Colosseum (22 page)

But the rabble of the
ludus
lets out a visceral roar, acclaiming Priscus the victor as though he were Achilles himself.

He raises his arms, his pure heart reflecting the scorching sun. The son of Gaul drinks in the glory, and makes his first mistake.

Never turn your back on an opponent.

Verus takes a while to recover from the blow: Priscus is no sissy and he knows his friend's weak points.

Today though, there is no reason in the world to hold back. Today is the day of blood.

The Briton could stay down and end it there, but he would sooner be impaled like Spartacus than give in.

Not here. Not today. Not in front of
her
.

He jumps to his feet, eyes red with pure rage.

He snorts like a bull,
spatha
held tightly in his right hand. He no longer needs his shield as he steps quickly across the sand. Priscus fails to realize that the wolf is back on its feet.

Verus launches two memorable thrusts from left to right, left to right, tracing a dirty, bright-red trench across his friend's powerful back. But he is not sated: he slashes at knees and elbows, forcing Priscus down into the sand. Now he is over him, quicker than a scorpion, slashing him with the point of his sword. The blade of the
spatha
skewers the Gaul's right hand to the ground.

Priscus cries out.

Normally that does not happen. Normally it is Priscus in control.

Normally…

Verus is pure spite, his face a mask of blood.

His head explodes when Julia puts her hands to her mouth, trembling at the sight of Priscus's impaled hand.

Whore.

Fucking Roman whore.

Priscus cannot get up. Verus circles him, landing kicks so hard that the Gaul loses consciousness.

Then he raises his arms to accept his own applause.

That of his companions, hungry for violence.

Not once during the ovation does he take his eyes off Julia, who now seems to be looking at him differently.

She even says something in her father's ear, who answers indifferently, “If you really want to…” Verus reads his lips with ease.

In the meantime he has not taken his eye off Priscus. The serpent might have fainted, or he might just be pretending.

He approaches his friend cautiously, lifting his helmet with care. The man's eyes are closed and liquid dribbles from his mouth.

Verus grabs the hilt of his
spatha
and pulls it from the ground: icy metal scraping over the broken bones of the Gaul's hand. Priscus regains consciousness, emits a shout.

The entire school shouts along with him.

He is livid now, burning with fury like a dying star. He gets to his feet as best he can, supporting himself with his good hand. He throws himself into a charge with everything he has left. With his right hand he begins to punch Verus's face, over and over.

The Briton gives as good as he gets, landing roundhouse blows on his adversary's trunk with his knuckles still grasping the blade. It tears at the skin of his belly, but they are only flesh wounds.

They continue thrashing each other until pain, that damned bastard, gets the better of Priscus. The umpteenth spasm, the copious blood he has lost, his hand shredded. He staggers just enough to let Verus adjust his stance and throw a hook that concentrates all the strength he has left into his elbow. The Briton's forearm lands right on the Gaul's nose, cracking it.

Blood spurts, a gurgling breath catches in his throat.

Priscus is floored.

Verus wins.

There is nothing more to say.

In the air thick with cheap glory, oil and sweat; in the applause of the school; in the benevolent gestures of the Emperor and the confused smile of
the one
; in the gleaming eyes of Decius Ircius. Here, in these things, there is Verus's whole, wasted life.

Lord of emptiness, just for the day.

Hero of the abyss, champion of those who love him.

This is a farewell and he does not know it.

The downhill road awaits him with open arms. He would be better off running over to Priscus to wake up his brother, lying in the sand. To beg his forgiveness and kiss him on the lips. To believe in him, as he would a sacred prophecy.

But the Briton is all aflame now, a distillate of wild instinct, his blood driving his actions under Julia's gaze, towards a heart that has been locked away, bare feet in the damned abyss.

Enjoy your glory, Verus.

The season of pain has just begun.

He cannot blame the night. Nor the fire, this time.

