But what is done is done, and the Gaul has so little energy left that he awaits the lanista’s wrath patiently, his head bowed.
But Daimon confounds him yet again. He whistles in the same strange way as before, fingers in his mouth like a bird fancier, to summon a couple of untores and the house doctor. He tells them to take care of Priscus and patch him up where necessary.
When the servants ask him whether he wants them to take the body away, Daimon looks at them as though they have just inquired whether he fancies a cup of cold piss. The masseurs get his message loud and clear, leaving the poor andabata with the torn heart in the middle of the arena.
Priscus has barely the strength to wonder what sort of future awaits him in this madhouse. He lets the doctor get on with his dirty work, closing the gashes in his hide with a bone needle and catgut, soothing his muscles and revitalizing his skin with ointments. After half an hour of treatment and a quick wash, together with a restorative ration of chicken broth, the veteran is brought back before Daimon.
The lanista is where he left him, at the center of the arena, a circle of sand and dark wood. A cloud of flies fat enough to put the Pontus marshes to shame has already gathered around the andabata’s lifeless body. Priscus asks himself whether his master wants to serve him some sort of punishment, to set an example. It would not surprise him—he has known him less than an hour, but has already understood that the man is insane.
“You must have your head up your ass, boy.” Daimon coughs. This does not look good.
“Sir?” says Priscus, tipping his head slightly.
“What a way to introduce yourself: you turn up here and before you have even had a chance to tell us your name, you have already killed one of my boys. Who do you think you are, you stupid Gaul?”
The lanistapulls a strangely shaped ax from a bag. It looks like a giant trowel, with a serrated edge and an enormous, flat, rectangular blade measuring three palms by two. A horrific tool.
Here we go.
Priscus has no more desire to argue. If Daimon wants to do away with him then he should get a move on—Priscus has had enough for one day. He kneels, bows his head and says quietly: “Your humble servant, master. I followed the order you gave me. I fought, to the best of my ability. I beg you to forgive my excessive zeal. Or to punish me in whatever way you see fit.”
Daimon sits immobile, a serious look on his face that seems to last forever.
An endless river of sand flows through the hourglass of Priscus’s mind, until the bearded brute breaks into rough, drunken laughter again: “Get up, good for nothing. Get up and give me a hand.”
Priscus obeys and helps Daimon, ax still in hand, to drag the cadaver into a shed with a straw roof. It has been constructed next to the buildings where the school’s warriors presumably sleep. Terrifying roars can be heard coming from another room nearby, barred shut with robust oaken poles and solid doors.
Daimon and Priscus dump the dead man on a rough, dark-stained table, and then the lanistatells Priscus to stand aside and to retrieve a large tub from the corner. While Priscus drags it to the table, Daimon exclaims aloud: “Not a great loss, in the end. This poor bastard had been blind for nearly six months. No use to anyone.” And without a hint of remorse he cuts off one of the arms, which falls into the tub with a repulsive thud.
Priscus does not even feel the vomit rise as he suddenly throws up onto the floor. Meanwhile, Daimon and his horrific ax have already set to work on knees and elbows, feet, head and thighs.
It’s a fucking bloodbath.
He is chopping the body to pieces.
And laughing as he does it.
He shows no concern for Priscus’s churning stomach, nor for the vomit sprayed across the ground. He is smeared in blood from head to foot.
Priscus is shaking: he was not ready for anything like this. Who could be?
Once the various pieces of the body are all in the tub, Daimon whistles again, his filthy fingers staining his salt and pepper beard. Two heavy-set men come running with buckets of water and sponges. They wash the blood off him, cleaning the skin painted with death, scrubbing vigorously.
In the meantime, Priscus pukes another couple of times. The smell inside the shack is unbearable.
The roar coming from behind the barred doors is getting louder all the time.
When he has finished cleaning himself up, Daimon leads the Gaul to the bolted door. He signals his men to follow with the tub filled with human meat.
“You see, boy, death is not always a bad thing…Not even inside the school.”
