Colosseum (12 page)

The words of the oath are not chosen at random: every
tiro
gives his permission for the master of his gladiator school to “burn him, bind him, beat him, kill him.” Without reserving for himself so much as the right to object.

The road to glory is paved with beatings.

Of course, this is for freedmen. And there are a lot of them, to be sure—roughly half the souls in the Ludus Argentum—but they tend to be less accustomed to the rigors of life. For slaves like Verus and Priscus, their time as novices is a farce. Even if they wanted to, they could not leave.

The oath, therefore, is the first milestone on the way to the summit. It is both an affirmation that the dream is within reach, and a sentence to endless toil.

After two hours of running beneath the sun, even the imperturbable Priscus is panting like a hunting dog, tongue lolling from his mouth and muscles crying out for mercy.

The crack of the instructor's whip puts a stop to the first training exercise. The novices fall to the ground like so much rotten fruit. The
untores
move rapidly through the group, soothing torn calves and handing out a few bowls of water. This is not kindness, merely good sense: twenty overgrown lads suffering muscle cramps are no use to Rubius. Especially now that the game is getting serious. The instructor was quite clear: warmed muscles and hydration. Otherwise they are going nowhere.

Verus and Priscus get their breath back and look one another in the eye. Amazingly, it is the Gaul who speaks first: “Did you sleep?”

“Like a log,” lies Verus. “You?”

Priscus shakes his head as he watches his thigh muscles contract beneath the expert hands of masseur: “Not a wink. Bad dreams…”

The man of ice speaks without a hint of shame. As though it were the most natural thing in the world to expose his weakness, there in the sand. His companion does not understand what has brought about such openness, but he is pleased by the sudden show of trust. All at once, he feels closer to his brother in blood. He does not even consider making fun of him.

“What did you dream about?”

“My mother. She died when I was small, I can barely remember her face.”

The Briton swallows the information with difficulty, along with the saliva in his mouth. Thick and unpleasant, it tastes of death.

“In the dream…did she talk to you?” the wind carries his voice away.

Priscus nods. “She told me to stop hoping. Because, sooner or later, everyone gets what they deserve…”

Verus is no longer sure it was a good idea to ask the Gaul about his dreams. By the gods, life is already hard enough in this den of wild beasts. What need is there for another cupful of melancholy this early in the morning? The young man has a fire that still burns within him. He wants to shout in Priscus's face that he needs to stop dwelling on the past because the future, out there beyond those walls, glints with all the promise of a diamond in a heap of shit. You need to hold your nose, dive in and retrieve it, without worrying about what you will look like when you are rich.

But he does not have the time, because the instructor's whip reaches his companion's ear before his words have left his lips. The kind of lash that can make a man look like a lizard from the side on.

For the rest of his life.

Priscus screams as the blood begins to flow, jumping to his feet and raising his guard.

Rubius sinks his gaze into the ice-cold eyes of the slave: “That was for your whore of a mother, boy. Tell her to get lost, no one disturbs my men. Not even when they're asleep!”

Priscus is stunned by the pain and staggered by the trainer's words. Something hot is spreading through the deep of his chest. He cannot help but show a grateful grin. The same smile a condemned prisoner reserves for his headman, a moment before the ax falls.

“And now get back in line—everyone back in line, you useless damned scum!”

Training begins once more, heralded by another crack of twisted leather. It is time for the pole.

The veterans sit sniggering in the arena while two of their number attack each other relentlessly. On the other side of the courtyard, however, the novices wait their turn to face an opponent that, although rather more innocuous, is every bit as tough. The pole is just as one might expect, apart from the pair of straw arms girded in iron. The game consists of delivering as many thrusts as possible without blunting the end of the
rudius
.

The instructor's shouts rise above all the other noise: “No cutting! Only sissies cut! You can heal a gash, but a blade to the throat or the heart and it's game over. Thrust, may Jupiter Pluvius twice curse you! THRUST!”

But thrusting is a very tiring business. And if done with too much zeal the novice runs the risk of a counterblow, which might mean anything up to a cracked rib if he is unlucky. Still, there is no alternative. Rubius and his whip see to it that the slowest learners are sufficiently motivated to master the supreme art of war, every time a stab is not quite up to scratch.

This continues nonstop all through the morning.

At lunch time the novices are tasked with serving the veterans and the guards.

The instructorand the doctor eat by themselves, they have no need of cupbearers or damned waiters.

Whatever is left of the unchanging slop of barley and beans ends up in the grumbling stomachs of the humiliated novices. Verus and Priscus eat a bowl of leftovers, picked up off the ground after a fight breaks out amongst the
primi
. Even the gods in the Elysian Fields do not eat in peace; in the barracks there is no chance.

The training with the pole, the obsessive repetition of the same movements—thrust, parry, dodge, thrust—are what make up the rich earth into which the saplings' roots must spread before their branches can be allowed to reach skyward, before their leaves may open.

The school does not train only one type of gladiator. There are many different classes, and many different fighting styles. The recruits often discuss what kind of future the instructorhas in store for them, but they can never be sure.

“Gladiators are like plants,” Decius Ircius declares one day, walking through the courtyard as he does every afternoon, touring the individual duels. “In the wrong soil, even the toughest of shrubs may wilt. From the right graft, you can get the perfect tree out of two very ordinary plants.” To judge from what happens in the courtyard of the school, he is not wrong.

Later on the weapons are brought in for the veterans, and it is not unusual, even in training fights, for the physician to be called on to stem a hemorrhage, brought on by an overly enthusiastic jab of the trident or slash from the
sica
, the curved Thracian blade.

But there is no let up for the novices either, that much is certain. They are paired up, after which the master at arms invites them to begin stabbing at one another with their wooden swords before dropping them on the ground and starting to punch and kick each other's faces in.

