In the Shadow of the Wall (18 page)

The Nubian gasped and his body went rigid. The trident tumbled to the ground and Brude twisted his gladius as he withdrew it before pushing the dying man away with his shield. The Nubian was dead by the time he hit the ground.

The crowd cheered and applauded. Brude, uncertain what to do next, suddenly heard Curtius yell at him, “Salute the praetor!” so he turned, struggling to get his bearings until he saw Glabro sitting in the seat of honour. He raised his bloody sword in front of his face in salute. Glabro acknowledged the salute and indicated that he might leave.

Brude removed his helmet, gulping in fresh air, then slowly walked off to the applause of the crowd. As he went, he saw the shocked face of the other lanista watching him. Then he was in the tunnel where his sword and shield were taken from him. Curtius ushered him back to the cell where the other three gladiators from Lentulus’ school were waiting. Josephus beamed at him while Pollio and Frontius nodded, which was high praise from such experienced men. Brude accepted a mug of water from Josephus. “That was quick,” the little Jew said.

“Was it?” To Brude it had seemed a long time.

“Quickest damn kill I’ve seen for a long time,” said Curtius. “You’re not supposed to make it look that easy. It annoys the crowd.”

“That wasn’t easy,” Brude assured him.

“It sure as hell looked like it,” said Curtius. “You got a bit lucky with the first cut. The blade doesn’t usually get through the sleeve that easily, but you got the point right into it. Still, even if you hadn’t cut deep, it would have done enough damage. But next time don’t use so much of the blade in the killing stroke. A finger’s length will do the trick.” Brude supposed that was Curtius’ way of praising him. Then the lanista turned to Josephus. “Come on. You’re next.” He led the little Jew outside.

Brude slumped on the wooden bench and ripped off the protective cloth from his arm, tossing it aside. The small cell stank of sweat and his vomit and he felt suddenly drained. Above their heads the crowd yelled and stamped their feet, shaking hole room and sending a light sprinkling of dust floating down on top of them. He looked over at Pollio and Frontius and realised that they were nervous, too, although they hid it well. Pollio met his gaze and said, “You did well. You survived.” Which was a gladiator’s main aim.

The day turned out to be a good one for Curtius and the
school
of
Lentulus
. Josephus won his fight, although it took him a long time to wear his opponent down and he took a cut to his arm for his troubles. He dealt out more to his opponent who lived, despite having taken several cuts from Josephus’ sica. Frontius, the Retiarius, also won, eventually taking down his Thracian opponent who lived, but was badly wounded, while Pollio had an epic struggle against another Samnite which seemed to last for ages and which ended with both men exhausted and bloody. Pollio got the upper hand at the last, knocking his opponent to his knees, but the crowd, pleased by the performance of both fighters, indicated to Glabro that the man should live.

Curtius was in such a fine humour at having so comprehensively beaten the men from the rival school that he gave each of them a few sesterces from the prize money. It was the first time Brude had ever received any money as a slave.

Their trip back was leisurely, principally because, apart from Brude, the others all had injuries which needed tending and had to walk slowly after they had been treated. Curtius took the chance to visit the local forum where he bought two more slaves who walked back with them in the slave coffle. When they did reach the school, they discovered Valerius was gone. “Wasn’t up to it,” Kallikrates told Brude. “Lentulus sent him to the arena to fight with the war captives.” Which meant Valerius was dead, for the war captives were never allowed to survive, even the winners simply being thrown back at the next games.

By the time of the Saturnalia, the mid-winter festival, Brude had fought three more times and won each fight without receiving anything worse than a slight scratch. Two of his opponents had survived and the last had been alive but had put up a poor show so the crowd had demanded his death. Brude had delivered the death blow as quickly as he could, driving his gladius into the kneeling man’s spine at the base of his neck. He had hated it and had nearly thrown his sword away in disgust but Curtius had snapped a warning and he had retained his composure, doing what he had to.

