The Song of the Gladiator

Chapter 9

‘Come on.’

The principal chef of the imperial kitchens, Emperor Constantine’s favourite cook, grasped the hand of the young kitchen maid and pulled her down the steps leading to the cellar where wood and charcoal were stored under a low roof supported by stout stone pillars. The chef always liked to bring his concubines, as he called his conquests, down here, especially in summer when it was so quiet. He wiped his greasy face, drying his hands on his tunic, and looked appreciatively at the girl. She was olive-skinned, with thick black hair and beautiful arms and legs. The chef in charge of the entrées had already lain with her and provided a graphic description of her skill and enthusiasm, her determination to please. The principal chef had immediately gone to work seducing the young woman with promises of preferment in the kitchens and, perhaps, even the prospect of promotion to serving maid with permission to enter the imperial dining room. He also made sure she was given the freshest delicacies left over after an imperial meal. Already this morning she had been given first choice of food from the previous night: cheese and honey, slices of walnut and fig cake, dried pear pudding, as well as various meats soaked in their sauces.

‘Come on,’ he repeated, stretching out his hand and grasping hers.

‘Are you sure?’ the maid whispered, acting like a frightened fawn. The chef’s companion and friend had said she would protest like this, all coy and reluctant. She was certainly playing the part, gnawing her lip and standing so irresolute on the steps whilst he tugged gently on her hand.

‘Just persist,’ his friend had advised, ‘and you’ll enjoy a paradise of pleasures. Make sure it’s somewhere lonely, where no one can hear.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ The chef felt his stomach rumble with excitement. ‘We’ll kiss and cuddle, then go back to the kitchens for some honey water and pyramid cakes.’

The maid, still acting the reluctant lady, followed him down the steps. She was quite determined to give this important man the best of times and win his favour. She would love to be in charge of some of the others, to be given the best scraps and the driest and cleanest place to sleep.

The chef opened the door and fumbled on the ledge for the sulphur matches, which he used to fire the cresset torches as well as the twin earthenware oil lamps with the carving of Pegasus on each dish. As he did this, the girl walked away, staring down the musty chamber.

‘There!’ The chef stood back; the two lamps were burning fiercely, and the cresset torches sputtered in a shower of sparks. Behind him the girl moaned.

‘Oh, it’ll soon be all right,’ the chef murmured. He felt a hand on his arm and grinned round at her. ‘What’s wrong, girl?’

Even in the poor light her face had changed, all pale and drawn, her lower lip trembling. She pulled speechlessly at his arm and pointed down the cellar. As he followed her direction, his chin sagged and he gasped in amazement. He pulled the girl with him as he walked slowly forward.

‘In Apollo’s name,’ he breathed, ‘what is that?’

The girl broke free, gave a muffled scream and fled through the half-open door. The chef was made of sterner stuff. A veteran of the Ninth Hispania, he had seen his fair share of corpses, gibbeted, crucified, burned in oil, limbs severed, or lying bloated and stinking on some godforsaken battlefield. Nevertheless, there was something grotesque in the gruesome spectacle at the far end of the chamber, which the poor light only made more horrifying. Two corpses had been lashed to pillars next to each other. The chef walked closer, peering through the gloom. He recognised both the philosophers, visitors from the school of Capua; the elder one had his head tilted up, eyes staring blindly.,

‘Justin,’ the chef whispered, ‘that’s your name.’ He spoke as if expecting the bloodied man to listen and reply, but Justin was dead. The old man had been stripped completely naked, his thin, bony body rendered all the more pathetic by his shrunken genitals, vein-streaked legs and dirty torso, which looked like the underside of a landed fish. The chef moved to one side. Justin had been gagged with a piece of leather, which still stuck out of his mouth. He had been shot to death at close range; the Syrian bow lay on the ground nearby, next to it a leather quiver empty of all its barbed, feathered arrows. Most of the shafts were embedded deep in Justin’s flesh, the rest were scattered to the right of the pillar.

‘Not a very good archer,’ the chef whispered. At least four or five of the shafts had missed their mark. Justin had been bound tightly by a thick oily rope which dug deep in the flesh but left enough bare expanse of skin to receive the deadly shafts. The chef, curious, went and stared into the dead man’s eyes, tilting the head forward. He recalled the old tale that the stare of a dead man often held what he had last gazed on. But Justin’s eyes were mere black spots rolled back in his head to display the blood-flecked whites.