At this stage of their athletic training, the novices' destinies are not yet set in stone. And that is just what the brawls in the sand are for: apart from building character and strengthening muscle, they let the instructoruncover the hidden talents of each individual killer.

If he is well built and deals a lethal blow, he will learn to fight as a
murmillo
or a Thracian.

If he shows himself capable of turning powerful joints and ferocious muscles to his advantage in a fight, he will be a
secutor
or a
retiarius
, a net fighter.

If his eyes are hungry for death then he will be given the curved swords of the
dimachaerus
or the half-moon of the scissor.

The liturgy of arms is sacred. Verus and Priscus are fighting, caked in sand and sweat, when the guards lead the veterans, under strict surveillance, into the equipment rooms. The two slave novices are overcome with curiosity every time, guessing and placing bets on who will wear what, which part of the warriors' armor will shine most brightly, whether the Thracian's closed helmet or the bronze shield of that day's
hoplomachus
.

Needless to say, they rarely guess correctly. The show is full of surprises, and Decius Ircius knows how to entertain his audience and renew their wonder, fight after fight. The lanistais a fanatic when it comes to looking after the “stuff.” Arms and armor are kept in different parts of the house, some of them very well hidden. In the building where the gladiators sleep, tales are told of secret rooms crammed with gilded armor and helmets decorated with feline grins and double-pronged horns. Unlike in most schools, the equipment has not been wrecked from overuse: helms, swords, tridents, and shields all bear signs of the blows they have suffered and the blood they have spilt, naturally. But every evening Ircius has the armor polished and cleaned, just like his fighters' muscles.

Decius Ircius is a control freak: he keeps a tight rein on his school and on his life, and rules both with an iron fist.

Here they come, then. The damned veterans.

The arena is in the courtyard's eastern corner, a modest training ring with wooden terraces and everything else required for a proper fight. The names of the senior gladiators are legendary, displayed on the bone tablets that transform them into both heroes and survivors: Tigris, Marcus of Capua, Tempest, Bato, Columbus, and of course Cosmos, king of the
murmillones
.

The lanista examines their equipment along with the instructor. Together they inspect every last inch of the iron uniforms worn by the magnificent six, searching for a speck of dust or a suspicious stain.

As he walks up and down the line, Ircius holds a whip tightly in his right hand, making short lashing movements in the air. It is a constant threat, and represents the tension that must run through the warriors' veins before every fight.

Who cares if it is only training.

The sun's rays, now low in the sky, glint off the gladiators' helmets. As they try to outdo one another in the sand, Verus and Priscus cannot help admiring once more the splendor of the bronze Corinthian helmet with its apple-green crests running along the ridge, worn by Tigris, today's
hoplomachus
. And the greaves strapped to his shins, as polished as the cup of Ganymede itself.

The equipment of the
primi
is appalling and magnificent, like death in battle. Cosmos the
murmillo
holds a curved shield that weighs as much as a couple of chubby little boys: wood and wrought iron, folded by fire and the hammers of experienced artisans, painted in lustrous black—the color of Pluto and of silence—and embossed with red in the shape of two mysterious, intertwined fish, mouths wide open around the brass bolt in the middle of the
clipeus
. He too wears shin guards, and a
manica
made of fabric, leather, and metal plate to protect his arm. In his right hand he holds a
gladius
, the short Roman-style sword, to use against Tigris's spear; no soldier of death is ever alone.

Then the gladiators fight one another.

There are tried and tested sparring pairs, and this is what the categories are for:
murmillo
against
hoplomachus
, Thracian against
murmillo
,
murmillo
against
retiarius
, scissor against scissor, scissor against
retiarius
and so on.

The first into the arena after Decius Ircius's inspection is over—he has now taken a seat on the steps with his hands under his chin and his eyes eager for action—are these last two on the list. Bato is the scissor, the bloodthirsty son of a whorehouse, and Tempest is the
retiarius
, armed to kill but practically naked.

The instructorgives the signal.

Ircius shouts, “Strength and honor!” and the fight begins.

There is no rush when the fighters enter the arena. The crowd loves to hold its breath.

Bato is a terrifying sight—he appears to be built of iron. An automaton possessed by a demon, or something worse. On his head an oval-shaped bascinet helmet of gleaming bronze. On his chest and arms hangs a clinking shirt of sharp-scaled mail. On his legs tubular greaves that match the helmet, in his right hand a
gladius
and his left the real showpiece: his forearm is covered by an artificial metal limb, a lethal, perfectly molded tube terminating in a curved blade. It is the ideal tool for cutting an opponent's throat, or for escaping from the net that Tempest is already whirling above his bare head.

The
retiarius
has a vile job. He may well have more weapons to hand than his adversaries (dagger, trident and net), but his body is all but naked. A bronze belt around his waist, just above the
subligaculum
loincloth, the standard “uniform” of all fighters in the arena, and a metal plate covering his throat and left shoulder. And that is all. He is basically defenseless, and forced to concentrate on the attack, aiming to outmaneuver his enemy and put him out of action as rapidly as possible.

It is a job for madmen and dreamers.

Tempest casts his net and the other attempts to dodge it, but the armor slows his movements and Bato finds himself sprawling on the ground like a lamb manhandled by a shepherd. The
retiarius
approaches with his trident raised—he wants to finish it quickly. Of course, he will not run his opponent through—this is only training. But he might leave him a little reminder on his thigh, who can tell.

Today Tempest is in a good mood.

The scissorsquirms, rolling around impotently in the thick mesh, while Tempest circles him like a curse. Bato manages to free his left arm and the curved blade does its work, tearing through the net just enough to let him wriggle free. But not before he has embroidered his flesh with a delicate pattern in blood, courtesy of the fish hooks coating the inside of the net.