The Arena

by Ben Kane

  Face-to-face with his opponent, Longus delivered a powerful head butt. Both the fish crest and the bowl of his helmet struck Donar on the forehead. With a howl of pain, Donar stumbled away, blood pouring from the upper wound. He had the sense to try and keep his spear between him and Longus, but, half-blinded, he didn’t point it in the right direction. Bent-kneed to present less of a target, Longus darted in and rammed Donar again with his shield. This time, the impact was enough to knock the champion down.

  Flat on to his back he went, and the crowd, now wholly supporting Longus, bayed their approval.

  It’s over, thought Piso in exultation.

  Not for nothing was Donar the champion, though. Discarding his spear, he grabbed at the lower edge of Longus’ shield as the murmillo moved to stand over him. He wrenched it down, unbalancing Longus, and then pushed it up again, catching him a stinging blow under the chin. Longus’ attack checked, Donar rolled away to the side, grabbing his spear. He still had his shield too. On his feet again, he began hurling abuse at Longus.

  Blood dripped from under Longus’ helmet – his nose must have been injured or broken – but he ran at Donar, keen to continue the fight.

  The pair jabbed and thrust at each other, both appearing enraged by the other’s successes. The tension was palpable, and had many in the audience on their feet, cheering and whistling. Even the once-bored staff officer was watching with fierce concentration.

  Vitellius leaned close. ‘Still think you’re going to win?’

  Startled, Piso glanced at his friend. ‘Of course,’ he grated, although he was no longer quite so sure.

  Peeeeep! The referee blew his whistle. Neither fighter acknowledged his intervention, and he had to sound it twice more before they heard and lowered their weapons. Boos and catcalls rained down on the referee as he gestured a slave forward to retie the lower leather retaining strap on Donar’s solitary greave, which had come loose.

  Work done, the slave retreated out of harm’s way. Longus and Donar looked to the referee, who whistled at them to begin.

  The fight continued for some time, with both fighters giving their best. Longus fell once, but the referee intervened because he judged him to have slipped. A while later, Donar landed a powerful but glancing blow on the front of Longus’ helmet, denting the cheekpiece and inflicting an unseen injury. Nonetheless, it was Donar who began to weaken first. Whether it was because he had more flesh wounds or wasn’t as fit as he might once have been, Piso wasn’t sure – nor did he care. What mattered was that Donar was now retreating more than he was attacking, that Longus’ sword was weaving a constant, deadly arc around the champion, and causing damage. First it was a stabbing probe to one of Donar’s feet, then a delicate surgeon’s cut to his right cheek.

  In the end, it was another shoulder charge that secured victory for Longus. As chance would have it, the pair were closer to the perimeter of the arena than they’d been for most of the contest. Driving Donar backwards – he didn’t fall – and staying inside the reach of his spear, Longus shoved until the planking was almost within touching distance. Realising what would happen if there was nowhere to go, Donar made frantic efforts to slow down and stop. All the momentum was with Longus, however, and a moment later, Donar’s back struck the wood with a loud thud. Excited shouts went up from the soldiers just above the fighters, and men leaned over the edge for a better view.

  Aware that his opponent was still dangerous, Longus headbutted Donar again and again, mashing his nose to a pulp. Drawing back his shield, Longus punched his opponent with it one, two, three times. He stepped back then and, before Donar, half-stunned, could do anything but groan, hacked in under the bottom rim of the champion’s shield. Blood fountained; Donar screamed, and his right, unprotected leg buckled.

  Longus wheeled away, and his sword slashed the air in a crimson-tipped gesture of delight. Piso and the rest cheered, and Longus spun in a complete circle to face Donar, who had dropped to his good knee. Despite his gritted jaw, bloodied face and ruined leg, he managed to raise his spear towards Longus.

  ‘Yield!’ Longus’ voice was muffled by his helmet, but there was no mistaking what he was saying. ‘Yield!’

  The chant began at once, from every part of the amphitheatre. ‘Iugula! Iugula!’

  Rather than answer, Donar thrust with his spear. Longus batted away the blow with ease and began hammering blows on Donar’s shield, first cracking it and then smashing it in two. Chest heaving, he withdrew ten steps, out of spear range. Defenceless, Donar glared at him.

