“He’s very rich,” Kallikrates said diplomatically, remembering that Trimalchio was technically his owner. “I expect he can do what he likes.”
“He says he’ll be at the games to watch his boys fight,” Curtius grumbled disgustedly. “Lentulus will need to sit with him to point them out to him because he won’t bloody recognise them.”
Brude watched Curtius wander off, kicking out at the sand as he went. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked Kallikrates.
“Fourteen men from the school all going to the same munera. He’s worried a lot of you will not come back.”
The training intensified as Curtius strove to ensure as many of them survived the games as possible. He drove them hard, cursing and lashing out with his whip, spurring them on until they dropped with exhaustion and their muscles ached. “I wish he didn’t care so much about us,” Josephus gasped after one particularly harsh session which left them lying on the ground panting for air. Curtius heard him and made him run fifty circuits of the courtyard carrying a heavy lead weight in a back pack. Brude had to do the same for laughing at Josephus’ joke.
Four days before they were due to fight, they were allowed to rest, with only light training sessions. Curtius also allowed them access to some female slaves for the night. Two of the novices and four of the less experienced men were marched away on the night before the first day of the games. Four of them returned the next evening although one of them had a nasty gash on his head, which Tygaeus clucked over anxiously.
Two days later, as the sun was setting, Curtius assembled the eight men he had chosen to fight on the final day, had them coffled together then marched them up the Appian Way to Rome. Gladiators always entered the city after dark so that nobody would see them. Brude and Josephus were there but Pollio, the school’s most experienced fighter, would miss the games. He had taken a stab wound from a trident in his previous fight and it was not healing well. Tygaeus thought some of the muscles were so badly damaged they might not heal properly, a prospect that pleased Pollio. Lentulus was not so happy and pestered Tygaeus to make sure he did everything in his power to bring about a full recovery.
“I always do,” the Greek physician muttered, much to Pollio’s annoyance.
Led by Curtius and flanked by armed guards, the eight gladiators made their way through the narrow streets of Rome to the amphitheatre. Its dark bulk loomed above them and Brude realised that he had never seen the outside of the enormous structure in daylight. Perhaps he never would.
They were led through one of the many arches and down into the bowels of the amphitheatre, under the very floor of the arena where it was perpetually dark. Down here the air was filled with the sounds and smells of wild animals and sweating men. They were released from their coffle and put into small cells, four men to each tiny room with barely enough room for them to lie on the floor and try to snatch some sleep. All night they heard others arriving and Brude realised this was something special. The Colosseum was always busy but this time it was crammed with men and animals, full of noise and te smell of fear.
Breakfast was a thin, barley gruel and a piece of freshly baked bread. They sat, talking in a desultory way about nothing of any consequence. Brude and Josephus were roomed with two relatively new men who seemed in awe of them and hardly spoke a word.
Just after midday, Lentulus took his seat beside Trimalchio. They were good seats with an excellent view of the arena, but Lentulus felt a little awkward there. He was not a knight and, according to the law, he should have been seated further back but Trimalchio had insisted he join him in the lower tiers for this special occasion, so Lentulus donned his toga and wore a gold finger ring, as the Romans of status did, and pretended that he was in his rightful place. Trimalchio was rich and well known so nobody asked any questions. Only senators sat in front of the knights and the two men arrived early enough to get seats only a few rows from the front. The seats were marble, spacious, with soft cushions for comfort and they were rapidly filling up, as were the upper tiers where Lentulus normally had to sit.
“It promises to be a fine day,” Trimalchio said jovially, his chubby face looking almost childlike as he smiled. “We have eight men in the final show, you say?”
“That’s right,” Lentulus said. “Curtius is not happy, though.”
“He is not paid to be happy,” Trimalchio responded irritably, his good humour clouded by the reminder of his employee’s discontent. “He is paid to train the gladiators.”
“And he does it very well,” Lentulus said hurriedly. “Very well indeed. But he does tend to become rather protective of them. He was not happy when he learned about the arrangements.”
“The arrangements were made at the request of the imperial palace,” Trimalchio pointed out. “The emperor wishes to put on a show that will be memorable. And we have been well paid for them.”
You mean that you have been well paid for them, Lentulus thought sourly. Aloud, he said, “Yes indeed. But gladiators are expensive to train and to lose so many at one games means a significant loss of future revenue.”
Trimalchio’s brow furrowed. The phrase loss of revenue was always guaranteed to vex him. “Perhaps, but there is nothing we can do about it.” A thought came to him. “And perhaps one of our men will win. That will bring extra gold as well as extra fame for the school.”
“Perhaps.” Lentulus did not sound convinced. He was not an expert on the finer points of gladiatorial combat but he knew Curtius was and the old lanista had not been confident of his men’s chances. “Josephus is very good,” he had admitted. “And Brutus has something special. But you need a lot of luck to win this type of fight.” So Lentulus had offered up some prayers to Fortuna, goddess of luck. There was nothing more he could do.
