Paul Doherty: The Song of the Gladiator

‘I’ve come to kiss Spicerius goodbye,’ she announced pertly. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘on second thoughts, just to wish him well. I’ll proudly kiss him on his return!’

‘Kiss my arse!’ Oceanus bellowed from where he stood behind Murranus. Spicerius moved to confront him but Murranus blocked his way.

‘There’ll be time soon enough,’ he murmured.

‘Aye,’ the net man replied, lowering his trident to rest under his arm, ‘there’ll soon be time for everything.’

The Director of the Games, all flustered and sweaty, came forward, gesturing at a tray bearing a flagon of wine and two cups on the shabby table against the wall. He beckoned the gladiators forward and filled the earthenware cups. Each took one and toasted his opponent.

‘ Usque ad mortem ,’ Murranus declared.

‘ Usque ad mortem ,’ Spicerius replied. ‘To the death.’

They drained their cups and returned to their entourages for the final preparations. The Director was standing at the Gate of Life, gesturing with his hands. A strident blast of trumpets silenced the crowd, and both gladiators returned for one more drink. Spicerius checked the net tied to his wrist whilst Murranus lowered his helmet on his head.

‘Now,’ a voice bellowed.

They walked out of the darkness into the blazing light. Trumpets shrilled, cymbals clashed, the crowd thundered its applause whilst the heat caught them like a blast from a fiery oven. The musicians, sand-rakers and cleaners had disappeared. Murranus walked carefully across the sand, Spicerius keeping pace. They stopped before the imperial box and gave the salute, and a figure high above them lifted his hand in languid reply. Both gladiators turned, saluted each other and quickly drew apart. The clamour of the crowd subsided into a whispering chatter as so-called experts delivered their judgements on the combatants.

Murranus tried not to be distracted. Claudia was in the imperial box; he wished she wasn’t. He did not feel good and tried to shake off his fears. He had visited a magician, who had sacrificed a dove in a pool of water and prayed that all the gods would assist Murranus. Murranus did not want to die. He had to be Victor Ludorum and receive the gladiator’s crown. Spicerius was still moving away, drawing free of the wall, which could impede his net. Murranus followed slowly. Spicerius began that strange dance all net men did, moving swiftly to the right then the left, trying to detect whether his opponent’s view was blocked or hampered. Murranus brought up sword and shield. He ignored the net and trident, but watched Spicerius’s face, those eyes: which way would he go?

Murranus’s bare feet caught something in the sand. He stepped back and looked down: a severed arm overlooked by the rakers, a grisly reminder of the beast hunt earlier that day. Spicerius hadn’t noticed it. Murranus moved forward quickly and pretended to stumble. Spicerius darted back, net whirling above his head. Murranus quickly retreated, and the net fell short. Murranus rushed in. Spicerius was faster, thrusting his trident towards Murranus’s face. He quickly drew away. The crowd roared their approval. Spicerius was dancing again, showing off. He came in too close and paid the price, a cut to his right thigh which warned him off. Murranus ignored the applause and followed Spicerius, but something was wrong: the wound he had inflicted was superficial, yet the net man was blinking, shaking his head. Was this a trap? Murranus cautiously paced forward, then stopped. Spicerius no longer crouched. He was standing up straight, staring at his opponent, eyes puzzled, mouth moving. The trident dropped from his hands. He took a step forward, tangling his feet in the net, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

For the briefest moment there was silence, shattered by a roar of disapproval. The crowd had come for blood, not to see someone collapse in the sand. The Gate of Life opened, and Mercury hurried across with his red-hot iron. He jabbed Spicerius’s leg, but the net man only groaned, tried to move, then lay still. Charon turned the body over. Spicerius’s face was pale, his eyelids fluttering, and he was coughing and spluttering. Charon turned him back and Spicerius began to vomit.

‘Poison!’ The word seemed to carry like a bird whirring round the amphitheatre.

Murranus walked away just as the booing began. He strode towards the Gate of Life. The Director of the Games had already picked up one of the wine goblets and was waving it around.

Gaius, principal centurion in the Imperial Comitatus, the cavalry escort which always guarded the Emperor, bit into a soft golden apple. He closed his eyes and savoured the sweet juices. Gaius was sitting in the cool colonnade which overlooked the peristyle garden of the Villa Pulchra. He was deep in thought; he had so much to reflect on, so much to do, so little time to do it. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes. This was a very pleasant change from the musty barracks and hot stable yards of the imperial palaces. He was relieved not to have to wear the imperial dress uniform; instead he could relax in a cool embroidered tunic and short toga, although beneath the folds of that robe he wore a narrow leather belt with a long stabbing dagger in an embroidered sheath.

Gaius had been born not far from this very villa. He claimed he was Roman, though some said his ancestors were Spaniards, which accounted for his dark good looks and fiery temper. He had not yet reached thirty and was already one of Constantine’s most trusted officers. He had received the crown of bravery for his courage at the battle of the Milvian Bridge and his ruthless pursuit of the enemy when it retreated. However, he still couldn’t believe his luck at being brought here for such a meeting. Of course, he hadn’t objected and good-naturedly received the envious congratulations of his fellow officers. He had left Rome a few days ago, escorting the carts and pack ponies, the long lines of slaves and servants, bringing goods from the Palatine palace to this imperial villa. It had been so refreshing to leave the city, travelling along the Via Latina before taking the country roads to Tibur and Constantine’s summer residence.

This great villa, with a large farm attached, stretched across the brow of the Alban Hills, a place of dark green woods, pastures and meadows, all fertilised by the cool, sparkling Anio River. The villa was protected by its own curtain wall with guard towers and a wide fortified gate. Inside stretched a veritable paradise of gardens, sparkling fountains, man-made channels and rivulets, garlanded porticoes and shaded colonnades. The villa boasted avenues of cypresses, olives and pine trees which, the garrulous old gardener had assured Gaius, were watered with wine. Elm and holm-oak flourished, as well as shrubs such as myrtle, box, oleander, laurel and bay. Around the villa were sweet-smelling orchards of apple, pear, peach and cherry, and beds of roses, lilies and violets, whilst exotic lotus blossom floated on pools and fish ponds.

Once the carts were unpacked and the sumpter ponies unburdened, Gaius had spent the last two days wandering the villa. Its entrance hall or atrium was breathtaking in its beauty, with its long pool beneath an open sunlight, gorgeously carved pillars and vividly painted wall frescoes. The triclinium, or dining room, was just as luxurious, as were the various chambers and rest rooms for the imperial family and their court. Every luxury and need was catered for. The villa had its own kitchen, bake houses, vineyards and wine cellars. There was even a latrine with twenty marble seats at the far side of the villa, near the wall which divided it from the farm, which was a small estate in itself with its stables, pig pens, chicken coops, dovecotes and vegetable gardens.