Colosseum (21 page)

The greatest Rome has ever seen.

What is one miserable life next to everlasting glory?

Still, Sergius is no more. Gone for good, bled like a chicken for the pot. Verus's blade went deep. The infection did the rest. A day and a night of agony.

When even Ezius had had enough of sitting by the youth's bedside, Priscus offered to take his place. Verus asked to keep him company, but the Gaul banished him summarily.

The abyss between the two warriors has widened still further. Their bond, once solid and robust, is now taut as a windblown rope on a sailing ship, gnawed at by the salty air, one strand giving way at a time as opposing forces pull in two different directions.

They are many miles apart.

Sergius died at dawn on the day consecrated to Mars, denied the chance to vaunt the longed-for title of veteran.

He did not survive his first combat in the arena.

Since no one must find out about it, least of all Senator Polonius, the only rites that await him are an anonymous funeral and a pyre. The tears of his widow and the memories of those who loved him.

Cosmos, Priscus, and Tempest grip the edges of the winding sheet and place the body on the litter, lifting it onto their shoulders. They wear the traditional black cloaks. Hoods shroud their faces, making the procession of mourning warriors resemble a line of beggars, like those who wander through the villages of the North.

Verus trails along behind the cortège as it leaves the
ludus
, moving silently along the city streets. Ircius heads the train, waving back the professional mourners who tear out their hair as the nameless corpse passes by. He silences their fake grieving with a fistful of
assarii
.

A few improvised tambourines are played as the corpse passes the forums and then turns down toward the river, past the Circus Maximus and beneath the obelisk of Rameses II. Half an hour later the mourners reaches their destination, a semi-deserted hillside. Only the pyre and a few pale faces await the arrival of the grim procession, while next to the
busto
—the place used for building fires at the cemetery—hired hands have piled dry branches and crisp leaves to receive Sergius's body.

Fosca's eyes are red from weeping. The children cling to her on all sides, terrified and tearful.

Cosmos and Tempest place the cadaver on the pyre as somebody lights the fire.

Priscus takes a silver coin from his pocket and places it on the dead man's lips. This is the ferryman Charon's fee, the price of the dead man's final journey.

Fosca sobs as the flames rise. Ircius goes over to her and holds out a small bag: “Five thousand
sestertii
. The fee for the five years your husband gave me.”

Fosca does not know what to say; such a gesture is most unusual.

But Decius Ircius is no villain. He knows the price of sacrifice, knows hunger and misfortune better than anyone.

Decius Ircius is an honest man.

He wants no debts on his conscience.

The woman accepts the money in exchange for her most treasured possession. She knows the contents of the sack will allow her to put food on the table for her little ones every evening, without having to spread her legs for the baker or the bean merchant. But in spite of that, she cannot help but hate the lanistaand all he stands for. With all her broken heart.

One particular flame seems to leap higher than the others, unsettling those present; the smell of burning flesh is nauseating.

“Nobody has said the funeral rites,” Cosmos observes.

Verus takes a step towards the fire with such determination that he seems ready to throw himself into the searing heat.

“Sergius was a righteous man. And he did not deserve to die…”

Fosca collapses in tears, her legs give way, the children barely manage to hold her up.

Priscus steps up to Verus. “We all deserve to die. Every one of us,” he intones, shooting a dark glare at his friend before pulling up his hood again and walking away.

Cremating a human body is a slow and laborious job. It can take a whole day. Almost nobody has the time, the stomach or the patience to sit it through to the end.

The gladiators in black are the first to leave the field. Ircius follows shortly after, and is suddenly surrounded by insistent beggars and a few wastrels in search of adventure.

Fosca remains alone in the company of the men tasked with carrying out the cremation.

By the time the fire is finally spent, darkness has long fallen.

Sergius's soul flutters in the windblown ash.

It is pitch black when the two warriors of the Ludus Argentumclose the heavy gates again behind them and head for their cells. As Verus and Priscus cross the threshold into the barracks, a small figure cloaked in darkness is waiting for them.

The figure approaches the two fighters, who are unsuspecting, so tiny and innocuous is the shadowy figure before them. Then they notice a few wisps of blonde hair protruding from inside the cloak, pulled down over her curls.

It is Julia. She lowers the hood and reveals her diamond eyes. Verus's heart suddenly leaps furiously in his ribcage.

The Briton had returned to the school in silence, his soul shattered by too much life and too much death. He feels alone and lost, cast adrift. He feels like getting drunk and picking a fight, but even the right to anger is denied to a slave. As his inner fire consumes him, he stands wordless before the apparition.

As for Priscus, he feels a twinge of irritation as she says languidly: “I can think of nothing but you and you alone. I have been waiting here for hours. I cannot go on like this…”

The Gaul has a sudden urge to turn his back on her. But her family is of a certain standing, and a slave cannot afford to offend his superiors. So he tries to extricate himself with all the tact and courtesy he is capable of.

