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.
&nbs
p; '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.