The Far Arena (26 page)

'Perhaps I have too much, oh, great divine Domitian,' I said and unleashed my girdle to the sand.
There I stood in the major arena of the world glistening nude. A roar came from the crowd. More entertainment, as though I were showing something everyone in the arena had not seen countless times before. Such is the madness of crowds.

With a hand, Domitian signalled me to parade the edges of the arena as though in victory. I carefully deposited spatha and shield on the girdle, sure not to let the pommel or shield grip touch sand. Sometimes there is blood remaining in the sand.

I stepped out of the girdle and strutted empty-handed along the wall. This, of course, as Domitian well knew, meant Publius stood even longer in hot, sweaty armour under the sun. He would fight in an oven.

I looked at faces as I walked just beneath the seats and few eyes met mine. All the people saw was my body, but in their faces I could see their minds. Hungry women, envious men, the dissatisfied of the world thinking they were rulers of that world, when they were slaves to their basest passions and most absurd myths. Publius' father looked at my face. Publius' mother's eyes did not meet mine. They looked lower, and I knew I could have her if I wished, even after her son was slain by my hand. That worn face would probably even enjoy it more because of the killing. Roman motherhood.

My face was a mask, a proud, smiling, happy mask to tell the crowd that I loved them and loved to fight for them. As I walked beneath the wall, I let the sun warm my body, and ever so slightly I exercised. Every once in a while I would glance at the bundle of iron standing erect before Domitian in legionnaire salute. The tip of the pilum quivered. The arm muscles were tiring and we had not yet exchanged a blow.

As I passed the seats of the vestal virgins, I covered my loins with my hands, and everyone laughed. A laugh in the arena sounds like a growl. Upon my return to the emperor, I nodded slightly to Domitian. Thus did gladiator send order to emperor, a signal that now would be fine to begin. But young Publius chose to rob himself further of energy. He asked to speak. Domitian granted his wish.

Publius gave a short talk about the honour of his family, the honour of Rome, and the honour of death that is honourably met. This touched the crowd somewhat and I could see Domitian's face anger. He would not allow this little patrician to die with sympathy.

Domitian rose ceremoniously to speak in oration stance. He talked of honour, too. He talked of fair combat with both men armoured equally. He talked of prideful boasts not being honour but shame. He talked of the dishonour of wearing legionnaire uniform in the arena, thus robbing the memory of the true virtue of the arms of Rome, of men who often faced many times their number instead of one naked man.

Domitian talked of the true honour of the Roman patrician who would never indulge in arena play. He talked of the honour of Roman motherhood, which he somewhat tenuously tied to the virtue of the legionnaire. He talked of the honour of the citizens of Rome, and by the time he was finished, this former soldier had praised everyone in the arena and showed Publius to be a thief of their honour. This he yelled, of course, since the arena demands things larger than truth.

Before Publius could offer to take off his armour also, Domitian ordered combat to begin. Publius and I saluted, and I, having taken up sword and shield again, marched with him to the arena centre

We separated by the proper paces.The arena was suddenly very quiet as it always is at the beginning of combat to death, like a massive silent gasp. Only in this arena can it be heard. I breathed very deeply; the stench filled my nostrils. I was at home. Publius quickly showed he had a plan of attack. Heavy scutum shielding his left side from assault, as though he were in a line of battle, he raised pilum to throw. It made a line at his ear, and his elbow was cocked for a short throw instead of a straight, open line for the more forceful but less accurate long throw. A long throw would have been nice. I had never seen one in the arena, only on parade grounds, but I half expected Publius to attempt it. He didn't. His feet were not planted firmly either, another requisite of the long throw. I knew he did not intend to release until I came closer.

At this distance and with Publius standing the way he did, it was a good time to provide the crowd with entertainment I danced around out of his range. I then stood facing him with arms outstetched as though offering a target. I turned my back on him with my head away, listening for his feet to grind in sand. At that distance it meant he was planting for the long throw which could reach me. The crowd yelled its approval, making it impossible to hear Publius' feet, so I turned my head as though scoffing him, but actually to see. His foot was still not set. He was not to be lured into casting the pilum at this distance.

I tried bowing, looking only at his rear foot, the one I would be looking at even if I were standing. This appeared dangerous and the crowd loved it.

I straightened and yawned. Laughter from the people of Rome. Publius still did not move. I would have to draw the throw at closer range. In semi-crouch, shield held forward just beneath my eyesight, I closed. To twenty-five paces I advanced. Twenty fifteen, and with each step Publius' prospects increased, not to advantage but to possibilities.

I knew then in my heart, what I had always known in my head, why gladiators rarely made friends with gladiators. I was thinking as Publius held his throw: Good for you, Publius. Good for you. Smart boy. Good for you, Publius.

Then the pilum came and I was under it and at him in one simple bound. Instead of trying to bounce me back with the scutum as I expected, or going for spatha and ignoring the use of the shield, or even one-handing the scutum to give him protection for his sword reach, he opened the scutum with one hand and reached for the
spatha with the other, concentr
ating on neither. He was an open throat. Not even from a slave had I seen such a thing. He looked at me, stupidly, an open patch of flesh between breastplate and helmet.

I was already going to what I thought was his attack. I hit the pommel of his short sword with my shield and snapped his open scutum arm with a clubbing of my spatha. I slammed my bare head into his helmeted face, knocking him backward and suffering
a
small cut on my forehead. It must have looked as though I were mounting a woman. Publius went down on his back, and I went down on him, my knees straddling. I was up in an instant. He lay beneath me, belly up, mouth open, feet and hands useless, his short sword off somewhere to my left, his scutum weighting down a broken arm. He looked at me hazy-eyed, waiting to die. It was a bad show.