“My lady, not tonight, I beseech you. I would be poor company: we have just finished burying our brother…”

Julia is taken aback and has no answer as she watches the Gaul lumber off toward to his bare cell. Verus follows on his friend's heels, drinking in her perfume with a deep breath as he walks past. In that moment, the eternal sleep suddenly seems sweeter than wakefulness.

Julia lingers in the courtyard of the school for a while, unsure whether to leave or to pursue the object of her desire. Then through the silence she hears her beloved's agonizing sobs. His weeping is like a river of despair that has burst its banks, sweeping all before it. She imagines Priscus's face twisted in grief.

In her mind's eye she is comforting her lover as she shuffles quietly into the building and already imagines kissing his salty lips, easing his pain in the only way she knows how, pushing life into life where oblivion has snatched it all away.

She follows the sound of the sobs, but to her surprise she does not find what she is looking for.

Leaning against the wall of the armory is Verus, alone.

Verus, wracked by a suffering deep enough to shatter the universe itself.

Julia approaches him cautiously, her pulse quickening. The Briton looks up and meets her glistening, silken eyes. They draw closer and closer, a mere warm breath away. Julia wants to say something, but the Briton does not give her time. He kisses her furiously, and she gives in to him.

Bloodthirsty hands pull off her cloak and rummage through her clothes, clumsily loosening knots. Julia is naked and magnificent, her breath heaving and cunt moist and ready. Verus tastes it for the first time and gulps it down, like a dying man at the fountain of youth.

Julia groans and screams, her polished nails scraping against the wooden door.

He turns her over, pulls up her dress and takes her from behind. She gasps with pleasure, Verus's powerful hands gripping her hips.

He pounds away at her even as his tears continue to flow.

Julia grabs hold of his fingers and places them on her sex, convincing him to explore her properly.

They climax together. Suddenly, as in a dream. Verus's fire explodes into Julia's serenity. Hot seed seals their impossible and cowardly love.

Sweat and steaming skin, there is nothing more now.

Neither of them notices the shadow watching them, a shadow disgusted with himself and revolted by the world.

Priscus has witnessed the entire scene. Brimming with a mixture of hatred and desire, he curses himself and his erect manhood, for him a humiliation even greater than dishonor. Nothing makes sense any longer, and ice turns to fire. Jealousy and disgust swallow up everything else, digesting the future in a sea of gastric juices.

Outside, beyond the bare window, there is only starless void.

It all ends tonight, it ends to begin again.

Love is such utter nonsense, such trash.

Ah yes, death is more honest, far more honest than this crap.

Whoe'er has […] gold, secure may sail

P
ETRONIUS
,
Satyricon
,
CXXXVII

Rome,
AD
80, June

TODAY IS A holiday.

A magical day, that much is clear from the first rays of sunlight, warm enough to be taken as a promise of summer. It is heralded by a messenger from the Emperor, who does not stop pounding away at the door knocker until the master has awoken.

These days the lanista Decius Ircius sleeps fitfully, dreaming of serpents and tarantulas biting his balls all night long, god knows why. He has been living permanently inside the Ludus Argentum ever since he returned to Rome.

At the sound of the knocking he wakes up in a cold sweat and runs to the door. He would love to be able to buy a slave to take care of this kind of damned chore, but fears the men may think he is getting old. Or worse, that his strength is not what it once was. On top of that, an excessive number of servants in one's home is the first, unequivocal step towards full-blown homosexuality.

Which is why he goes to answer the door himself, before the idiot breaks it down. He throws it open with every intention of bollocking whoever has dared to disturb his morning rest, but when he spots the Emperor's ensign on the man's clothing, a shrewd smile spreads across his face.

The messenger is by no means accustomed to apologizing or observing other social niceties—he is there on the business of the sovereign, after all.

“Emperor Titus,” he begins peremptorily, “will come to visit your school in the company of his daughter, at the fifth hour, or else when he sees fit—in any case before the sun reaches its zenith. Prepare yourself to receive this greatest of honors, Decius of the House of Silver.”

The startled Ircius gives a quick bow, shakes the messenger's hand and drops a handful of
assarii
into the messenger's pouch. The man almost sneers in disgust but shows no inkling to return the money, and instead beats the sand off his sandals and continues on his rounds.

The lanistaturns from the door and rushes madly through the corridors of the school, raising everyone from their beds. A visit from the Emperor! Expected within the next four or five hours! There is so much to be done!

Aton lines up the men in the courtyard, while Ircius assembles the physician and the
untores
and sends someone to hire some slaves for the day to clean the
ludus
from top to bottom.

