Colosseum (32 page)

It is a miracle of choreography: the master
bestiarii
have been working to prepare it for many months. The first step was convincing the beasts to accept their harnesses, something completely unnatural for an animal that is meant to be living in the jungle but has found itself behind bars. Then came the process of conquering their fear, both of other animals and of all the damned racket, which was the part Daimon spoke about with Priscus as he was carrying out his terrifying work. Lastly, every single one of the domesticated animals was taught violence. Circus brutality, to be clear, because at this stage of the proceedings there is no real fighting. Just enough to spill a little blood and hold the attention of the audience, but no actual slaying.

Make-believe is the real heart of business.

And this damned show of warrior animals sells itself. Sure, it is not exactly like watching a match between Verus and Cosmos, but the feline that moves silkily across the arena, miming thrusts with slashes of its claws, has just what it takes to wear that breastplate, polished to a mirror-like sheen. And that burnished helmet. And the iron-clad bear slowly retracing its steps towards the opposite end of the arena, pretending to be backed into a corner, has just earned the right to the arms it carries as well.

The Emperor moves his head and claps his hands a couple of time. He instinctively looks for Daimon. The Capuan, ready for whatever signal might come his way from the tribune of honor, meets the monarch's gaze and in it he reads satisfaction. His hard, dried blood is warmed in an instant.

So far so good
.

And it was by no means a foregone conclusion.

The pretend fights between the beasts go on for a while as the acrobats and dancers, possessed by the spirit of the Muses, go about their dirty work. Then the resounding blare of a horn and the Emperor's Triumph over Nature can finally begin.

Titus rearranges his tunic the moment he hears the first note: in some ways this is his moment, even if he need not move a muscle.

The announcer removes any remaining doubts by shouting at the top of his lungs, the animals put a stop to their fake
pugna
, the tumblers get back on their feet. The dead bodies, as usual, stay where they are. But even that horrible and desolate spectacle cannot ruin what comes next. Tenderness fleetingly gets the better of blood as dozens of servants release thousands of rabbits and hares into the arena. The sand is bedecked with fluffy, white clouds of fur, beady eyes with a hint of fear, twitching whiskers, noses and tails. A gasp of surprise rises from all over the audience.

Mid-morning and the crowd has been blood-drunk since first light; they need to catch their breath. The people appreciate the light relief and enjoy the sight of the lines of fur balls, the soft and noiseless huddle crying out for the touch of a gentle hand. But they soon jump in surprise when the cages are thrown open and a hundred greyhounds make their confident entrance. At first it seems like the perfect bloodbath, the glory of the Eagle dyed for the umpteenth time by a bright wave of red. But no, there is the real Triumph: the hounds do not even need to bite to show who has the upper hand. Tested time and time again, at the cost of many innocent lives and over the course of months of training, the dogs are under strict orders: they move forward in a dense pack and
pretend
to hunt. They run after their prey, grabbing them gently by the scruff of the neck, only to then deposit them at the feet of the servants and run after another, tails wagging with excitement. The total absence of violence moves the audience to thunderous acclaim.

The Emperor drinks in the glory with open hands, standing and blessing the crowd with the index and ring fingers of his right hand, held together and pointing upwards like a pair of sharpened stilettos. He waits for the last drop of juice to be squeezed out of the carnage, for the goodwill to flow into his chest as a single stream. Then he decides the time has come to change the tempo and show the populace the true face of the She-wolf.

An almost imperceptible movement of Titus's eyebrow is enough, and the second part of the Triumph commences. The energetic beat of drums sends the rabbits fleeing for cover, back to the cages they came out of, more terrified than ever.

The drummers are all sons of the Kingdom of Axum, bare-bottomed African statues, bodies oiled from head to foot. They form an ellipse around the edge of the arena, pounding their sticks frenziedly against the taut skins of their instruments.

