Paul Doherty - The Song of the Gladiator

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, gesturing around.

‘An empty room,’ Claudia laughed.

‘No, a deaf room.’ Sylvester’s lined face broke into a smile. ‘The Empress claims it is one of those few chambers with no secret panels or gaps.’

‘In which case,’ Claudia retorted, ‘there must be at least a dozen.’

Sylvester smiled and patted her on the arm.

‘You’re going to the debate?’

‘I’ll stay as long as I can keep awake,’ she replied.

‘Oh, I think you’ll stay awake,’ Sylvester murmured. ‘There’s going to be fun this morning; allegations will be made.’

‘About theology?’

‘No.’ Sylvester splayed his fingers as if examining his nails. ‘Not theology, but treachery, betrayal and murder.’

Murranus sat in the She-Asses tavern and lifted the goblet, a gift from Polybius and Poppaoe which was always kept in a special place. Polybius described it as the best Samian ware, and it boasted a Cretan motif depicting young men and women leaping over high-horned bulls. Murranus tapped the rim of the goblet and winked rather drunkenly at Polybius.

‘That’s very hard, you know. Years ago I fought in the Venatio. What do you think was the fiercest animal?’

‘A bull,’ Polybius slurred.

‘Correct,’ Murranus agreed. ‘The big cats can be cowards, elephants are not fighters, but a bull is worse than a bear. They come at you so fast. People are actually surprised at their speed, you can never tell which way their heads are going to go. I have great admiration for these boys and girls who used to leap the bulls in Crete.’

‘It’s only a story,’ Polybius mumbled.

‘No it isn’t. I’ve been to Crete.’ Murranus leaned across the table. ‘I’ve seen other drawings. More importantly, I’ve actually seen a boy leap a bull. That took courage and skill!’

Murranus sipped the wine; the best Falernian, Polybius had assured him. It certainly tasted delicious. He smiled at Polybius, who had just refilled his cup. The landlord tapped the side of his nose and put a finger to his lips, a sign that Murranus shouldn’t relish the wine too loudly or the others would demand some. The tavern was full of the regulars. Simon the Stoic had recently purchased a pet mongoose; as Fortunatus the Fornicator had remarked, he had to have someone to talk to. Petronius the Pimp was trying to seduce Danuta the Dancer, whilst the Ladies of Lesbos, an acrobatic troupe, were now seated around the Syrian girls, a group of dark-eyed, flimsily dressed performers who had taken drinks from the Ladies but were making it very clear they were not for sale. Oceanus rested one elbow on the counter, staring dreamy-eyed at Januaria, who sat braiding her hair, leaning forward every so often so Oceanus could get a good view of her full ripe breasts.

Murranus studied the rest of the customers, then stared up at the charred timber ceiling. Was the roll of ham hanging there next to a bag of onions really moving, or had he drunk too much? The truth was that Murranus had become maudlin. He was missing Claudia and had openly wondered if he should visit the Villa Pulchra. Polybius had shaken his head.

‘You know that’s not possible. You will not be allowed in, and you must prepare for the fight. Spicerius is not only growing stronger, he is training hard and intends to be the victor. .’

Polybius paused as the door was flung open and a group entered the tavern. They stood for a while with the light behind them, then moved into the eating room.

‘Oh no,’ Polybius groaned. ‘The Dacians!’

Murranus looked up. The Dacians were, in the main, one of the ugliest street gangs from the slums, led by the most garishly dressed creature, who came tripping along the tavern floor in high-heeled pat-tens, hips swaying like a woman. At first it was hard to distinguish what sex he really was; he was dressed in a voluminous gown with a bright blond wig framing a large head, yet the face was masculine, hard and strong, though painted as vividly as any courtesan’s: eyebrows plucked and darkened, cheeks both whitened and rouged, lips fully carmined. The Dacian leader moved in a jingle of bangles, whilst the sachets of perfume hanging around his neck gave off the most alluring fragrance. He paused and glared around the tavern, eyelids blinking.

‘I want you to go.’ The voice was high-pitched, like that of a eunuch. He clapped his hands. ‘I want you to go now!’

The eating room soon emptied. The Dacians moved to stand round Polybius and Murranus.

‘I’m Dacius.’ The blond-wigged leader sat down opposite Murranus, fingers fluttering. ‘But you know that,’ he lisped as he examined his henna-painted nails.

The gladiator didn’t move, but sat grasping his wine cup, staring at this grotesque. He had met Dacius before, in the slums and back streets as well as at the gladiator school, where the gang would come and watch the fighters so as to assess strengths and weaknesses. The Dacians were involved in a number of illicit pursuits: prostitution, abduction, murder and kidnap, but they were principally money-lenders who charged high interest and liked to finance their loans through judiciously placed bets. In fact, they controlled a great deal of the gambling in the slums around the Flavian Gate.

Dacius pointed a finger in Murranus’s face.

‘You are a very naughty boy! You were supposed to kill Spicerius.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ Dacius pouted. ‘I had a great deal of money riding on you. It was obvious Spicerius was vulnerable; why didn’t you strike?’

‘I’m a gladiator, not a murderer. More importantly, I’m not a poisoner.’ Murranus’s anger was mounting; he didn’t like either Dacius or his companions. ‘Was it you who was responsible for the powders in Spicerius’s drink?’

‘Of course not!’ Dacius lisped. ‘That little bastard wouldn’t let me anywhere near him.’

‘Did you know he was going to be drugged?’ Murranus pushed his face closer. ‘You knew something was going to happen?’

‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’ Dacius waved his hands. ‘There was the great Spicerius staggering around like a drunk; you should have put your sword straight through his throat!’

‘I could see something was wrong,’ Murranus replied, ‘and, as I’ve said, I’m a fighter not a murderer.’ He blew a kiss into Dacius’s face. ‘Next time you might win your bet, but it will be the result of a fair fight.’

‘Fair fight?’ Dacius raised his plucked eyebrows. ‘Fair or not, you’d better win!’

‘This is a lovely tavern.’ One of Dacius’s henchmen spoke up, a raw-faced man with a broken nose and slobbery lips. He patted Polybius on the arm. ‘You always have to be careful against fire, don’t you? You never know when one is going to break out.’ The oaf picked up Polybius’s cup and sipped from it. ‘And then, of course, there’s your comely niece — what’s her name, Claudia? She’s at the Villa Pulchra, isn’t she? We know she’s there, and we’ve got friends there who can-’

Murranus’s fist smashed on to the table. He grabbed the knife kept in a crack beneath the tabletop, knocked two of the Dacians aside and launched a furious assault on the oaf, who now hastily tried to retreat under a rain of blows and kicks. Eventually Murranus cornered him and grabbed him by the hair. Pressing the tip of the knife into his opponent’s fleshy throat, Murranus became aware of Poppaoe standing in the kitchen doorway, screaming. Other regulars now threw open the door and thronged in, overcoming their fear of this gang of roughnecks.