The Song of the Gladiator

by Paul Doherty

  Claudia wished she could have some water, clean and fresh, to take the acid from her throat. Chrysis was a dangerous but knowledgeable man. He was frightened by the murders and probably trying to placate her. Claudia wetted her lips. Chrysis was merely voicing hints and possibilities that Claudia had already received from the likes of Helena. Spicerius was meant to die – Murranus could have killed him but would have entered the next bout a vilified, disgraced gladiator. A fighter in the arena needed to be confident.

  ‘Why didn’t Rufinus tell me all this?’

  ‘He would have done,’ Chrysis hunched his shoulders, ‘but all this clamour and upset has disturbed everyone. No wonder the Emperor wants to go back to Rome. He said it’s more peaceful there.’

  ‘And what do you think will happen to Murranus?’ Claudia asked.

  The chamberlain pinched his nostrils, a common gesture whenever he was thinking deeply.

  ‘Two things occur to me, Claudia. First, something might still happen to Spicerius. Secondly, is Murranus still being put under threat, his peace of mind shattered? You know how it is? Professional men like Murranus train their minds as well as their bodies. They regard themselves as the victor; to do anything different is to court disaster.’

  ‘True.’ Claudia folded her arms against her chest. Murranus had told her how fighters taunted each other, trying to break their opponent’s will, to stir the heart and agitate the mind.

  ‘What you also have to worry about,’ Chrysis added, a hint of malice in his voice, ‘is that when they, whoever they are, are finished with Spicerius, will they move against Murranus? Rufinus thinks the same.’

  Claudia stared at this fat chamberlain, with his bland face and a mind teeming like a box of worms.

  ‘So what you are implying,’ she spoke slowly, ‘is that something could still happen to Spicerius, and once he is out of the way, it will be Murranus’s turn. I wonder who they are?’

  ‘Someone who’s wagered a fortune,’ Chrysis muttered. ‘Lots and lots of money.’

  Something in his voice alerted Claudia, the way he said ‘lots’, like a man who sees a good meal and whose mouth starts to water. She laughed.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’

  ‘No, you’re funny, Chrysis. You’ve come to tell me this because Rufinus told you to. More significantly, you’re a gambler. You’ve wagered heavily, haven’t you? You’ve taken every coin your little fat fingers could collect. Who are you backing, Chrysis?’ She got up. ‘Don’t come here pretending to be my friend. You are more concerned about your previous life in Capua being exposed. More importantly, you’re anxious about my Murranus.’

  Up close, Claudia could see the chamberlian was sweating. She prodded him in the stomach with the hilt of her dagger.

  ‘You fat liar!’ she whispered.

  Chrysis blinked and swallowed hard, like a schoolboy being reproved.

  ‘You’ve put all your money on Murranus, haven’t you?’

  Chrysis nodded. ‘I’m frightened,’ he bleated. ‘I’m frightened of Murranus losing. I could lose at least ten thousand sestercii.’

  ‘By the light! What on earth made you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t know about Meleager. No, no, that’s not true. I’ve watched Murranus. You see, Claudia, he loves you, I know that. And a man who has someone to love wants to live, and so fights better. You’ve got to go back to Rome, Claudia, you’ve got to warn your man. If he goes down, so will I.’

  Chrysis walked away. Claudia turned and stared at the rope heaped on the floor.

  ‘Mistress?’ Narcissus appeared in the doorway. ‘Mistress, what are you thinking about?’

  ‘About having a bath!’ Claudia snapped. ‘What do you think I’m thinking about, one problem after another.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Go back to Rome, see Uncle Polybius. I think it’s time I had words with Sallust the Searcher . . .’

  Murranus ducked and swiftly drew away, feet stamping the hot sand of the Ludus Magnus, the great gladiatorial school not far from the Flavian amphitheatre. The net man he was practising against danced after him, sandalled feet kicking up the sand, hoping the breeze would take it into Murranus’s face whilst he trailed his net, moving the wooden trident ready to smack Murranus in the throat or make a swift thrust to his exposed belly. Murranus felt the cloying heat. The helmet he was wearing had grown stifling, sand was seeping through the gaps for the eyes, ears and mouth, whilst the leather padding stuck to his face. The greaves on his legs seemed to have grown heavier; the shield straps were wet with sweat. He had deliberately asked for the bout to be in the full heat of the day and had chosen the school’s fastest net man, a Gaul from Narbonne, a true dancer who could shift like a shadow.