The rhythm accompanies the prey's entry into the arena. Thirty or so cages are brought to the center of the arena: ostriches, antelopes, gazelles, deer, donkeys. Harmless beasts, or nearly—when ostriches have enough space to run they can be more dangerous than crocodiles…

The
venatores,
or hunting athletes, appear. They are warriors skilled in the use of the javelin, with balls of steel and bulging calves.

The prison doors open and the massacre begins.

Because that is what it is:
a massacre, pure and simple.

A bloodthirsty German by the name of Carpoforus leads the group of
venatores.
Captured in the aftermath of the umpteenth Teutonic bloodletting, this barbarous son of a bitch had the good manners not to get himself slain. Condemned to the arena to get rid of him, he was not even conceded the dignity of becoming a gladiator. But he does very well with the animals—he seems born to do this job. The
venatores
are only one step above the lowly assistants, second-class warriors, even if they risk their lives just the same as their colleagues in the ludi. The intellectuals jeer at them as “half-men,” while the crowd launches whistles and spit. But in the meantime they enjoy the show.

That goes for most of them, but not for Carpoforus. He is famous, idolized like some dark god of brutality and bravery. When he makes his entrance into the arena, the troop that came in before him has already started to fill the Amphitheater with bodies. The first to fall are the antelopes, no more than a few moments after the cages are opened: they are too fast, letting them run away would not be a good idea. Better to finish them off immediately with a swift stab to the neck, so as not to run the risk of having to chase them about all day and bore the crowd.

The
venatores
hunt like cavemen in primitive packs, spears raised high above shaggy heads, wooden shafts ending the suffering of their unsuspecting victims. But it is the eyes of the animals that are genuinely frightening, the sense of emptiness they give. Once life has left their quivering bodies their eyes stay wide open, replete with horror, crystallized in the exact moment of their inexplicable demise. Diamonds of loneliness in a sky of boiling blood.

Carpoforus does not soil his hands with easy prey. He warms up with a donkey, enough to hear the crowd begin to shout his name out, severing its head with a serrated blade he picked up who knows where. But as soon as that is done he grabs a spear and stands guard, waiting for the main course to make its appearance.

In the meantime his colleagues do not dedicate too much thought to style as they go about exterminating the deer and gazelles. There is even a sow that has somehow found its way into the action, and which gets caught in the crossfire when a spear slices open her belly. She is pregnant, almost at full term. Life spurts out of the gaping slash, a rivulet of trotters and snouts, a flow of washed-out pink as the mother passes away. The helpless piglets start a high-pitched squealing and a man with a spiteful face sniggers as he smashes the skull of the first of the eight siblings, but a smack from the German himself soon sets the thug straight.

The barbarian rushes to save the seven survivors, scooping all of them up in his arms and taking them to the edge of the arena where he hands them over to a big-bosomed girl.

“They will live!” he shouts, so that the crowd can hear.

The answering roar confirms the miracle: life and death, fellow travelers now and always.

Martial is there in the crowd too, the third row from the front. The poet is so struck by the incident of the stabbed sow and her little gems that he will eventually write an epigram about it. In a thousand years and a thousand more, people will still be reading of this day. The memory of the innocent martyr is safe, along with that of all her children.

When the sideshow for weaker stomachs is finally over, the beasts arrive. Now it gets serious: bulls, lions, bears, tigers. Against a team of naked boys, each one with a javelin in his hand and bulging scrotum in his loincloth.

They do it the old-fashioned way, no frills.

Daimon observes the scene attentively from his vantage point. He grits his teeth, willing his pussy cats to put on a good show. He hopes it for his own good, praying both to the gods of the North and those of Rome that his future will be a splendid one.

The people of the Eternal City, up on the terraces, are seething like a potful of beans. They are well and truly in the mood, like a wet female with one thing on her mind. They have had their dose of tenderness and now they
expect
something stronger, a proper piece of action to sate their thirst.

