Paul Doherty: The Song of the Gladiator

‘Don’t say that,’ Polybius urged.

‘I said if.’ Murranus patted him on the shoulder. ‘I have sacrificed the bull. Now I’ll go out and defeat Meleager, but, gentlemen, I thank you for your care and attention.’ He gestured at the entrance. ‘In ancient Greece the heroes of Homer always armed for battle with the help of a beautiful maiden.’

Polybius and Oceanus took the hint, clasped his hand, embraced him, wished him good luck and left. Outside, the tunnel echoed with the sound of voices. The herald shouted that Meleager was ready. Murranus walked over to Claudia, embraced her gently and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Bull leaper,’ she whispered as she leaned against him.

‘I didn’t want to tell you.’ Murranus kissed her again. ‘I was practising. I didn’t know whether such a trick would work. I couldn’t see you beforehand, I didn’t want to alarm you.’

‘You must not die,’ she whispered.

‘Pray to whatever god you desire, Claudia. I’ll call on the ghost of Spicerius and all the dead to be with me. At a time like this you can feel your dead thronging about you.’

‘There are other ghosts.’ Claudia had made a decision. She pushed herself away and walked back to the bench, patting it for Murranus to sit next to her.

‘What is it, Claudia?’

‘There are ghosts here,’ Claudia declared. ‘My father and my mother and, above all, little Felix. Murranus, I’m going to tell you something about which I’m certain I have not made a mistake.’

She grasped his callused hand. At first she spoke haltingly, but eventually the words came hot and fast. She described her meeting with Meleager, his friendship with Dacius and her unshakeable belief that he was the man who had raped her and killed her brother.

Murranus listened intently. Only a muscle twitching high in his cheek and the cold, dead look in his eyes betrayed the anger seething within him. When Claudia had finished he gathered her in his arms, pushing her head against his chest whilst stroking her hair. She wished she could stay there but she had spoken enough.

‘Murranus, are you ready?’

The herald, dressed like the god Mercury, stood in the doorway, his white wand beating the air.

‘Murranus,’ the messenger’s voice sounded hollow behind the grotesque mask, ‘the Emperor awaits, the people of Rome are waiting.’

Murranus gently pushed Claudia away and stood up. She helped him arm, fastening the straps. Once finished, he stretched and flexed his muscles, then he kissed her once more, put on the helmet, picked up the sword and shield and walked out into the passageway. Meleager, similarly armed, his breastplate gleaming, was already waiting, helmet crooked under his arm. As Murranus approached, Meleager put his helmet on. Claudia noticed how the great horsehair plume seemed like a spray of blood above his head. Meleager went to grasp Murranus’s hand, but the other gladiator just brushed by him, sending officials and servants scattering out of his way as he walked into the glare of the arena. Meleager had no choice but to follow, as the trumpeters, caught off cue, brayed their salutation. The crowd sprang to its feet and roared in acknowledgement that the height of the games was about to begin.

Claudia did not return to the imperial box. She stood at the Gate of Life. Murranus and Meleager were now striding across the sand to stand in front of the box. They took off their helmets, raising sword and shield in salutation, and gave the usual cry: ‘We who are about to die salute thee.’

Constantine raised his hand in acknowledgement. The gladiators separated. Murranus put his shield and sword on the sand and took off his helmet, the agreed signal that he wished to talk. He wasn’t aware of how silent the arena had become; he just wanted to see Meleager’s face, to tell him directly that he was about to die.

‘What is it?’ Meleager took off his helmet and shook the sweat drops from his face. ‘Are you willing to concede? The crowd will understand that, especially after your luck with the bull.’

Murranus smiled lazily back. He wanted to study this face, remember how Meleager looked. The crowd was now shouting, but Murranus didn’t care. He picked up his helmet and brushed the sand from its plume.

‘Your friend Dacius.’ He could tell by Meleager’s expression that his opponent knew only too well what had happened. ‘He’s fled Rome.’ Murranus winked. ‘He won’t be here to see you die.’

The fixed smile faded from Meleager’s face.

‘And you are going to die,’ Murranus continued. ‘In a tunnel behind you stands a young woman, Claudia, the love of my life. Eighteen months ago she and her brother were down at a lonely spot on the banks of the Tiber. A stranger attacked them. He killed the boy and raped that young woman. Her assailant was strong and muscular, and on his wrist he had the tattoo of a purple chalice, the same insignia Dacius wears. You’ve had yours washed off.’ Murranus noticed how his opponent was breathing more quickly, blinking in astonishment. ‘You’ve had it washed off,’ Murranus repeated, ‘but you can’t wash away the crime, and you’ll pay for that now.’

Murranus put his helmet on, fastening the buckle, only now becoming aware of the shouts and cat-calls interspersed with a few boos from the increasingly restless crowd. He had chosen his time well. Meleager was disconcerted. Murranus was the first to re-arm, and walked away so that he stood with his back to the imperial podium. The crowd’s curiosity was now whetted. They wondered what had happened and were taken aback by the fury of Murranus’s attack. Usually professional gladiators danced and skirmished, testing their opponent’s agility, assessing his strength. Murranus would have none of this. Shield up, he rushed straight at Meleager, sword flickering like a serpent’s tongue, seeking the soft lower neck. Meleager, taken by surprise, retreated quickly, turning slightly so that the death-bearing cut merely sliced a piece of leather off his shoulder guard. Again Murranus charged, using both shield and sword like a battering ram, kicking the sand, forcing his opponent back. Meleager fell, rolling in the sand, losing his sword. Murranus drew back and kicked the weapon towards his opponent; a casual gesture, full of contempt, as if he had already decided he was the victor and it was only a matter of time. The crowd was now roaring its approval.

Murranus turned, eyes searching for that lithe, small figure standing just within the Gate of Life. He lifted his sword in salute, then continued his onslaught, fighting like a man possessed. He no longer thought of tactics. He was only aware of his opponent: his grunts, his smell, the face behind that visor, his body protected by armour, sword and shield. He was not conscious of any ache or any fear; he was determined to destroy his opponent, take away both life and honour.

The end came swiftly. Meleager, taken completely by surprise by the swift ferocity of Murranus’s attack, tried to curb his opponent’s onslaught by making a cut at his leg. For a few seconds he left his shoulder exposed, and Murranus brought down his sword. Meleager moved, avoiding the full force of the blow, yet the sharp edge of Murranus’s sword dug deep. Meleager dropped his own weapon and staggered away, Murranus following in pursuit, using the boss of his shield to knock his opponent over. Meleager tried to roll away, but Murranus followed, finally putting his foot on his fallen opponent’s chest. Then he leaned down, took off Meleager’s helmet and tossed it across the arena. The entire amphitheatre was now standing, cloths being waved, hands extended to indicate Meleager’s fate. There were shouts of ‘Kill him!’ and ‘Let him have it!’

Meleager lay still, staring up at Murranus through half-closed eyes. He didn’t ask for mercy, whilst Murranus didn’t even look at his face, but turned to the imperial box, sword raised, waiting for the Emperor’s wish. Constantine was now leaning over the purple balustrade, right hand extended, thumb out. If he turned his thumb upwards, Meleager would die; down, and Murranus must show mercy. The gladiator waited. Someone was talking to Constantine; the hand fell away, then came back, a swift thrusting movement, thumb downwards. Meleager was to live. Murranus leaned over, pressing the tip of his sword against his opponent’s neck.