Chapter VI: The Ludus Magnus

Forum Boarium, Rome, 56 BC

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!'

The chanting was deafening.

The Gaul stood over his vanquished opponent, listening to the familiar noise. Over five years, the blond-haired warrior had become one of the mightiest gladiators Rome had ever seen. And the crowd loved him.

Warm afternoon sun lit up the entire circle of sand contained within temporary wooden stands. That morning the grains had been a rich golden colour, raked by slaves into uniform smoothness. But after more than an hour of savage combat, the surface had been kicked into disarray. Bloodstains spread around dead men lying scattered all over the arena. The air was filled with moans and cries of the injured.

It was late spring and the citizens watching were happy. The set piece between two teams had been gripping and all the participants were now dead or maimed — except the prize fighter who had led each side.

The organisers of such fights were lanistae, owners of the gladiator schools in Rome who met on a regular basis to arrange spectacles with real mass appeal. When the rich and powerful wanted to stage a contest, they could offer a range of options from basic single combats to tailor-made arrangements. It depended on the depth of the purse of the editor — the sponsor — and how impressive a display was required.

The clash between Narcissus and Brennus had been something the public — even the lanistae — had craved for a long time. Within months of his arrival in Rome, the huge Gaul had defeated every gladiator of repute. After that, there was no entertainment in watching Brennus cut weaker men to pieces. Fights were supposed to take time, impressing the crowd with skill and endurance. Memor had quickly limited Brennus' appearances even though his popularity demanded ever more exposure.

Today the sponsor wanted real quality and had personally asked for the Gaul. The lanista had had to look far and wide for a worthy opponent. Eventually he 'd found Narcissus the Greek in Sicily, where the formidable murmillo had earned a similar reputation to Brennus.

The fight had seemed perfect. Gaul against Greek. Muscle against skill. Savagery against civilisation.

Not a seat had been left empty in the stands.

Now Narcissus lay on his back, bare chest exposed, sucking air painfully through a twisted visor. The fish crest of his bronze helmet was bent in two, battered into submission. His sword lay ten feet away, kicked beyond reach.

The contest had not lasted long. Brennus had unexpectedly shouldercharged the murmillo, knocking him off balance. A spinning blow from his shield had followed, breaking several ribs and driving Narcissus to his knees, half stunned. Then a savage chop of Brennus' longsword had cut open the Greek's right shoulder above the manicae, the thick leather bands protecting the arm. Narcissus had dropped his weapon, collapsing on to the baking sand, screaming in pain.

Sure of victory, Brennus had paused. He had no desire to kill yet another opponent. Raising both arms, he let the crowd's approval fill the air. Despite the speed with which he had ended the fight, Rome's citizens still loved Brennus.

But Narcissus had not been defeated. Suddenly he had produced a dagger from under his manicae, lunging at the Gaul. Brennus had skipped out of reach, then swept in from the side, using the shield's iron rim to smash his opponent's face through the soft metal helmet. The murmillo's head had slumped as he lost consciousness.

Brennus looked over to the nobles in their white togas. They were shielded from the sun by the velarium, a cloth awning erected by the command of the editor of these games. Julius Caesar sat dressed in a pristine purple-edged toga, surrounded by followers and admirers. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and a great cry of anticipation went up.

The Gaul sighed, determined that Narcissus' death would at least be humane. He nudged the murmillo with his foot.

Opening his eyes, Narcissus found the strength to raise his left arm in the air. Slowly he extended a forefinger upwards.

An appeal for mercy.

The audience roared with disapproval, drowning the confined space with their animal noise.

Caesar stood and surveyed the arena, holding up his arms commandingly. As people noticed, the chanting and whistling stopped. A strange silence fell over the Forum Boarium. Wooden stands erected for the occasion were jammed with the poorest plebeians, merchants, and the patricians that Julius Caesar called friends.

All waited, held in the grip of the finest military mind that Rome had seen in an age. Ignoring the rule that prohibited generals with armies from entering the city, Caesar had returned, fresh from his successful campaigns against the Helvetii and Belgae. While these had gained him huge public favour, Caesar was paying a price for being absent from Rome for months on end. Despite the work of his friends and allies, it was proving hard to maintain his influence in the city. This visit was all about showing his face, pressing flesh with politicians and retaining the people 's affection.

Traditionally, gladiator fights had only taken place as part of celebrations to honour the death of the rich or famous. But in the previous thirty years, their immense popularity had prompted politicians and those seeking office to stage them at every opportunity. As the contests grew in size and magnificence, the need for a permanent arena became ever greater. Desperate to retain the public's affection, Pompey was currently funding the building of a fixed arena on the Campus Martius, news that had immensely pleased Memor and the other lanistae.