The servants throw the doors open and Priscus sees a line of cages that barely hold back a frightening collection of bloodthirsty beasts.
Tigers and lions, above all. But a few sinuous panthers too, and even a damned leopard.
The Ludus Tridens is chock full of surprises.
Still dripping from his sponge-down, Daimon tells the servants to put the tub on the ground. He picks up the hand of what was a gladiator until a few hours ago, and tosses it to the first tiger. The beast is wary, but after a nod from its master it begins to munch on skin and bone, licking at the fresh blood oozing from between the phalanges.
“Everyone thinks these beasts are born to eat men. Nothing is further from the truth.”
He tosses another piece of meat to a lion, which catches it in its mouth, snapping keenly at the morsel.
As the lanista proceeds, Priscus feels his stomach twisting once more.
“These ferocious beasts scorn human flesh. And they avoid man, if they can. They recognize him as a dangerous predator, a damn sight more cunning than the other competitors they share the land with.”
Daimon is serious; he has the air of a science professor. When he is really nothing more than a disgusting man breeding monsters.
Next up is the unfortunate victim’s right leg. The panther strips away the flesh without ceremony.
“You need to keep these animals hungry, teach them to fear us, stretch their wary stomachs with rage and fasting. And lastly, feed them on fresh meat.”
Priscus vomits again. The situation has become unbearable for him.
Death is everywhere.
Daimon finishes doling out the gruesome meal, observing the atrocious spectacle of jaws moving up and down in unison as dozens of wild eyes stare back at him with gratitude and fear.
“Today is a special day for my creatures. It is not often they get to feast on gladiator meat. That would be a bit too expensive, do you not agree?”
Priscus agrees. Without a doubt.
In the meantime, he doubles over and empties out whatever is left. Dry retches: his stomach is emptier than a beggar’s pockets in the middle of the desert.
Daimon keeps talking, like a patient tutor dealing with a stubborn pupil: “Thanks be to the gods, the world is full of poor bastards, condemned men, hungry paupers, abandoned children. Human flesh tastes like chicken, did you know that?”
Nothing, Priscus says nothing.
Horror fills his every last pore of his skin.
Daimon treats him to one of his coarse laughs, and then the lesson is over: “In any case, for these cats the taste is just the first hurdle. Next comes fear. It is one thing to eat an exotic snack in a quiet corner…” He signals his servants to bring the “tools.” The men pick up a metal collar tied to a stick and secure it to the neck of an angry lion. They drag it out and lead it into the arena with whips and canes. It takes four men to do the job, with Daimon lashing his own whip against the ground the whole time. He is showing the king of the savannah who is in charge around here.
Priscus follows the lanistato the middle of the sand circle, where six gladiators are already lined up: fully kitted out to protect their soft flesh, sharpened pikes in hand, they stand waiting to teach the beast some manners.
“…but quite another to fight in the din of an amphitheater. The common folk showering you with hazelnut shells and shouting worse than a Judean in the rutting season.”
&nb
sp; Whatever the fucking rutting season it is.
“If you do not train them right, these tabbies end up ignoring the prey. They hide in a corner and you can kiss goodbye to whatever sum the munerator agreed to pay you.”
Daimon turns suddenly, landing a crack of the whip on the lion’s face. The leather leaves a deep wound on the flesh of the muzzle. The beast growls and the four servants struggle to hold it in place.
“That is why I like to see them angry. I know how to look after my investments.” He takes a seat on the terraces and invites Priscus to do the same. In the arena built for fighting, the merry-go-round begins.
The gladiators take turns to goad the beast while the servants do what they can to restrain it. With each jab its anger mounts; it swipes out ferociously with its paws, each slash strong enough to take the face off a Cyclops.
