by Randy Singer
And Caligula found other creative ways to waste public funds. He built a large ship that functioned as a floating palace, complete with marble floors and plumbing. In an attempt to preserve his popularity, he periodically gathered the freedmen of Rome around the Imperial Palace and threw money from the balcony. His frequent banquets were elaborate, gaudy, and expensive.
All these expenditures occurred at a time when many in the empire were starving. The last games in the Circus Maximus had not gone well. The exotic animals were less numerous than before and not well fed. Even some of the gladiators had seemed malnourished. So when Caligula announced that the games for Augustus would be held in the Forum and, accordingly, there would be no wild-animal safaris in the morning, the citizens were skeptical. It cost less to build the wooden seats than it did to buy the lions and panthers and ostriches.
My instincts told me I should stay away from these ill-fated games. But the thought of sitting at my house and waiting for news of whether Mansuetus survived was something I could not bear. I respected the man too much. I had to see this one for myself.
On the morning of the games, Flavia might have been the only person in Rome excited about the weather. It was mid-November, and the day promised rain, plenty of wind, and the possibility of some late-season thunderstorms. A perfect day for Flavia’s disguise.
She woke early and met secretly with Rubria. She could see the fear in her young protégé’s eyes and had to talk the young girl through the plan all over again.
“There are plenty of wigs I can wear while it grows back,” Flavia told her. “Besides, it can’t look worse than it does now.”
Rubria’s hands shook as she held the scissors and started cutting. When she finished, Flavia ran her hand through her uneven hair. She checked herself in the mirror.
“Shorter. You’ve got to make it shorter.”
Reluctantly, Rubria cut Flavia’s hair again, this time much closer to the scalp.
“Perfect,” Flavia said.
Next Flavia mixed a thin layer of foundation with black soot made from roasted dates and spread it on the lower part of her face, mimicking the one-day growth of a man’s beard. She scrubbed the paint from her fingernails and toenails. She put on a tattered black cloak with a deep hood.
“How do I look?” she asked.
Rubria looked her up and down. “Like my father,” the little girl said proudly.
“Promise to keep this a secret,” Flavia said.
“I promise.”
Four hours later, when the games began, Flavia shuffled in with the freedmen. She spoke to no one as she climbed the stairs and took a seat in one of the highest sections on a side of the stadium where she had a good view of the Rostra and the makeshift imperial box. Her hood covered most of her face, and she shivered against the cold. It had already rained for a few hours earlier that morning, and now the sand on the arena floor looked wet and sticky. Flavia prayed it might somehow be an advantage for Mansuetus.
Caligula entered the arena at the fifth hour, shortly before midday, to the sound of trumpets, flutes, and muted applause from the people. Fittingly, the dark clouds had returned, and a few drops of rain arrived at the same time as the emperor.
He stood at the front of the Rostra and announced the opening of the games in honor of the great god Augustus Caesar. To mark the occasion, Caligula was dressed in the white flowing robes of Jupiter, and he appeared to be freezing. His curly red hair was crowned with a laurel wreath, and his pudgy and pasty white arms were bare. Three years of living luxuriously had earned him a noticeable potbelly.
The rain picked up as the criminals were paraded before Caligula with placards around their necks announcing their crimes. A giant bull was led out to the floor of the arena as a sacrifice to appease the gods. The priests danced, the drumbeat grew faster, the throat of the bull was slit, and he crumpled to the ground. In response, a peal of thunder rocked the stadium. The rain blew sideways in sheets.
Let the games begin!
CHAPTER 58
The speed of the executions might have been a record. I counted no fewer than fifty men crucified or burned to death in less than an hour. The soldiers were pounding spikes into wrists and feet as fast as they could. They quickly erected crosses and set the prisoners on fire—no small feat in the driving rain—or they broke the prisoners’ legs so they could no longer breathe.