  Through the slits of his helmet, Murranus watched his opponent move swiftly from side to side. He was trying to disconcert Murranus, striving to manoeuvre him so that he had his back to the sun. The net man had a piece of metal protecting his left arm which he deliberately used as a mirror to dazzle his opponent. Murranus recognised all these tricks; the net man would be watching carefully. If he could clog up the gaps in Murranus’s helmet, cake his mouth and nose with dust, dazzle his eyes, already blinking because of the sweat, he might have a chance to trap him with his net and bring him to the ground. Murranus moved away, cleaning his mouth with his tongue. He held the long shield up and gripped the wooden sword even tighter. He moved his helmet, caught the breeze and felt a little better. He was aware of the tiers of seats in the amphitheatre quickly filling up as the various collegia arrived to watch him fight. Spicerius was there, Meleager had just arrived; so had the Dacians, gathering like a swarm of flies to study his every move. Well, he would educate them.

  The net man was moving in, his net ready to sail out like a spider’s web. Murranus darted forward but hastily retreated. Again he went in. Now he was concentrating hard; he no longer heard the moan of the crowd, he’d forgotten about the clammy helmet, the sweat soaking his face, the ache of his leg muscles or the pain in his right arm where he had received a vicious rap from the wooden trident. Indeed, Murranus was beginning to hum a song he had learned as a child. He was enjoying himself, this was his being, his very existence. All of life had come down to staring through that gap at a man who, under different circumstances, would try to kill him.

  Murranus now had the measure of the moment. He settled to the fight, aware of the sheer music of this macabre dance. It thrilled his body, and his mind and heart were now set on victory. He’d made his decision. He knew which choice to follow; the die was cast. In the shuffling dance beforehand he had scrutinised the net man carefully, looking for his opponent’s mistakes. A little too quick for his own good, Murranus thought, too impetuous.

  Murranus darted in, moving his shield to the left, sword flickering forward like a snake’s tongue. The net man shifted to close with him. Murranus retreated. The gladiator repeated the same manoeuvre until he was ready, then he lunged again, but this time he did not retreat, instead moving swiftly to the right. His opponent, surprised, let his net sail out, missing its target. Murranus darted in, using his shield like a battering ram, sending the trident spinning from the net man’s hand. The net man rolled in the sand, ready to spring up, but it was too late. Murranus was over him, knocking him on the back of the head, sending him face down on to the sand and thrusting the tip of his sword into the nape of his opponent’s neck. The net man lay silent as Murranus lifted his shield to acknowledge the cries and applause from the crowd, then stepped back, dropping shield and sword, and took off the plumed helmet. A slave ran across to remove the heavy leg greaves. Another brought a jar of water. Murranus sipped from this and poured some over his face, then pulled his opponent up and thrust the water jar into his hands.

  ‘You were too fast,’ the net man gasped, his face grimed with sweat and sand. ‘I never thought you would do that.’

  ‘You should have expected it.’ Murranus grinned. ‘You can bet a coin to a coin that if you
r opponent is moving backwards and forwards, especially one with armed with a sword and a heavy shield, sooner or later he’ll attack you in the flank. I used my shield, but there’s variations. I could have entangled your net with my shield and dragged you in on my sword.’ He gently patted his opponent’s face. ‘Remember this,’ he added quietly, ‘and you might live. In the arena the shield is more dangerous than the sword; it can catch your net, blunt your trident, but above all, it can deliver a hammer blow. Now let’s celebrate with some wine.’

  They moved across to join their comrades. Murranus was congratulated by Spicerius, who pushed a goblet of wine into his hand, patting him on the back, praising his moves but offering his own criticism. Murranus caught Meleager’s gaze and nodded a greeting.

  ‘He’s full of himself,’ Spicerius whispered. ‘One of us will have to meet him and teach him a lesson, eh?’

  A crowd had formed around Meleager, questioning him. The Dacian leader glared across. Agrippina was also flirting with the newcomer.