He and Josephus were now allowed to sit with the veterans in the barracks room. The little Jew was also making a reputation for himself in the arena. He claimed it was because his god was protecting him. Brude made the mistake of asking which god he was referring to. He was astonished to learn that the Jews only had one god, which seemed far too few to him. Kallikrates said, “All the Jews are mad, but they’re not as bad as the Christians. We won’t have any of them as gladiators. They refuse to fight.”

Sarcho, the African, who still d to speak much Latin even though he understood it well enough now, failed to return from a fight and, in the spring of the next year, Frontius was also killed. Brude started to realise that surviving for any great length of time as a gladiator was not going to be easy. He trained even harder, surprising even Josephus by beating the little man in a mock fight one afternoon.

Kallikrates gave him a word of caution. “You’re good, Brutus, potentially very good, because you’ve got ice in your veins and you’re faster than most. But Curtius has been putting you up against men he was pretty sure you could beat and you won’t get away with that much longer. You’re getting a reputation now and you’ll find it a lot harder, so don’t get over-confident. Even the best of us, sooner or later, has a bit of bad luck.”

Brude soon discovered the truth of Kallikrates’ words. His next fight was in
Rome
itself, in the great Flavian amphitheatre that some called the Colosseum after the colossal statue of the emperor Nero which had once stood nearby. Built on the site that had formerly been a private lake in the grounds of Nero’s palace, the massive amphitheatre could hold over fifty thousand people, a huge crowd, more than Brude had ever seen in one place before. The arena itself was surprisingly compact but seemed hemmed in by the incredible height of the tiers of stone and wooden benches that rose skywards in a dazzling array of arches. It was a feat of construction that showed the power and wealth of imperial
Rome
. It also allowed the people of
Rome
to give vent to their desire to see blood.

Brude’s opponent this time was another Retiarius, a tall man with golden hair, obviously an experienced fighter. Brude had won his first fights in quick order and was confident in his own ability but this battle lasted nearly fifteen minutes as they probed, parried, thrust and dodged, testing each other. After one frantic spin away from danger, Brude took a raking blow from the trident across the back of his shoulders. He could feel the stinging of the cut and the blood flowing down his back but he ignored the pain and managed to face his opponent again, much to the delight of the crowd. Sweat dripping from every pore, he drew on all his reserves of strength as he risked becoming tangled in the net to charge close to the Retiarius. The tall man, even without the weight of a shield and helmet, was tired too, and he was fractionally slow to react to Brude’s attack. He avoided the deadly thrust of the sword but could not dodge the huge shield. Brude, putting all his effort into the blow, knocked him from his feet. Quickly kicking the trident from the man’s hand, Brude stamped his foot on the man’s chest and hissed, “Lie still! They’ll let you live.” He didn’t know whether that was true but he hoped it was. The man had fought well and deserved to live. Brude looked to the imperial box where he saw the emperor himself, bearded and wearing a toga, sitting under the shade of a striped canopy, surrounded by courtiers, slaves and guards. The emperor looked around the great amphitheatre, trying to gauge the crowd’s preference. From the senators in their marble seats in the front rows, through the equites behind them, up through the packed ranks of the plebs and, finally, up to where the women and slaves stood in the dizzying heights of the top tiers, Brude saw the waving of white handkerchiefs and the signals of thumbs thrust upwards. The emperor eventually gave the signal for life. Brude lifted his foot from the man’s chest and stalked out of the arena, his back sticky with blood.

He spent a week in the infirmary. The physician, a Greek called Tygaeus, told Curtius that the wound was quite bad and he wanted to keep an eye on it. In fact, Brude could have left after a day but Tygaeus knew he would go back to training too soon and possibly re-open the wound, so he insisted Brude stay. Brude did not mind for the beds were comfortable and he was able to watch Tygaeus working. He asked about his remedies, even helping him to reset a broken arm that one young novice suffered.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Tygaeus grumbled. “He’ll be back sooner or later with some other injury.”