There were two centurions whose only job was to certify the deaths of the crucified prisoners who had not been set on fire. The first rammed a spear into the sides of the men hanging from the crosses. The second followed with a branding iron on a long pole and seared the flesh of the prisoner to see if he had any reaction.
The crowd grew restless as the rain pounded us. A few people left before the gladiator fights even started. Caligula shouted orders at his troops, commanding them to hurry up and get the dead men out of the arena. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by another peal of thunder. Everybody jumped.
As soon as the soldiers removed the bodies of the dead men, the gladiators marched in front of Caligula. The emperor announced their records, and they saluted him, though their words were lost in the wind and rain.
I noticed that the young gladiator who had lost the pull-up contest to me, the man named Cobius, was scheduled to fight. He carried the armor of the murmillo, a Greek word for a certain type of fish, and his name literally meant “minnow.” One thing I learned at the school where Mansuetus trained was that they gave all of their gladiators absurd names, as if the entire enterprise were a clever joke.
Mansuetus stood before the emperor as well, but he didn’t flash his customary smile when he saluted. He was definitely limping, though he did his best to hide it. Like Cobius, he carried the large, oblong shield and long sword of a murmillo, having traded in his usual Thracian gear. He had armor on his left leg and wore a helmet with a broad brim and single plume that exposed his face. His right arm, the sword-bearing one, was covered with leather and metal. He would be slower today, fighting defensively. I prayed he might win.
The last gladiator introduced was the man known as Flamma—the man Mansuetus had described as his only equal in the arena. He was younger than Mansuetus and every bit as tall but much thicker. He had long black hair and a wild-eyed look. His entire body was covered with hair, and his muscles looked as if someone had carved them from travertine stone.
Flamma saluted the emperor but never acknowledged the cheering crowd. He put on a helmet that covered his entire face with a metal grille. His hair stuck out the back and flowed over his shoulders. I knew Mansuetus wanted to fight Flamma before retiring. I was glad it wouldn’t be today.
The first few fights started slowly, and the lanistae had to whip the men into action. Caligula seemed to be watching the crowd more than the gladiators. He must have sensed that people were losing interest. The rain let up for a few minutes but then started again with more fury than before. Men headed for the exits at every break in the action.
After an hour of fighting, Caligula took charge. He stood and called a halt to the contests. He told the guards that nobody else was allowed to leave. He shouted at the top of his lungs so he could be heard above the rain.
“As host of the games, I have decided to change the format,” he called out, his voice strident. “In the next thirty minutes, you will see more action and bloodshed than any crowd in the history of the games has ever witnessed! I am ordering every gladiator except Flamma into the arena at the same time. The winner will be the last man standing. There will be no mercy extended to the others.”
The crowd responded with a roar. The excitement was now palpable as the gladiators filed into the arena and found spots they could call their own. Many of them put their backs to the waist-high wooden walls that separated the arena from the bottom row of spectators. Others stationed themselves in the middle of the wet sand, their heads on a swivel.
The gladiators were using a variety of weapons, and it looked to me like some of
the larger schools would be fighting in teams. Mansuetus and Cobius, the only gladiators from their school who hadn’t already fought, stood back-to-back near the middle of the arena. I counted forty-two gladiators in total. Only one would survive.
The rain continued to pelt the spectators, but now nobody cared. Caligula stood on the Rostra, his arms spread wide—a god posing for his people. “Now who wants to leave?” he bellowed.
The crowd shouted its approval.
“And that’s not all!” Caligula yelled. “In the history of the games, the equites have only fought each other. Today, that changes too!”
Caligula waited for the crowd to cheer itself out, and then he gave the order. “Bring them in!”
At his command, four mounted gladiators entered the arena. Each had the traditional round shield of the Republican Cavalry in his left hand, a lance in his right, and a sword at his waist. The equites, from their saddles, would be able to cut down the other gladiators and then turn on each other. In a few minutes, the whole scene would explode into chaos.