  ‘Yield now, or die,’ ordered Longus.

  ‘Iugula! Iugula!’

  Piso was grinning like a fool. He suspected that his drink-fuddled mental calculation was out by a margin, but he stood to collect at least two hundred denarii. ‘The wine’s on me tonight, brothers,’ he muttered to Vitellius and Julius, thinking that he might indulge himself with a visit to Diana.

  ‘Make your choice!’ shouted Longus, approaching Donar, his sword at the ready.

  With an oath, Donar threw down his spear. Longus nodded, watching as his defeated opponent made the signal requesting mercy at the staff officer.

  Piso was on his feet before he knew it. ‘Mitte! Mercy!’ he shouted, indicating to his friends that they should do the same. His cynical side might have said they did it just to ensure a flow of unlimited wine, but they did as he asked.

  For a dozen heartbeats, few men joined in, but Donar’s fine previous record must have occurred to some – and perhaps Piso’s enthusiasm helped too. ‘Mitte! Let him live!’ roared the fool who’d been beaten out of the arena by the optio. His companions added their voices to his. So did the soldiers behind Piso. The chant spread as fast as the demand for Asellus to die had in the previous fight.

  ‘MITTE! MITTE!’

  The staff officer regarded the crowd. Almost the entire audience was now demanding that Donar should be spared. With a shrug, the officer stuck up his right thumb, raising a mighty cheer.

  Longus dipped his chin towards Donar before parading around the arena to receive the legionaries’ adulation.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Piso.

  ‘Wanting to collect your winnings?’ asked Vitellius with a wink.

  ‘The quicker we leave, the faster my purse will be full, and the wine will flow.’ Piso stood and began making for the nearest set of steps. ‘Coming?’ he called.

  Emerging from the amphitheatre, Piso saw Degmar again – they nodded at one another in passing – as he made a beeline for the first betmaker with whom he’d done business, the lank-haired Gaul of earlier. The betmaker was none too pleased at Piso’s appearance with a token marked ‘D 5 M U’, indicating a bet of five denarii on the last murmillo. Muttering about the contest having been fixed, he paid out the one hundred silver coins with the speed of an arthritic greybeard. His heavies, a pair of broken-nosed, gap-toothed hulks, glowered at Piso, and greedy eyes aplenty saw the small fortune being handed over. He was more than glad of his comrades’ presence at his back, and kept a tight grip on his purse as he sought out the second betmaker, a fleshy-lipped Sicilian.

  Piso handed over his token, which was marked much as the first had been, except the seven denarii had been denoted as seven individual lines rather than ‘VII’. Pursing his lips, the Sicilian peered at it long and hard.

  ‘Where shall we go first?’ asked Vitellius.

  Piso glanced around. ‘Sirona’s place. I want some really good wine.’

  ‘And if Tullus is there?’

  ‘I’ll buy him some too!’ Cheered by the prospect of standing his centurion a drink, Piso turned back. The Sicilian was grinning at him now, which did not feel right.

  ‘You’ve been drinking since this morning?’ The Sicilian’s tone was jocular, even honeyed.

  ‘That’s what legionaries do on payday,’ retorted Piso. He held out his hand. ‘My money.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Sicilian’s fingers were fluttering over the little piles of coins on his table. ‘Three denarii was
a big bet. At eighteen to one odds, your winnings will come to … fifty-four denarii.’

  ‘Three?’ screeched Piso. ‘There are seven lines on my token, you blind whoreson! Seven!’

  ‘I can only see three,’ said the Sicilian, jerking his head at his bodyguard, a horse-sized German tribesman with a long beard. Horse stepped in front of his employer, his ham hands gripping a nasty-looking club. ‘Three lines,’ he rumbled in bad Latin. ‘Three denarii bet.’

  ‘You prick!’ roared Piso.

  ‘Here.’ The Sicilian was proffering a token. ‘See for yourself.’

  Piso snatched it, cursing his stupidity for twisting around to talk to Vitellius. Sleight of hand was one of the Sicilian’s many skills, no doubt. Staring down at the three lines, he let out a bitter laugh. ‘This isn’t my token. You’ve switched it!’

  The Sicilian’s face took on a wounded look. ‘That’s the one you gave me. You saw, didn’t you?’ He looked at Horse.

