In the Shadow of the Wall (17 page)

He was pitted against novices from the other types, the Retiarii and the Thracians, once against Josephus who was making a name for himself among the Thracian fighters. He danced round Brude, lashing at him with his tiny shield and a wooden replica of the curved sica. Brude was adjudged to have lost that fight but it was a close contest, and he was pleased with himself that he managed to give the Jew a real test.

“You’re very fast for a Samnite,” Josephus told him after the fight.

“Not fast enough yet,” said Brude. “I couldn’t catch you with a single blow.”

“Nobody’s as fast as me,” Josephus said happily, “but you were close a couple of times.”

So Brude worked on his speed all through the winter. The cold, which others complained of, did not bother him. Compared to the winters he knew from his youth in Broch Tava, the Roman winter was just pleasantly cool.

He began to win some of the mock combats, even against men who had fought in the arena, and soon he found that he and Josephus were moving up the complex and unspoken social scale of the barrack room, even though neither of them had ever actually fought a real fight.

Then, on a day which he reckoned must be near to his twenty-first birthday, Curtius called him and Josephus out of training and told them they would be going with a couple of other men to fight in the arena. “I think you’re both ready,” he told them, “and so do your trainers. This is a small show in a town a few days’ march down the coast so hopefully it will be a nice easy start for you.”

Brude’s stomach churned all day.

It took them over a week to get to
Paestum
, nestled on the Campanian coast south of
Rome
. It was the home town of a young senator who had just been elected as a praetor and wished to celebrate his success by giving a small show to the people of his home town. The emperor had given his permission so a small wooden amphitheatre had been hastily constructed on the outskirts of the town. Curtius, accompanied by two guards, had taken four gladiators, as instructed by Lentulus. They were to fight four men from another school, the
school
of
Propertius
, which, Curtius said, was one of the biggest around. “It would be nice to put one over those bastards,” he told them cheerily. It had been arranged that each school would provide two novices and two experienced fighters. Brude and Josephus were the novices while Pollio and a tall Retiarius named Frontius were the experienced men.

Brude was nervous but Curtius sat with him and Josephus in the cramped space set aside for the gladiators beneath the rising rows of seats. He talked to them calmly yet reassuringly, reminding them of their training and instilling confidence. Then he went to meet the lanista from the
school
of
Propertius
, leaving the gladiators to listen to the sounds of the crowd gathering in the tiers of benches above their heads. Over the clumping of footsteps and the murmur of voices they heard a woman laugh. “Sounds nice,” Pollio said.

“She probably looks like a goat,” replied Frontius. Brude and Josephus laughed. Then the door opened and Curtius returned. He looked at Brude and told him that he would be up first, fighting a Retiarius.

Brude threw up.

Curtius checked Brude’s armour, tightening the greave on his leg, checking the straps on the thick linen binding on his right arm, then fastening the wide leather belt that protected his belly. Finally he handed Brude his helmet and told him to tuck it under his arm. “You’ll be fine,” Curtius said. “Just remember, the trident you can dodge or block, it’s the net that you have to watch out for. Get tangled in that and you’re in trouble, so stay clear of it. Uhisstand?”

“I remember.”

“And try to get the crowd on your side. That way even if you get into trouble, they’ll want to keep you alive.” Brude had heard Curtius say that hundreds of times but, right then, it somehow didn’t sound quite as reassuring as it had before.

Curtius led him out into the narrow corridor that led from the cells to the arena. In the dim light, Brude felt hemmed in, as if the walls were closing in to crush him. The noise of the crowd filtered down, adding to his nervousness. He had never fought in front of an audience before and the thought that he had to die for the entertainment of the Romans made him angry, yet the anger could not force out the fear.

There were armed guards in the tunnel and another man, tall, wearing a loincloth and sandals, who stood facing the entrance door to the arena. A lanista stood beside him. The gladiator’s skin was black and Brude hesitated, fascinated by the sight. He had heard about the Nubians but never seen one before. The man turned to look at Brude, opening his mouth in a feral grin, his teeth pearly white against his dark skin. Brude struggled to keep the fear from his face. Curtius leaned close behind and whispered into Brude’s ear, “His blood is red, the same as yours.” Brude nodded, thankful for the reassurance. Curtius was telling him that the Nubian was just a man, whatever colour his skin was. Brude took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind, to think of nothing but the task in hand.

In the shadows of the tunnel, he had a closer look at his opponent. The Retiarius’ only armour was an iron shoulder guard on his left shoulder and a long sleeve of linen down his left arm. He would be unhampered by the weight that Brude had to carry. He would have speed and the weapons he used would give him greater reach.

The weapons were handed to them. The Nubian strapped his wide net to his left wrist, had a small dagger wrapped round his waist then took his trident in his right hand, checking the wickedly barbed tines to make sure they were sharp. Brude was given his shield, strapped his left arm through the loops and took the gladius in his right hand. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the training swords they used so it seemed relatively light to his touch. Short and double-edged, it was designed for thrusting, the way the legions did their killing, not the wild swings of a barbarian long sword.

There was a fanfare of trumpets then a herald’s voice called out, announcing to the crowd the beginning of the games being given by their own Publius Cornelius Glabro, son of Publius, by kind permission of the emperor, Lucius Septimius Severus. Brude barely listened. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry, the taste of his own vomit still lingering. Then Curtius slapped him on the back as two guards pulled the doors open to let in a blaze of sunlight. The trumpets blasted again.

The Nubian strode forwards, out into the light with Brude only a pace behind him, walking out into an amphitheatre for the first time. The roar of the crowd met him.