The treatment lasts half an hour, the warriors of the Tridens working with skill. When the lion reaches the pinnacle of it fury, another three men appear from nowhere to slide an iron hood over its head. A coat of mail, hand-crafted link by link. Tireless artisans wore away their fingertips from the amount of metal that had to be bent into shape. Hooding a beast that is thirsting for death is no joke, but the servants are well trained. When the monster’s fangs have finally been made safe, a gladiator moves towards it. He is smaller than the rest but knows what he is doing. He lands four blows of a heavy whip at the base of the animal’s neck, just enough to put it out cold. Once it has lost consciousness, the gang of slaves takes it back to the cage, where it will be left without food for another three days. And then back to the arena again.
“When I take the beasts to the Amphitheater and they get the chance to take it all out on the Christians, they will hardly believe their luck. They will have indigestion.”
The gladiator who knocked the lion out comes up to Daimon. He wears protection over four fifths of his body, a stuffed scarecrow. First he slips off his greaves, and then his manicae.
Priscus is surprised to see very skinny arms, albeit well muscled. But it is only when the warrior removes his training cape that Priscus realizes.
The revelation is a slap in the face, the bare chest telling an unexpected story. The whole head helmet falls to the ground and the fighter reveals her true nature: a blonde girl greets Priscus and her master boldly.
“What do you say, Valeria? Want to show our newcomer that even the women have balls of steel, here at the Ludus Tridens?”
Valeria smiles, her face bathed in sweat; she is stunning.
“With pleasure, my lord.”
She adjusts her subligaculum, the standard loincloth, straps a band to her right knee and picks up a shield and a curved dagger, walking into the arena naked and ferocious. Priscus is curious to know what sort of adversary fate has in store for her. Fighting a man would be unfair, so there must be another gladiatrix around. The Gaul has heard of them because one of the most widespread fantasies at the work site was that of watching a match between female warriors. But he had never really believed it: he thought they were just tall tales, nonsense dreamt up to dupe the gullible.
And yet…
Priscus wonders whether the beautiful Valeria is a slave, whether she also lives in the ludus, and if so how she defends herself from the gods of the arena who crowd the barracks night and day. Then he remembers the girl has just given a lion a thrashing, and imagines she can probably take care of herself.
Or at least run the risk.
Daimon seems to read his mind: he is familiar with how everyone becomes curious when they see Valeria. Never mind the lions and panthers. The fact is she is the real tiger in the Ludus Tridens: small, firm breasts, prominent nipples, an ass firm and pert enough to put a statue of Apollo to shame, like the rumps of certain freedmen who have won the hearts and loins of Emperors. Tiny feet and ivory smile. Not to mention that cascade of rippling locks the color of a wheat field, enough to give even someone of Priscus’s inclinations second thoughts about who they want to take with them to the nuptial bed.
“Valeria is a free woman,” the lanistaexplains. “Daughter of a wealthy shipwright. Her mother died when she was still a babe in arms and her father raised her as a boy—he did not know what else to do. When she turned sixteen he left her here in Capua in the family villa, with more money than she knew what to do with. Valeria started going to the games, but she is not a gambler, she is more interested in action. Once she understood this and felt it was time, she came here and asked me to lend her a hand. I did all I could to dissuade her, but she was deaf to reason. She trains in her own home with one of my men, the eunuch Badinus from Aleppus—he actually lost his balls in a fight five years ago the poor bastard. She learns fast, and has quite a knack for it. A ton of repressed anger to let out. She will fight at the games in Rome, the Emperor will love it!”
“Excuse me, my lord, but who does she fight? No matter how strong she is, having her face a man would be absurd.”
Daimon smiles. “Every peg has its hole, my boy…” he says, whistling loudly enough to split the Gaul’s poor eardrums and shouting at the top of his lungs: “Milus!”
And Milus makes his entrance.
Thracian equipment: helmet, manica, square shield, sica, greaves and even a bronze breastplate. But all of it absurdly scaled down to size.
Milus looks like a toddler kitted out for war.
But his round face is another story.
Milus is a dwarf.
A very, very pissed one.
He emerges from the passage that leads into the arena like Alexander the Great’s stallion, throwing himself at the blonde with murderous rage. Valeria dodges to one side and cuts her blade across the front of her opponent’s shield.