  ‘Soldier give you that one,’ agreed Horse.

  Piso’s urge was to punch Horse and attack the Sicilian. Even if he had been sober, however, he wasn’t sure that particular contest was winnable. Vitellius and Julius would help, but they were as pissed as he was. Angry enough to give the notion serious consideration anyway, he hesitated as the Sicilian whistled, and a second guard – also enormous – appeared from behind his stall. The new arrival stamped over to stand beside Horse, almost blocking sight of the Sicilian behind them.

  Piso’s spirits fell. ‘You’re robbing me blind,’ he snarled through the gap between the heavies.

  ‘I’m an honest man,’ came the reply. Coins clinked, and a small leather bag was shoved at Piso. ‘Here. Fifty-four denarii. A decent sum for any man to win.’

  Piso glanced at his companions – their nods told him that if he attacked, they would too – and then he sighed. Even with their daggers, they were so drunk that overcoming the two man-mountains would be doubtful at best. He counted the purse’s contents, finding that the Sicilian had not lied in that respect at least. ‘You owe me another seventy-two denarii!’ he cried, tossing the three-lined token at the Sicilian.

  ‘I’ve paid you what’s owed.’ The Sicilian’s voice was hard now. ‘Be gone, or my men will move you on.’

  Boiling with fury, Piso squared up to Horse, who gave him a happy leer.

  ‘Want to fight?’ Horse tapped the business end of his club off a meaty palm. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Piso.’ Vitellius’ hand was on his shoulder. ‘It’s not worth a broken arm or leg – or worse. Come on.’

  Piso wheeled. ‘Seventy-two denarii! Seventy-two fucking denarii!’ he hissed. ‘That’s almost four months’ pay!’

  ‘I know it, brother. So does Julius.’ Sympathy mixed with the anger in Vitellius’ eyes. ‘It’s not worth a cracked skull, though, and that’s all that is on offer here.’

  ‘We’ll go and get Tullus, or Fenestela,’ said Piso, clutching at straws.

  ‘Without the token, you can’t prove a thing,’ said Vitellius.

  ‘I’ll tell this lot what the whoreson’s done,’ declared Piso, waving a hand at the legionaries disgorging from the amphitheatre. ‘They’ll help.’

  ‘Do you recognise any?’ asked Julius. ‘I can’t see a single one from the Fifth.’

  Piso looked, and ground his teeth because all he could see were men of the Twenty-First. The relationship between its soldiers and those of their legion varied between rivalry and outright hostility. Rather than providing some much-needed muscle, Piso decided, his situation would be a cause for hilarity and humiliation. Degmar might have helped, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Vitellius. ‘The first round’s on me.’

  Even this startling announcement – Vitellius had a tendency to be stingy – could not drag Piso’s mood from the mire. Calling the Sicilian every filthy name he could think of, and promising to get his own back, he walked away.

  ‘Should we try and round up men to sort this out?’ he muttered.

  ‘Under normal circumstances, yes, but today’s payday,’ said Vitellius. ‘Our cohort will be spread over every drinking den and whorehouse in the vicus. That bastard’s no fool either. He and his apes will be on the road as soon as they can take down their filthy stall. By the time we got back, if we managed it, they’d be long gone.’

  ‘Imagine that you had only wagered three denarii with the prick,’ advised Julius. ‘With the hundred denarii you took from the other betmaker, you’d be over the moon.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Piso.

  ‘You can’t do anything more about it, and your purse is full,’ said Vitellius, slapping him on the back. ‘Forget about the rest.’

  ‘Aye.’ Piso smiled, but inside him, a white-hot rage burned.

  Piso had no idea what hour it was. Darkness still blanketed the vicus, but dawn couldn’t be far off. He and his comrades had been in Sirona’s tavern for a long time – since they’d left the amphitheatre in fact. She had thrown everyone out of her inn a short time before, saying she had a bed to climb into, even if they didn’t. Nothing would make her serve another drink, not even the handful of denarii that Piso had proffered. ‘Save it for another night,’ Sirona had said with a smile, while pointing at the door. ‘Now go home.’

