Vitellius groaned. ‘I take it back. Your money is as good as lost.’
Julius hailed a passing drinks seller. ‘Over here! My friend needs to get even more drunk.’ He cast a wicked look at Piso. ‘Best to be out of it entirely by the time you lose.’
‘Screw you, Julius,’ retorted Piso, but without heat. ‘Just get the wine in.’
Slurping the vinegar-like liquid, they watched the cranes being pursued and hacked to pieces one by one. Much hilarity ensued as several dwarfs smeared blood on their faces and using cut-off wings, proceeded to flap around the arena’s perimeter. Coins and pieces of bread rained down on the little performers; one soldier even lobbed a skin of wine down. Desultory applause rose from the audience. Bowing and scooping up their scant rewards, the dwarfs made another circuit before vanishing into one of the doors that gave on to the circle of sand.
The master of ceremonies, a paunch-bellied veteran and sot nicknamed Rufus because of his blotchy purple nose, took to the sand without delay. Spectators’ patience in general was poor, and legionaries were no different. Cries of ‘Bring on the next act!’ and ‘Where are the gladiators?’ were already filling the air.
‘Brave soldiers of Rome!’ cried Rufus as slaves began clearing up the bloody, feathery mess that comprised the cranes’ remains. ‘After the delights of the dwarfs—’
‘Delights?’ bawled a legionary in the front row, his position only a man’s height above the sand. ‘It was a fucking stupid display!’ Scores of men yelled in agreement as, with expert precision, the soldier hurled a ripe plum, which split as it struck Rufus in the midriff, staining his already grimy tunic. ‘Show us some decent fighters, and quickly!’ he threatened.
Rufus retreated to the centre of the arena as a barrage of fruit, hunks of bread and clay cups were hurled in his direction. Impossible though it seemed, his face turned a darker shade of red. ‘Abuse me, and there will be no more contests,’ he shouted.
A baying sound of anger and disapproval drowned out what he said next. More objects were thrown, and threats made. One legionary even jumped down on to the sand and began walking towards the now worried-looking Rufus.
‘Not again,’ snarled Piso. ‘Get out of there, you fool!’ he shouted at the legionary, who had been joined by a comrade. They didn’t hear, or ignored him, and he ground his teeth. Public disorder and fights were common on payday, and on occasion riots broke out. There hadn’t been a full-blown one for two years, but that had also been at the amphitheatre, and caused by unhappy, drunken soldiers. Piso wasn’t particularly interested in the day’s contests, but if they were abandoned, his bets would be void. The likelihood of the betmakers trying to keep his money was low – he had a token from each marked with the value of his wagers – but they’d vanish the moment trouble erupted. There would probably be a considerable delay before he managed to retrieve his money.
Relief filled Piso as five legionaries appeared on the sand, led by a furious-faced optio. He launched a ferocious attack with his staff on the pair who had invaded the arena. Thwack! Thwack! The long piece of wood, decorated with a ball of bronze at one end, was a weapon every bit as fearsome as the vine sticks wielded by centurions. Howling with pain as the staff connected with their heads, shoulders and backs, the two interlopers fled. ‘Out, curse you!’ roared the optio, swiping still as they clambered up the wooden sides of the arena with the help of comrades above.
The audience’s mood, which had turned threatening for a moment, changed in a heartbeat. No one could fail to find the spectacle of the legionaries having their backsides thrashed amusing. Piso laughed and jeered with the rest.
‘Count yourselves lucky to have escaped so easy,’ shouted the optio. ‘The next troublemakers I catch, on the sand or anywhere else, will get a beating they’ll not forget, as well as a month of forced marches. Keep your arses on the seats. Drink your wine. Enjoy the gladiator fights, and then fuck off back to barracks.’ He turned in a slow circle, jabbing his staff at anyone foolish enough to meet his eye. An awkward silence fell, and, content that the soldiers had been cowed, the optio signed to Rufus that he should continue, before leading his men out of the arena.
‘Shame,’ said Julius. ‘A good fist fight would have been fun.’
‘You’re pissed out of your head,’ replied Vitellius in a low tone, indicating with his eyes the legionaries behind them. ‘And we’re almost surrounded by men from the Twenty-First.’