The great canvas awning, hauled into position by a thousand sailors from the imperial Roman navy using a mass of ropes and ingenious block and tackle devices, was pulled over the top of the arena, providing shade for the spectators but leaving the arena itself open to the sun. Even under the shade of the massive cover, the temperature inside the amphitheatre was oppressively hot. They fanned themselves constantly while Trimalchio ordered cold drinks and fruits from the vendors who patrolled the stadium.
There was a fanfare of trumpets as the emperor and his family took their seats in the imperial box. The emperor, smiling broadly, gave a wave to the crowd who cheered and applauded him. He sat beside his wife and two sons and the show began.
The sounds of the games sometimes filtered down to the cells beneath the floor of the arena but mostly Brude and the other gladiators sat in the gloom, the small oil lamps casting more shadows than light, while they tried to estimate the passing of time. From time to time they heard the sounds of men or animals being taken out and led up to the arena. The Roman mob liked to see strange and exotic animals from far away places. First of all the criminals would be taken up, either to play the part of novelty acts, fighting blindfolded, or simply to be fed to the wild beasts. Brude was thankful that, as a gladiator, he at least had a chance of escaping the arena alive. For the criminals there was no escape. The Romans were constantly thinking up new and ingenious ways to both humiliate and terrorise the victims before they were killed in as brutal a fashion as possible. Curtius had told him once how one woman, an adulteress and murderess, had been tied naked to a wooden frame then covered in a cow’s hide to be raped by a bull. Brude wasn’t sure whether the story was true or not, but it was certainly something the Romans were capable of. After the animals had done their work, came the men who specialised in fighting these animals, the bestiarii, dedicated to showing that Rome was powerful enough to pacify far flung lands and bring their wild animals back to be slaughtered for entertainment. Brude did not envy the bestiarii. Men were usually predictable in a fight but animals were not. The thought of facing a lion or a bear was not one that appealed to him. He smiled as he realised that what he was about to do did not appeal to him either.
The dark maze beneath the arena floo
r echoed with the sounds of men and animals, hundreds of slaves constantly at work, under threat of the overseers’ lashes, to keep the show moving for the crowd. Always there was the constant grinding of wooden winches and levers as trapdoors were opened and cages winched up to release the animals intothe arena. It was a dark hell of noise and fear.
After a while a slave brought them a lunch of dried figs and cheese. One of the young men could not face eating so Brude and Josephus split his share. “It could be your last meal,” Josephus said brightly.
“Yours too,” Brude pointed out.
“Not me,” Josephus laughed. “I told you, the Lord is protecting me, keeping me alive to kill more Romans.”
Brude just shook his head. He knew there was little point in arguing with Josephus when he started talking about his god.
The show must have been in full swing because they could sometimes hear the roar of the crowd and there were few animals left below ground now to judge by the sounds. Then Curtius appeared at the iron grille that formed the cell’s door, his face like thunder.
Brude saw at once that the old lanista was worried and angry about something. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Bloody Lentulus!” Curtius snapped angrily. “The last show is to be sixteen pairs all fighting at the same time, with winners pairing up in rounds.”
Brude and Josephus exchanged glances. “Last man standing?” Josephus asked.
Curtius nodded, his eyes blazing with anger. “I didn’t know,” he said. “But listen to me, all of you. Unless you can win every fight, there are only two ways to survive this. You either do enough to be reprieved or get yourself wounded badly enough so you can’t continue.”
“That’s a dangerous plan,” said Brude.
“Then win every round!” Curtius snapped. He looked at Brude and Josephus. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know about this.” He paused then said. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this but the word is that the winner will be given his freedom.” And then he was gone, off to tell the other gladiators the news.
“Sixteen pairs,” Josephus said, doing a mental calculation. “That’s five fights you have to win.”
Brude nodded. “Not easy.” But his mind was racing, dreaming of other things. Freedom for the winner.
“Let’s try to make sure we don’t meet before the final pair,” said Josephus. “By that time we can probably make them believe we’re too tired to fight well. You can go down when I cut you the first time.”
Despite his preoccupation, Brude laughed at Josephus’ confidence. “Let’s make sure we get to the final pair,” he said. “Then we can worry about who goes down.” Whatever Josephus said, he was determined it would not be him. Freedom for the winner. The prize he had sought for eight years was within his reach. All he had to do was win five consecutive fights against the best Rome’s gladiator schools had to offer. It was a daunting prospect. He knew he was good, but he did not know whether he was good enough. Josephus normally beat him nine times out of ten in their training sessions. And Josephus, as Curtius had warned him, could soon be his enemy.
He looked at the little Jew. Josephus knew what he was thinking because he was thinking the same thing himself. Josephus grinned maniacally while the two novices looked as pale as any men Brude had ever seen.
In the small room they began warming up their muscles, bending and stretching, leaning against the wall with their arms taut and pressing hard. There was little room but none of them wanted to lose a fight because they were not prepared. All too soon, the door was unlocked and they were led out. They walked along a dark corridor, lit by flickering oil lamps, to join a queue of men waiting to be given their armour and weapons under the watchful eye of the lanistas. Brude was able to shut out all distractions by now and waited patiently. They were all hot and sweating in the stifling heat of the underground labyrinth but he knew he had to conserve his energy to get through even one fight, let alone five. He stood still while his greave, belly guard and arm protection were fastened, took his shield, sword and helmet then forcibly slowed his breathing and tried to relax his muscles.