The sky thundered and the crowd thundered back. The spectators were on their feet, stamping on the wooden stands. Mansuetus looked this way and that, calling instructions over his shoulder to Cobius.
Caligula smiled at his deadly creation. “May the best gladiator survive!” he yelled. He raised his scepter and the fighting began.
The men surrounding Flavia were all shouting at once. She stood on her seat so she could get a better view, but others did the same. Her eyes were fixed on Mansuetus, and she mouthed a silent prayer to the gods.
Keep him safe. Give him strength. Allow him to emerge victorious.
She had seen him win so many fights, but she had never seen anything like this. She suspected Caligula had planned this type of spectacle all along. The storms were just an excuse to get back at Mansuetus. If it meant sacrificing the lives of forty-five other gladiators in the process, so be it.
Her heart was in her throat, and she could feel every beat in her ears. In the first few seconds of chaos, three gladiators went down, pierced by the lances of the equites. One gladiator was caught in a net thrown by a retiarius and then speared with a trident. But before the retiarius could exult in his conquest, another gladiator had sliced his neck from behind.
Mansuetus and Cobius were both engaged with a man in front of them when an equites came by and put a sword between the shoulder blades of their opponent.
Men were falling so quickly that it was hard to keep up. Flavia had her fists balled in front of her mouth, stifling her screams, hoping that Mansuetus would somehow be able to survive the bedlam.
CHAPTER 59
The speed of the attacks caused Mansuetus to operate on pure instinct and adrenaline. He barely noticed the pain in his right foot or his inability to pivot and cut as quickly as normal. Right now everything was defensive. He just had to survive this initial melee.
He hunkered behind his heavy convex shield, putting his left foot forward and relying on Cobius to cover his back. He fended off an equites who came flying by and landed a blow that deflected off Mansuetus’s shield and rocked him back. He quickly regained his balance and found himself and Cobius surrounded by four gladiators from a rival school. Mansuetus lashed out, taking on two men at once, undercutting one’s shield and disemboweling the man with a single stroke.
He heard Cobius cry out behind him and quickly glanced around to see his friend bleeding where a blade had sliced his shoulder. Enraged, Mansuetus lunged at the remaining gladiator in front of him, raining down one blow after another on the man’s shield until he lowered it just enough that Mansuetus could land a fatal blow to his neck.
He turned to help Cobius, and they finished off the other two gladiators in a matter of seconds. But there was no time to relax. A retiarius’s net entangled Cobius and dragged him to the ground. Before Mansuetus could react, the gladiator drove his three-pronged spear into Cobius’s midsection, and Mansuetus’s young friend let out a death moan.
Something snapped inside Mansuetus. He went on the attack again, this time recklessly, killing three more gladiators in less than a minute. His sword was red with blood as he flew forward in a rage, descending on anyone close to him. Bodies of men and horses now littered the arena floor, but Mansuetus didn’t pause even for a breath. He turned and attacked, driving his sword through another man’s side, then ripping it free so he could whirl and attack again. His nostrils filled with the smell of blood and sweat and other men’s fear. His chest heaved in great gasping breaths.
Rage fueled him. Rage at Caligula for this needless slaughter of valiant men. Rage at losing his friend Cobius. He had never fought this hard before, never been this rabid for more blood. He struck another man down, a thunderous blow that nearly took off the man’s arm, then moved to the next gladiator. Someone else could finish the last one off.
With fallen gladiators all around him, he reared back, looked up to the heavens, and let out an insane roar. The rain pelted down, and there were still skirmishes throughout the arena. But who dared take on Mansuetus?
An impulse made him turn just in time to fend off another blow, his fury now kindled against the man who had sneaked up behind him. As he beat that man backward, he felt a searing pain in the back of his left shoulder. It staggered him but still he fought on. When the man in front retreated, Mansuetus glanced over his shoulder and saw the spear that had lodged there.
