Paul Doherty: The Song of the Gladiator

The crowds shifted and surged, their excitement palpable. Their blood lust had been whetted, but now they were impatient for the crowing glory of the games: Murranus fighting for his life and honour. Claudia sucked on a piece of pomegranate as she gazed at the aristocracy of Rome. She quietly congratulated herself on what she had achieved the previous day. Valens had been correct. Agrippina had disappeared, whilst Dacius seemed to be very busy with his affairs. Rumour had it that he had slipped out of Rome that same evening, eager to take a ship to Syracuse to visit certain business partners.

Claudia had waited at the She-Asses tavern, hoping that Murranus would come, but her uncle whispered to her that Murranus was training secretly, preparing himself. Polybius sent Sorry to the gladiator school with a message, but all the boy brought back with him were the two words, ‘Remember me.’ Claudia had tried not to weep as she sat in the eating hall listening to Mercury the messenger regaling them all with the news that Spicerius had been murdered by his degenerate girlfriend, whilst Dacius might also have had a hand in it. Word had spread like fire amongst dry stubble. Polybius had used all his acquaintances along the stinking alleyways and streets of the slums to whisper the news. Sallust the Searcher had also helped, whilst Valens had visited old friends in the various garrisons around the city.

Claudia had cried herself to sleep, and long before dawn had been aroused by an imperial messenger with an invitation she couldn’t refuse: the Augusta required her presence in the imperial box at the beginning of the games staged to mark her glorious son’s birthday. Claudia had washed, dressed and hurried along the streets, one hand grasping her walking stick, the other the dagger in her belt. Even at this early hour, she noticed the placards and makeshift posters which announced not only the games and the odds on the various fighters but the scandalous news about Spicerius’s poisoning. Despite her own sorrows, Claudia realised that this news was not just an indication of the city’s infatuation with tittle-tattle and gossip; it also reflected the serious nature of the business of bets and wagers, of fortunes being gambled, of gold and silver exchanging hands.

The imperial party had scarcely arrived in the amphitheatre, taking their seats to the bray of trumpets, the clash of cymbals and the animal-like roar of the crowd, when Helena had snapped her fingers, beckoning Claudia forward. The Empress was in fine fettle, overjoyed at the return of her precious sword. She gave Claudia a strange look as she described Timothaeus’s great find, and Claudia wondered whether she suspected the real truth.

‘But never mind that,’ Helena chattered on. ‘What is this news about Spicerius? Is it true? Does Murranus know? How does he feel? Does he sense victory?’

Claudia tried to answer as directly as possible. Helena excitedly beckoned Rufinus over, whispering quickly to him, making signs with her fingers. Claudia suspected the Empress was changing her bets. Rufinus summoned a scribe with a tally book, and only when the banker moved away was Claudia ordered back for a fresh set of questions about the murders at the Villa Pulchra. Did she have any news? Had she made any progress? Helena’s eyes flashed angrily as Claudia shrugged and mumbled a reply, but the Empress also called her a very good mouse and handed over a small purse for her trouble, before dismissing her to her stool at the back of the box. Rufinus had drifted across to learn a bit more, and was followed by Chrysis. The plump, sweaty-faced chamberlain had been all a-flutter, and Claudia considered him to be a finer actor than Narcissus, whom she had just dispatched to the Gate of Life below with a message for Murranus.

Chrysis had waved his hand in front of her eyes to attract her attention.

‘Why,’ the chamberlain hissed in her face, ‘does Murranus still insist on the fight with the bull? He can repudiate the allegations. I’ve heard what happened. .’

‘I don’t know,’ Claudia whispered back through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve sent messages to Murranus but he’s hidden himself away. He wants to vindicate himself. I’m not responsible for your wagers and bets.’

Now Claudia took a deep breath and stretched out her legs, forcing herself to relax. She stared around the box. Sylvester, Athanasius and the other orators were present, although they had turned their backs on the arena, showing their public disapproval of such bloody games. Claudia sympathised with them. She had hidden herself away from the morning spectacle when condemned criminals had been killed, bodies blooming blood, flesh stripped away as they were mauled by tigers or panthers. The sand in the arena had blossomed like some gruesome flower, the blood spurting and spluttering, the air riven by the roars of beasts and the shouts and cries of their victims. Claudia couldn’t decide which was more terrifying, the hideous scenes in the arena, or the complete lack of interest shown by those in the imperial box. Constantine gossiped with his friends; Helena dictated to her clerks and scribes, or loudly demanded that a scroll be brought to her.

Claudia felt she was a lunatic in a house of fools. The blood flowed, criminals were slaughtered, eaten or burned but no one cared; yet was she any different? The problems which vexed her were like the men and women who died in the arena, something to be dealt with. She concluded that the human heart could only take so much fear, feel only a certain amount of compassion before it turned to its own problems. She was only concerned with one thing: would Murranus live or die? What happened in the next few hours would decide her life, perhaps change it for ever. The past and present were coming together like curtains being closed around a bed. What was she now? No longer Helena’s agent, her spy, the niece of Polybius, the friend of this person or that. Her mind was now dominated by images of Felix, Murranus and Meleager. She wanted justice for murder and rape, she wanted to be purged of such thoughts, she wanted the ghosts to let go. Only then would she be free. She felt as if she was in one of her plays. People were talking and moving around but they were no longer part of her.

Claudia steadied herself. The trumpeters were moving, Constantine had raised his hand. Narcissus slipped into the box, shaking his head sadly.

‘Are you well?’ Gaius Tullius stood over her, a look of concern on his face. ‘Are you well, Claudia? You look pale. Do you want some wine or fruit?’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved to a side table, filled a goblet, came back and thrust it into her hands.

‘Don’t think,’ he whispered, ‘just watch! The fates will decide.’

His words were drowned by the shrill blasts of the trumpets. Claudia heard a hideous creaking, took a sip of wine, stood on tiptoe and peered over. The cochlea, a huge swinging door on a movable stand, was being dragged and pushed into the centre of the arena. At least it had been drenched and washed after the previous massacre. She put her wine down. They were giving Murranus a chance; those who engaged in fighting a wild animal could use the door as a place to distract their opponent, gain a respite, rest for a while.

At last the cochlea was in place. Again the trumpets brayed, and the crowds surged to their feet, a great roar of greeting echoing to the skies as Murranus walked out through the Gate of Life. Claudia felt herself sway even as she heard the gasps and cries from those around her. The gladiator wore no sandals or body armour, no helmet or breast plate, no leg greaves; nothing except a white loincloth tied tightly. In one hand he carried a short stabbing sword and in the other the long oblong shield of a legionnaire.

‘What is he doing?’ Gaius Tullius whispered.