'People of Rome! Today a gladiator with more than thirty victories has been vanquished!' Caesar paused with theatrical elegance, and there was a shout of approval. It was clear that his choice of fighter and command over the audience pleased him. 'And Narcissus was beaten by whom?'

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!' Drums beaten by slaves pounded to the repetitive chant. 'Bren-nus!'

There could only be one outcome.

The murmillo gestured weakly with his right hand. 'Make it quick, brother.'

The words were barely distinguishable above the cries and hypnotic drumming.

'I swear it.'

The unspoken bond between gladiators was strong, just as it had been with warriors of Brennus' tribe.

Caesar held up his arms again. 'Shall I show mercy to the loser?' He stared down at the prone figure on the sand, whose finger was still raised.

Baying sounds of anger joined the clamour. Men in the stands nearest the temple of Fortuna gestured downwards with their thumbs and the signal was quickly copied by the entire audience.

A wave of thumbs pointed south.

Caesar turned to his companions. 'The plebs require a reward.' A smile played on thin lips. 'Do you want Narcissus to die?'

The citizens screamed their pleasure.

Caesar surveyed the arena slowly, increasing the tension. Then he raised his right hand, thumb extended horizontally. For several slow heartbeats it stayed in position.

The crowd held its breath.

Abruptly it turned to point at the ground.

The shouts that went up exceeded all those that had gone before. It was time for the loser to die.

'Get up.'

Narcissus managed to kneel with difficulty. The wound on his right shoulder began to bleed heavily.

'Take off your helmet.' Brennus lowered his voice. 'It will give me a clean swing. Send you straight to Elysium.'

The murmillo moaned as the battered metal came off. His nose had been reduced to a bloody pulp, the cheekbones crushed inwards. It was an agonising wound and there was a loud gasp of shock and pleasure from those watching.

'Aesculapius himself could not fix that,' said Brennus.

Narcissus nodded and looked at Caesar. 'Those who are about to die, salute you,' he mumbled. The Greek smacked his chest with a clenched fist and extended the quivering left arm forward.

The editor acknowledged his pledge.

Silence took hold of the Forum.

Quickly Brennus stepped back and gripped the longsword's hilt with both hands. The Gaul's chest and arm muscles stood out as he half turned, swinging from the hip. Narcissus' head was swept clean off his shoulders by the blow. It flew spinning through the air, landing with a wet thump. Blood gushed from the neck; the torso fell twitching to the ground. The sand absorbed the red liquid, leaving a dark stain around the murmillo.

The people went wild.

Caesar gestured. 'Let the victor approach.'

Brennus walked slowly towards the nobles, trying to ignore the delighted roars of the crowd. It was hard to resist the adulation. The Gaul was a warrior and enjoyed combat. Coins, pieces of fruit, even a wineskin showered down. He stooped to pick up the bag and took a large mouthful of wine.

Caesar smiled down generously. 'Another great victory, mighty Brennus.'

The Gaul half bowed, sweat-streaked pigtails falling forward on to his bare chest.

Is this the journey you meant, Ultan? To end up as a performing animal for these bastards?

'A worthy prize!' Caesar raised a heavy leather purse and tossed it through the air.

'Thank you, great one.' Brennus bowed more deeply, sweeping up his reward at the same time. He weighed the bag in his bloodstained hand. There was a lot of money in it, which only made him feel worse.

Behind him, the figure dressed as Charon, the ferryman across the River Styx, had entered the arena, clad from head to toe in black leather, a mask concealing his face. A large hammer dangling from one hand, he paced towards Narcissus' head as screams of mock horror went up from the audience. The hammer, visibly encrusted with blood and matted hair, rose high in the air. Swinging it downwards, the ferryman split Narcissus' skull like an egg, proving the murmillo was truly dead. It was time for the Greek's journey to Hades.

Brennus turned away. He still believed that brave men went to Elysium, the warriors' paradise. He found the Roman ritual with Charon disgusting and had sworn it would not happen to him. And the option of allowing himself to be slain, ending the torture, went totally against his nature. Deep inside, Brennus clung to a tiny strand of hope. It meant continuing to kill men he had no quarrel with, but the pragmatic warrior had come to regard competitions as defending his own life. Kill or be killed, he thought bitterly. Hunting with Brac, lying with his wife and playing with his child were all distant memories now. They seemed almost unreal.