The chef moved to the second corpse; he couldn’t remember his name, but recognised him as one of the orators. The younger man had also been stripped naked, then gagged and bound to the pillar. The chef pinched his nostrils. This man had apparently been dead for some time; the smell was offensive and the sight even more gruesome than the last. He had been stripped of all his garments, tied with his face to the pillar and flogged to death. An overseer’s whip lay nearby with its bronze handle, the leather flails embellished with two or three razor-sharp slivers of bronze, copper or bone. The chef had seen such whips before; in fact, he owned one himself which he used to threaten the kitchen boys, but of course he would never actually use such a cruel weapon. The dead man’s face was all bloodied where it had smashed into the pillar as his head rocked backwards and forwards during the flogging. The chef pressed the back of his hand to the neck of the corpse. It was cold, clammy, the muscles stone hard.

‘Two men,’ the chef murmured. He went back and touched Justin’s corpse. He remembered his days in military service. He had picked up enough corpses for the burial pit to conclude that the young man had been dead for at least twelve hours, but Justin’s corpse was not so hard and cold; he had probably been killed just after dawn.

The chef suddenly recalled what he was doing, but he didn’t want to run screaming like a chicken pursued by a flesher. He didn’t want to become the butt of jokes and ridicule; he must act the veteran. He turned and walked slowly back to the door. He prided himself on being an old soldier, used to the sight of blood and gore, yet. . He threw one last glance over his shoulder at those grisly remains. Those two corpses, the way they hung and the manner of their death, what sort of malice and feverish hatred had brought that about?

‘Dead. .’ Narcissus stared at the two corpses sprawled out on the grass beneath the outstretched branches of a soaring holm-oak. ‘Dead and rotting. Well,’ he stretched out a hand, ‘at least one of them is, mistress. You must tell the Augusta they should be consumed by fire.’

Claudia, holding a scented pomander to her nose, nodded vigorously in agreement. She stared at the corpses with the dappled shadows of the oak stretching over them. Such a beautiful day, such a lovely spot, with its fresh lawn sprinkled with wild flowers. A light breeze lessened the heat; out of the trees thrilled the song of a thrush, lucid and clear, ringing across the gardens. A green freshness surrounded these cadavers; it was like looking into a goblet which held a sickly brew. Two corpses, two beings, sharing the same substance in life as they did in death. She wondered what Athanasius would make of it. Were the Christians right? Did the substance known as Septimus and Justin survive their deaths? Did they beat upon the invisible yet eternal divide which separated them from the living, demanding justice from their God? Or had they disappeared like wisps of smoke from a spent fire? Or like the ghosts of Homer, fading spirits losing their strength as they sheltered in the darkness beyond life and the vital force ebbed from them?

‘I wonder?’ Claudia murmured.

‘What?’ Narcissus demanded.

‘Nothing.’ Claudia spread her hands. She didn’t want to share her thoughts about the true reason she found it so difficult to accept the teachings of Christ. One man rising from the dead she could accept, an awesome event, a horrendous struggle between life and death. Christ was like Apollo or Hercules, a hero of the world! A crucified man condemned as a criminal, coming back as the Lord of Life and Light to whom all things were subject. She could understand that, but the likes of Dionysius and Justin, with all their petty faults and stupid thoughts, the very pathetic way they had died? How could they survive? And all the others, the teeming masses of Rome, or the surging hordes of barbarians who ringed the frontiers of Rome’s Empire. Was each of them bound for immortality? Did they all carry the divine spark?

‘Mistress?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Claudia broke from her thoughts. ‘We have two corpses. You know all about corpses. Tell me what you’ve learnt.’

‘Septimus died first,’ Narcissus replied sonorously. ‘He’s been dead for at least twelve hours; the flesh is mortifying, the blood falling, he’s ripe for embalmment but all my oils and instruments were burned in the blaze and that’s the way he should go.’

‘Never mind that,’ Claudia retorted. ‘What about his death?’

‘He was first stunned like an ox for the slaughter by a blow to the head, then lashed to that pillar, gagged and flogged to death. The whiplash covered his entire body from neck to buttocks, though some blows fell as low as his knees and calves.’ Narcissus knelt by Septimus’s corpse. ‘The lash curls around the back and the sharp pieces become embedded in the soft flesh of the belly and groin.’

Claudia stared at the blue and red welts and sniffed once again at the pomander.

