The Song of the Gladiator

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I didn’t do it!’ Agrippina repeated. The tears rolled down her cheeks and mixed with the paint, turning her skin garish.

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Claudia soothed. ‘It was Dacius, wasn’t it? He bought the powder and claimed it was an aphrodisiac; he told you what to do. You didn’t really know, did you?’

  Agrippina stepped into the trap.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ She lifted her face. ‘I never knew anything about this. I came here expecting Spicerius to be waiting for me, as rampant as a stag. I wished him well.’

  Claudia rose to her feet and re-sheathed her dagger. ‘But you did bring him the face paint?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Agrippina became deeper enmeshed in her own lies. ‘Yes, that’s it! I wanted something to make him fight better. Dacius gave me a powder. I mixed it with my face paints, but when I saw Spicerius collapse, I panicked and poured it into his cup. I didn’t intend Murranus to take the blame.’

  ‘And the same with the two tablets?’ Claudia asked. ‘Dacius’s cure for impotence?’

  ‘It’s as you said.’

  Claudia hid her disgust at this treacherous woman lying to save her own life. Agrippina sprang to her feet. Narcissus went to restrain her, but Claudia nodded her head.

  ‘If you want to go, you had best go.’

  Claudia stepped aside. Agrippina brushed by her, almost running across the grass and back into the tavern.

  ‘Are you going to let her go?’ Narcissus asked.

  Claudia ran her finger round her mouth. ‘I don’t think we have to do anything. Inside that tavern are two Dacians. Agrippina has convicted not only herself, but the man who controls her. What do you think, Valens? She’ll go back and tell him we know everything. I don’t think Dacius will like what he hears.’

  Claudia stared up at the sky. ‘I think Agrippina is about to spend her last day on earth.’

  ‘I agree.’ Valens clambered to his feet, brushing the grass from his robe. ‘But with your permission,’ he sighed, ‘I would like to help matters along. I know a friendly police commander. I think I’ll go and tell him what I’ve learnt.’

  ‘They won’t have enough evidence to arrest Dacius.’

  ‘Oh,’ Valens’s old face creased into a smile, ‘I think Dacius will be dealt with in a different way. Spicerius had many friends. They will take care of him as he will take care of Agrippina. I shall simply help things along. Your uncle’s talked about Mercury the messenger.’ Claudia grinned as she followed Valens’s line of thought. ‘I’m going to tell Polybius everything that’s happened out here. By the time Murranus steps into the arena tomorrow, most of Rome will know.’

  The sun blazed in the noonday sky. The heat was so oppressive the imperial engineers had fully stretched the great awning which protected the crowds in the amphitheatre; others worked hard on the pumps which sprayed the crowds with cool scented water. Claudia sat at the back of the imperial box and gazed through half-open eyes at Constantine and his family. They were all there – the Emperor, the Augusta Helena, Rufinus, Chrysis, whilst Gaius Tullius stood behind the imperial throne resplendent in his dress armour. Wives, friends, clients and hangers-on milled around. Servants hurried about with jugs and goblets of cold drinks and silver platters piled high with iced fruits. Rufinus’s wife was laughing; more akin to neighing, Claudia thought, like a mare on heat. The woman was leaning over the Empress’s throne, eager to share some titbit of gossip. Scribes and clerks were busy with rolls of parchment as they brought documents to the Emperor and his mother to read, study and seal. The imperial box on its central podium in the Flavian amphitheatre was rich with the smell of ink, parchment, perfume, melting wax and, of course, the ever-pervasive stench of blood from the gore-drenched sand below.

  The specially imported soft sand, which glowed like gold dust, was now being turned, raked and sifted, the blood cleaned away, the fragments of human flesh piled into buckets of brine to be taken to the animal dens in the caverns deep below the amphitheatre. The roars and cries of these savage, hungry penned beasts could be heard echoing along the grim tunnels. There were not so many of them now. Most of the tigers, panthers, lions and bears had been killed in the morning slaughter. The tens of thousands of spectators seated in the steep tiers of the amphitheatre were now using the break in this ritual of blood to buy spiced meats, crushed fruit and iced melon water from the traders and hucksters who, sweating over their produce, went up and down the steps shouting the prices. Claudia had always resolved never to buy from them; Polybius had told her dreadful tales of how the meat, bread and fruit were heavily spiced and crushed to remove all sign of mould and decay.