He tried to bring back an image of Ultan's face, the sound of his voice.

The druid had never said anything about journeying to this. After five years, it was hard not to lose faith in the gods. In Belenus, who had guided him since childhood.

Ultan had spoken of the destiny awaiting him as something incredible. This could not be it. Brennus steeled his resolve, ignoring the arena's noise. The Gaul did not know how, but he would escape captivity.

I am the last Allobroge, he thought. I will face death as a free man. With a sword in my hand.

'Put some effort into it!' The trainer knew how to encourage Romulus. 'Imagine it's Gemellus!'

The young man had lived up to the anger and promise shining in his eyes when he'd first been brought in. Cotta had seen many slaves enter the school, wretches whose will broke under the iron discipline. But Romulus held a burning rage inside, fuelled by the guilt about Juba and his family.

Romulus shifted his grip on the hilt and swung hard against the palus. The wooden sword and shield were both far heavier than the real thing. His arm juddered as the weapon connected with the thick stake.

'More like it. Now do it again.' Cotta smiled briefly. 'You can rest tonight.' He moved away to watch two other gladiators.

'Shield up. Forward thrust. Step back.' Romulus repeated the words just as he had with Juba, only a few months before. Thoughts of the Nubian came less and less. The ludus' harsh regime had driven almost everything other than survival from Romulus' mind. Only the most precious memories of his mother and Fabiola appeared readily now. Those and his guilt about that last fateful day. Life might have been so different if he had not asked Juba to train him with a sword.

The image of Gemellus was burnt indelibly into his soul.

'Wait. Watch. Turn. Backhand slash.' Deftly Romulus spun and hacked the palus, imagining the merchant's face crease in agony as the blade struck.

'Good work.'

His trainer was a former mercenary who had been captured by the Romans fifteen years previously. Military training had helped him survive longer than most. Finally granted his freedom, Cotta had stayed on at the Ludus Magnus. Romulus had been awestruck when he heard the story of Cotta's last combat. Overcoming more than six opponents, it had been a trial of extraordinary endurance. The dictator Marius had been so impressed that he had freed the secutor on the spot.

A Libyan of average height, Cotta was still fit and lean, although well over forty. His left arm was half paralysed, a legacy of the day he had won the rudis, a wooden sword symbolising freedom. He was feared and respected by almost all gladiators in the ludus. Even Memor stopped to watch occasionally when the grey-haired veteran was training his men.

'I've liked you ever since the branding,' said Cotta. 'Most scream when the iron hits.'

Romulus looked at the red, puckered marks on his upper right arm, reading 'L M' and marking him as the property of the Ludus Magnus. The pain of the red-hot metal had been almost unbearable, yet somehow he had managed not to cry out, ignoring the agony and the stench of searing flesh. Like his vow of obedience, the process had been a vital test of courage.

'Something told me to pick you,' the old gladiator said approvingly. 'A cut above the usual rabble.'

Romulus was lucky to have Cotta, to be training as a heavily armed secutor. He had a much better chance of surviving than a lowly retiarius, the most likely choice for a thirteen-year-old. When they arrived in the ludus, men were picked for each fighting class by size, strength and skill with weapons. Few would have seen enough potential in Romulus. It took months of hard instruction to produce a trained gladiator, ready for combat. He mouthed a swift prayer of thanks to Jupiter, promising to make an offering later at the shrine in his cell.

'Memor wants you ready in a month. Stand a good chance by practising like that.' Cotta jerked a thumb at the group of retiarii in the far corner of the yard. 'He 'll probably put you up against a fisherman. And not a novice either.' He winked. 'That'd be far too easy. More sport for the crowd watching a rookie secutor fighting a crafty old retiarius.'

Romulus redoubled his efforts with the palus, knocking chips off with each blow. He knew the self-educated Libyan spent more time with him than the other new gladiators. Sensing Romulus' thirst for knowledge, Cotta had also been giving him regular lessons in military tactics. It was immensely empowering to learn the details of battles such as Cannae, when Hannibal had annihilated eight Roman legions, and Thermopylae, where three hundred Spartans had held off a million Persians. There were recent tales too, stirring accounts of Caesar's incredible victories against the Gaulish tribes. Romulus now knew the basics of warfare and how great minds could often beat overwhelming odds. While his body was contained within the walls of the ludus, his mind, fed by Cotta's classes, roamed far beyond. Now, more than ever, he longed to be free.

'I will be ready, Master Cotta,' he muttered. 'I swear it.'

