Colosseum (15 page)

The street was not a choice, it was the only way.

In the beginning they got by as best they could. Winter does not help; the cold worms its way into everything. And even if the bodies stink a little less, the pestilence spreads regardless. Sure, if the sun was shining there would be total collapse, but sitting among the dead with chattering teeth for company is no holiday, especially when you have not eaten for days on end.

Food is not a problem. But where there is food, there is trouble. Big trouble.

Bands of ragged street kids sweep the houses of the dead, knives between their teeth and filthy cloth sacks in their hands. The meager storerooms of the
insulae
are attacked with more savagery than the troops of Scipio, who faced down the ferocious hordes of Carthage. Every last crust of bread, every jar of oil, every grain of wheat is carried off in bulging sacks. No one knows where it ends up. Some say a new order is forming in the city, that there are dark masters who recognize only the law of blood and iron, defying that of the Eagle. More and more the rumors speak of a certain Draco, lord of whores and dice, and his gangs of dandies, all armed to the teeth.

Perhaps it is just a legend, but the people are afraid. And the Empire does nothing, especially where the alleyways are unlit and the stench of death dulls the very senses.

Rome is turning into an open-air cemetery, the plague snapping at her people's heels. Hygiene is scant where it exists at all, making things worse: a scratch becomes a festering wound, a grazed knee a magnet for infection. Lungs wither in the cold, sticky mucus clogs the throats of its victims.

People are dying.

Selene, the goddess of peaceful death, has fled, leaving the field to Proserpina. The Queen of the Underworld has fire in her eyes, and it is the common folk that feel her wrath. There is no point in resisting, no cause for hope.

The disease takes no prisoners. It kills or it pardons, but everywhere it leaves its mark.

Verus and Priscus are among the lucky ones; by the end of the first week they knew the evil would not touch them. That is how it is, without logic or even any damned sense. Innocent babies perish while old men and gladiators live. A mother dies of hunger, hardship and buboes while her son, still wet behind the ears, hangs on to life. Come tomorrow morning he too will be fodder for the rats, like the cold corpse of the woman who brought him into the world.

Rats creep and crawl, furtive as shadows. Rats with blades, under Draco's command.

Verus and Priscus live on charity; they never resort to violence, though they could if they chose to. Then, one day, something happens that takes the Briton back to his past. To those days of sea and wind, fleeting but unforgettable in their intensity.

Verus runs into Marcius. He thinks he must be dreaming.

The sailor looks him up and down.

“You've lost weight, lad. What have you been up to?”

In reality the last time they saw one another was not so long ago; only a couple of seasons have passed. But to Verus it feels like an entire lifetime. Time stopped when he entered the Ludus Argentum, crystallized in a bubble of ambition, pain, and exhaustion. In his time as a novice there was no room for life, only determination and willpower. And contempt for danger.

For Marcius, on the other hand, not much has changed.

“How's it going? Do you miss Misenum?” Verus tries to be polite.

“Sure I miss the sea. I'll never get used to this stone sky,” he says, indicating the towering bulk of the
insulae
and sounding as though he were talking about some incredible giant rather than just his view of the sun. “But I can't complain. The Emperor has guaranteed safety and food to those working in the Amphitheater. We Misenes are busy from sunrise to sunset, perfecting our techniques with the velarium
.
We're becoming experts, we can open it and close it again in quarter of an hour. What a job, you should come and have a look…”

“If only…” Verus sighs, disconsolately. Priscus notices his discomfort. They understand each other more each day; a mere glance is enough to know what his friend is thinking. Priscus holds the key to the Briton's heart. He cuts in before the sailor can reply: “Do you think they would let a pair like us into the Amphitheater? Marcius, I won't lie to you, we could really do with some work, or even just a place to stay…”

The two are always frank. They have no shame; they are slaves. Their lives have depended on the generosity of others for a long time now.

Marcius scratches his head—he is happy to have come across the lad. And he has no need to ask him what happened to see that he is having a rough time of it. For some reason the pestilence has spared him as the city dies, one body after another. It is a sign, a damned fine opportunity to show he is a good man. The gods speak through the sad eyes of a pair of hungry warriors. Soldiers disarmed in peacetime, helpless in a world that has slipped its moorings.

“Come with me. We'll think of something.”

Verus and Priscus break into a smile—an empty belly is no joke. After days spent picking at leftovers on the roadside like a couple of stray dogs, there is finally the glimmer of a future. Marcius leads the men through an opening that gives onto an endless tunnel. They are inside the Amphitheater, in the empty veins of the stone giant.

The sailor has memorized every twist and turn, every last corner of the labyrinth. Anyone else would get lost in there, but not him. The colossus of dust and dreams is his new home, his sea on dry land. He must find his way using the crosses on the wall, now that the stars have gone out.

After an obstacle course lit by nothing more than an old torch of pitch, rags, and smoke, which Marcius picked up before beginning their subterranean journey, the three find themselves in a chamber with surfaces as shiny as a beetle's shell. A dozen water spouts line the blinding black of the varnished walls, the evocative roar of running water.

“What the hell is this place?” Verus, as usual, does not realize that he is actually closer to home than he has been in ten months. There is no need for Marcius to play the Cicero this time: Priscus has already figured it out.

“These are the barracks baths, my friend. The most ambitious barracks in the whole of Rome. This is where the gods will wash away the blood of the vanquished, when it is time.”

The Briton hates the fact that he can never keep up with his friend, especially now he has become so open and talkative. But there are certain metaphors, certain pompous words that slip out of his mouth, that he just cannot grasp. Even when he does manage to grapple onto some part of one of those complex and meandering sentences, he either gets the wrong end of the stick or cannot think how to respond. It is as though his breath gets caught in his throat, and has no desire to leave. And so he confines himself to scratching his head in puzzlement.