  ‘Oh let her be!’ Spicerius whispered. ‘As long as she visits me at the She-Asses tavern, I don’t really mind. I’ll teach her to moon-gaze at an opponent.’

  Murranus collected his weapons and entered the bath house, plunging into the warm water before moving on to the cold. He kept thinking about the recent fight. He hoped his opponents were stupid enough to believe he’d repeat the same tricks in the arena. Spicerius joined him, keeping up a running commentary on Meleager’s skill, what to look for, what to avoid. Murranus crossed to the ointment room and lay on a slab, while the masseur of the school coaxed and smoothed his muscles with his expert touch and soothing oils. Murranus sniffed their fragrance and felt himself relax. Spicerius was now chatting about the party Agrippina had planned. They would spend the early afternoon in the coolness of the garden, and when darkness fell, the real revelry would begin.

  Murranus fell lightly asleep and was woken by the masseur slapping his back, pointing to his clothes laid out across a chest near the door. He put on a loincloth and his long white linen tunic, then went across to the Keeper of Valuables to retrieve his collar, bracelet and rings. He put on his sandals and joined Spicerius outside in the cool colonnade.

  ‘Do you know something?’ Spicerius put his wine cup down and pointed across to the other colonnaded walk, where Meleager was deep in conversation with the Dacians. Agrippina seemed to have disappeared. ‘We gladiators,’ Spicerius continued, ‘are great boasters, but Meleager seems so certain of victory.’ He turned and clutched Murranus’s arm. ‘May Hercules bless me,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Murranus was concerned by Spicerius’s haunted gaze.

  ‘You know how it is,’ Spicerius continued, tightening his grip. ‘You’ve been there, Murranus, waiting in the cavern to go out into the arena. The music is playing, the crowd are baying for your blood. Now and again I’ve seen gladiators, brave men, suddenly look shocked, frightened, and if you ask them why, they’ll tell you they feel as if they’ve been brushed by the feathers of the Wings of Death.’

  ‘And?’ Murranus asked, releasing Spicerius’s grip.

  ‘I feel that now, Murranus.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘Dux Femina Facti.’ (‘The Leader of the Enterprise is a Woman.’)

  Virgil, Aeneid, I

  As they left the Ludus Magnus, Murranus stifled his own disquiet as he tried to reassure Spicerius. Once they’d turned off the main via, going down the many side streets and alleyways, conversation proved impossible. Murranus thought of Claudia and wondered when she would return. He’d heard the chatter, the gossip, the tittle-tattle of messengers and servants that all was not well at the Villa Pulchra, though he could make little sense of it. Rumours swirled about killings and fires whilst news had seeped through of some attack upon the villa. Such gossip was now being discussed in the forum, whilst, from acquaintances and friends in the city garrisons, Murranus had learnt that coastal defences were being strengthened and war galleys had put to sea, even though this was during the height of summer and a time of peace.

  Murranus reflected on all this as he led Spicerius through the noisy trading areas. Business had begun shortly before dawn, and the lucky wine merchants had taken over the porticoes in the colonnades, tying their flagons and flasks to pillars so as to advertise their stock. The butchers and fish sellers were also busy. Barbers had set up stalls under the trees, waving their cushioned stools and touting for business. The itinerant cooks, with their mobile stoves in one barrow and slabs of bloody meat in another, moved about looking for a suitable place to stand and sell well away from the watchful eye of the Vigiles. The successful ones had already taken over the prime places and were doing a vigorous trade, offering grilled meats sprinkled in spice, ‘hot to the taste’, and wrapped in fig leaves. Water sellers shouted for custom claiming their buckets were full of the purest water drawn from a newly found spring in the countryside outside Rome. Traders, festooned in their cheap blue trinkets to advertise their products, offered to barter two or three items with a packet of sulphur matches thrown in for free.