The old gladiator smiled as he walked away, yelling instructions.

After five months of intensive exercise, Romulus' frame was heavily muscled and his black hair had grown long. A thin leather band held it back, exposing a tanned face. The boy was becoming a handsome young man. He was already as tall as some of the gladiators, and as fast, even if he lacked combat experience.

When Cotta let him finish at last, Romulus' arms were burning. He let the shield fall wearily to his side and trudged off the dirt practice ground.

All but one side of the square building was given up to cells accommodating the trainers and fighters, while the other contained the baths, kitchens, mortuary and armoury. On the second floor lay the offices, sick bay and Memor's luxurious quarters. Apart from prostitutes and rich clients, few ever set foot inside the lanista's domain.

It was only a dozen steps to the tiny room he shared with three other gladiators. There was barely space in it for their beds and a shrine to the gods. Sextus was the most friendly inmate, a short, tough Spaniard who seldom spoke. Lentulus was nearer his own age, a Goth with two years' experience and a fierce temper. The last was Gaius, a broad-shouldered retiarius with little brain, whose flatulence was the main topic of conversation in the cell.

Fortunately Romulus' roommates had no taste for young men, and he had slept undisturbed since arriving. From the glances some fighters gave him, Romulus knew that he would be raped if they ever cornered him. He had already had several lucky escapes. He was particularly careful never to go to the toilet area alone and wore a sharp dagger on his belt at all times. Although Memor did not allow swords or larger weapons in the cells, knives were tolerated. The lanista's archers had nothing to fear from these.

The walls of the poorly lit room ran with damp. Anyone who slept by them constantly had wet bedding. And as he was the newest inmate, the worst spot belonged to Romulus. He bore his obligation silently, knowing it was part of the ritual of acceptance. Each morning, he dutifully carried his straw mattress outside to dry while the others laughed. Every evening he reversed the performance.

Romulus picked up the heavy load beside the door and paused. Taking a deep breath, he entered.

'Still soft, boy!'

'Too used to the good life!'

Romulus flushed. There was some truth to the jibes. Life in the ludus was much harsher than in Gemellus' service. He dropped the bedding back onto the rough slats of his cot.

'Wait till winter comes,' sneered Lentulus. 'Then you'll really know how miserable that corner is!'

Romulus disliked the stocky young Goth, who was always looking for ways to bait him. Angered by the constant comments, Romulus suddenly took a stand. 'I might take your bed instead.'

Gaius opened both eyes warily.

'How are you going to do that?' Lentulus laughed. 'Stick me with that excuse for a sword?'

The retiarius sniggered.

Lentulus lay back on his mattress, picking his rotten teeth with a splinter.

Romulus took hold of his dagger. 'I'll teach you a lesson,' he said slowly.

The Goth stiffened, hand reaching for something on the floor. Iron grated off the stone as he slid out a gladius that he had hidden under his bed.

A rush of adrenalin and fear hit Romulus. Better to pick a fight in the yard, not such a confined space. And when he had more than a knife or a wooden sword to fight with. His own real one was locked up with all the others in the armoury. Thirty paces and a lifetime away. Maybe it had been a mistake to answer back.

Lentulus began to sit up, pulling the gladius on to his lap.

'Peace, Lentulus,' said a familiar voice. 'We are all tired and hungry.'

Romulus looked gratefully at Sextus.

The little Spaniard was one of the ludus' most feared gladiators. Wielding his axe with ferocious skill, the scissores' speciality was picking off the weak and wounded men in the arena.

Not confident enough to antagonise Sextus, Lentulus fell silent. But it was only a matter of time before things with the malevolent Goth got physical.

And the scissores wouldn't always be around to defuse the situation.

Sooner or later he would have to fight Lentulus. The thought filled Romulus with a mixture of dread and excitement. As well as being five or six years younger, he was a lot shorter than the secutor, who had survived half a dozen single combats unscathed, a respectable record for any gladiator.

The dinner gong clanged loudly.

Sextus smiled and got to his feet. 'Time to eat.'

Lentulus made a stabbing motion that was not lost on Romulus.

They glared at each other, both refusing to drop their gaze.

'Time for food,' repeated the scissores.

Romulus picked up his bowl and trooped out, keeping Sextus between him and Lentulus. Next time he would be more careful. Stomach growling, he put the matter from his mind.

'Keep rubbing!'

The unctor poured more drops of aromatic oil on to the Gaul's vast back, expertly kneading the muscles.

