Caligula

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From a doorway directly opposite Rufus, a phalanx of perfectly matched gladiators jogged into the arena and turned to face the Emperor. Rufus counted them with disbelief: eight, ten, finally fourteen… Cupido and his fighters were hugely outnumbered.

Dressed in the leather greaves and griffin-crested helmets of Thracian light infantry, the enemy were matched physically in height and build as if they had been chosen for some human chariot team. As one, they knelt on a knee and roared: ' Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.'

Cupido's group stood silent, the only sound the chink of metal as Sabatis adjusted the chain armour which protected his shoulder.

Caligula should have been offended by this show of defiance, but he gave a thin smile and waved a limp hand towards the editor, who proclaimed loudly: 'Let the combat begin.'

Unknown to the crowd, their Emperor had decided this would be no normal display of arms. A message had been sent to Menander, the Thracian leader, in the arming room: 'Strike every blow to cause the greatest pain and disfigurement. Cupido will pay for his insults to the Emperor, or you will.'

There would be no quick deaths today.

The two lines of Thracians moved smoothly to form a single ring round their opponents, but as the minutes passed it became obvious that Menander's strategy would be more difficult to execute than he had anticipated. Cupido's gladiators fought back to back, each covering the other's weakest side. Any attempt to split them by feint attacks or outflanking manoeuvres only made them move closer.

At a word of command, two Thracians at opposite sides of the circle dashed straight towards Cupido's group. If they struck the positions covered by Cupido or Flamma, the spearman, their momentum would have achieved Menander's aim: to smash open the little group and leave them individually vulnerable. But with a shuffle of feet it was Niger and Salamis who faced them.

The retiarius swung his net with a flick of the wrist and the first Thracian fell sprawling at his feet. With one movement Niger stabbed the man in the throat with his trident, retrieved his net, and resumed his position facing the enemy. In the same instant, Sabatis smashed his shield into the face of his charging attacker and knocked him backwards. With a single thrust, he pierced the off-balance gladiator's exposed belly with his gladius and left him writhing in the dust, blood spurting like wine from a punctured goatskin.

The crowd roared their appreciation and the depleted ring of Thracians retreated to their original positions. Menander glanced into the stands where Caligula watched with cold eyes and felt a deathly shiver run down his spine.

Rufus could see the Thracian leader's hesitation, and he knew that Cupido, who lived or died by his instincts, would have sensed it. But the four were still faced by a dozen.

Menander now knew that piecemeal attacks would only result in a slow stream of casualties and in growing frustration for the Emperor. He must stake everything on one throw, using the strength of his numbers. 'Form lines,' he ordered.

The Thracian ring transformed into two ranks, rectangular shields locked solidly together. Menander took up position on the far left of the first line and shouted: 'Advance!'

Rufus recognized that the tight-knit formation adopted by Cupido and his gladiators would not protect them against the classic battle tactics of the legion. When the two ranks reached the smaller band they would wrap around their flanks and while the front rank was testing their defences and taking the casualties, the second would exploit any gaps. Cupido would be overwhelmed.

Cupido had known this moment would come. He had hoped to be able to inflict more casualties on the Thracians, perhaps Menander himself, before he was forced to change tactics, but it was not to be.

'Flamma,' he said quietly.

The Syrian gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.

'Wait until I give the order to break. They will be confused for a moment. One, perhaps even two, will give you an opening. Aim low. I want to hear them screaming for their mothers.'

Cupido waited until the advancing lines were less than ten paces away before he gave the command. 'Break!'

Immediately the huddle split, with Sabatis and Niger moving left, the big murmillo taking position just beyond the flank of the Thracian line, and Cupido moving right to do the same. As Cupido predicted, for an instant Menander and his men did not know how to react. The ranks halted, uncertain how to deal with this threat to both flanks.

The split second of confusion was enough for Flamma, who stood, balanced and ready to throw. The first javelin took the centre man of the front rank low in the groin, the leaf-shaped blade nicking an artery as it buried itself, leaving him writhing in the dust, shrieking in torment.

The second spear was in Flamma's hand almost before the first had reached its victim. It should have taken its target just below the ribs, but the Thracian's shield edge deflected the point downwards, through the cloth of his linen kilt, to pierce the muscle of his upper thigh, crippling him.

While the Thracians were still stunned by the death cries of their comrade, Flamma, now armed only with a dagger, took up position behind and to the right of his leader.

Menander cursed under his breath. It was time to end this cat and mouse game. Splitting his remaining men into three groups, he threw them forward, himself joining the unit attacking Cupido and Flamma.

The first precipitous rush cost Menander one of his gladiators, who died with Cupido's long sword in his throat, and left a second nursing a ragged slash that was his reward for underestimating Flamma's ability with the dagger.

Rufus had been so mesmerized by what was happening to Cupido that he was blind to anything else in the arena. But now he could see that the overwhelming numbers pitted against Sabatis and Niger had begun to tell. The little retiarius was bleeding from at least three cuts and struggled to hold his surviving opponents. As Rufus watched, Niger plunged his trident deep into the chest of the nearest. But the other Thracians attacked simultaneously and he went down under a hail of blows. Above the baying of the crowd, Rufus could hear the sickening thud of blades hacking through flesh and bone before one of the men bent and picked up Niger's severed head by his shock of dark hair and raised it towards Caligula.

Sabatis, great Sabatis, had given his all. Three of the enemy crawled or lay in the dust around his kneeling form as he choked out his life in dark strings that stained the dirt, his body pierced by a dozen wounds, but still unwilling to die.