Julius stared, and was ordered by the soldiers – who’d heard him – to turn around if he didn’t want a new arsehole torn for himself. Unsettled, he coughed, splattering wine over Piso. ‘For Jupiter’s sake!’ Piso cried.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Julius, trying not to look at the men to their rear. ‘Me and my big mouth.’
‘Ignore them, and keep your voice down from now on,’ said Piso, snorting at Julius’ slow realisation. He’d been aware of the soldiers from the moment they’d sat down. Brawling between the men of different legions was an everyday occurrence. Fatalities were rare – no one wanted to face a possible death sentence if caught – but black eyes and broken bones were common consequences. If he or his comrades returned to barracks in such a state, their pain wouldn’t end there: Tullus, wily as a fox, would winkle out the reason for their injuries, and heap on additional punishments as a deterrent to repeat offending.
Although the unrest had been nipped in the bud, Rufus was quick to announce the next fight, and without his usual florid turn of phrase. ‘I give you, Celadus, murmillo, with nine victories, and Asellus, retiarius, with two wins and a draw.’
Feet drummed off the flooring again as the fighters emerged on to the sand.
Celadus was short and squat; some would have said that he was running to fat. A magnificent fish-crested helmet hid his face from view. A polished bronze greave covered his lower left leg, shaped metal armour his right arm, and he carried a rectangular shield. His weapon was a gladius. With head held high, he stalked to the centre of the arena and bashed his curved sword off his shield, eliciting a deep-throated roar from the audience.
Asellus was a muscly, brown-skinned Iberian clad only in a loincloth. His left arm was covered in padding and a ridged piece of bronze protected his left shoulder. He swaggered about the edge of the arena, raising his net and trident and encouraging the crowd to cheer for him. Few did so, and Piso’s interest in him surged. Retiarii were expected to lose to their more heavily armed opponents, but that didn’t mean it always happened. He signalled to one of the betmakers still working the stands. ‘What odds on the retiarius?’
At once derisive comments rained down from those around Piso about Asellus’ ancestry, lack of skill and rapid expectation of defeat or death. The bet maker shrugged, as if to say ‘Listen to them’, before replying, ‘Thirteen to one against a win.’
‘Here.’ Piso proffered a denarius.
The betmaker took his name and handed him a stone inscribed with the lettering ‘D 1 R’, meaning one denarius bet on the retiarius. ‘Good luck,’ he said with a sly grin and clambered into the next row. ‘Bets! Anyone still wanting to place a bet?’
‘Just give me your money,’ pleaded Vitellius as Piso resumed his seat. ‘At least a friend would have it then, instead of that pox-ridden lowlife.’
‘I’m happy to take it too,’ said Julius.
‘You’re both offering the same odds?’ Piso shot back. Vitellius and Julius sneered, and he laughed. ‘In that case, you know where to go.’
Trumpets blared, forcing silence. The referee waved the two fighters closer to each other. ‘For the glory of the emperor, Augustus, and our general, Caecina!’ he shouted, bringing his staff down between the gladiators until it touched the sand. ‘Begin!’
A mighty roar went up, and Celadus and Asellus closed.
The pair traded blows and circled around for a time, gauging each other’s skill, keeping alive Piso’s hope of Asellus winning. To Piso’s delight, the retiarius began well, striking with his trident early on and drawing
blood from the back of Celadus’ left calf. Celadus’ response was savage, pushing Asellus backwards with a flurry of short charges. He let out a triumphant cry during the last as Asellus skidded and tumbled on to his arse. Although the retiarius managed to convert the fall into a roll and get to his feet again, Celadus’ sword flashed in, opening a long, shallow cut on his back. The crowd bellowed in appreciation. Celadus didn’t follow up on his success, however, and Piso came to the unhappy conclusion that the murmillo was playing with the retiarius. Like as not, his money was lost.
Undeterred, Asellus managed to snare the murmillo soon after, but the net didn’t envelop Celadus’ sword arm. Asellus tried to spear his opponent nonetheless, even as Celadus was swarming forward, sword at the ready. Asellus had to beat a hasty retreat in order not to be gutted, in the process losing his net. Celadus halted, stripped the knotted mesh from his helmet crest and hurled the thing behind him, to the far side of the arena. ‘Give up now!’ he roared.
Asellus must have known that his chances of winning were fast vanishing, but he was a brave man. He responded with an obscene suggestion and a savage lunge of his trident.