Brennus lay naked on a bare wooden table, luxuriating in the massage.

Memor took care of his top gladiators, allowing them favours others only dreamt of. After the unctor had finished, he was going to enjoy a long soak in the baths, followed by a meal prepared by Astoria, his woman.

'You killed the murmillo too quickly today. That damn contest took months to arrange.'

Brennus opened his eyes to find that Memor had entered the room. 'The crowd seemed to like it,' he replied casually.

'They are fickle,' snapped the lanista. 'How many times must I tell you to make the fights last as long as possible?'

The Gaul's habit of dispatching men fast was something that had irritated Memor for years. But despite Brennus' unorthodox modus operandi, the people had come to love him, which annoyed the lanista even more.

Brennus grunted as the unctor found a knot in one shoulder. He wasn't prepared to make men suffer and Memor knew it.

'Pay attention, damn you!'

The Gaul closed his eyes. 'I heard.'

Memor flushed at the disrespect. 'You are still my slave!' He prodded the brand on Brennus' left calf. 'Remember that!'

Brennus looked up. 'Next time I will kill slowly. Happy?'

Nervous, the unctor paused.

'Did I say stop?'

Hastily he continued rubbing.

'Just make sure you do.' Memor wasn't going to punish his most skilled fighter severely. The Gaul was worth far too much money. But long years of managing gladiators had made the lanista sharp as a blade. 'And no harm will come to that whore of yours,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

The unctor gasped in dismay as Brennus jumped from the table, knocking the bottle of oil flying. Pottery shattered on the floor. Stepping over the shards, the big man clenched his fists and stalked naked towards Memor.

Five years before there had been no chance to defend his wife. The same would not happen again.

The lanista took several urgent steps backwards.

'You piece of Roman shit!' Brennus' face was an inch away. 'Touch a hair on Astoria's head and you'll eat your own balls. Before I cut out your heart.'

Memor did not flinch. 'You and your friends can't watch Astoria all the time.' He shrugged apologetically. 'She might have a nasty accident. Terribly easy, you know. Wagon out of control on the street. Thief might slip a blade in her down an alleyway.'

Brennus ground his teeth in rage, all too aware that the beautiful Nubian could not be under his constant protection. 'Very well, Master.' The words nearly choked him. 'I will fight better next time. More slowly.'

Memor smiled. 'Where is the purse from Caesar?'

Brennus indicated the pile of clothes by the table. Quickly the lanista emptied more than half the coins into a leather bag.

'Plenty left — for a slave.' Memor scattered the rest on the floor. He left, satisfied that the Gaul had been brought to heel.

Brennus climbed resignedly back on the bench and gestured for the unctor to resume.

Before falling in love with Astoria, life in the ludus had been simple. Other than threats of torture or death, there had been few forms of control over him. Brennus was scared of neither and the lanista knew it. Thirty lashes soon after his arrival had only made the Gaul laugh in Memor's face. Since the massacre of his whole tribe by the Romans, he had not cared if he lived or died. He felt completely hollow inside. Brac, his wife and child were gone for ever. People Brennus had sworn to protect had died because of his failure. Ultan's predictions had come to nothing.

That left no reason to live.

Initially, Brennus had made countless attempts to seek out death, but it had always evaded him. Nobody could beat the Gaul in combat and dozens of opponents had died beneath his blade. He 'd grown rich on the rewards lavished by the editores, the prominent men like Julius Caesar who hosted the games that were now becoming a staple of daily life in Rome.

But money and men's lives were not what Brennus wanted. He could have fled the ludus and gone on the run; even an existence as an outlaw would have been better than this. What had stopped him was the shocking message that he had been given three years previously by the ancient augur who plied his trade outside the gates of the Ludus Magnus. Memor tolerated the soothsayer's visits to the school, knowing it kept his men happy. But Brennus had watched gladiators paying to hear good omens and then seen them die in the arena too many times to set much store by the old man's prophecies. He was a charlatan.

At length a friendly murmillo had paid for Brennus to have a reading.

Feeling bored, the Gaul had gone along with the charade. The augur had smiled initially as Brennus had sat down before him. He reached into the basket alongside, produced a hen and quickly slashed its neck. Then, uncharacteristically silent, the old man had stared long and hard at the entrails. The Gaul had waited, surprised that he was not being promised victory over an entire troop of gladiators.

'You have lost everything.'

The melodramatic words had amused Brennus. So had every fighter in the ludus. Most were free men who had been enslaved.

Before he could stop him, the augur had spoken again. 'A long journey still awaits you.'