‘The assassin is ambidextrous,’ Narcissus continued blithely. ‘He became tired and changed hands. I say he, but it could be a woman. Now the whip is a fearsome weapon. I know,’ he added grimly, ‘I’ve had a taste of it myself. The leather strips and metal hooks tear at the flesh and injure all within, but the real effect is the shock and pain.’

‘And?’

‘Septimus probably did not feel the lash long; his heart gave way, I can tell that from his face. The skin is puffy and mottle-hued. I doubt if he lasted longer than a few minutes.’

‘And Justin?’

‘Again a savage knock to the back of the head. He was probably murdered some time after dawn. Well,’ Narcissus shrugged, ‘you saw him. He was stripped and lashed to that pillar, the archer stood close, the arrows are embedded deep. I would say the assassin stood no more than a yard away from his prisoner.’

Claudia looked at the corpse. Narcissus had first broken the arrow shafts, before digging out the fish-hook barbed points with a special knife borrowed from the kitchens.

‘He didn’t survive long,’ Narcissus added mournfully.

‘And the archer?’ Claudia asked.

‘Not a very good one! The assassin had to stand up close. He favoured the left hand; some of the arrows, as you know, were found to the right of the corpse.’

Claudia nodded absent-mindedly. She had talked to the chef, listening carefully to his graphic description, before examining the cellar. It was a dark, musty place with a store of charcoal and timber. It had been empty through the summer months, clean and tidied, and would not be filled until late autumn. She had found nothing to identify the killer, but realised why the store room had been chosen as the execution yard. It was some distance from the villa, but close to the latrines. The assassin must have been waiting for his two victims. In fact, the more Claudia reflected, the more certain she became that these two men had been chosen indiscriminately. The orators of Capua were, by nature, lonely men. They were also frightened, with a great deal to hide. Such men would brood, would want to be alone, and so were ideal victims. What she couldn’t understand was why. She had no real evidence for the motive, but, studying the malice the killer had shown, she strongly suspected that these two deaths, like that of Dionysius, were connected with what had happened in Capua during Diocletian’s savage persecution. The rest of the philosophers had accepted that, and were already making preparations to leave, frightened out of their wits at what had occurred.

The villa had been roused by the kitchen maid, who’d run through the gardens screaming her head off and, when stopped by the guards, was unable to give a coherent explanation of what she had seen. The chef, however, had been coolly nonchalant and had searched out Gaius Tullius to raise the alarm. Helena herself had come down to the cellar, stared at the corpses and given vent to her fury, snapping at Athanasius and Sylvester that the debate was now over. She had also turned on Claudia, hissing her disapproval.

‘The Holy Sword has gone.’ Helena wiped a white fleck of spittle from the corner of her mouth. ‘Three of the orators are dead, my son is attacked. Little mouse, you know nothing. You’ve discovered nothing.’

Claudia knew better than to argue back; she had simply stood, head down, whilst Helena raged and fumed before stalking away.

Now Claudia walked back to the buildings and stared up at a cornice embellished with the face of a laughing Bacchus. Some distance away, Burrus and his guard were watching her intently. She heard a sound and whirled round. Sylvester, with Timothaeus trailing behind him, had appeared as if out of nowhere. The presbyter stood in the shadow of the oak, staring sadly down at the two corpses.

‘The devil is an assassin,’ he declared, not raising his head. ‘I wonder why Dionysius died in such a macabre way. And now these two. The killer certainly hated them.’

‘I agree,’ Claudia replied.

‘But the killer is also mocking our faith.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claudia asked.

‘Study your history, Claudia. Dionysius, Septimus and Justin all died deaths similar to those of our martyrs in the arena: cut and sliced, left to bleed to death; flogged senseless and exposed-’

‘And shot to death like Sebastian.’ Claudia finished the sentence.

‘Wouldn’t you agree, Timothaeus?’ Sylvester called over his shoulder. The sad-faced steward nodded in agreement.

‘Presbyter?’

‘Yes, Claudia.’

‘May I have a word in private?’

Sylvester walked over. Claudia plucked him by the sleeve and took him out of earshot of both Timothaeus and Narcissus.

‘Do you have anything to do with this?’ she asked. Sylvester glanced at her in shocked amazement.

‘With murder? Torture? Claudia, I intrigue, I plot, but I don’t kill.’