Verus cannot stand walking around like this, dressed up like a lordling, but Decius Ircius had made up his mind. And the master's orders are
never
questioned.

The invitation did not arrive out of the blue. Decius could sense that something was afoot: it is not every day that the Emperor pays a visit. But a summons to the Imperial court is another matter. It must be to discuss business, he is sure of it.

The lanista rubs his hands together as a servant tends to his aching shoulders. The closer the games are, the more hefeels the effects of his stress: his trapezius muscles are solid rock, his back a bundle of tense fibers. In the morning he wakes up with a headache after grinding his teeth all night long, a very bad habit.

But the deal of his life is before him; the Amphitheater will open up new horizons he can scarcely imagine for those in his line of work. Entering the circle of the elite means a taste of the succulent fruits that tomorrow will bring, while the competition is still dozing. Titus was satisfied when he left the Ludus Argentum and his young daughter had
absolutely insisted
on taking a piece of that extraordinary spectacle back with them.

And so the Imperial messenger who had pulled him out of bed at dawn returned the next day, again at sunrise, to deliver an official invitation to Decius Ircius. This evening there will be a banquet at court, one of many held each week. But this evening—and only this evening—Ircius will have the chance to delight the guests with his new champion. The Palace awaits Verus with impatience.

These days, blood, money and fine clothes always go arm-in-arm. Hence the red tunic brought out for special occasions, the greased leather bracers round his wrists, the oiled footwear, and the carved
balteus
. Ircius insisted that Verus wear a modest headdress as well. Nothing effete of course, just a simple bronze strip beaten into the shape of a serpent, slithering around the nape of his neck and terminating with a roaring lion on the warrior's forehead. A finely crafted ornament that would not be out of place on an Egyptian pharaoh's honor guard.

Things pretty enough to make Verus feel ill at ease, in other words. He walks slowly, repositioning his loincloth with every step. Even that feels too tight on him, who knows what surprise bulging beneath it.

“Get a move on,” Ircius says to him as they near their destination. They have crossed the city in silence, making the most of the last hours of sunlight. Feasts generally begin long before sunset. In Rome as in the rest of the Empire, dinner is served around the eighth or ninth hour, during the early afternoon. But this is not just any old feast in any old house. Titus's residence
is
not
like the rest of the damned Empire.

Verus and Ircius realize this the moment they knock at the wooden doors. In place of a handle there is a sculpture of gold and bronze, fused together in a mystical embrace: the Eagle and the Wolf, symbols of august power, bound in an unbreakable circle of domination.

The slave who answers the door is wearing more jewelry than a Coptic whore.

A litter comes to a halt behind the two guests. With great difficulty, four bearers have brought a fat, pompous-looking couple to the house. She is dressed in silk and he wears the white tunic of the Senate. Laurels decorate their gray hair—who knows what they are celebrating. They do not even acknowledge Verus and Decius: people of their rank can afford to be more concerned about climbing out of their sedan than such trifles as good manners. Other servants rush to position a damask-quilted stool and a mat as light as the northern wind. The two opulent children of the Empire descend, ferried the few steps that separate them from the door by the steady hands of their cowed slaves. They advance into the belly of the florid beast.

The revelry is about to begin.

The lanistaand the gladiator follow the flow of people without offering resistance. They know they are mere second-rate guests, two lucky mortals admitted to bathe in the purple light that emanates from the very heart of Rome.

They pass dumbstruck through a truly breathtaking peristyle: the pool where rainwater collects looks like a miniature lake. Wrapped around it is a garden that recalls both a forest and the Field of Mars. All around are scenes of war in bronze and painted marble. Statues of demigods, naked as the day Jupiter made them, chase one another, javelin in hand. In a small copse noble couples of flesh and blood sit caressing one another, ready for love before the sun has even set.

A muster of haughty peacocks scratches through the freshly cut grass, pecking at invisible seeds. One of the males faces Verus with a brazen air and mistakes his red tunic for a mating signal. It displays a splendid wheel of make-believe eyes, dipping its feathered neck and drawing back its right foot.