Priscus smiles, but Marcius does the interpreting: “These are the baths of the Ludus Magnus, the greatest gladiator school in the Empire. When the work is finished, this is where the bravest of heroes will bathe. For the moment though, this place is emptier than the deserts of Egypt. The
ludus
won't be ready for a good few months yet.” Marcius does not mince his words: “Go ahead, lads. Give yourselves a damn good wash, otherwise they won't let you in the Amphitheater even with Jupiter Versor himself there to vouch for you. The men are scared shitless by this pestilence.”

Verus and Priscus do not need to be told twice. They throw off the rags that have become their second skins since leaving Decius Ircius's house and delight in the sizzle of the freezing jets of water on their flesh. It is a blessing; the baths in their old
ludus
were never this refreshing. The cold is down to the position of the baths and the imposing limestone foundations, which make the space cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

Marcius takes his leave, mumbling about going to find some clothes, and returns with a pair of dark tunics which even have their own hoods. Filled with gratitude, the two pull them on over their heads.

Next they have to go all the way back again, to the gates of the building site.

Priscus hesitates for a moment before he crosses the threshold. His old life, mourned since his very first day as a gladiator, welcomes him back in the worst possible way: with a pang of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

Marcius notices it.

“Lads, around here there are certain things no one cares about any more. The masters of the site all fled the Amphitheater at the first whiff of plague, ran off to their pretty villas in the countryside. The work hasn't stopped, partly because the workers don't know where else to go. But the ‘bosses' see freedmen and slaves as pretty much the same thing. We're all but leaves on the wind, my friends…”

Verus is happy to hear his friend speaking that way. Despite the circumstances, his renewed status as a “free man” has left him feeling stronger. Priscus however is suspicious, especially as regards the new “bosses” directing the work.

The term hovers in the air, unexplained, unspoken, dangerous. As though there were someone else giving the orders in the Emperor's own home. The Gaul has a bad feeling.

In any case they are inside. And a lost world comes back to greet them as strangers.

The works have made surprising progress, with buttresses all but finished and the arena filled with sand. Stones have been polished and fitted into every gap, flights of steps gradually taking on their final form.

And there, above the last arcade, is a miracle.

There are no other words to describe the wonder that is the velarium. Just as Priscus raises his eyes skyward, Marcius's companions are busy moving the enormous sail towards the center of the arena. The system of winches and pulleys is incredible, with ropes twisting and turning through pathways of wheels and gears and stretching out into the lead-gray void, tracing a breathtaking spider's web that draws the endless white sheet across the stadium. The movement is slow but steady, and Verus and Priscus watch, mesmerized, until the show is over and the process of covering the arena is complete.

It is a solemn moment and Marcius respects it by keeping his silence.

Only when it is all over does he allow himself to exclaim, with the voice of a father admiring a son who has emerged victorious from the Olympic races: “The greatest sail in the world.”

Verus smiles and applauds. Priscus crosses his arms, but his eyes are nevertheless filled with wonder. He has never seen anything like this in his life.

Rome is truly the land of folly and desire. And of magic without precedent.

Just enough time to recover from the spectacle before Marcius leads them into the maze-like community the building site has become. Gone is the division of labor that formed the basis of everything the Mole and his competitors worked for. Nor is there any partitioning into areas or groups: now the woodwrights toil alongside the sculptors, the stonemasons grin at the blacksmiths, busy molding the lead that will seal the hinges of the arena's hundred doors. However, Priscus notes in a glance the atmosphere of unease mixed with an excessive attention to detail.

He asks himself where the guards that oversee the slaves are.

Marcius seems to read his thoughts: “Death has turned us into brothers. We have learned to watch each other's backs. And where goodwill is not enough, the shadow of Draco is a big help.”

The sailor walks down the steps towards the center of the arena. A tall, bearded man walks confidently up to him. He is escorted by two hard-looking men with knives on show, sporting sheepskin pants in the style of the northern tribes. Marcius smiles and the man smiles back. Priscus mutters, “Draco…” through clenched jaws. Verus nods, and his good cheer fades instantly.

Draco and Marcius chat for some time, leaving the young men to one side. Then, finally, they shake hands in the Roman manner, clasping one another's forearms, before Marcius kneels and the other—the new master of the building site—approaches them.

Verus and Priscus would gladly flee, but it is too late. Too late for anything, except survival. So they move towards him, careful to stand up straight but without showing off the power of their muscular chests: at times, even an ill-considered stance can be perceived as a challenge.

“So you're looking for work, are you?” Draco's voice is cavernous, his eyes black as night. The two men bow their heads and declare that they are. They call him
dominus
.

“Here there are no masters here, you'd do well to remember it. Here we work, and that's it. If you wish to toil here, you're most welcome. Rome needs strong arms. Her sons are dropping like flies…”

Verus and Priscus are confounded. In truth the Briton has already been won over by the cutthroat's way of doing things—because there is absolutely no doubt that Draco is a first-rate cutthroat. But Priscus does not trust him, despite his apparent kindness. On the street he has heard things about this son of a bitch that give him goose bumps.

Draco made his money selling children; he has hacked off hands for a dirty look, and has drunk the blood of his enemies. And even if he poses as savior of the Empire, Priscus would prefer to keep his distance.

Shame he needs a job.

No job, no tomorrow.

No future without Draco.

Nevertheless, the Gaul is the first to take the bearded bastard's hand. A manly shake, and Verus does the same.

Draco proffers a smile and his eyes linger over the scars that furrow the chests and arms of the two warriors before him. Even a blind man would realize he had two true professionals of the arena standing before him. A gladiator does not pass unobserved: he has lived the lives of ten soldiers, and his eyes do not hold the same desperation. It is impossible not to recognize one when he is standing before you.