Claudia held his gaze. ‘Do you have any suspicions?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Sylvester bit his lower lip. ‘And the list is long. Every man or woman in this villa can be suspected.’ He glanced away. ‘It could be anyone,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Is the Emperor involved? A possibility. Athanasius? Some of his friends in Capua were killed during the persecution. Burrus? He’s a paid killer, he could be carrying out someone’s order. The same goes for Gaius Tullius. Chrysis? He went to Capua.’

‘Oh yes, what happened there?’ Claudia asked.

‘Chrysis didn’t pay his fees; there was also the question of items going missing. Rufinus?’ Sylvester shrugged. ‘Timothaeus? Narcissus?’ The names came tumbling out of the priest’s mouth. ‘But you want me to state more than the obvious, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Claudia replied. ‘Tell me, the Christian martyr Paul, the great preacher, how did he die? Where is he buried?’

‘Paul was both a Jew and a Roman citizen,’ Sylvester replied. ‘He was brought to Rome to face charges late in Nero’s reign. Blessed Paul’s opponents had the ear of Nero’s mistress and the death sentence was passed against him. Unlike the saintly Peter, who was crucified upside down, Paul claimed the rights of a Roman citizen, and was sentenced to decapitation. He was taken from his prison to beyond the city walls, near a small fountain close to a cemetery on the road to Ostia. He was executed there, and his disciples later came and buried his body close by.’ Sylvester smiled wryly. ‘There’s already a monument in the making for him, a shrine. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Claudia walked away.

‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ Sylvester called after her. ‘The Emperor will be returning to Rome to celebrate his birthday and attend the games. I understand your Murranus will be fighting. If he vanquishes Spicerius, he will meet Meleager in the arena.’

‘He’s not my Murranus,’ Claudia retorted, coming back. ‘You’re telling me what I already know. What else do you want to tell me, priest?’

‘Meleager.’ Sylvester played with the ring on his little finger. ‘I made a few enquiries on your behalf. You’re correct. Meleager acts the reserved warrior but he’s a vicious fighter. A man who likes killing, not a professional like Burrus or Gaius. According to Rufinus, Meleager sometimes plays with his victims in the arena like a cat does with his prey. I just thought I would let you know. No, no,’ Sylvester slipped the ring on and off his finger, ‘not to frighten you. I wouldn’t do that. One interesting fact I’ve learnt, there may be a school of orators at Capua-’

‘But there’s also a school of gladiators, isn’t there?’ Claudia added quickly. ‘I’ve just remembered that. It’s a very famous school. Wasn’t that the place where Spartacus started his rebellion?’

Sylvester was watching her strangely. ‘Meleager was there,’ he replied, ‘when the persecution broke out. According to reports, and this is just chitter-chatter, he helped in the rounding up of Christians. He not only guarded them but was often present at their interrogation.’

‘In other words, he was a torturer?’

‘Yes, Claudia, you could say that.’ The presbyter walked away.

‘What should I do?’ Narcissus called out, gesturing at the corpses. ‘You can’t leave them here, they’ll begin to stink.’

Sylvester strolled over and whispered to him. Narcissus nodded and shouted for Burrus and his mercenaries to come and help him.

Claudia walked across the lawns, down the steps back into the store room. She picked up a stool and sat down, staring at the two pillars still flecked with blood. Flies buzzed over the cut, stained ropes and other splashes of blood on the floor. There were vents in the far wall which allowed in some light but, for the rest, there was nothing more than the glow thrown by the torches, which were now sputtering weakly, sending black tendrils of smoke into the air. She reflected on what Sylvester had told her. The murderer, who could be anyone, had enticed those two men away from the rest, stunned them, and dragged them here. She was certain their deaths had nothing to do with the theological debates taking place; it must be the past, but whose past?

Claudia rose and walked across to pick up a piece of rope. She studied the knot. It was nothing more extraordinary than a simple knot double tied. She wondered if the ropes left behind at Dionysius’s corpse had been the same. She heard a sound behind her, the slither of a footstep, and her hand went to the dagger sheath sewn against her belt. She turned quickly, plucking up the stool as if it was a shield, dagger out, turning sideways as Murranus had taught her. The murky light hid her visitor until he clicked his tongue.

‘Chrysis,’ she whispered, ‘what are you doing here?’

The chamberlain came forward. ‘Claudia, Claudia, what is this?’