A barracks is not exactly the ideal place to receive his Imperial Majesty, even if there have been many monarchs throughout Roman history who have been great enthusiasts of the gladiatorial games and their heroes.

There is at least one room in the Ludus Argentumthat is appropriate for receiving guests: it is certainly no banquet hall, but it is big enough to hold a couple of
triclinia
, some polished bronze braziers, broad tables laden with food and a few mirrors, expertly distributed to create an optical illusion of more space than there actually is. The room is on the top floor of the school, where Ircius's rooms are also located. And it opens onto the broad balcony, transformed for the occasion into the place of honor. From here in complete comfort the Emperor will be able to watch the fights in the arena below, laid on by the master of the
ludus
.

At the peak of the fifth hour and not a minute later, the lord of the Eagle arrives.

Titus Flavius Vespasianus looks worn out. The lined face of a man with too much to think about, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, yet his hair neatly combed—as befits his rank.

He wears nothing extravagant, but the material his clothes are made from is feathery and rustles, the cloth of the gods. The cobalt-blue tunic is broad and clings to his bulky physique, secured at the waist with the traditional belt. Hand-carved Bithynian leather, the buckle a wolf's head. The string uppers of his light-colored sandals squeak as he walks. Brass bracers cover his wrists, the height of fashion. Over his tunic, a light cloak, also of dark leather and elegantly decorated. Titus had no wish to put it on, but his daughter insisted: “You are power incarnate, father. All of Rome must know it!”

The Emperor would have liked to counter her with: “My little goldilocks—all of Rome knows it already,” but arguing with his daughter first thing in the morning is one of the ten things Titus most dislikes in this world, along with eating capers and walking in the foothills. So he yielded to her, as always.

The girl is petite and very beautiful. Her head covered by a silken shawl that reveals its costly transparency in the daylight, allowing her blond locks to shine in the fiery midday sunbeams.

Her delicate dress is lightly girded with a garland of rose petals, and her slender ankles, bound by the interweaving straps of the sandals, lend her an ethereal lightness.

The gladiators are lined up smartly in the courtyard, dressed up in iron for the great occasion. The warriors stand motionless and powerful, burnished metal glinting in the sun,
manicae
and greaves in place, helmets tucked under an arm, ready to spill their blood in order to wrest a smile from the Emperor.

Cosmos, Tempest, and Bato are left gazing open-mouthed at the innocent beauty of Titus Flavius Vespasianus's firstborn, this noblewoman of Rome. But the real shock is in store for Verus and Priscus: a shiver runs down each of their spines when the girl lowers her shawl, revealing her true identity.
Julia
.

The name chimes in the Gaul's and the Briton's heads like a broken bell.

Julia.

The beginning of the end, their rift, the bone of contention.

Julia.

Foolish, reckless love.

Julia.

The Emperor's daughter.

Julia.

An impossible love.

An ocean of thoughts washes over the gladiators while the house breaks into acclamation for the great leader.

Titus blesses them with a movement of his hand.

Julia greets them, feigning shyness. She has the nerve of a sixteen-year-old, and a destiny of gold and salty tears tied firmly to her shoulders. Her smile is a shoot breaking free of the earth, a shattered dream, a sailor's promise.

Priscus feels the hatred creeping through his teeth; he clenches his jaw furiously, until he can hear the grinding of his incisors. But he does not stop smiling, because his role demands it. Because he is a servant, just like Verus.

Verus is even harder hit; he is crestfallen. He held a dream in his hands, the night of the funeral: the unspeakable dream of having her for his own. Julia, a name that flushes his skin and stirs his innards.

He allowed himself to fantasize, something a slave should never do: his past and his future do not belong to him. He dreamt, as he clasped the girl's hips, of a life together. Of waking up and falling asleep next to her, ready to satisfy her every desire, prepared to protect her with his very life. As he danced inside her he imagined she was his, that he had uncovered the secrets of her body and opened up her heart. But it was all a delusion.

What sort of future could a servant ever have with the Emperor's daughter?

For the wild lovers there is no tomorrow; real life has come to claim its due.

Ircius knows nothing of this, or simply does not wish to know. It is no business of his what the men get up to between the thighs of the nobility. The desires of the rich are nothing to do with him; the silvery drool of the powerful is disgusting enough for him to profit from it without suffering any feelings of remorse.

Decius Ircius is man of honor, and a man of business.

And he will not miss his chance to become king of the rabble.

Not today.

“On the occasion of your visit, o magnificent one, which honors my home more than the sun of Apollo or the favor of the gods, allow me to offer you a combat worthy of the lord of the Earth.
Murmillo
against Thracian, the quintessential gladiatorial contest. Verus, Priscus, prepare yourselves!”

The command is abrupt, delivered without hesitation.