The rumours of his strength had been a trick. Granted, a trick with little chance of success, but that had been a vast improvement over his previous outlook. The old centurion had used cunning. If 1 assumed Publius was strong, I might approach him in such a manner that might be vulnerable if ever so briefly to a weak man, when not to a strong one. The former centurion has used my own retainers against me, not as it turned out for his success, but to rob me of mine, leaving a useless Publius beneath me.

'Get up. I'll move back. Fight for your life,' I said, the smile still large on my face.

'I cannot.'

'You must. Just touch me and I'll fall.' 'I have no arms. My shield is holding one. The other pains me, Eugeni. It hurts.' 'Move it anyhow' 'It hurts. It hurts, Eugeni,' he cried.

I heard a few cheers and then the growl. They were laughing. Not good. 'Hit me with your head.' 'I cannot move it. I pain.' 'Mars's ass.' 'I'm sorry, Eugeni.' 'Idiot you. I will cut your eyes out.' 'I'm sorry.'

'Quiet. I will do you quickly. You will feel nothing.'

I raised the spatha in a grand gesture. I could end his pain quickly, getting the bones in the back of his neck on the first lunge down, and then, with him feeling nothing, I could continue pounding at the throat, hoping a thrust would cut and then possibly wrenching the head off. The crowds would think this was a grand conclusion, not knowing I was mutilating a dead body of a person who ended his life as he had faced it, like a little boy.

If that were not enough, I could run to the entrance and have the master of the games send out criminals singly. I would fight each on my knees, taking the weapon from the fallen man and using it against the next.

Domitian would understand what was happening. After the fifth or sixth criminal, I would appear exhausted, and then he could raise the wooden sword above him and the crowd would cheer me home. Maybe ten criminals. It would be less dangerous than walking from this mismatch, for then rumours would start that not only was Publius drugged, but the secutor I had killed days before was drugged also, as had been all my opponents. Then I would be back here to die for certain, with Domitian thinking he would get all my wealth.

I was grateful now for the six million sesterces he had been promised and had yet to receive.

I thought of these things as I looked to Domitian for this signal of death that was certain. I had to wait. Formalities are vital in Rome. I put the point of the spatha to Publius' neck in case his lack of strength be a ruse also. Domitian waited for the virgin's signal. Sometimes it is a turned-down thumb, other times it is a thumb into the heart signifying, 'Give it to him here.' From the twisted folds of Domitian's toga, I knew it was the thumb and it was down. A thumb up somehow does not twist the folds of the toga as much. The virgins had called death. I barely bothered to look at the rest of the crowd. I knew it would be death there also for the virgins followed the mob It was really always the mob which decided, and all wanted death

'Good-bye, Publius,' I said.

'My mother,' he said. 'Where is her thumb? Tell me that last thing, Eugeni.'

'It is a big crowd, Publius, and a far distance. I do not think I can tell.' 'Look, please. A parting gift.' 'No time.' 'Please.'

I spotted his mother easily even at a distance, for those around her were looking at her as she stood proudly, her robe a mass of twisted cloth. Her husband's head was in his hands. I would have delighted in splitting her, from lacquered hair to perfumed vagina

I felt at that moment truly proud to be a Greek, and if conquering the world did this to women, then I was glad that it was legion, not Greek hoplite, which proved victorious.

"The thumb is up, Publius, Your mother stands with your father, alone, against the tide calling for your death. She is your mother, truly.'

‘I
had thought so ill of her. I never knew her. Help me stand, Eugeni, so that she may see me take my death in a noble Roman way.'

'Roman whelp, the Roman way is why you lie down there like a bug. Death is no more noble than your urine. It is not a big thing. Not a big thing at all. Good-bye.

'What is a big thing, Eugeni? Before you kill me, tell me.'

'There are no big things. Shut your eyes.'

Tell me a great thing. You know great things. Eugeni. You are great.'

'I am cunning, not great.'

I heard the first rustle of boredom. I knew Domitian must be signalling madly by now, and Publius' mother more violently than her neighbours. And at that moment I realized I was proud, not ashamed of my mother. For she had yelled for me, when they took me away. If I were on the ground, instead of Roman Publius, my mother would yell for my life, if the world had come down upon her. My Greek mother, so poor I could not find her, so worthless as to not even have a name in a sale of property, was a goddess compared to the Roman mother.

Was this what I wanted for my son Petronius ? Was Publius an example? The finest thing I had done in my life was not marry Roman.

1 hated Rome, realizing only then how much contempt I had for the city spawn of my drunken father Publius begged.

'A great thing, Eugeni. Tell me a gieat thing, Eugeni, please.' 'Quiet, you poor thing.' 'A great thing.'

'Nothing is great. There is no great thing.' 'A last gift.'

A rolling groan started around the arena, gathering strength. 'A great thing. My mother was a great thing. 1 love my Greek mother. Glory to her forever,' I yelled. And the action of my head stilled the crowd. They naturally thought I was yelling curses at Publius. One hundred and fifty thousand people can naturally do almost anything but be quiet.

'For Phaedra, and her spirit, here is a great thing,' I yelled. 'Mother, for you. Forever.' I brought the spatha pommel high over my head, with the blade pointed down. I knew Rome waited now for the anxious little killing, thirsting as a latifundium slave might thirst for water, yet the crowd thought they had rights to blood, where the slave could drink only as a privilege given by a Roman master.

I brought the spatha down with my entire body behind it. A gross stroke. An obvious stroke. A visible stroke. Away from Plubius'
head. In the sand. Quivering. ‘
No,' I yelled.

And in that silence, it was heard.

Thirteen