“There are wonders at every turn in the Emperor's house!” exclaims Ircius, much amused. Verus needs to take a piss—he forgot to go before they left. When they reach the atrium they are received by a fresh host of servants who invite them to be seated, handing splendid linen napkins to them both. The Briton has no idea what to do with it and his bladder is bursting, but he keeps his mouth shut. He is too ill at ease to speak.

The slaves remove the guests' footwear and use scented water to wash their feet, caked with the dust and dung of the streets of Rome. Rose petals float in the villa's
impluvium
, tiny barques adrift on the infinite nothingness of wealth. Among the constellations of frayed flowers, exquisite lanterns in the shape of stylized eagles burn incense from across the seas. A line of columns encircles the pool, the gaps between them decorated with vermillion drapes. These immense curtains, strung together, seem to be holding hands in a never-ending circle.

Clean feet are an aid to clear thinking. The servants help Ircius and Verus to stand, and lead them into the banquet hall. In any other
domus
this would be a short distance away, a few steps along a corridor hung with family heirlooms: the sword of a grandfather who gained the rank of general, a few terracotta cups, an Oriental lamp. But this is the house of the Lord of the Earth, and the route towards gluttony is lined with marvels.

As they move along the passageways and corridors, each masterfully designed to impress any guests, the servants explain the history behind the relics of the past for the benefit of those who do not already know it: Caesar's cloak, Augustus's helmet, the bones of kings and queens brought to heel by the ancient will of Rome. In other words it is quite a walk, and the pressure of the Briton's bladder is mounting all the time.

Thank Mercury, god of those who are quick of hand and of wit, Ircius suddenly orders Verus to wait for him in an antechamber. A court slave informs the lanistaof the privilege the Emperor is about to grant him: he is to be allowed to look upon the magnificence and pomp of Nero's personal battle armor with his own poor, plebeian eyes.

Crazy fire-breathing bastard. We miss you like a stinging nettle rash between the balls on an August night
. Ircius keeps the thought to himself and is careful not to give a sigh. The sight he is about to be treated to is a double honor: the whole Empire knows that the memory of the mad monarch is being forcefully consigned to the dustbin of history via the imposition of
damnatio memoriae
, and that the signs of his ignoble passage on this sphere of dung have been gradually eliminated since his departure. Despite this, a certain macabre interest lingers on in the Flavius household, with both Vespasian and his sons, Titus and Domitian, hanging on to a few choice items that once belonged to the last Emperor of the Julio-Claudian dynasty.

They are not for just anyone.

They are certainly not for gladiators. Which is why Verus has been left behind in the tiny vestibule while Ircius is conducted to admire the secret treasure.

The Briton thanks the gods for the diversion. The urge to urinate is very strong, so pressing that it now clouds his judgment. Left alone, he eyes a silver carafe positioned on a small, finely carved table. As his bladder empties, the colors of the villa come to life: the scenes painted on the walls reveal themselves in all their glory.

Once the task of relieving himself is done, Verus puts the carafe back where it came from, next to two engraved cups. Just in time, because a female servant with ample hips and a busy manner arrives to collect the three items, taking them away to who knows where.

Verus is sorely tempted to burst into side-splitting peals of laughter—the thought of some rich bastard gulping down his piss, having mistaken it for steaming mead, is enough to bring him back to his senses. But Ircius rushes back in with an award-winning smile nailed to his face, accompanied by the smartass servant, proud of having fulfilled his duty of tourist guide to the center of power.

“You have no idea! Really, you have no idea what you have missed…beyond belief!”

Verus eyes his master mischievously. He wants to tell him about the brilliant prank he has inadvertently played on the cream of the Roman aristocracy, but he holds his tongue: respect is the foundation of obedience.

Ircius, however, is impressed by this experience and is determined to examine every facet of it, as well as to get something out of Verus.