Shaken, Brennus had held his breath.

'A journey longer than any of your people have ever taken.' The old man had seemed as surprised as the Gaul by what he was seeing. But his interpretation had remained the same with every divination thereafter.

It had given Brennus some hope.

He tried to remain solitary but men were drawn to his friendly character.

In the ludus' harsh atmosphere, the Gaul's willingness to train others and share useful tips on combat was unusual. While his exalted status helped to make some jealous, many gladiators called him friend. And the year before, fuelled by memories of how Conall had saved his life, Brennus had even rescued Sextus, one of the scissores, from the depths of an uneven mass combat. After that, Brennus became one of the ludus' most popular figures, although he trusted no one.

Things had changed when Astoria had arrived in the ludus kitchen a few months before. Brennus had immediately noticed her beauty and poise. He'd had many women since Liath's death, physical needs in the end overtaking his grief. First he had bought prostitutes with his winnings, then enjoyed rich matrons who flocked to the ludus. The renown of the best prize fighters attracted noblewomen like moths to a flame. Among the wealthy it was considered normal to seek pleasure from those whom they might watch die. While his comrades revelled in the attention, no female had really interested Brennus until he saw Astoria and was captivated by the curves of her ebony body, barely concealed by a ragged shift.

Brennus had quickly claimed the Nubian for his own and had thus exposed a weakness in his emotional armour. Such was the Gaul's reputation that none dared touch Astoria, confining themselves to lewd comments. But her presence was a source of intense jealousy among a small group of less successful fighters. And now, with Memor's threats, Brennus feared more for Astoria's safety than he did his own. He grimaced. Maybe a long bath would help him forget the lanista's menaces.

'Enough.'

The unctor stepped smartly back.

Brennus refilled the purse, tossed him a coin and walked naked into the frigidarium, which held a large, unheated pool. The water was cold enough to make him shiver as he climbed in. With closed eyes, the Gaul ducked his head completely under, knowing it would be refreshing before the heat of the next room.

When he had bathed in the tepidarium, the resident body slave oiled his skin, scraping it clean with an iron strigil. Moving on to the caldarium, Brennus lingered in its steamy atmosphere, sharing the warmth with the other top gladiators. Conversation was muted as the men relaxed, enjoying the intense heat radiating from hollow bricks in the walls and floor. Continuous currents of hot air from the hypocaustum, the nearby underground furnace, ensured the temperature remained constant.

Some time later, Brennus sauntered in better humour from the bathhouse door. Dusk was falling and across the yard his cell door was ajar. Flickering light shone from candles that Astoria would have lit. He smiled in anticipation, imagining her naked.

A woman's scream pierced the air.

It was immediately cut short.

Brennus sprinted across the yard, his drying cloth falling unnoticed to the ground. He ripped open the door to find four of the men he least liked inside. His fears had been fulfilled. Since Spartacus' rebellion, only champion gladiators were allowed to keep weapons in their rooms. And in Brennus' absence it had been easy for the group to overpower Astoria and help themselves to some of his.

Two now waved swords threateningly at the Gaul while the other pair sat on the bed, mauling Astoria with greedy hands. The Nubian's shift had already been ripped off, and she was vainly trying to cover herself with her hands. As she whimpered, he noticed a thick welt rising on her cheek.

A vein in Brennus' neck pulsed with rage. 'The fancy boys and Lentulus,' he sneered. All his other weapons lay on the far side of the room.

'Don't come any closer!' Titus' voice wavered although the Gaul was unarmed.

The three murmillones were inseparable. Titus and Curtius were brothers, thugs who had worked in the collegia for Clodius. They had been sold to the ludus after a rich matron had been raped by a mob that they were leading. There were still some crimes that the lictores, the magistrates, would not tolerate. Flavus was a short, unpleasant man whom the pair had been trained with. Thrown into a group combat in the arena soon after arriving, they'd found it useful to fight as a trio. Since that day, the murmillones had lived, trained and slept together, scarcely leaving each other's company. It had earned them a reputation of doing more than sharing beds.

'What are you doing with these scum?' He moved closer to Lentulus, the fourth intruder.

The Goth swallowed hard and stepped back, keeping his sword pointing towards Brennus.

The big Gaul smiled coldly. 'Leave now and I'll be nice. I won't even kill any of you.'

Unsure, Lentulus turned to Titus, the ringleader 'He's full of shit!' retorted the murmillo. 'Think of the woman. You can have her next.'

