Once, and then twice, I beat the flat of the sword against my shield. Then I finally circled to face the north, and the Bear of Campania.
He was looking steadily at me from twenty paces away, against the backdrop of purple and gold finery draped over the Imperial box. Beside him was the summa rudis, a veteran of the sands who had survived long enough to pass over the sword and wield the staff in its stead. He was a stocky figure, wearing a white tunic, his rudis clenched in one hand. A man I hoped would have no say in this game of life and death. I strode towards the Bear, sizing up the man who until now had only appeared to me through tales given readily across steaming bowls of barley during those brief retreats under the shade. The burnt twins of Memphis, the Jackal of Numidia, the warrior druid from faraway Britannia; fanciful stories of his victims to lift another miserable day of lifting logs and bricks beneath the ceaseless heat. But they needed a worthy man from whom to spin fiction, a warrior whose legend rose beyond the accounts of mortals. So that for one moment, even the speaker might believe himself.
Carcerus showed no impatience to begin, standing with an open poise as if on attention, no show made to defend himself. His shield was lodged into the ground by his feet, tall and curved in the manner of the legions, adorned with a painting of the snarling beast that gave him his name, reared up tall on its hind legs. A gladius flashed as it hung from his right hand. There was little armour about him, as a Murmillo his was not different from my own, except for the helmet that was perched on his wide shoulders. There was beauty in its monstrosity, polished bronze glinting fiercely in the sun, a dark red plume of horsehair sweeping down from the high arch of its crest. The visor was shrouded and faint under the wide sweep of the brim. There was no telling what might be held in the eyes behind the grating as they watched my approach. All that I could see was a silent, looming figure; watching calmly for the move of his latest opponent. No advantage to be gained before the weapons were raised to strike. An odd sense of relief nevertheless found its way through me with each step, Carcerus was no giant. For size, he was no more a man than I was.
The Bear moved his great helm by a fraction, a gentle wave passing through the crest, as I passed by his shoulder with no break in stride. Whistles sounded from the crowd. I heard a faint sound of guttural laughter follow from the man himself, then the scrape of a shield being drawn away from the dirt and the crunch of footsteps as Carcerus stalked in my wake. I drew to a stop before the wall that loomed ahead of me stretched high enough to hinder the sight of the podium that stood at the centre of the northern face. Silver rollers had been massed up against the wall, presumably to hamper the footing of any man or beast who might seek to exact vengeance on the beings that sat above. I marvelled at the thought. The wall itself rose beyond the fingertips of a man standing on another’s shoulders, and it bore no marks, no grooves to allow a handhold. What being could scale the sheerness of this obstacle?
My helmet had begun to boil under the heat. I resisted the urge to unbuckle the chin-straps and wipe away the sweat that now flowed freely down my face. I didn’t spare a glance for Carcerus as he made his way to stand alongside me, as I gazed up at the pavilion, the languid microcosm of Roman aristocracy. Within the shelter of its slow, rustling folds, were men and women likely close in the Emperor’s favour. Some looked as if they did not have the taste for the proceedings, reclining low in their chairs, eyes in a daze; a goblet in one hand, a fan in the other. Young slaves flitted about with jugs of wine, attending to the needs and wants of their masters. The Emperor sat at the front, listening to the whispers of a fair-haired girl who leant close by his side. He did not pain himself to appear content with his share of life, his eyes flickering around in a distracted manner.
The Bear spoke then, in harsh pronounced tones: ‘Before I stick a blade through your guts, I’ll need a name.’
He rose from his seat before I could think to answer, Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, resting his hands on the balustrade to the cry of trumpets and a frenzied uproar that had now begun to sound distant, their cries muffled as if they no longer mattered. There was no chance of Titus passing as anyone other, even without the vociferous approval of his subjects. He wore a purple toga, the mark of royalty, with intricate golden embroidery, and the woven leaves of the Civic Crown rested over his golden curls. But his wide features and ruddy complexion was closer to a priest of Bacchus than the line of the Caesars. Titus seemed elsewhere, giving a lazy wave to the crowd and again to acknowledge our outstretched swords. Then he was back on his perch, talking into the girl’s ear, who sat ready to break out into laughter, staring curiously in my direction.
‘Both of you, five paces!’
I turned away from the pavilion at the barked words of the summa rudis. The ground seemed to push back at me with each step, as if the brute unyielding force of
stone had replaced the sand beneath me. I now noticed the men crouched by the walls, burning torches and coiled whips in hand. They would no doubt wave them to use if I did not show willingness to raise my sword. I smiled sourly at the pitiful image. This was Rome’s pleasure. And this was my oath, to endure it all. Dancing to the whims of the tenebrous men and women who left their last vestiges of humanity behind in their own reality. And this was my world. I stamped the churning embers that threatened to heat up within me and swivelled to meet the hidden eyes of the Bear.
The Colosseum was shaking once again. The mob were striking a furious beat with the thumping of feet, salivating at the immediacy of tainted blade and wrecked bone, but the thunder was a world’s distance from the jarring bursts that had sought me out in the tunnels below. I couldn’t care for the clamour that surrounded me, or the life that called for my return, the dream of a future. Nothing mattered besides the man who stood with his arms outstretched, torso bared, his taunts lost in the din. With the point of a sword, I invited his approach, as the rudis