The Mantuan names Zara as the author of the attack on Quintus, and swears that the bastard is about to try the same thing on him. An old foreman dares to ask permission to speak and, when it is granted, asks his boss submissively what proof he has to back up what he says. The carpenter, named Marius, is a freedman. He works on contract to put food on the table, but at night he sleeps in his own bed, on the sixth floor of a decent insula not far from the Forums. He is not a forced worker, a slave or a damned cliens. But the Mole has him whipped all the same, for daring to doubt his word.
It is the duty of Verus to thrash the innocent man’s back, in front of everyone.
The Mole is not a sadist: he inflicts punishments such as this in order to cement his power in place, just as he pours molten lead onto foundations to render them indestructible.
It is politics, nothing more.
And at times politics is a filthy business, Verus knows all too well.
Waves of nausea rise in his stomach as he flagellates his friend, whispering “Forgive me…” with each blow.
The other grits his teeth, telling him it does not matter, that it his fault for speaking. In the meantime he weeps and bleeds; in truth, there is little else he can do.
Having regained the attention of his audience, the Mole announces his intentions and, less than fifteen hours later, as night once more envelops the just and the less just alike, a handful of armed men march confidently towards Zara’s stores of timber. Verus is one of them: as a slave, if he dared refuse, the punishment would be a damned sight worse than a whipping. Verus does not exist, he is little more than an object, a commodity of muscles, blood and a will of iron sustain him, but not even the unconscious hours he spends in sleep belong to him.
The group moves boldly towards the towering pile of timber, as defenseless as a virgin on her wedding night. A carefully hidden torch is brought forth, its head of rags and oil is set aflame. Verus and the others drench the timber with tar, and the last man sets fire to it.
The flames climb slowly, as though they too hope not to be noticed. Verus feels his heart break in two. He does not understand. What is the damned sense of it? Destroying instead of creating? Razing the foundations to the soil so that the giant is left lying in the sand?
Politics is a filthy business.
It is all filthy: business, toil, riches.
Verus’s life.
Sooner or later, you have to let the anger out.
Verus returns to his bunk along with his companions. He does not even pretend to be asleep as the alarm is raised all around him. Troops of vigiles—responsible not just for upholding law and order but for putting out fires as well—are running about outside the site. He hears shouts and calls. The cage is opened and the Briton rushes off to lend a hand. To try to atone for the guilt of the fire with the strength of his arms.
An entire cohort commanded by a prefect has already formed up and is unleashing a barrage on the flames with rags and siphons: wet blankets and leather hoses attached to hand pumps, a weak but constant jet, the smoke slowly rising.
The tar has seeped quickly into the wood and the flames grow in intensity.
More fire, damn it.
The damned fire of destiny.
Verus’s throat is filled with smoke, but he does not let the hose fall from his grip. Only when they insist does he release it and start passing pails overflowing with water. Sweat and dedication are what is needed, and before dawn the fire has been tamed.
The red death of fire has returned once again.
Once again it tried to take everything with it.
Verus decides, in the moment that the pyre is definitively reduced to ash, that something must change, or it will all be over. On a morning of black wind and pink sky, he promises the boy he ceased to be long ago that the future will be different.
He does not know that, in the space of just a few dawns and a dozen or so sunsets, his life will be ready to change course yet again.
Perhaps it is the place, perhaps the company, or the anticipation that accompanies the last stretch of work, but the only topic of conversation on the site seems to be games and gladiators. Verus can feel the excitement growing within him day after day; he is thrilled by mystical tales of helmets, swords and bracers. It is as though an opening has suddenly appeared in the solid wall that is his life. He feels he can glimpse something beyond it. And that something is clothed in iron, sand, and honor.