Lentulus glanced at the Nubian's naked body, his eyes full of lust. Curtius nodded in agreement and pushed a hand into Astoria's groin. He sniggered and stuck several fingers in his mouth.

'Tastes sweet, Lentulus.'

'Keep him over there, boys!' Flavus laughed too, an erection visible through his loincloth. 'It won't take long with this bitch.'

Lentulus was still gazing between Astoria's legs with fascination.

There was only a moment to act. Brennus darted forward, swinging a huge fist into the side of Lentulus' head. The Goth collapsed, sword dropping to the floor. Before Brennus had time to pick it up, Titus lunged forward. Desperately the Gaul dodged to one side, but the blade sliced a long, shallow cut on his chest.

As another thrust followed, Brennus caught the sharp iron in his left hand. Ignoring the pain, he gripped the gladius so tightly that Titus was unable to pull it away. With his right, the Gaul grabbed the murmillo by the windpipe and began to choke him.

Titus' eyes bulged with terror and he let go of the sword, trying frantically to break Brennus' powerful grip. His efforts were futile. Within moments the murmillo's face had gone puce, his tongue protruding from a desperate, gaping mouth. Brennus tightened the hold, grimacing as the cartilage made a cracking sound.

Curtius jumped up when he saw his brother struggling to breathe. 'Hold the girl!' he screamed at Flavus, launching himself across the room, weapon raised.

Half strangling Astoria, the evil-looking murmillo quickly obeyed.

Brennus dropped the limp figure to the floor, smoothly turning the sword hilt into his good hand. Blood dripped from the deep cut, but the naked Gaul was now in berserker mode. He moved closer, gladius at the ready.

'Four not enough to take me? Limp prick!'

'Bastard!' Distraught with grief, Curtius slashed madly at Brennus, who simply ducked under the blow.

He leaned forward, burying his blade deep in the murmillo's unprotected chest. The Gaul smiled as Curtius' momentum carried him further on to the sword.

The murmillo's eyes opened wide with shock as he died.

Placing a huge hand on Curtius' chest, Brennus shoved him backwards.

There was a sucking noise as the razor-sharp metal pulled free, allowing air to rush into the chest cavity. Curtius' body sagged on to the sandy floor, pouring blood.

'Your friend has dirtied my room.' Brennus' tone was almost mild as he stepped towards Flavus.

'Come any closer and I cut the bitch's throat.' Flavus' eyes darted around wildly, but the point of his dagger stayed fixed under Astoria's chin.

Brennus could see the murmillo wasn't lying. 'Let her go.'

'So you can kill me too?' Flavus pricked Astoria's skin with the tip. A fat red drop ran down velvet black skin. 'On your feet!'

Brennus let the murmillo walk slowly towards him, the girl held in front.

'You first,' Flavus shouted. 'Outside.'

The Gaul stepped backwards, taking care not to lose his footing on the bloody surface.

The darkened yard was full of curious gladiators, drawn by Astoria's screams and the sounds of combat. Their flickering oil lamps illuminated the scene.

Romulus was standing in deep shadows not far from the cell door. Unlike the others, he had an idea who had attacked the Nubian. For some time Lentulus had been training with the murmillones and bragging about raping Astoria. He had presumed it was just talk. Now it seemed the Goth really was bad news.

Romulus had seen Brennus many times since his arrival in the ludus but had never spoken to him. The big Gaul and Astoria both seemed friendly and they certainly did not inspire the kind of hatred that welled up when he thought of Lentulus. Fists clenched, he prayed they had not been killed.

Relief filled him as Brennus emerged stark naked, blood running from his wounds. He was followed by Flavus, holding Astoria by the throat.

'Help me kill the Gaul!' The murmillo peered into the darkness, hoping to see gladiators who would come to his aid. 'We can all have his whore!'

'The first one who comes near gets his throat cut,' Brennus said calmly.

Nobody moved. In the ludus' unwritten rules, grudges like this usually had to be settled by those involved.

His voice shaking, Flavus called out to two fighters. 'Figulus! Gallus! Fight with me!' The pair shifted from foot to foot, deeply tempted by the attractive Nubian. It had been months since they had been with a woman, but the sight of Brennus with a bloodied sword arrested further action.

Astoria sobbed quietly.

Romulus' heart pounded in his chest. Despite the noise, there was no sign of Memor yet. Should he get involved? It took only a moment to decide. The invitation to gang-rape the girl had filled him with disgust. Velvinna had never revealed the exact circumstances of their conception, but she had hinted at it. And the merchant had forced himself on her night after night. In Romulus' mind, rape was a crime of the worst order.

