In the Shadow of the Wall (20 page)

There was a barked command and the file moved forwards, the lanistas ensuring there was plenty of space between them to prevent any man trying to gain an early advantage by injuring one of his potential opponents. The atmosphere was tense and nervous but Brude, a veteran now, managed to remain calm.

They marched up a ramp then on to a flight of steps and up through one of the amphitheatre’s many trap doors into the arena. The sunlight dazzled them as they climbed the steps to be welcomed by a huge roar from the crowd. Flanked by the lanistas, watched by the guards and archers, they strode across the freshly raked sand to stand beneath the imperial box where they would give the traditional salute. In the full glare of the sun, the arena was hot, bakingly hot, and already the heat was sapping the gladiators’ strength. The familiar smell of blood, human sweat, death and the scent of saffron, which had been sprinkled on the sand to sweeten the air, filled Brude’s nostrils with the sickly concoction of odours that were only ever found in the amphitheatre. He thought it strange that the Romans should worry about trying to perfume the air with saffron so as not to offend the olfactory senses of the spectatos when their eyes and ears were about to be filled with the sights and sounds of violent death.

The gladiators stood together to give the salute to the emperor who sat with his wife and two teenage sons, close enough, thought Brude, that he could hit him from there if he had a spear. It would be the last thing that he would ever do, of course, but at that moment he wondered whether it might not be preferable to get a quick, certain death. But he did not have a spear and trying to climb the wall was pointless; even if he could jump that high there were great wooden rollers around the top of the arena wall which would simply spin to drop him back to the ground.

The emperor was close enough that Brude could see his bearded face clearly, a face he recognised from statues and busts which were found all over the empire. The emperor studied them all eagerly before waving for them to continue. There was the customary fanfare of trumpets as the lanistas paired them up at random, spreading them out around the arena.

Brude was at the narrow end of the oval furthest from the imperial box. The arena was crowded with thirty-two men pairing off. To the onlookers it may have seemed they had plenty of room but for fighting men who needed to keep moving, the confined space was dangerous. Brude did not want to collide with a neighbouring pair while he was trying to avoid his immediate opponent, and the restricted view from his helmet made that a distinct possibility. He stood with his back to the wall, where he could see along the length of the arena but he turned his eyes on his opponent, a young man who fought as a Thracian. Brude fastened his helmet on his head, then studied the young man. He reckoned he was a novice, for his body had no scars, which either meant he had not fought much or he was very good indeed. He looked scarcely more than a boy, so Brude reckoned he was a beginner. He felt a pang of pity for him to be thrown into an event like this but soon dismissed the thought. Only one of them would walk away from this and Brude was determined it would be him.

The boy was good, potentially very good, but his lanista had probably been fooled, like Curtius, into thinking he would face only one bout. Brude was a veteran who had practised against Thracians with the speed of Josephus. Any novice needed time to gain experience and develop their speed. After only a few tentative moves to test each other out, Brude moved his shield to leave a tempting gap which the Thracian saw and leaped for, his long curved blade arcing towards Brude’s exposed belly while his small round shield lifted as he used his left arm as a counterbalance to help the thrust of his right. Brude moved too quickly for him, bringing his shield in to close the gap and thrusting with his sword to catch the boy’s exposed side. The Thracian screamed and staggered back. Brude let him go. The tip of his blade had only gone in to the depth of his index finger but he knew it would be enough. The boy’s face was stricken with pain and fear as the blood flowed from his side. He looked helplessly at Brude who simply watched him begin to bleed to death. Brude watched him carefully but took deep breaths, relaxing his muscles, for he knew this fight was won and he wanted to conserve his energy. The Thracian took a faltering step then stumbled and sank to his knees on the bloodied sand, his sword and shield lowered.

Brude looked to the imperial box. He already knew the boy’s fate for he could see the downward thrusting of thumbs in the crowd. The fight had been finished too quickly for the boy to have had any chance of pleasing the crowd. The emperor confirmed it. Brude carefully walked round behind the kneeling Thracian, steadied his shield arm on the boy’s shoulder and rammed his sword down into his spine, just below the neck, severing the spinal column and bringing instant death. “I’m sorry, lad,” he whispered.

He waited, conserving energy, feeling the strength-sapping heat beating down on him from the afternoon sun, making him desperate for a drink. He saw Curtius, whip in hand, acknowledging his victory and he turned to watch the others. Josephus’ opponent was down too, his throat cut by a vicious slash from the Jew’s sica. That was a difficult blow to make, Brude knew, because the helmet of Josephus’ Samnite opponent covered the whole head, leaving little room for striking at the neck and throat.

Things were not going so well for the other six men of Lentulus’ school. One of the novices who had shared the cell with Brude and Josephus was down, the other was still battling hard but losing to a Retiarius. If he kept fighting, and was lucky, the crowd might let him live. Of the other four, two had won, one had lost and been finished off while the last was still fighting, Curtius urging him on. It was in vain for he was struck down only a moment later. The crowd bayed for his blood and he was quickly despatched.

Brude was horrified, for none of the losers seemed to be receiving mercy. Perhaps it was the sight of so many men fighting at once but whatever it was, it did not bode well. He saw the novice go down at last, blood pouring from several cuts but the lad had done well and his opponent was scarcely in better shape. The crowd signalled and called for him to live so the emperor granted him his life. Brude was relieved. It meant there was at least some hope for the losers.