Brude certainly returned a few times over the next couple of years. By the time he was twenty-four years old, he had fought thirteen times and won twelve of his fights, surviving his one defeat because he had given as good as he got against a Murmillo and only lost because he slipped at a vital moment. The crowd had let him live but the feeling of lying on the sand, helpless and waiting for the decision, was one he would never forget. Sprawled there, at the mercy of the mob’s whim, he saw death and closed his eyes, picturing Mairead in his mind’s eye. Then he heard Curtius telling him to stand up and his opponent was gone. He had been allowed to live but his legs were shaking so much he barely made it out of the arena.

Against that one defeat, though, his victories brought him some fame. Success brought other benefits too. As well as the small sums of money Curtius would give him from the winnings, he soon discovered that there were many wealthy women who were willing to pay for a night alone with a successful gladiator, provided he was discreet and handsome. Brude qualified on both counts. He had little respect for the women who cheated on their absent husbands this way but he was a young man and his life was likely to be short, so he always complied whenever Curtius told him a woman had asked for him. Being in the homes of the upper class was a revelation for him, so luxurious were they compared to what he was used to, even though he rarely saw more than the bedroom.

He was one of the veterans now. Of the twenty-six gladiators who had been at the school when he first arrived four years previously, fourteen were still alive although several who had joined later had died during the same period. Survival, it seemed, was a matter of experience; if you survived your first half dozen fights, you had a good chance of surviving for quite a long time. And if you survived long enough, you might earn your freedom and retire. The problem with that was that few people wanted much to do with a retired gladiator. While they were young and fought well they were heroes to the people who watched them, idolised by the crowd, who bought small statuettes and even decorated their homes with paintings and mosaics of gladiators. But once they retired, they were just ex-slaves who were trained in violence. Most retired gladiators ended up, like Curtius, training other men to become gladiators.

A quicker way out was to get an injury serious enough to stop them fighting but not so bad as to leave them permanently disabled. Getting old and slow only meant that you had more chance of dying in the arena before you could honourably retire. The only other hope that Brude clung to was that he would earn the rudis, be presented with a wooden sword by the emperor to signify that he was free and need never fight again. But as Curtius kept telling him, that did not happen often. Brude had already fought in front of the emperor several times, fought well and beaten more experienced men yet he was still a slave, just as he had been for the last eight years.

In the eleventh year of the reign of Lucius Septimius Severus, emperor of
Rome
, the Secular Games were to be celebrated. For the Romans, a saeculum of one hundred and ten years was regarded as the longest possible span of a human life and was celebrated to mark the dawning of a new era. Septimius Severus announced a grand festival of theatre performances and chariot racing, culminating in three days of gladiatorial combat, all to be provided at his own expense to mark this new dawn for his dynasty.

Brude thought the Romans’ arithmetic must be faulty as he had never known anyone live beyond eighty years old, let alone one hundred and ten. Most of the Boresti thought sixty was a long life. Josephus claimed he had met a man who was one hundred and two. He even said that the Jews’ holy men talked of a man who had lived for nearly a thousand years. Nobody believed him; they all knew Josephus was mad.

One man who was happy about the Secular Games was Lentulus. The school was to provide eight gladiators for the final day of the games as well as six men for earlier bouts and he anticipated a significant income. The news even brought the mysterious Trimalchio, the owner of the school, out to pay a visit to watch the men training. Brude saw him from a distance, a short man but very fat, his body virtually round and his face chubby with a double chin. He wore a toga and talked animatedly to Lentulus and Curtius for a while before going off, a dozen slaves scurrying after him. “Pompous ass,” Brude heard Curtius say to Kallikrates afterwards. “He’s got a covered litter and it takes eight men to carry him in it, all the way out here from
Rome
.” Kallikrates said nothing and Curtius went on, “That’s not all. He’s got a slave boy going ahead blowing a trumpet to announce his presence. The man’s a bloody disgrace.”