  Vitellius and Julius were weaving alongside Piso, arm in arm, and singing as they went. So inebriated that they could only remember the first verse of a popular drinking song, the pair roared it over and over again. Piso snorted with amusement when the first-floor shutters of an adjacent building opened and a man’s voice screeched, ‘Shut up and fuck off, you noisy bastards!’

  He laughed even harder at Vitellius’ and Julius’ response, which was to stand beneath the window and serenade the irate householder. Only when the contents of a night-soil pot came spattering down, narrowly missing them, did they beat an undignified retreat.

  ‘What a night,’ slurred Vitellius, swinging an arm over Piso’s shoulder. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Piso, reminded again of the swindling Sicilian. ‘It was one to remember, all right.’

  ‘Shame we didn’t get to a whorehouse,’ said Julius.

  ‘None of us could have managed it.’ Piso curved one of his little fingers to face the ground. ‘Would have been a complete waste of money.’

  ‘Our next night off duty, we’ll hit the brothels,’ declared Vitellius, stumbling and almost dragging Piso down with him.

  Piso grunted, his imagination running riot. Despite the quantities of fine wine they’d consumed in Sirona’s, most of his winnings still sat in his weighty purse, which meant an entire night with Diana was possible if he wished it. Come the morning, Piso decided blearily, he would have to deposit the money with the quartermaster, or face having it thieved from the barrack room he shared with his comrades. Seventy-two denarii more would have given him enough to visit Diana and to send a large sum home to his aged mother. Picturing the Sicilian leaving the vicus with his coin, Piso was again consumed by anger. I hope the whoreson dies a slow, painful death, he thought.

  He jumped as Degmar materialised out of the darkness, flanked by his two companions. ‘Greetings,’ Piso muttered as his composure returned.

  ‘Greetings,’ came the amused reply.

  ‘Degmar!’ cried Vitellius. ‘Well met.’ He whispered an explanation to Julius, who didn’t know the warrior, and Julius’ suspicious expression eased. Attracted by a still-open restaurant, the pair ambled towards it, saying they’d be back soon. Piso was about to follow, but Degmar caught at his arm.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Piso.

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Very. You?’

  ‘No. I had a nip earlier, but nothing since. I’m thirsty, though.’

  ‘I would have bought you a drink – several – if I’d seen you,’ said Piso, feeling bad. Like as not, Degmar didn’t have much coin.

  ‘I wasn’t in the vicus.’

  Even more confused, Piso searc
hed Degmar’s face for a clue. ‘What were you doing?’

  Degmar rummaged under his cloak. ‘Here,’ he said, stretching out his arm.

  Piso goggled at the proffered purse. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Seventy-two denarii.’

  ‘Seventy-two denarii?’ repeated Piso like a fool.

  ‘From the Sicilian. That’s what you were owed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Piso, even more confused. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘You were protesting loud enough by his stall,’ said Degmar with a brief smile.

  ‘But how could you—? What did you—?’

  ‘He owed me money too – and wouldn’t pay. We’ – and Degmar indicated his comrades – ‘stayed and watched him load up his cart after your confrontation. The filth headed south with his guards, so we followed.’

  ‘You ambushed them?’ asked Piso, incredulous and delighted.

  ‘Something like that. Got my money, yours and more.’ Coins chinked off each other as Degmar shook the bag at his waist.

  ‘And the Sicilian?’

  ‘He won’t be cheating anyone else this side of the underworld. Nor will his heavies.’

  Piso let out an incredulous laugh. This was far more than he could have hoped for. ‘I’m in your debt. Thank you.’ He wrung Degmar’s hand.

  Degmar’s face split into a rare grin. ‘Maybe you can pay me back one day.’

  ‘If I can, I will,’ swore Piso. ‘On my life.’

  ‘We’re off to find a tavern that’s open,’ said Degmar. ‘Sleep well.’

  With that, he and his companions slipped away into the gloom. For several moments, Piso stood there, not quite believing what had just happened, and yet the new, heavy purse in his fist offered plenty of proof. Happiness washed over him. His mother would now receive the monies he’d wanted to send her, and the tombstones he had long wished to erect for his tent mates who’d died three years before could also become reality. There would even be enough to start saving for himself, a wise plan if he wanted to leave the legions and fulfil his dreams of setting up as an importer of German furs and the like. I’m rich, thought Piso with elation.