‘Don’t creep up on me,’ Claudia warned. ‘Imperial chamberlain or not, Chrysis, you don’t like me and I don’t like sitting with my back to you.’

‘You’re far too suspicious,’ Chrysis whispered. ‘You’re a little bitch, Claudia, with a tart tongue and a hard heart.’

‘I always like being lectured by moralists.’ Claudia put the stool down.

‘I only came to talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Capua.’

‘You were there?’

‘You know I was. You, with your darting eyes and twitching nose! I went there to learn how to speak, to get rid of my stammer and lisp. I ran out of money, so I helped myself to other people’s. In the end I couldn’t pay my bills, so I fled.’

‘Were you an informant, Chrysis? Did you give information against the Christians?’

‘Bitch!’

‘Well, did you?’ Claudia sat down on the stool.

‘None of your business.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because I believe that anyone who was at Capua faces the risk of murder.’

‘Or could be a possible suspect.’

‘Claudia,’ Chrysis shuffled closer; she didn’t like his bulky body, or the way he was pretending to smile, ‘I want to be your friend. I came to give you information.’

‘What about?’

‘Meleager is from Capua.’

‘I know that,’ Claudia snapped.

‘Ah, but did you know that although the betting is very heavy on Murranus to beat Spicerius, it’s nothing compared to the money being wagered on Meleager to beat and kill Murranus.’

‘What do you mean?’ Claudia was about to re-sheathe the knife, but instead pointed it at the fat chamberlain.

‘Betting,’ Chrysis explained, drawing even closer, ‘is a strange world, Claudia. It’s like life at court; things are never what they appear to be. You can bet on doubles, or spread your wager in a variety of ways. Now, according to Rufinus and Meleager, who preens himself and cannot keep his mouth shut. .’ Chrysis picked at his nose. ‘Oh, by the way, have you ever met him before? I had breakfast with Meleager this morning before he left, he’s sure he knows you, but couldn’t place from where and when.’

‘He’s mistaken.’

‘Anyway,’ Chrysis chattered on, ‘the news is that the money, bag after bag of sestercii, is being laid on Meleager. Now, such wagers can be simple: Murranus to win, Murranus to die, or Murranus to win against Spicerius but lose against Meleager. To cut through the tangle, Murranus is the favourite against Spicerius on one condition: that he loses to Meleager.’

Claudia’s stomach lurched, and her throat seemed so full she was unable to swallow.

‘So?’ she stuttered.

‘So,’ Chrysis explained, ‘let’s go back to Spicerius’s little accident, the day he felt faint in the arena. The money was on Murranus to kill him, leaving Murranus free to face Meleager. If that had happened. . listen now, Claudia,’ Chrysis wagged his finger in her face, ‘Murranus would have been all upset, poor boy, accused of cheating, and perhaps when he stepped on to the sand to face Meleager, he might not have been, how do I put it, at his best.’

Claudia wished she could have some water, clean and fresh, to take the acid from her throat. Chrysis was a dangerous but knowledgeable man. He was frightened by the murders and probably trying to placate her. Claudia wetted her lips. Chrysis was merely voicing hints and possibilities that Claudia had already received from the likes of Helena. Spicerius was meant to die — Murranus could have killed him but would have entered the next bout a vilified, disgraced gladiator. A fighter in the arena needed to be confident.

‘Why didn’t Rufinus tell me all this?’

‘He would have done,’ Chrysis hunched his shoulders, ‘but all this clamour and upset has disturbed everyone. No wonder the Emperor wants to go back to Rome. He said it’s more peaceful there.’

‘And what do you think will happen to Murranus?’ Claudia asked.

The chamberlain pinched his nostrils, a common gesture whenever he was thinking deeply.

‘Two things occur to me, Claudia. First, something might still happen to Spicerius. Secondly, is Murranus still being put under threat, his peace of mind shattered? You know how it is? Professional men like Murranus train their minds as well as their bodies. They regard themselves as the victor; to do anything different is to court disaster.’

‘True.’ Claudia folded her arms against her chest. Murranus had told her how fighters taunted each other, trying to break their opponent’s will, to stir the heart and agitate the mind.

‘What you also have to worry about,’ Chrysis added, a hint of malice in his voice, ‘is that when they, whoever they are, are finished with Spicerius, will they move against Murranus? Rufinus thinks the same.’

Claudia stared at this fat chamberlain, with his bland face and a mind teeming like a box of worms.