The amphitheatre was both a surprise and a disappointment. The arena itself, oval in shape, was not sand but hard earth. It had walls of wood, too high to jump to the first row of seats from ground level and seats that rose in steep tiers. The people at the front were close enough to make out their faces clearly and hear their individual voices above the general hubbub. There were shouts of encouragement, clapping and cheering as the people anticipated the show. Brude tried to ignore them but saw that the Nubian was grinning broadly and nodding his head to people in the crowd, waving his trident in salute.

The two combatants walked to one end of the arena where Glabro himself sat with his friends and clients. The two gladiators gave the traditional salute, “We who are about to die salute you!” Brude heard the Nubian’s voice, recognised the confidence in his tone, the conviction of victory. Glabro beamed proudly, waved at them to begin and they backed away from each other. Curtius helped Brude put his helmet on, making sure it was fastened tightly, rapping his hand on it when he was satisfied. “Remember your training,” he said urgently. “Watch for the net.” Then Curtius stepped back, as did the opposing lanista, each holding a whip and a short sword. There were four guards, armed with spears, and archers standing round the top of the arena wall. Gladiators, heroes to the crowd, were still only slaves. If they did not fight, or tried to attack anyone but each other, they would be killed without hesitation.

Brude looked at the tall Nubian, his muscled body gleaming in the sun with the oil he had rubbed on to make it difficult for an opponent to grab hold of him. He grinned again, showing the teeth whiter than any Brude had ever seen as he hefted his trident, holding it underarm, swishing the net with its weighted edges, making small casts to show Brude what was waiting for him.

“Fight!” shouted Curtius.

“Fight!” shouted the other lanista.

The Nubian cautiously approached Brude. And Brude suddenly found his fear gone as the months of training took hold. He watched the man’s movements, looking for clues in his eyes and in the bunching of his muscles. He decided he did not want to die for the entertainment of the crowd, not here, not now. The noise of the audience faded from his senses as he concentrated. The Nubian’s skin may be black as ebony but Brude remembered Curtius’ whispered advice that he was just a man, the same as other men. He could bleed just the same as other men.

Brude put his shield across his body, kept the gladius low and close to his side then stepped forwards, taking small steps to keep well balanced. The Retiarius, with no armour to weigh him down, would rely on speed and agility to get past Brude’s shield, use the longer reach of his tridentab and thrust, fling his net to tangle Brude’s arms and legs or even land it over his head to render him helpless. To win this fight, Brude had, somehow, to avoid the net and trident and get in close. If he could do that, the Retiarius had no protection. It was easier said than done. Of all the gladiator types, the Retiarius won more often than not.

The Nubian swung his left arm, casting his net high, trying to let it fall over Brude’s crested helmet. Brude stepped backwards, raised his shield and the trident was suddenly spearing forwards to come under the rim of the upraised shield, aiming for his thigh. He jumped backwards, heard the lead weights of the net rattle down the shield and he was clear.

He backed away which brought some jeers from the crowd. He was a Secutor, a chaser. He was supposed to hunt the foe, not try to escape him. The Retiarius may have the advantage but the Romans liked their Secutors. Curtius had told him to try to please the crowd but Brude ignored them, concentrating instead on trying to win. Fighting well and losing did not interest him. He stepped forwards, waving his sword clumsily and ineffectually. The Nubian danced away, spinning in an effort to get out of Brude’s line of sight. Brude turned his whole body, holding his shield close, keeping his opponent in view. The helmet, with its small eye holes and even smaller breathing holes was a great protection but also a great weakness for it was heavy and restricted his field of vision. He had to know where the Nubian was or he was a dead man.

Again the Retiarius cast the net, low this time. Brude easily dodged it, backing away to the sound of more jeers from the crowd. “Stick him!” a man’s voice yelled to the Nubian from the front rows. The Nubian waved his trident to acknowledge the cheers. Brude resumed his fighting stance, stepped forwards to make sure he had room behind him and watched the man’s eyes closely, trying to anticipate the next move.

The net came high again. Brude had already guessed it from the way the man’s arm had started to move. As he had done before, Brude stepped back, raising his shield high to block the net. As he had done before, the Nubian lunged forwards with the trident, aiming for Brude’s exposed left thigh and once again Brude jumped backwards to dodge the falling net. But then he moved forwards. Digging his feet into the hard earth and putting all his weight into the charge, he used his shield as a battering ram as Kallikrates had taught him. The Nubian was fast, but not fast enough. He was still pulling his net and trident back to prepare for his next attack. The net took time to gather and cast but he suddenly had no time. He raised the trident but Brude’s shield caught the tines side-on, and the triple barbs went up and the Nubian’s arm went back towards his own body as Brude crashed into him. The Retiarius flailed his net in a sideways swipe, trying to use the lead weights to lash Brude’s right side but Brude’s sword arm suddenly thrust forwards. The blade caught the inside of the man’s left forearm. The point penetrated the linen protective sleeve, releasing a spray of bright blood and bringing a scream of pain from the man’s throat. The net rattled against Brude’s side but the impetus was gone from the cast and he shrugged it off, stepping back to make sure he did not tangle his feet in the net.

The Nubian stood, dumbfounded, staring at his left arm with blood pumping from a severed artery. Brude knew that if he did not get help soon he would quickly bleed to death. He expected the man to signal surrender. Instead, the Nubian grabbed his trident, held it overarm and threw himself at Brude with a scream of rage in a desperate attempt to strike him down. He could not use his left arm so the net trailed uselessly on the ground. Brude crouched, slammed his shield forwards and upwards to knock the trident aside, then stepped in close and thrust his sword into the man’s belly, twisting it upwards under the ribcage with all the strength he could muster.