  People moved around the various sections, though they never wandered far from their seat. The sections were divided by high walls to denote the different classes of the city. At the bottom, on either side of the imperial box, the spectators were garbed in white togas and expensive tunics which marked them out as senators, knights, high-ranking officials, merchants and bankers. Above this border of white, like a dark, dirty, seething wave, ranged the greens, blues, yellows and browns of the lesser sort. The wealthy were not harassed by the traders. They had brought their own parasols, awnings and gold-fringed shades, as well as hampers and baskets of rich meats, soft bread and delicious wine. The spectators ignored the bloody mess of the arena, gaping instead at the imperial box, decorated with its gorgeous drapes. They strained to catch sight of the Emperor and his mother, distant figures garbed in purple-edged clothes and crowned with silver-tinted laurel wreaths, surrounded by the majesty and pomp of empire. They stared at the guards in their dress armour and ornately plumed helmets, breast plates gleaming in the sun, and, either side of the box, the standard bearers carrying the eagles and feather-tailed insignia of the legions, their holders dressed in the skins of panther, bear, lion and wolf. Above all, they watched for the imperial trumpeters with their gold-edged horns; these would be lifted to bray for silence when the Emperor decided the games should recommence.

  The crowds shifted and surged, their excitement palpable. Their blood lust had been whetted, but now they were impatient for the crowing glory of the games: Murranus fighting for his life and honour. Claudia sucked on a piece of pomegranate as she gazed at the aristocracy of Rome. She quietly congratulated herself on what she had achieved the previous day. Valens had been correct. Agrippina had disappeared, whilst Dacius seemed to be very busy with his affairs. Rumour had it that he had slipped out of Rome that same evening, eager to take a ship to Syracuse to visit certain business partners.

  Claudia had waited at the She-Asses tavern, hoping that Murranus would come, but her uncle whispered to her that Murranus was training secretly, preparing himself. Polybius sent Sorry to the gladiator school with a message, but all the boy brought back with him were the two words, ‘Remember me.’ Claudia had tried not to weep as she sat in the eating hall listening to Mercury the messenger regaling them all with the news that Spicerius had been murdered by his degenerate girlfriend, whilst Dacius might also have had a hand in it. Word had spread like fire amongst dry stubble. Polybius had used all his acquaintances along the stinking alleyways and streets of the slums to whisper the news. Sallust the Searcher had also helped, whilst Valens had visited old friends in the various garrisons around the city.

  Claudia had cried herself to sleep, and long before dawn had been aroused by an imperial messenger with an invitation she couldn’t refuse: the Augusta required her presence in the imperial box at the beginning of the games staged to mark her glorious son’s birthday. Claudia had washed, dressed and hurried along the streets, one hand grasping her walking stick, the other the dagger in her belt. Even at this early hour, she noticed the placards and makeshift posters which announced not only the games and the odds on the various fighters but the scandalous news about Spicerius’s poisoning. Despite her own sorrows, Claudia realised that this news was not just an indication of the city’s infatuation with tittle-tattle and gossip; it also reflected the serious nature of the business
of bets and wagers, of fortunes being gambled, of gold and silver exchanging hands.

  The imperial party had scarcely arrived in the amphitheatre, taking their seats to the bray of trumpets, the clash of cymbals and the animal-like roar of the crowd, when Helena had snapped her fingers, beckoning Claudia forward. The Empress was in fine fettle, overjoyed at the return of her precious sword. She gave Claudia a strange look as she described Timothaeus’s great find, and Claudia wondered whether she suspected the real truth.

  ‘But never mind that,’ Helena chattered on. ‘What is this news about Spicerius? Is it true? Does Murranus know? How does he feel? Does he sense victory?’