  Murranus edged round these and down a side street where he had once taken lodgings. The place hadn’t changed. The stench of the latrine, cesspit and midden heap mingled with the smell of herbal oil, sizzling sausages, coarse bread and stewed vegetables. They crossed a dusty square, where a ragged schoolmaster declaimed a poem; a host of children grouped round him under a tree echoed back, shouting above the hammering and the clattering from their fathers’ workshops around the square. The beggars, genuine and false, swarmed like flies over a turd. Drunkards and roisterers from the previous night, holding aching heads and queasy stomachs, lurked about looking for shade and some water. A few recognised the gladiators. Murranus was happy to ignore them by standing aside to let an expensive funeral cortège go by, with its flute players, horn blowers, actors in their masks, professional mourners and a gaggle of shaven-haired priests who chanted so fast no one knew what they were saying. Two funeral processions of the poorer sort hurried along behind, the corpses resting on tawdry wheelbarrows, the mourners eager to share the free pomp of the wealthier procession.

  Murranus and Spicerius were now in the slums, where the streets and alleyways spread out like tunnels in a rabbit warren. Shadows lurked in doorways, prostitutes whispered for custom; pimps, fingering their knives, gestured them over. Fights and squabbles were commonplace; men and women armed with skillets, ladles, hammers and clubs brawled in doorways or rolled across the street pummelling each other. The hubbub fell silent as an execution group, led by an officer with medals gleaming on his chest, escorted four prisoners, murderers and housebreakers, to the Place of Slaughter beyond the gates. The prisoners, stripped naked except for a breech-clout, carried their own crossbeam against which they would be crucified, to hang and die under the sun.

  Once this grim procession had passed, the tumult recommenced, with tanners and fullers offering free drinks of water to those who would piss in their pots so the urine could be used in the treatment of leather. Many of these petty tradesmen were keen supporters of the games and were quick to recognise Murranus and Spicerius, although their cheers were muted by shouts of ‘Fix!’ and ‘Coward!’. Thankfully the insults were shouted in a number of tongues and dialects; the slums held every type of inhabitant of the Empire, from Britain in the far west to the Caspian Sea in the east. Now and again Murranus glanced at Spicerius, who still looked troubled and anxious. Murranus too felt uneasy. Spicerius was usually arrogant and distant, full of himself, boasting of his own powers; and yet since the notorious incident, he had become quiet and withdrawn. He would actively seek Murranus out, and was obviously grateful that Murranus had not exploited his weakness in the arena. Protection, Murranus thought; that was what Spicerius seemed to want, as if he had been secretly threatened and menaced and believed Murranus could shelter him. Spicerius was now a frequent visitor to the She-Asses, and the only people from his own entourage whom he seemed pleased to s
ee were the old military doctor Valens and the boisterous, ever-colourful Agrippina.

  As they reached the end of a narrow street, a flash of colour caught Murranus’s eye, and he glanced at a shadowy doorway to his right. A warlock and his witch stood there, faces painted, necklaces and bones around their necks. Squatting between them was an ugly Egyptian baboon on a silver chain, while a trained crow, with gleaming eye and sharp beak, rested on the warlock’s shoulder. They looked like macabre statues, with yellow rings round their eyes and blue paint on their cheeks. The man lifted a small black flabellum, a fan made out of raven wing, beckoning them across. Murranus spat in their direction and moved on.

  He was relieved to reach the She-Asses tavern, with its cheery-faced Hermes and its small votive statue to the god Priapus just inside the doorway. Polybius, followed by Poppaoe, bustled out of the kitchen to welcome them. The rest of the customers greeted them with shouts and cheery toasts. They had all gathered from their various trades to quench their thirst and feed their hunger. Simon the Stoic sat perched on a stool chattering to a dusty-garbed wandering scholar. Simon had, apparently, bought him a drink, and was now busy boring him to death. Petronius the Pimp was informing the rest of the customers, to hoots of laughter, that if they had hairy arses he could sell them a powder which would get rid of the excess hair, as well as a polish to wax their bottoms. Of course no one believed him, so Petronius explained to his disbelieving audience that he had found the cure whilst serving in the ranks, where he had won the Hasta Pura for distinguished service. This second revelation was greeted with ‘Prove it!’ and ‘Where is the little silver spear?’ Draco, a grizzled veteran from an apartment three storeys above, led the attack. The old man always carried a draconarius, an imitation feather-tailed standard, maintaining that he had carried such an insignia across the Danube and could list all the tribes on its southern bank, if anyone cared to listen – which very few did.