He dropped his sword, reached back, grimaced, and yanked the spear out with his right hand. The piercing pain turned the world black and made him momentarily dizzy. Disoriented, he managed to block another blow with his shield and then quickly crouched down and picked up his sword.
He fought on, but now he could barely carry his shield, and he was losing blood. There were only a few other gladiators left, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. Mansuetus tried to shake off the dizziness as the last two gladiators came at him. They were both from the same school and looked determined to finish off Mansuetus before they turned on each other.
He let his shield drop, his left arm useless as the gladiators circled to opposite sides of him. He was exhausted now, his one arm hanging at his side, his right foot throbbing. He had no way to defend his exposed body. He would lunge at the man on the right, try to make short work of him, and then pivot before he took a sword in the back.
Mansuetus made his move, but the gladiator deftly sidestepped, and Mansuetus stumbled. The gladiator swung his sword, but Mansuetus rolled just in time. He scrambled to his feet and wondered what had happened to the man who had been in position behind him. By all rights, Mansuetus knew, he should be dead by now.
When he looked, he saw the other gladiator tangled in a net, a three-pronged spear draining his lifeblood.
Cobius stood there, his midsection covered in blood, listing to the side, grinning. “You’re on your own for the last one,” he said.
Even without the use of his left arm, Mansuetus could not be stopped. He attacked the remaining gladiator, relentlessly moving forward until the man got too close and the swing of Mansuetus’s sword sliced open his right arm. The man dropped his sword. Mansuetus grabbed the man’s shield, pulled him close, and thrust his sword through the gladiator’s chest.
When the man fell at his feet, Mansuetus stood there, staggered, surrounded by the carnage, wondering what had come over him. The crowd was cheering and stomping on the wooden bleachers. Cobius slumped over, his hand on his side, trying to stanch the bleeding.
Mansuetus was the last man standing.
The crowd began throwing sestertii into the ring. The bodies of forty-four gladiators and four horses littered the wet sand like a battlefield.
Caligula stood at the front of the imperial box, yelling, waving his arms, trying to make himself heard.
Mansuetus glared at him from the other side of the arena. He would never walk over and salute the emperor. If he managed to get close enough, with his dying breath he would kill the man.
When the boist
erous cheering ebbed, the trumpets blew and the crowd quieted. The emperor could finally be heard through the driving rain.
“The fight is not over!” he yelled. “There are two gladiators left, not one! Whip them into action!”
Mansuetus couldn’t believe his ears! Several of the men moaning in the sand were still squirming and hadn’t yet bled out. His friend Cobius would be lucky to survive the night. Yet the emperor wanted more blood?
Mansuetus took a few staggering steps toward the middle of the arena. He stared at Caligula for a moment, raised his sword over his head, and planted it firmly in the wet sand. He took a step away from the weapon.
“You have seen enough death!” Mansuetus yelled. “Enough brave men have died so that cowards can be entertained!”
CHAPTER 60
I could breathe again. I had watched in amazement as a wounded Mansuetus fought off one attacker after another. He moved with a fury and speed I had never witnessed before. The long sword sliced through the air and landed with such force that the other gladiators were helpless before him.
But now he stood there, in open defiance of the emperor, displaying contempt for every spectator who had enjoyed watching forty-five men fight to the death. Nobody around me knew how to react.
In the rain, Mansuetus took one last look at the carnage and began walking toward his friend Cobius. He reached the man and looped one of Cobius’s arms around his own neck to prop him up. Together they headed toward an exit.
Caligula barked out orders, and his guards descended on the arena. Some of them grabbed the dead gladiators and started dragging them out of the arena to be discarded. Others surrounded Mansuetus and Cobius.
At Caligula’s orders, they separated the men and forced Mansuetus off to the side of the arena. Blood was still spilling from the gash in his left shoulder. He was covered in wet sand, and the armor on his right arm was stained with the blood of his opponents. Cobius was left standing alone, barely able to hold himself up.