Titus and his extraordinary outfit sink into a chair decorated with gold leaf at the center of the royal box, improvised but glossy as an eyeball. Julia seats herself beside him with a mischievous smile, biting her lip with anticipation.

The girl is not made of ice; she knows what is happening.

Just the same way as she knows she is the cause of the tension that she can definitely sense between the two men.
Women know
. But youth and recklessness are the wings of a butterfly at the eye of the cyclone. Sandstorms ink out the blue skies of common sense.

Julia does not know what she wants, that much is certain.

But she wants it all, just the same.

Sitting by her father she crosses her legs, a double lock sealing the gates of pleasure, and waits for blood, the justice of the sand.

Verus and Priscus put on their helmets and enter the arena, each ready to harm the other.

They have good call to be furious.

Excellent reasons to trample the very life out of one another.

Priscus hates himself and loves Verus. Loves him, there is no more doubt about it. Not as a friend or a brother-in-arms, but as Venus commands of curious hearts. He is wracked with jealousy every time the Briton's gaze meets the dewy eyes of the Emperor's daughter. He knows what lies beneath the surface of his forbidden dream. He understands the chafe of desire because he feels it in every moment. He both loves and rejects the fire that has been consuming Verus since the night when he lost everything and life began again.

He still cannot fathom what happened to Sergius, but he remembers word for word what he told the son of the Island on the day they were recruited:
We've signed a pact with death. That's what it means to be a fucking gladiator
.

He pities himself and his own unrealizable passion, but he accepts his destiny like a man. And he knows his road will take him far.

Verus, for his part, is incandescent with rage. He curses himself, his loneliness, the cruelty of a destiny that enjoys nothing more than tearing him away from everyone around him. First Priscus, snatched violently away by the seeds of rivalry. Then Julia, scented and then lost like the perfume of winter flowers, poking through the snow only to then freeze to death.

Verus's rage is a slap in the face of reason, the urge to fight is his inexhaustible fuel. Always.

He knows he should not blame his friend, and would much prefer to fight himself if he could; to enter the arena against a twin of flesh and bone, to punish him and punish himself for the nothingness he has created. But the law of iron is the same for everyone: the oath of the
ludus
demands it.

Fratricide is their daily bread, and pity a bland condiment for days of fast.

To arms then, because tomorrow is but a shitty illusion.

The silence is a vise, a surreal blanket.

This is not the place for martyrdom; blood deserves a noisy crowd, crazed shouting.

But today there is nobody.

Except the Emperor, his paltry entourage and his beautiful young daughter, of course.

Except his companions, the
untores
, the instructor, and his master.

Today the crowd is mute. They are fighting for themselves.

Verus and Priscus take a while to get into the swing of it.

Their ears are left ringing by the absence of noise.

Even during training there is never silence: their companions generally shout and tease, insulting mothers, sisters and brothers. Even their old fathers do not escape this treatment. In the final analysis, swearing is an integral part of training: it strengthens character, teaches them to focus while all around them everything descends into madness, it accustoms them to being on their guard. Learning to dodge spit and insults teaches you alertness, and your opponent's attacks seem less daunting.

What is iron, next to the power of words? How much can a scratch on your flesh hurt you, compared to a gash in your soul?

There are insults that eat away at a man's subconscious like water dripping patiently on rock, Priscus knows very well. When he was a little boy there was one that could keep him awake for days, a torment worse than winter's first fevers:
coward.

He recalls the fire in his belly, the flush of his cheeks, punches thrown and punches taken. He knows the ruinous power of the spark on the kindling. That is why he is repeating it over and over again, to the only man he has ever loved.

“Coward.”

The Briton gnashes his teeth behind the solid visor of the Corinthian helmet. He is boiling and the heat clouds his thinking, he feels Julia's eyes on him with every move he makes. He slashes blindly, occasionally striking Priscus's curved shield, only to hear him continue his wearing litany.

“Coward.”

Drop by drop his nerves begin to fray, his lunges growing stronger and more desperate.

Priscus readies his legs to strike, gathering his strength one cubit at a time like a loaded spring. With every parry his energy grows as Verus's wheezing lungs mark the rhythm of their warfare.

When the Briton is so exhausted he can barely catch his breath, Priscus the ice-serpent strikes. Just once, a downward swing: the Gaul's
sica
scores a direct hit right where the two crests are welded to the top of the helmet, slicing the one on the right clean off. The sound is overpowering, Verus's head  is fit to burst. The echo of the blow in his skull, the hot blood oozing from his scalp, the heat of the iron on his face.

Staggering and sputtering, Verus rolls to the ground and does just what he should not do: he pulls his helmet off. Priscus's foot smashes into his jaw like a wave of granite, laying the Briton out.

Julia applauds as is befitting of her rank, her father showing his approval with a nod of the head.