He exchanges a few words, every now and then, even with the blond man with the eyes of ice, whose name is Priscus. While nobody is quite sure about how he ended up at the Amphitheater, there is no doubt he is a Gaul; his accent gives him away. He is part of Verus’s work team, which receives its orders from the Mole. Priscus is likewise a slave, but everyday life seems to leave him indifferent. He does his duty with neither enthusiasm nor any great effort; he can pass hours smoothing down stones, gaze fixed to the ground, and continue working until dusk without opening his mouth or taking a break, except to sip water from a wooden cup. And then loses himself in the deepest sleep Verus has ever seen.
For his part, the Briton is prey to periods of excitement that he is powerless to contain. When one of the foremen downs his club and launches into a rant about the comforts enjoyed by gladiators, Verus cannot help but listen, his pulse speeding unbidden, his eyes filled with hope.
“Even the sons of equestrians and senators fight for the chance to spit blood in the arena, to earn a place of honor in the familia gladiatoria, do you believe that?”
Priscus raises his eyes from his work. It seems impossible that he might want to say something: “That lot fight using a rudius, a wooden sword. They hardly ever actually fight a match. And, if they do, they always win: it’s all staged, they make me sick. I’ve seen women fight with more courage than that scum…”
The foreman respects him, and perhaps he is also a little afraid of the giant from Gaul. But he does not like to be made to look like an idiot in front of his men.
“And what do you say of the auctorati? Free men like me, in search of honor and glory! They decide to dedicate their lives to the noble art of iron in exchange for few certainties and a great deal of pain! ” the foreman chides him.
Priscus shakes his head, this time he does not bother to raise his head from the stone he is flaying, one hammer blow at a time. He answers without even looking him in the eye: “You call it glory, Odonus. I call it poverty. Or desperation, if you like. Better to die trying than die of hunger in some alleyway. As long as you’ve got the balls for it…But how many of them survive, master? You take a walk around the city and read the names of the heroes on the tavern walls: Tigris, Invictus, Herculino. Where are the names of the ones who were defeated? Underground, along with their worm-eaten corpses, that’s where they are…”
Priscus is embittered, he does not stop shaking his head.
The foreman’s poetic moment has passed. He had felt like going on—especially because it is as hot as hell and the breaks are never long enough—but there is simply no arguing with the Gaul. May as well get back to work.
Verus, though, will not stand for certain comments. Becoming a gladiator is a dream. His dream. The hope of salvation that no god has granted him, but that he is convinced exists anyway. It is out there, just a stone’s throw away; in fact, it is in this very place. In the belly of the stone, wood and metal beast. And sooner or later his chance will come to choose between living a sheep’s life and going for glory. And so he puffs his chest out and answers without taking a breath: “The history of the arena is full of bravery, Priscus! Take Sisinnus the Scythian, who sold himself to the school of Amastride to win his friend’s freedom with iron.”
Verus likes to impress people. He has heard the story of Sisinnus a million times while sitting around the fire. Anyone who grew up in the desert talks about him: the brave warrior who won a hundred fights and got to within a hair’s breadth of collecting the ten-thousand drachma needed to free his lover, Targitatus.
&nbs
p; “I say if the gods had really marked him out for glory, he wouldn’t have ended up gutted by some shitty Sarmatian with a limp. At least that’s how I see it…” replies Priscus.
Verus tenses his jaw. He is all fire and boiling blood, and he will allow nobody to address him this way. He especially will not allow Priscus to talk to him like that. He has no idea why, but sometimes that damned Gaul makes him feel uneasy, with his pure heart and the bad habit of always saying what he thinks. Other times though, he is enthralled by the sight of him laboring beneath the sun, apparently without ever tiring.
The Briton has a strong urge to go for him, but in that moment everyone at the site turns toward the blast of a horn.
“In line, dogs! On your knees! Today is your lucky day!” yells the Mole’s voice.
Nobody has ever heard him shouting like that. He is not normally very excitable, but there he is charging about and gathering up his slaves as though his life depended on it.