Celadus ducked to the side and darted forward, slamming his shield into Asellus’ belly. The whoosh of air leaving Asellus’ lungs was audible from Piso’s seat. Despite being winded, he did not fall, but staggered backwards, somehow keeping his trident between him and Celadus. Angry, the murmillo swatted at the pronged weapon, but Asellus kept raising and lowering it to prevent it being smashed. He tried next to move towards his net, but Celadus saw his purpose and blocked his path.
By unspoken consent, the two took a short break to catch their breath. Insults and demands for blood rained down from the audience, and Celadus resumed the fight to loud cheers. Expert at deflecting Asellus’ trident up by angling his shield just so, he made a series of darting lunges under the weapon’s shaft, each time thrusting his sword at the retiarius’ belly, flank or legs. Without his net, Asellus was forced to retreat from each attack or risk suffering serious injury, and his luck ran out in the end. Blood spattered the sand as Celadus’ blade sliced open his right thigh. Asellus bellowed with pain, and shuffled backwards.
Swift as a hound on a deer, Celadus was after him. Clack. Clack. His sword hammered off Asellus’ trident, which was still keeping them apart. Clack. With a mighty swing of his right arm, Celadus whipped the blade upwards, forcing the trident into the air and exposing Asellus. Celadus charged forward, punching his shield into the retiarius’ midriff for the second time. Down went Asellus flat on to his back, Celadus stamping the trident from his grasp as he landed.
The legionaries thundered their approval. Vitellius glanced at Piso, who affected not to notice. Thank the gods I only wagered one denarius, he thought.
Asellus didn’t try to resist any longer. Wounded, down, with Celadus’ blade touching his throat, he had no chance. Of even more concern, plenty of men wanted him to die – the chant of ‘Iugula! Kill!’ was echoing around the amphitheatre.
Piso didn’t join in. It wasn’t just because he’d bet on Asellus – the man had fought to the best of his ability. He deserved another chance.
Asellus lifted his right hand high, the two first fingers pointing at the sky in the gladiator’s request for mercy. A chorus of jeers and taunts met his appeal. ‘Kill him!’ demanded one of the legionaries who’d been chased out of the arena. ‘Go on!’
Pounding hobs shook the timber flooring. Hundreds of men jabbed their thumbs at their throats, and the shouting grew even louder. ‘Iugula! Iugula! Iugula!’ A small number of soldiers were calling for mercy, Piso among them, but they couldn’t be heard.
Keeping the point of his blade on Asellus’ throat, Celadus raised his gaze to the dignitaries’ box, a position in clear sight of Piso and his comrades. Although the provincial governor Caecina was paying for the entertainment, he hadn’t bothered to appear, which meant that the staff officer sitting there had been deputised to take his place.
A gradual hush began to descend, and the officer’s bored expression slipped away as he caught Celadus’ eye. He got to his feet, and the watching soldiers fell silent altogether. ‘Have you enjoyed this contest, legionaries of Rome?’ he asked.
‘NO!’ they yelled back.
A trace of irritation flashed across the officer’s face. ‘Did Celadus fight well?’
‘YES!’ came the answering roar.
‘And Asellus?’
‘NOOOOOO!’
Poor bastard, thought Piso.
‘So Asellus should die?’ asked the staff officer, regarding each part of the stands in turn.
‘YESSSSS!’
‘It’s your day, legionaries,’ said the officer. Looking down at the two fighters, he jabbed his right thumb towards his throat. ‘Finish it,’ he ordered.
The chanting and thumb-jabbing resumed. ‘Iugula! Iugula! Iugula!’
Celadus stepped back and allowed Asellus to get up. The retiarius made no effort to retrieve his trident, which lay within reach. Instead he knelt, white-faced, before Celadus. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his chin, exposing his neck. The crowd went wild.
‘I wouldn’t go out like that.’ Vitellius’ lips were by Piso’s ear. ‘I’d make a grab for my weapon. Die like a man.’
‘He is dying like a man,’ retorted Piso. ‘It takes balls to let yourself be executed like that.’
‘The gladiator’s oath is a powerful sacrament,’ said Julius. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one who broke it and angered the gods.’
With great care, Celadus placed his sword tip in the hollow just above the top point of Asellus’ sternum. He cast a look at the staff officer, who nodded, and another at Asellus, who indicated his readiness. There was no pause. Celadus thrust down with savage force, sinking his blade more than a handspan into Asellus’ chest cavity. Asellus stiffened; his arms twitched violently, and a faint choking sound left his lips. Blood gouted into the air as Celadus tugged free the sword. It showered the sand in great fat droplets, covering Asellus’ falling body and Celadus’ lower legs and bare feet.