Sparks fly.
Little Milus is ready again, launching an attack at the female warrior’s legs and scraping them with his sica. Valeria shouts and lands him a kick that send his helmet flying into the sand.
The two are really going at it, up and close and personal. It is a game of shields more than blades, smash and riposte follow one another in a fractured, visceral ballet. Attracted and repelled by a magnetic force, the dwarf and the girl dance the dance of death, of salt, of sweat.
He tries to lunge but she keeps her distance. Sweating and grinding her neat, white teeth, she takes a few bruises to the thighs from her opponent.
“I’m dying to stick you,” he tells her, waving his curved blade.
“Hmmm…” purrs Valeria, “you’ll get me wet talking like that.”
The midget’s eyes pop open wide and he hesitates for a second.
Big mistake.
The gladiatrix performs a complete twirl and lands her blade on her adversary’s right hand.
The dwarf’s finger arcs through the Capua sky and lands with a phut in the coarse sand.
“You filthy bitch!” screams the stunted warrior as he crumples to his knees, cradling his wounded hand and leaving his neck undefended.
In a trice Valeria has her sword against her opponent’s jugular, and turn to face Daimon.
The lanista is already on his feet, clapping enthusiastically.
“All hail Valeria the Great, Queen of the Dwarves!”
The entire ludus salutes her victory with applause and laughter. Valeria takes a bow before helping Milus back onto his feet. He is furious but concedes, and the two of them head back into the corridor the little man came out of, deep in conversation.
Priscus takes a minute to order his thoughts. Armed women, people chopped to pieces, ferocious beasts. He traveled all this way in chains, believing he could flee the absurd pains of the heart, but life has a way of being even crueler than love.
Daimon dismisses him and Priscus sets off for the dormitory. His new home awaits him. His soul is as empty as his poor stomach. He misses everything about his old life.
He misses Verus. Gone forever.
On the way, he passes in front of the baths where Valeria, naked as the day she was born, is beneath the icy jet of water with
her thighs spread wide open. Milus stands before her, drenched in sweat, busy sucking at her clitoris. Blood oozes from his severed finger, mixing with the clear water, but he does not seem to mind. Valeria holds him by the hair, shouting over and over: “You’re a bad boy! Dirty and bad!”
Priscus continues on his way, melancholy weighing on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. He sinks onto his bunk a moment before the jailor swings shut the bars and leaves him with his thoughts.
Outside the window, a bruised and battered sun slinks silently under the earth.
He is alone, now.
Lost and wounded behind enemy lines.
Alone.
Like he has never felt before.
Burning Hate
To extinguish violence is more needed than to extinguish a fire.
HERACLITUS, On nature, fragment 43
Rome, AD 80, July
DREAMS HAVE THE feel of honey; when they are good, you know it. They caress the psyche in yellowish waves, soft and sticky, tickling throat and belly, awakening smells and thoughts, wiping away anger, pain, fear and everything else one can feel, everything except for pleasure.
But nightmares have the acrid stench of a hundred bitter disappointments. They cling to you like a mosquito bite, leaving their mark, a swollen boil of hate that itches and grows. Nightmares are promises of the future, offerings of fate, reminders of what is owed. Nightmares are sincere.
They never lie.
Verus is having a nightmare right now. It begins with the sea: a great, blue-green expanse in which to lose oneself to the sound of the surf, back relaxed and limbs spread like a Christ freed from his agonies.
Soon though, the water turns fetid, putrid surf flooding his nostrils. The gentle lapping swells to a roar of slapping, merciless foam. Verus feels the temperature rising and the story of the frog in the pot comes into his mind. To cook one of the amphibians you cannot throw him straight in boiling water because he will jump out again; instead, you put the frog in cold water and heat it up gradually, so that when the beastie realizes he is caught in a trap, it is already too late. Feeling himself in the same position, Verus begins kicking wildly. Towards freedom.
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