‘So what you are implying,’ she spoke slowly, ‘is that something could still happen to Spicerius, and once he is out of the way, it will be Murranus’s turn. I wonder who they are?’

‘Someone who’s wagered a fortune,’ Chrysis muttered. ‘Lots and lots of money.’

Something in his voice alerted Claudia, the way he said ‘lots’, like a man who sees a good meal and whose mouth starts to water. She laughed.

‘You think it’s funny?’

‘No, you’re funny, Chrysis. You’ve come to tell me this because Rufinus told you to. More significantly, you’re a gambler. You’ve wagered heavily, haven’t you? You’ve taken every coin your little fat fingers could collect. Who are you backing, Chrysis?’ She got up. ‘Don’t come here pretending to be my friend. You are more concerned about your previous life in Capua being exposed. More importantly, you’re anxious about my Murranus.’

Up close, Claudia could see the chamberlian was sweating. She prodded him in the stomach with the hilt of her dagger.

‘You fat liar!’ she whispered.

Chrysis blinked and swallowed hard, like a schoolboy being reproved.

‘You’ve put all your money on Murranus, haven’t you?’

Chrysis nodded. ‘I’m frightened,’ he bleated. ‘I’m frightened of Murranus losing. I could lose at least ten thousand sestercii.’

‘By the light! What on earth made you do that?’

‘I didn’t know about Meleager. No, no, that’s not true. I’ve watched Murranus. You see, Claudia, he loves you, I know that. And a man who has someone to love wants to live, and so fights better. You’ve got to go back to Rome, Claudia, you’ve got to warn your man. If he goes down, so will I.’

Chrysis walked away. Claudia turned and stared at the rope heaped on the floor.

‘Mistress?’ Narcissus appeared in the doorway. ‘Mistress, what are you thinking about?’

‘About having a bath!’ Claudia snapped. ‘What do you think I’m thinking about, one problem after another.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘Go back to Rome, see Uncle Polybius. I think it’s time I had words with Sallust the Searcher. .’

Murranus ducked and swiftly drew away, feet stamping the hot sand of the Ludus Magnus, the great gladiatorial school not far from the Flavian amphitheatre. The net man he was practising against danced after him, sandalled feet kicking up the sand, hoping the breeze would take it into Murranus’s face whilst he trailed his net, moving the wooden trident ready to smack Murranus in the throat or make a swift thrust to his exposed belly. Murranus felt the cloying heat. The helmet he was wearing had grown stifling, sand was seeping through the gaps for the eyes, ears and mouth, whilst the leather padding stuck to his face. The greaves on his legs seemed to have grown heavier; the shield straps were wet with sweat. He had deliberately asked for the bout to be in the full heat of the day and had chosen the school’s fastest net man, a Gaul from Narbonne, a true dancer who could shift like a shadow.

Through the slits of his helmet, Murranus watched his opponent move swiftly from side to side. He was trying to disconcert Murranus, striving to manoeuvre him so that he had his back to the sun. The net man had a piece of metal protecting his left arm which he deliberately used as a mirror to dazzle his opponent. Murranus recognised all these tricks; the net man would be watching carefully. If he could clog up the gaps in Murranus’s helmet, cake his mouth and nose with dust, dazzle his eyes, already blinking because of the sweat, he might have a chance to trap him with his net and bring him to the ground. Murranus moved away, cleaning his mouth with his tongue. He held the long shield up and gripped the wooden sword even tighter. He moved his helmet, caught the breeze and felt a little better. He was aware of the tiers of seats in the amphitheatre quickly filling up as the various collegia arrived to watch him fight. Spicerius was there, Meleager had just arrived; so had the Dacians, gathering like a swarm of flies to study his every move. Well, he would educate them.

The net man was moving in, his net ready to sail out like a spider’s web. Murranus darted forward but hastily retreated. Again he went in. Now he was concentrating hard; he no longer heard the moan of the crowd, he’d forgotten about the clammy helmet, the sweat soaking his face, the ache of his leg muscles or the pain in his right arm where he had received a vicious rap from the wooden trident. Indeed, Murranus was beginning to hum a song he had learned as a child. He was enjoying himself, this was his being, his very existence. All of life had come down to staring through that gap at a man who, under different circumstances, would try to kill him.