There was a barked command and the file moved forwards, the lanistas ensuring there was plenty of space between them to prevent any man trying to gain an early advantage by injuring one of his potential opponents. The atmosphere was tense and nervous but Brude, a veteran now, managed to remain calm.
They marched up a ramp then on to a flight of steps and up through one of the amphitheatre’s many trap doors into the arena. The sunlight dazzled them as they climbed the steps to be welcomed by a huge roar from the crowd. Flanked by the lanistas, watched by the guards and archers, they strode across the freshly raked sand to stand beneath the imperial box where they would give the traditional salute. In the full glare of the sun, the arena was hot, bakingly hot, and already the heat was sapping the gladiators’ strength. The familiar smell of blood, human sweat, death and the scent of saffron, which had been sprinkled on the sand to sweeten the air, filled Brude’s nostrils with the sickly concoction of odours that were only ever found in the amphitheatre. He thought it strange that the Romans should worry about trying to perfume the air with saffron so as not to offend the olfactory senses of the spectatos when their eyes and ears were about to be filled with the sights and sounds of violent death.
The gladiators stood together to give the salute to the emperor who sat with his wife and two teenage sons, close enough, thought Brude, that he could hit him from there if he had a spear. It would be the last thing that he would ever do, of course, but at that moment he wondered whether it might not be preferable to get a quick, certain death. But he did not have a spear and trying to climb the wall was pointless; even if he could jump that high there were great wooden rollers around the top of the arena wall which would simply spin to drop him back to the ground.
The emperor was close enough that Brude could see his bearded face clearly, a face he recognised from statues and busts which were found all over the empire. The emperor studied them all eagerly before waving for them to continue. There was the customary fanfare of trumpets as the lanistas paired them up at random, spreading them out around the arena.
Brude was at the narrow end of the oval furthest from the imperial box. The arena was crowded with thirty-two men pairing off. To the onlookers it may have seemed they had plenty of room but for fighting men who needed to keep moving, the confined space was dangerous. Brude did not want to collide with a neighbouring pair while he was trying to avoid his immediate opponent, and the restricted view from his helmet made that a distinct possibility. He stood with his back to the wall, where he could see along the length of the arena but he turned his eyes on his opponent, a young man who fought as a Thracian. Brude fastened his helmet on his head, then studied the young man. He reckoned he was a novice, for his body had no scars, which either meant he had not fought much or he was very good indeed. He looked scarcely more than a boy, so Brude reckoned he was a beginner. He felt a pang of pity for him to be thrown into an event like this but soon dismissed the thought. Only one of them would walk away from this and Brude was determined it would be him.
The boy was good, potentially very good, but his lanista had probably been fooled, like Curtius, into thinking he would face only one bout. Brude was a veteran who had practised against Thracians with the speed of Josephus. Any novice needed time to gain experience and develop their speed. After only a few tentative moves to test each other out, Brude moved his shield to leave a tempting gap which the Thracian saw and leaped for, his long curved blade arcing towards Brude’s exposed belly while his small round shield lifted as he used his left arm as a counterbalance to help the thrust of his right. Brude moved too quickly for him, bringing his shield in to close the gap and thrusting with his sword to catch the boy’s exposed side. The Thracian screamed and staggered back. Brude let him go. The tip of his blade had only gone in to the depth of his index finger but he knew it would be enough. The boy’s face was stricken with pain a
nd fear as the blood flowed from his side. He looked helplessly at Brude who simply watched him begin to bleed to death. Brude watched him carefully but took deep breaths, relaxing his muscles, for he knew this fight was won and he wanted to conserve his energy. The Thracian took a faltering step then stumbled and sank to his knees on the bloodied sand, his sword and shield lowered.
Brude looked to the imperial box. He already knew the boy’s fate for he could see the downward thrusting of thumbs in the crowd. The fight had been finished too quickly for the boy to have had any chance of pleasing the crowd. The emperor confirmed it. Brude carefully walked round behind the kneeling Thracian, steadied his shield arm on the boy’s shoulder and rammed his sword down into his spine, just below the neck, severing the spinal column and bringing instant death. “I’m sorry, lad,” he whispered.
He waited, conserving energy, feeling the strength-sapping heat beating down on him from the afternoon sun, making him desperate for a drink. He saw Curtius, whip in hand, acknowledging his victory and he turned to watch the others. Josephus’ opponent was down too, his throat cut by a vicious slash from the Jew’s sica. That was a difficult blow to make, Brude knew, because the helmet of Josephus’ Samnite opponent covered the whole head, leaving little room for striking at the neck and throat.
Things were not going so well for the other six men of Lentulus’ school. One of the novices who had shared the cell with Brude and Josephus was down, the other was still battling hard but losing to a Retiarius. If he kept fighting, and was lucky, the crowd might let him live. Of the other four, two had won, one had lost and been finished off while the last was still fighting, Curtius urging him on. It was in vain for he was struck down only a moment later. The crowd bayed for his blood and he was quickly despatched.
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 14