Verus and Priscus get moving, they know it is best not to anger the boss. Twenty or so forced laborers line up like at a slave market, while the rest of the group abandon whatever they were doing and stare wide-eyed and open-eared in order to find out what on Earth is going on.
The Mole clears his voice. Protruding eyes and flaccid skin beneath his chin complete the picture. Next to him stands a bold-looking man, tunic and sandals fresh from the cleaners, trimmed beard, very short hair and watchful eyes. He has the muscles of one who has lived on the street, and his arms and chest wear a man’s scars, still hot with sand and blood.
The Mole introduces him and Verus’s heart misses a beat: “Wretches! Today the gods are giving you more than you deserve. Say hello to Decius Ircius, lanista—owner and master—of the Ludus Argentum, glory of all Rome!”
The chained congregation raises a cry to the heavens.
Verus’s head is spinning.
The Mole continues as Ircius strokes his bristly chin, inspecting the merchandise with a clinical eye.
“Three of you will have the honor of entering his school. Decius has deigned to come down here because he is confident that hardy vines can grow out of stone. Be sure not to disappoint him: show yourselves worthy of the honor being granted to you.”
Verus is on the point of suffering a heart attack. Priscus, on the other hand, keeps his gaze fixed to the ground, as always. His fists are closed so tightly his knuckles have turned white.
Decius Ircius makes a close inspection of the magnificent thirty, evaluating the unfortunates’ bone structure, fractures, posture. He feels their necks and arms, tests their feet with the look of a horse trader before a piebald mare.
When he passes in front of Verus, the Briton smiles like a little boy. The lanistastares at him and Verus opens his mouth like the others, showing an orderly circle of perfect, white teeth. Then Decius moves along and chooses the man to his right, a sort of sulfur giant with yellowish skin.
Verus is crestfallen and his smile evaporates, but he does not lose hope yet because Ircius is still moving up and down the lines, inspecting faces, hands, and mouths. He asks a black man as tall as a fir tree to lean over so that he can have a look in his ears. He smirks with satisfaction.
He chooses Porcius, and it is a good choice, because that son of the She-wolf was born to kill.
Verus’s heart is hammering in his chest now.
Blood fills his head.
Ircius passes in front of him once more without even taking him into consideration, then lays eyes on Priscus and thinks about it a moment too long. In the end though, he walks past and settles on Corcides as the last acquisition of the day, a strong, stocky Spaniard with a hairline no more than an inch above his eyebrows.
At that moment, Verus feels a black hole opens up in the middle of his chest. The son of the Island strangles a groan in his throat as the lanista finally moves off, pleased with his day’s booty.
So that is how it is: this thing called life will continue to kick him even while he is down.
His one chance of deliverance, melted away like ice on the first days of March. Smashed by a bolt of lightning sent by his fate, sick and perverse.
His future reduced to crumbs, condemned to be consumed one stone at a time, until his masters grow weary of him or his muscles are no longer able to satisfy them. And then a blow to the neck and a communal grave.
Shit.
When Priscus the Gaul comes up to him to place a hand on his shoulder and whisper to him: “We got off lightly…” his world suddenly turns red. His anger explodes in an instant. The pain, pressed down into the bottom of his belly, gains the upper hand, and nothing else exists. Verus throws himself into Priscus, smashing his face with a head-butt. He cries out in madness, like a beast at the slaughterhouse.
The Gaul is caught unawares and staggers backwards, bleeding. But he is not the sort to be floored by something so slight. With a bound he is on top of Verus, hammering into his face with his right fist.
At that point the other slaves form a circle around them—it is between the two of them.
Only those two.
Ircius and the Mole are about to leave the site, but they notice the commotion. The former raises an eyebrow and takes a step in the direction of the fight. Suddenly alert.
Verus and Priscus are really going at it.