Only Cupido was untouched. Flamma had taken a slash which had cut deep into his knife arm. Now he was truly defenceless.

Menander ordered his men, reinforced reluctantly by Niger's killers, to hold Cupido's attention as he manoeuvred to take the golden gladiator in the flank. Cupido could sense his intention, but facing four swords he could do little to counter it. Seeing an opening, Cupido cut first right, and then left, into the necks of the two most vulnerable Thracians, but the commitment left him open to attack, and Menander needed no invitation.

The Thracian commander scythed at Cupido's exposed ribs, intending to cut him to the spine. But he had reckoned without Flamma. The little spearman threw his body between the sword and his leader, taking the blow across the nape of his neck and dying instantly. Flamma's sacrifice gave Cupido the instant he needed to force his remaining opponents back. One he cut down before the last, terror in his eyes, dropped his weapon and fled.

For a long moment Cupido stood, shoulders bowed. Rufus could see his chest heaving with the exertions of the prolonged combat, and rivulets of sweat created intricate designs in the opponents' blood which stained his skin.

The golden gladiator looked up into the stands where Caligula stood, his face a confused mixture of anger and frustration, then turned to Menander.

The final combat took less than a minute. Menander knew he was no match for Cupido. His parries were sullen and slow and his feet seemed unwilling to move. Finally, Cupido, seemingly casually, slipped his leg between the Thracian's and flipped him over on to his back as if he was a novice at his first training session. Almost nonchalantly, he held his sword beneath Menander's chin, the point forcing his opponent's head backwards and exposing his throat.

Once more the empty-eyed gold mask turned to the stands, where the Emperor waited, hands clenched tight on the rail in front of him. Caligula raised his thumb, before ostentatiously hiding it in his fist to show that Cupido should sheathe his sword.

Cupido's eyes behind the golden mask never left the Emperor's. Their stares remained locked as he leaned forward and put all his weight on to his sword, forcing it home through flesh and bone with a crunching sound that could be heard in the stands.

The silence in the arena had the intensity of a solid object. Ten thousand hearts did not dare beat. Ten thousand mouths did not dare take a breath. Rufus waited with the rest, paralysed by fear. This was an insult Caligula would never forgive or forget. Every eye in the stadium was on the Emperor, waiting for the command that would bring his Praetorians on to the blood-pooled sands to avenge him.

As the seconds lengthened into minutes, the tension became unbearable. Above him, Rufus heard the sound of someone sobbing.

The Emperor rose to his feet. He had regained his composure now and his face was as much a mask as the sculpted gold which covered Cupido's. Slowly, he raised his arms… and brought his hands together in a resounding crack which cut the silence like a clap of thunder, then again, and again, until the crowds caught his mood and realized this was not a death sentence, but an Emperor's acclaim for a warrior slave.

Rufus sensed Cupido's confusion as the mob's applause washed over him, knew the young German had expected, perhaps even wanted, to die. He watched as the gladiator shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, before walking from the arena without a backward glance while the crowd roared his name in adulation.

'Cupido, Cupido, Cupido.'

Rufus felt his heart clutched by a terrible fear. He turned to rush to the far side of the arena where he could be at his friend's side, but found his way blocked by a tall figure in a threadbare toga.

'Why, it is Fronto's protege. Did you enjoy the spectacle, young man?'

Narcissus's voice was soft and his eyes were a deep, cobalt blue with an almost indefinable hypnotic quality. He stood smiling, his high, domed skull as bald as an egg and his scalp dappled with gleaming beads of sweat.

'I think the pretty gladiator has upset the Emperor, don't you? A sensible man would have entertained the crowd and died heroically, as was intended. It would have had a wonderful symmetry and added further lustre to his name. But now…'

'Excuse me, sir, but I must hurry.' Rufus tried to keep the urgency from his voice.

'Of course, I had forgotten. Your master advised me the brave gladiator was your friend. You would wish to help him celebrate the slaughter? But is that wise? Surely you don't find my company so poor?'

'No, sir,' Rufus said, confused. He couldn't understand why Narcissus should want to delay him.

'Then stay awhile and tell me about yourself. You have not always been with Cornelius Aurius Fronto, I'm sure. You must have a past?'

Rufus stared at him.

'But of course, I am being rude. I have not introduced myself. My name is Tiberius Claudius Narcissus, and I am Greek, born in the town of Pydna. Once, I was a slave like yourself; now I am the freedman of the senator, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus, nephew of the late Emperor. I act as his secretary, and carry out what other tasks he wills. He is a fine man. Do not believe all you hear of him.'

Narcissus leaned forward, so that his mouth was close to Rufus's ear. 'It is not only your friend who is in danger. The gladiator has made his choice, and you would do well to allow him to reap the consequences alone. It is a pity; he could have been useful to me, and I to him. He refused my favour. Do not make the same mistake.'

'I must go to him,' Rufus cried.

'Go, then; be a fool. But take care. I may have work for you, and you cannot do it if you are dead.' But Rufus was already past him, pushing his way along the crowded corridor. By the time he reached the arming room, a squad of a dozen Praetorians was already formed up and moving away, with Cupido, now minus his golden mask, at their centre.

Rufus almost called out, but Cupido must have sensed his presence, because the young gladiator turned and looked directly into his eyes and gently shook his head. The message was plain: I am doomed; don't waste your life trying to save me. Then he was gone.