Slaves rushed in to clear away the fallen, dragging them to the death door, tossing them down the dark tunnel after a man dressed as Charon, god of the underworld, ritually struck each one on the temple to ensure they were dead.

The remaining men were paired off, although two of the victors from the first round were too badly hurt to continue so there were only fourteen men left, fighting in seven pairs.

Curtius skilfully managed to keep his men from fighting each other, somehow managing to match them against men from other schools. This time, Brude was up against another Samnite, a man wearing the same armour and with the same weapons as himself. There was no advantage to either man here; whoever was faster or stronger would survive.

This opponent was experienced and he was strong. They sparred for a few moments, testing each other, trying to gauge each other’s strength and speed. Brude heard people in t yelling for them to get on with it. He ignored them as he ignored the gasps and cheers as other fighters entertained the crowd when they came to blows. In this heat he knew he could not afford for the fight to take too long; the physical effort of maintaining concentration, as well as holding the heavy shield and wearing the helmet, would soon wear him down.

He made a half-hearted attack, backing off when the other man blocked and thrust back. Then Brude used a trick Josephus had once used on him in training and which had caught him out badly. He moved his right foot as if he had slipped, and he crouched, letting his shield and sword fall slightly. His opponent moved as quick as lightning, shield held forwards to batter Brude to the ground. The crowd gasped as they saw Brude stumble.

His left foot, though, was firmly planted and he jumped forwards, moving slightly to his right. The two shields crashed together with a force that jarred both men’s shoulders but Brude was in the air, both feet off the ground and swinging his gladius in a wide arc as he jumped past his opponent. It was a move no Samnite would normally ever try, a move more suited to a Thracian who had less weight to carry, but Brude put everything into the leap and the swing. The tip of his blade, usually used for short thrusts, slashed across the back of his opponent’s left shoulder, drawing a gush of red blood. The man moved to avoid the pain but, because it was on his left, he moved to his right. It was a fatal mistake for his back was to Brude and it would take him time to turn. Too much time. Landing lightly, Brude did not hesitate. He powered forwards, ducking low as he blocked the wide reverse swing of the man’s sword with his shield then jabbing upwards with his own sword, feeling it bite into the man’s side. He stabbed, twisted the blade and pulled it out, then battered the man with his shield. He went down, collapsing face-down on the sand.

The crowd had recognised Brude despite his face being masked by the helmet, perhaps because they had seen him fight before and recognised him or perhaps because some of them heard Curtius yelling at him. They chanted his name, clapping him loudly. “Brutus! Brutus!” He was breathing heavily now and he glanced at the imperial box, seeing the signal to finish his fallen opponent. He dutifully slammed his sword into the back of his fallen opponent’s neck, although he was fairly sure the man was dead already.

Curtius came up to him. “Are you all right?”

“So far. Who else is left?”

Curtius looked heartbroken. “Josephus is through but he took a nick. He was paired against a Retiarius.” Brude looked for the little Jew and saw him binding a piece of cloth around his thigh. It did not look too bad but in a battle like this even a fractional slowing could be bad. “You’re the only two left from our school now. Atticus will live, thank the gods.” Atticus, a Murmillo, was one of the more experienced men. He would have put up a good show, Brude knew.

Then he saw that there were only six men left standing. Curtius quickly pointed them out. “There’s a Murmillo, two Thracians and a Retiarius. One of the Thracians is good and so’s the Retiarius. They’re both from Propertius’ school. I’ll try to get you paired with the smaller Thracian. I think Josephus can take the Samnite.” He stalked off, making his way across the sand to check on Josephus, while Brude tried to recover his strength. He looked into the crowd to see whether he could make out Lentulus and Trimalchio but the amphitheatre was a sea of faces and he gave up. He wondered whether Trimalchio thought he was getting a good return on his investment.

The arena was cleared, the men paired off and Brude found himself up against the Retiarius, the one opponent he had not wanted. Curtius gave him a look of resignation as if to say he had tried.

“Fight!” shouted the lanistas.

The Retiarius was good. Brude knew instantly that he had a fight on his hands. In his favour, the man had obviously had a hard fight before and he was breathing heavily. Brude did the same, making sure the man could hear the great gasps of air he was taking in and could see his chest heaving. He made his movements look sluggish, hoping the Retiarius would think he was more tired than he was.

It did not work.

The net came looping for him and he dodged, then had to block a thrust of the trident with his shield and immediately dodge again as the net came lashing low for his legs. He jumped and it missed but the Retiarius danced away from his attempt to close the gap between them.

Again the net came for him, its lead weights rattling off his shield. He thrust, trying to hit the man’s arm but the Retiarius was too quick and the chance was gone. They circled each other. Brude had to stifle a momentary panic as he tried to figure out how to beat this man. Everyone had a weakness, a part of their technique that was less good than their favoured moves, but he could not spot this man’s weakness at all.

More circling, more thrusts, feints and dodges. The Retiarius danced around, moving swiftly with fluid grace, jabbing his trident to wear Brude down, probing and waiting for Brude to tire first.

There was a roar from the crowd and Brude knew that one of the other gladiators had scored a good hit, which meant that one of the other fights was probably over. Whoever had won that would have time to rest. Brude’s momentary distraction nearly killed him and he only just avoided the next thrust of the trident. He began to grow anxious because realisation was dawning that this man was better than him. Just as Curtius and Kallikrates had said would happen one day, he had met his match. He decided that he would have to try something desperate, something the man would not expect. Victory or death, he told himself.