Murranus now had the measure of the moment. He settled to the fight, aware of the sheer music of this macabre dance. It thrilled his body, and his mind and heart were now set on victory. He’d made his decision. He knew which choice to follow; the die was cast. In the shuffling dance beforehand he had scrutinised the net man carefully, looking for his opponent’s mistakes. A little too quick for his own good, Murranus thought, too impetuous.

Murranus darted in, moving his shield to the left, sword flickering forward like a snake’s tongue. The net man shifted to close with him. Murranus retreated. The gladiator repeated the same manoeuvre until he was ready, then he lunged again, but this time he did not retreat, instead moving swiftly to the right. His opponent, surprised, let his net sail out, missing its target. Murranus darted in, using his shield like a battering ram, sending the trident spinning from the net man’s hand. The net man rolled in the sand, ready to spring up, but it was too late. Murranus was over him, knocking him on the back of the head, sending him face down on to the sand and thrusting the tip of his sword into the nape of his opponent’s neck. The net man lay silent as Murranus lifted his shield to acknowledge the cries and applause from the crowd, then stepped back, dropping shield and sword, and took off the plumed helmet. A slave ran across to remove the heavy leg greaves. Another brought a jar of water. Murranus sipped from this and poured some over his face, then pulled his opponent up and thrust the water jar into his hands.

‘You were too fast,’ the net man gasped, his face grimed with sweat and sand. ‘I never thought you would do that.’

‘You should have expected it.’ Murranus grinned. ‘You can bet a coin to a coin that if your opponent is moving backwards and forwards, especially one with armed with a sword and a heavy shield, sooner or later he’ll attack you in the flank. I used my shield, but there’s variations. I could have entangled your net with my shield and dragged you in on my sword.’ He gently patted his opponent’s face. ‘Remember this,’ he added quietly, ‘and you might live. In the arena the shield is more dangerous than the sword; it can catch your net, blunt your trident, but above all, it can deliver a hammer blow. Now let’s celebrate with some wine.’

They moved across to join their comrades. Murranus was congratulated by Spicerius, who pushed a goblet of wine into his hand, patting him on the back, praising his moves but offering his own criticism. Murranus caught Meleager’s gaze and nodded a greeting.

‘He’s full of himself,’ Spicerius whispered. ‘One of us will have to meet him and teach him a lesson, eh?’

A crowd had formed around Meleager, questioning him. The Dacian leader glared across. Agrippina was also flirting with the newcomer.

‘Oh let her be!’ Spicerius whispered. ‘As long as she visits me at the She-Asses tavern, I don’t really mind. I’ll teach her to moon-gaze at an opponent.’

Murranus collected his weapons and entered the bath house, plunging into the warm water before moving on to the cold. He kept thinking about the recent fight. He hoped his opponents were stupid enough to believe he’d repeat the same tricks in the arena. Spicerius joined him, keeping up a running commentary on Meleager’s skill, what to look for, what to avoid. Murranus crossed to the ointment room and lay on a slab, while the masseur of the school coaxed and smoothed his muscles with his expert touch and soothing oils. Murranus sniffed their fragrance and felt himself relax. Spicerius was now chatting about the party Agrippina had planned. They would spend the early afternoon in the coolness of the garden, and when darkness fell, the real revelry would begin.

Murranus fell lightly asleep and was woken by the masseur slapping his back, pointing to his clothes laid out across a chest near the door. He put on a loincloth and his long white linen tunic, then went across to the Keeper of Valuables to retrieve his collar, bracelet and rings. He put on his sandals and joined Spicerius outside in the cool colonnade.

‘Do you know something?’ Spicerius put his wine cup down and pointed across to the other colonnaded walk, where Meleager was deep in conversation with the Dacians. Agrippina seemed to have disappeared. ‘We gladiators,’ Spicerius continued, ‘are great boasters, but Meleager seems so certain of victory.’ He turned and clutched Murranus’s arm. ‘May Hercules bless me,’ he whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Murranus was concerned by Spicerius’s haunted gaze.

‘You know how it is,’ Spicerius continued, tightening his grip. ‘You’ve been there, Murranus, waiting in the cavern to go out into the arena. The music is playing, the crowd are baying for your blood. Now and again I’ve seen gladiators, brave men, suddenly look shocked, frightened, and if you ask them why, they’ll tell you they feel as if they’ve been brushed by the feathers of the Wings of Death.’

‘And?’ Murranus asked, releasing Spicerius’s grip.

‘I feel that now, Murranus.’