The Briton lunges about clumsily, but his sheer rage makes up for lack of fighting skills. The emotional paralysis of the last two years is a chained beast: it kicks and howls, throwing itself into the attack only to be choked by the iron links, risking a broken neck and carrying on regardless. It pulls until its prison chains give way.
And then things really turn bad.
Priscus is well prepared and evidently used to fighting. In a previous life he must have been a soldier or something similar—Decius Ircius is convinced of this as he observes the two battle with each other. The lanista studies the Gaul’s composure as he takes the punches and studies his adversary’s moves—which are failing miserably—so as to neatly fell the Briton and quench the lad’s rage. Priscus knows precisely what he is doing and keeps his guard up. What he does not know is that because of Verus he is about to find himself in bigger trouble than he ever has before.
The Briton bleeds but does not give up.
His lungs heave, he lunges, receives a blow, falls, but gets back on his feet.
The lad is giving it his all.
Until his breath catches in his throat, until the Mole’s stick lands hard on his naked back.
Until Priscus too, having taken his dose of wood and discipline, collapses to his knees.
They stay that way, staring at one another blankly. Sand, blood, and sweat.
Labored breaths, balanced on the edge of that precipice which is fate.
The Mole is not irate. He is used to dealing with these beasts.
“That’s enough, now,” says the master, sternly.
The lanista Ircius examines the two exhausted combatants once more: “I’ll take these two as well.”
The Mole smirks to himself: at this rate he will make enough money to afford the decorated palanquin he has been eyeing for weeks. He savors in advance the moment in which he will plant his behind on the seat and order four servants to carry him through the city center. He is about to rub his hands together with glee but stops himself in time.
“Take them,” he says unctuously. “I’ll make you a fair price.”
The deal is done.
Verus cannot believe his ears.
The wind of fate has suddenly changed direction once again.
Without thinking, he hugs the bastard he wanted to kill until a moment or two ago.
For his part, Priscus is unruffled. He is man enough not to hold a grudge, and well understands what is going on inside the head of the damned Briton.
“Thank you, brother,” whispers Verus.
“Don’t thank me,” the Gaul says with a shake of the head. “You are deluding yourself if you think destiny has smiled on you—you’ve j
ust put us into the shit, up to our eyeballs, you’ll see. Thanks to your pigheadedness, we’ve basically signed a pact with death. Death. That’s what being a fucking gladiator is about.”
Ircius has overheard their exchange and nods to himself. Since the Gaul now belongs to him, he could punish the man. But he is not in the habit of penalizing those who tell the truth, and turns heel and sets off in the direction of the sunset.
Verus follows his new master, his belly churning with embers he has no intention of quenching.
On the other side of the city, wearing the purple and nothing else, bare feet on the freezing flagstones of the great hall, Emperor Titus once more peruses his latest creation. Even the scale model of the Amphitheater is enormous, by Jove. The damn thing reaches the height of his chin, and not even four people with arms outstretched could reach around it. The model is the work of a master sculptor, and the amount of detail is incredible. Titus can make out all the flights of steps and the balconies, columns and capitals, each one painted with frescoes, and at the top of the great oval, even the winches that govern the opening and closing of the huge white sails of the velarium are minutely detailed. Titus stares at the cedar model of the arena, and imagines the iron.
His mind turns to his father Vespasian, and the dark illness that took him from the world. Too soon. Without granting him the time to see his dream made flesh. Titus remembers the final days, his father’s delirium, the tremendous outbursts of rage, the man’s remorse for all the deaths, all the blood spilt. The Amphitheater was a colossal reservoir for the blood of countless Christian souls of Judea, and a lurid killing machine devised to sate and placate the mindless Roman public’s craving for entertainment.
Tomorrow is irrelevant.
The Emperor fondles the wooden model’s arches, dreaming of the future stone. He runs his fingertips along the miniature buttresses, until a treacherous splinter missed by the master’s plane plants itself in his flesh, and his blood falls in crimson drops onto the pale surface of the scented wood.
Colosseum Page 8