‘Habet, hoc habet!’ shouted the legionaries. ‘He’s had it!’
Asellus slumped to the ground, and his limbs jerked to and fro. More blood poured from the red-lipped wound made by Celadus’ sword, ran down the sides of his neck and spread outwards around his body, a crimson, graphic offering to the gods.
He died well. Let him enter the underworld with honour, Piso prayed silently.
Celadus paced around the perimeter of the arena, holding his gore-stained blade aloft in triumph, and another massive cheer went up. Coins aplenty showered down from the stands as the legionaries showed their appreciation, and a slave was dispatched from the dignitaries’ box with a heavy purse, Celadus’ reward for the victory. Soon after, he bowed as two figures appeared and stood beside the gate through which Asellus’ body would be taken. One was dressed as the underworld demon Charon, and armed with a hammer, and the other as the god Mercury, the conductor of souls. Soldiers cried out in mock fear at the sight of Charon, and the inevitable jokes about men having wet themselves were heard.
For his part, Piso could think only of the comrades he’d lost in the forest three years before, and how busy Charon must have been then.
Slaves bundled Asellus on to a stretcher and bore him to Charon, who struck him on the head to prove he was dead, before he was taken from sight. The circular red stain on the sand which marked where he’d died was soon covered over as Rufus re-emerged to direct other slaves with brushes to sweep the sand clean. ‘An exciting contest, legionaries, with a fitting climax,’ he cried. Most men ignored him and, with a scowl, he raised his voice. ‘Before the final, thrilling bout of the day, Caecina has laid on for you …’ Rufus paused for dramatic effect. ‘… acrobats and jugglers from Iberia!’
‘So fucking what?’ cried a soldier, causing widespread laughter.
Rufus knew when discretion was the better part of valour, and retreated from sight.
/> Piso had no interest in acrobats either. ‘Another drink?’ he asked.
Vitellius’ and Julius’ faces lit up. ‘Aye!’
‘Wine!’ Piso shouted at the nearest seller.
‘Come on, you can do it!’ Piso was on his feet, fist punching the air. In the arena below, the last fight was in full flow, and Longus had just cut Donar for the third time. The first, surprising wound had pleased Piso, and given him hope that his wagers might prove fruitful. The second – still unanswered by Donar – had proved the initial one hadn’t been down to luck. Donar had fought back hard, however, and given Longus a nasty slice down the side of his face. Rather than intimidate Longus, the setback seemed to have goaded him on. Spinning like a trained dancer around Donar, he launched attack after attack, often without answer. It was fortunate for Donar that he had the protection of a mail shirt. Dressed as a ‘Gaul’, he also bore a hexagonal shield and long spear typical of his kind.
Longus’ third wounding of the champion had Piso feeling his purse already weighed down with winnings. Exhilarated, he clapped Vitellius on the shoulder and yelled until his voice cracked. A big swallow of wine helped, and he resumed cheering. The audience, which had watched the unexpected turn of events with initial disbelief, was also starting to get behind Longus. ‘Long-us! Long-us!’ roared the legionaries around Piso and his comrades.
‘People love the underdog,’ declared Piso.
‘I wouldn’t discount Donar just yet,’ warned Julius, pointing.
Looking down, Piso’s cry died in his throat. Using the extra reach of his spear, Donar had pushed Longus back with a flurry of vicious blows to the shield. Longus could do little but duck down behind it and shuffle away. Using a tactic similar to Celadus’, Donar checked his spear arm and charged forward to smack his shield into that of Longus, forcing him backwards at speed. The fast-changing balance of power made the audience bay with excitement.
With great skill, Longus managed not to fall, as Asellus had. Somehow he brought his sword around behind Donar. This close, there was no way of trying to strike a proper blow with the blade – nor would it penetrate his opponent’s mail shirt, so Longus smashed his sword hilt into Donar’s back. The blow distracted Donar enough to check his advance. With a mighty shove, Longus propelled himself backwards, away from danger. Rather than retreat further, which Piso and every man watching expected, he bounced off his rearmost foot and launched himself straight at Donar again. The move caught Donar off guard, and unable to use his spear.