  Claudia tried to answer as directly as possible. Helena excitedly beckoned Rufinus over, whispering quickly to him, making signs with her fingers. Claudia suspected the Empress was changing her bets. Rufinus summoned a scribe with a tally book, and only when the banker moved away was Claudia ordered back for a fresh set of questions about the murders at the Villa Pulchra. Did she have any news? Had she made any progress? Helena’s eyes flashed angrily as Claudia shrugged and mumbled a reply, but the Empress also called her a very good mouse and handed over a small purse for her trouble, before dismissing her to her stool at the back of the box. Rufinus had drifted across to learn a bit more, and was followed by Chrysis. The plump, sweaty-faced chamberlain had been all a-flutter, and Claudia considered him to be a finer actor than Narcissus, whom she had just dispatched to the Gate of Life below with a message for Murranus.

  Chrysis had waved his hand in front of her eyes to attract her attention.

  ‘Why,’ the chamberlain hissed in her face, ‘does Murranus still insist on the fight with the bull? He can repudiate the allegations. I’ve heard what happened . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Claudia whispered back through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve sent messages to Murranus but he’s hidden himself away. He wants to vindicate himself. I’m not responsible for your wagers and bets.’

  Now Claudia took a deep breath and stretched out her legs, forcing herself to relax. She stared around the box. Sylvester, Athanasius and the other orators were present, although they had turned their backs on the arena, showing their public disapproval of such bloody games. Claudia sympathised with them. She had hidden herself away from the morning spectacle when condemned criminals had been killed, bodies blooming blood, flesh stripped away as they were mauled by tigers or panthers. The sand in the arena had blossomed like some gruesome flower, the blood spurting and spluttering, the air riven by the roars of beasts and the shouts and cries of their victims. Claudia couldn’t decide which was more terrifying, the hideous scenes in the arena, or the complete lack of interest shown by those in the imperial box. Constantine gossiped with his friends; Helena dictated to her clerks and scribes, or loudly demanded that a scroll be brought to her.

  Claudia felt she was a lunatic in a house of fools. The blood flowed, criminals were slaughtered, eaten or burned but no one cared; yet was she any different? The problems which vexed her were like the men and women who died in the arena, something to be dealt with. She concluded that the human heart could only take so much fear, feel only a certain amount of compassion before it turned to its own problems. She was only concerned with one thing: would Murranus live or die? What happened in the next few hours would decide her life, perhaps change it for ever. The past and present were coming together like curtains being closed around a bed. What was she now? No longer Helena’s agent, her spy, the niece of Polybius, the friend of this person or that. Her mind was now dominated by images of Felix, Murranus and Meleager. She wanted justice for murder and rape, she wanted to be purged of such thoughts, she wanted the ghosts to let go. Only then would she be free. She felt as if she was in one of her plays. People were talking and moving around but they were no longer part of her.

  Claudia steadied herself. The trumpeters were moving, Constantine had raised his hand. Narcissus slipped into the box, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘Are you well?’ Gaius Tullius stood over her, a look of concern on his face. ‘Are you well, Claudia? You look pale. Do you want some wine or fruit?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved to a side table, filled a goblet, came back and thrust it into her hands.

  ‘Don’t think,’ he whispered, ‘just watch! The fates will decide.’

  His words were drowned by the shrill blasts of the trumpets. Claudia heard a hideous creaking, took a sip of wine, stood on tiptoe and peered over. The cochlea, a huge swinging door on a movable stand, was being dragged and pushed into the centre of the arena. At least it had been drenched and washed after the previous massacre. She put her wine down. They were giving Murranus a chance; those who engaged in fighting a wild animal could use the door as a place to distract their opponent, gain a respite, rest for a while.

  At last the cochlea was in place. Again the trumpets brayed, and the crowds surged to their feet, a great roar of greeting echoing to the skies as Murranus walked out through the Gate of Life. Claudia felt herself sway even as she heard the gasps and cries from those around her. The gladiator wore no sandals or body armour, no helmet or breast plate, no leg greaves; nothing except a white loincloth tied tightly. In one hand he carried a short stabbing sword and in the other the long oblong shield of a legionnaire.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Gaius Tullius whispered.