He tiptoed towards Flavus' unprotected back, gently easing the dagger from his belt. Nobody spotted him. Rage replaced the disgust as he stole within striking range. Flavus was like those who had raped his mother. An anonymous noble. Gemellus.

Dirty bastards. The murmillo was oblivious, still pleading with Figulus and Gallus to join him.

Romulus took a deep breath, knuckles whitening. He stepped in close, grabbing Flavus' left shoulder tightly and pushed the thin blade through his tunic to break the skin.

'Let the girl go!'

Flavus froze.

'Release her,' he hissed.

'Romulus?' The murmillo's voice was incredulous. 'This has nothing to do with you. Now piss off before this bitch gets herself killed.' He poked Astoria with his knife and she screamed.

Brennus took a step forward.

'Stay where you are!' roared Flavus.

Glowering, the Gaul moved back.

Blood pounded in Romulus' ears as he took in the dramatic sight of Brennus and the circle of gladiators. Every face was watching them. In front of Flavus, Astoria's shoulders shook with fear.

'I'll give you one more chance.'

'This is men's business,' spat Flavus. 'Walk away before you get hurt. Badly hurt.'

Backing off was not an option. He had no choice. Stab high up under the ribcage. Cotta's advice echoed in Romulus' mind. Cut the liver — it is always fatal.

With a quick shove, Romulus shoved his dagger deep into Flavus' right side, twisting as it went in. The murmillo shrieked as he felt the thrust, and his grip on Astoria fell away. She ran sobbing to Brennus. Romulus pulled the blade free and Flavus staggered round, eyes glazed. A large area of his tunic turned bright red, the cloth filling with blood.

Flavus' face held a look of total disbelief.

Silently, Romulus stabbed him once in the chest and stood back as the murmillo collapsed, his strength evaporating. He jerked a few times and was still.

Romulus gazed down in fascination at the first man he had killed. Then his stomach lurched and both legs began to wobble.

'You have my thanks.'

Romulus sensed Brennus looming above him. He nodded, suppressing the urge to vomit.

It was then that Lentulus emerged from the cell, half stunned but still clutching his sword. He saw Romulus standing over Flavus' body and gave an inarticulate cry of rage. Hoisting the weapon with a shaking hand, he weaved towards them.

Instinctively Romulus bent to retrieve his knife.

'Hold!' Memor's voice cut in. 'Next man who moves, dies!'

Everyone froze as the lanista pushed his way through to stand before Brennus. He was flanked by six guards with drawn bows.

'Trying to butcher everyone in the damn ludus?'

'What was I supposed to do?' Brennus scowled at the Goth, the only survivor. 'The bastards were going to rape Astoria.'

Memor snorted. 'And how many men are dead because of that black bitch?'

'Three.' Lentulus nursed the side of his head, bruised from the Gaul's punch.

'Three?' the lanista screeched.

'Curtius, Titus and Flavus.'

Memor's mouth opened and closed. The murmillones had been prize fighters.

'Anyone who touches my woman dies,' said Brennus.

'Lay a finger on another man and I'll have you crucified.' Memor was incandescent with rage. 'You might be the best gladiator here, but you are still a fucking slave!'

The Gaul's fist bunched around the hilt of his sword.

Memor gestured quickly. The archers drew back, iron-tipped arrows pointing at Brennus' heart.

Astoria screamed.

Brennus' hand dropped to his side. 'I'm not going to commit suicide to satisfy you.'

'You have some brains left, then,' replied Memor, his voice taut with anger. 'I have a good idea.' He pointed at Romulus and Lentulus. 'These two look like they aren't on best terms. They might as well settle that. At dawn tomorrow. A duel to the death. Right here in the yard.'

The pair stared at each other.

Lentulus repeated the stabbing motion. Romulus hawked and spat. The Goth made to launch himself forward, then paused.

'Go right ahead,' said Memor. 'One archer might miss, but at this range, four. '

Lentulus grimaced and sheathed his sword. Content that he had won the confrontation, Romulus turned away.

The morning might prove different.

'Fucking great ox.' The lanista glared at Brennus. 'No excursions into the city till further notice. You're barred from the baths as well.'

The Gaul shrugged. He waited in case there was more.

Memor jerked his head in dismissal. 'Piss off. Before I think of a better punishment.'

Brennus obeyed. He was not worried about Memor and his threats. Astoria was a far greater concern. There had been too many men who seemed interested in Flavus' offer.

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