LITMIR.BIZ

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man and deserved better than he got. But what do you expect in places like this? Skill means nothing, all they want is blood.’

      ‘Couldn’t something have been arranged?’

      ‘I tried, but you know how Leacus was. Overconfident and his lanista wouldn’t co-operate. The man is a fool.’

      And the loser because of it. The prize could have been shared, the charonian whose task it was to check the fallen and make certain they were dead could have been bribed to restrain the hammer with which he crushed the skulls of the wounded. A surface cut which provided plenty of blood, but which would have done no real harm, would have deluded the crowd. Leacus would have lived to fight again.

      Perhaps he had expected to live. I remembered his dying gasp, the expression in his eyes as my sword had plunged home. But if an arrangement had been made, I’d known nothing of it.

      Arrius rubbed an old scar. It writhed over the upper part of his right thigh and up halfway across his stomach. The wound which had crippled him for life.

      ‘Did I ever tell you how I got this?’ He pressed on without waiting for my answer. ‘A mistake I made at Pompeii during the time of Emperor Claudius. The god Claudius, I should say, since he was deified by the Senate. It was about the time he invaded Britain, which would make it,’ he paused, ‘thirteen years ago now.’

      ‘Sixteen,’ I corrected.

      ‘As long ago as that?’ Arrius shrugged. ‘Well, time flies as they say, but are you sure?’

      I had reason to remember.

      When the Romans had invaded Britain under the personal command of Claudius, I had been a boy of ten. A child of the Iceni who had stood with his mother in the stronghold at Brentwood with the assembled forces under Caractacus. The legions had beaten us and made Britain with its treasures a province of Rome. My mother had been raped and murdered. I had been taken captive and sold into slavery. A servitude which had lasted eleven years. Which had ended only when, as a gladiator-slave, I had won the rudis, Nero himself handing me the symbolical wooden sword, together with my freedom.

      ‘A mistake,’ said Arrius, determined to tell his story. ‘The worst I ever made. Take my advice, Atilus and never forget to sacrifice to the gods before entering the arena. I didn’t and, each time I take a step now, I’m reminded of my negligence by the gods I ignored. The gods and Malcenus.’

      Again he rubbed at his scar and I wondered why he was telling me this. Talk, to some men, is a mask, a means to hide their thoughts. To others it is a weapon, a way to lull and to delude. We had never been close and I was suspicious of his sudden friendliness.

      ‘Malcenus,’ said Arrius. ‘He was one of a pair of postulati fighting in full armour, armed with a sword and lead mace and willing to take on all-comers with the weapons of their choice. I was a retiarius then, though you wouldn’t think it to see me now, and I was confident I could take him. Well, Malcenus was clever and built like a stone tower. Heavy but fast with it, and he used a curved sword like a sica, but longer. Something he’d had made for him in Damascus, and he certainly knew how to use it. I tried to wear him down, then finally had to go in. I managed to get the net over his head and, when he started to move, I thought it was all over. But he fooled me. Instead of falling, he followed the pull of the net and used that sword of his to slash the mesh. I did my best with the trident, but it was like poking a crab with a needle. Then he cut the shaft and I was left with nothing but a shred of net, a stick, and a dagger.’

      He fell silent, thinking, remembering, his hand caressing the scar. To him the heat of the room had become the warmth of the sun, the murmur of conversation from those around us the scrape of sandals against sand, the yells coming from the tepidarium outside, where someone was having the hairs plucked from his body in the cooler room, became the shouting of the crowd.

      A moment I respected and then, as he shuddered, said, ‘He got you?’

      ‘He got me.’ Arrius was grim. ‘He almost cut me in half, and I went down clutching my guts. The crowd was with me, thank the gods, and gave me life.’

      The shouts of ie mittendum est! Let him live! I have heard it and knew how it felt. To a fighter down and helpless, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

      Then, as Arrius moved, wincing, I wondered at the mercy he had been shown. Crippled, he could no longer fight, and gone forever were the days of complacent women and generous men. And only he could know of the pain he’d suffered as his wound slowly healed. How often during that time had he wished that he had been cleanly dispatched with a second blow?

      ‘And Malcenus?’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’

      ‘He fought for another three years and then retired to Egypt where he lived like a king until someone poisoned him.’ Arrius rose, stiffly. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go and cool off.’

      Before we entered the frigidarium slaves scraped our skins with strigils, removing all the oil, dirt, and grease, then, after the cold plunge, we rested on couches while unctores massaged us with deft hands.

      To Arrius I said, ‘What happens now?’

      ‘Where do we go next?’

      ‘Yes.’

      He tensed a little and I could guess the reason. As a lanista he’d had a bad day, losing two pugiles and a Thracian. None had been of high quality, the boxers had been slow, and the Thracian little better than a tyro, but their loss had diminished his familia and so his potential income.

      ‘I’ve plans, Atilus,’ he said quickly. ‘We could head south to Puteoli or Misenum. And I’ve word of a big munera to be held at Tarentum.’

      It was even further south and well away from Rome. Once it would have suited me, but I’d had enough of second-rate amphitheatres and cheaply run displays. For almost five years I had moved around, fighting where and when I could, risking my life for small fees and trifling prizes. A necessary precaution at first, but now it was time to change my habits.

      ‘Of course the real money is in Rome,’ mused Arrius. ‘But what chance would I have against the Imperial Schools? They can turn out all the fighters needed. Cheap slaves used as fast as they are trained. I’ve got owners to consider, those who have given me charge of their gladiators, and others, freedmen like yourself. But don’t worry, Atilus. I’ll look after you.’

      ‘I’m not worried. I’m leaving.’

      ‘What!’ He reared upright, knocking aside the masseur. ‘Leave? You can’t!’

      ‘Why not?’ I was cold. ‘I’m not a slave to be bought and sold. You don’t own me.’

      ‘No, but—Atilus! Why?’

      The answer was on his face, a blend of greed and anger, a taut desperation coupled with hate. To him I was nothing but a man to be used. Already, perhaps, he had arranged to gain from my end, agreeing with those who were interested in winning high wagers to feed me some compound which would take the edge off my skill, opium or some other insidious drug.

      I had seen it happen to others.

      In Ferentis a myrmillo, popular, heavily backed, had been drugged with the juice of henbane given to him in wine sweetened with honey. He had died on the sand, eyes glazed, mouth gaping, unaware even at the end what had happened to him. In Luceria cantharidea had been given to a cruppellarius who, crazed by the overdose of potent aphrodisiac, had fallen easy prey to a Thracian despite his heavy, protective cuirass.

      ‘Atilus!’ Arrius was pleading. ‘Don’t leave me like this. At least give me a chance to replace you. One more fight, at least. Just one. Atilus, please, you can grant me that.’

      ‘One fight?’

      ‘Yes. The last. I promise.’

      ‘I know.’ I looked at his face, the lines, the greed. ‘That’s why I’m leaving you, Arrius. The next time I fight, I hope to win.’

      Heraculis was waiting

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