The first to score on the arena sand is Carpoforus, a bloodshot look of madness in his eyes. He mounts a bull with a single bound and buries his spear in its neck, breaking the handle and stabbing the other half into the animal's left flank. Then he grabs hold of its horns with all the strength he can muster, tightens his thighs and throws himself onto his back, twisting as hard as he can. The bull loses its sense of direction, slows to a trot and ends up running into the protective barrier.

The beast keels over dead, its neck snapped by the impact with the wood.

The blond bastard is up and on his guard again, grabbing another javelin and charging into the fray. He jabs the shaft straight into the face of a bear and throws himself onto a tiger that has been struck repeatedly by the other hunters, pummeling it to death with his bare hands.

The bear has fallen on its front legs, taking on the appearance of an enormous, harmless boulder at the center of the massacre.

The savage yowling of beasts rings out from every direction. They are drunk with violence, but it is a losing battle. They pant and scratch, defending themselves as best they can, but winning little but punishment in return.

Someone throws Carpoforus a hook from the stands and he takes it up in his right hand, gutting a beautiful white tiger brought down from the enchanted mountain. The crowd is driven to hysteria.

The last survivor is a battered lion, backing away with cautious steps but well aware the end is just around the corner. The animal looks around but sees only doom. There it is, the damned Triumph of the Emperor.

Open your eyes, Rome: look on the true nature of your kingdom.

Chunks of severed flesh and mounting heat, violence imminent, and no future to speak of.

Dinner is served.

Choke on it.

Carpoforus is caked in blood from head to toe, old blood and new blood, hard and smooth like the life of any man. The lion growls because his instinct commands it. The German makes a gesture to bid the beast silent before sticking his spear in wherever it happens to land. His companions do the same.

The lion wheezes, silvery drool at its mouth, as Carpoforus brandishes the hook and digs it into the feline's chest, hunting for the center of gravity of the mad world he finds himself in. He hauls out the animal's heart, skewered on the butcher's hook.

He shows it to the crowd.

The mob explodes.

Literally.

All is swallowed by the earth-shaking roar.

Their shout is thunder, the horizon laden with dark clouds.

Rome trembles, shaken by the wave of stabbed, punctured, slaughtered flesh.

The arena is filled to overflowing with the merciless opulence of the Great One. Titus smiles, the purple of his robes resplendent beneath the scorching sun. He strokes his daughter's curls; Julia stopped smiling a while back.

Verus and Priscus, behind their bars at opposite ends of the Amphitheater, observe the spectacle wide-eyed. An unspeakable weight on their hearts.

In an hour's time it will be worse. Much worse.

Carpoforus, lowliest of heroes, dishonored avenger, milks his moment of celebrity to the last drop.

The air stinks of broken intestines and torn skin and the morning has melted into the sun.

Interval, citizens of the Eternal City.

To be continued when the bell tolls.

The sixth hour, most unbearable of all.

Verus and Priscus, divided by stone and by dozens of corridors, both feel sick to their stomachs.

The stench of death fills the lower floors of the Amphitheater, mixing with the sweat and fear from a hundred caged bodies.

The sixth hour. Time to earn their keep.

Verus and Priscus know what is waiting for them. They have known since yesterday evening. That is why neither of them has slept. How the fuck could anyone sleep, knowing what
they
know?

Their respective masters-at-arms give them the once over, like soldiers do with their horses before a battle.

Horses, not warriors.

They check the iron, test the joints of their armor, pinch their cheeks affectionately.

“Courage,” whispers Aton. The son of a bitch has never been so compassionate.

Verus grits his teeth, puts on his helmet like his companions and sets off, sharpened
gladius
in hand. The corridor leads to the arena: coming the other way he was through it in an instant, but retracing his steps is like walking for an eternity. Heavy, thoughtful steps, one two-hundred pound crash after another.

The air is filled with the desperate cries of the
morituri
; the belly of the Amphitheater is stuffed with prisoners who have been condemned to death.