  Murranus, moving slowly, walked to stand beneath the imperial box and lifted both shield and sword in salute. Constantine raised his hand in reply. Claudia was crying, her body shaking with sobs. Murranus, head shaved, face oiled, was smiling lovingly up at her as if preparing to go for a swim, or a walk across Polybius’s garden to sit beneath the shade. She would have called out, but the trumpets were shrilling again, the great iron trap door on the far side of the arena was being opened and the fighting bull emerged. It was a magnificent animal, black as night, slim and lean, long-legged with powerful haunches and shoulders. Its glossy hair gleamed in the sun, and it tossed its head, snorting and bellowing, those sharp scythed horns shimmering in the light, their tips razor sharp. For a while the bull was disconcerted, pawing the ground, moving its head against the bright light. The crowds were now chanting at it. The bull pawed the ground, head going down, swinging from side to side as it looked for its prey.

  Murranus sauntered across, and stood in front of the cochlea, using the red shield to attract the bull’s attention, moving it from side to side. The bull, however, trotted backwards and forwards, shaking its head, snorting, almost as if planning what to do. Claudia noticed how swiftly it moved, gracefully, like a dancing horse, its sharp hoofs barely touching the ground. She ground her teeth in anger. She knew nothing about animals, but someone, probably Dacius, had chosen well. The bull was a superb specimen, probably the victor of many fights.

  Murranus danced forward, trying to entice the bull. The animal moved backwards. The crowd gasped as if in one voice, for, without waiting or the usual pawing of the ground and tossing of the head, the bull burst into a charge, a powerfully fast canter, aiming straight for Murranus. The crowd roared as the gladiator dropped his shield and retreated hastily behind the cochlea. The bull turned slightly and came in, thrusting with its horns at the fallen shield, butting it with his head and trampling it under its feet. It then backed off, pawing and snorting, as if studying the cochlea and wondering what it was.

  The mood in the amphitheatre changed. Claudia felt the muscles in her legs and thighs tense. Some of the crowd were jeering, deriding Murranus’s efforts. The bull had now caught sight of him and moved round the cochlea for another confrontation. The game continued, the bull charging in swiftly, Murranus running away, using his shield, which he had now picked up, as well as the cochlea to protect himself. The visitors in the imperial box were discussing tactics heatedly. Some whispered cowardice, others pointed out that Murranus might be tiring the bull.

  Claudia couldn’t understand what was happening. It looked as if Murranus was weakening, his body coated in a sheen of swe
at, while the bull was as impetuous and aggressive as ever. The only thing she did notice was that the bull no longer withdrew, but circled the cochlea before breaking into a thundering charge, almost crashing into the barrier, or turning to gore the battered shield which Murranus dropped now and again. On occasions Murranus didn’t move swiftly enough; once he stumbled, rolling in the sand to avoid the hoofs and slashing horns.

  The fight wore on. People were jeering but also mystified. The bull began to show signs of exhaustion and baffled fury. Its charges became shorter but were still as vigorous. Then it happened. Murranus, once again armed with shield and sword, stood in front of the cochlea, baiting the animal to charge him again. Hoofs pawing the ground, the bull tossed its great black head and broke into a charge as fast as an arrow leaving a bow. This time Murranus did not retreat. In fact he dropped his shield and ran to face the bull. The crowd gasped and shrieked. The bull tried to slow. Murranus, like a dancer, like an athlete clearing a gate, leapt in the air, a graceful somersault which took him over the bull. The animal, disconcerted, could not stop, but crashed into the wooden platform supporting the cochlea. The blow seemed to stun it; it staggered, attempted to turn. Murranus moved in fast, at a half-crouch. He brought back his sword and sliced at the animal’s left leg, cutting muscle and sinew. Moving swiftly away, he inflicted a second cut on the other leg, though not as deep or dangerous. The bull, roaring in pain, turned, but now it was slowed, dangerously impaired. It appeared unaware of the injury until it tried to break into a charge, and bellowed as its rear legs buckled. Again Murranus moved in, stabbing and cutting, this time slicing at one of the front legs just above the hoof. The bull, seriously injured, staggered and swayed. The crowd was roaring, praising Murranus’s skill and bravery. The gladiator brought his sword up, pressing the flat of the blade against his face as if saluting his opponent. The bull staggered forward and sank to its knees. Murranus slipped to one side and drove the sword deep into the back of the bull’s neck. Blood sprayed out of the wound. The bull coughed, roared and slumped, even as the crowd rose and gave vent to its approval.