The Song of the Gladiator

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I wish you weren’t!’ Oceanus came out of the shadows. He was a former gladiator, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, with arms and legs as stout as pillars. Claiming it was better to have an empty garden than a few straggling flowers, he shaved his pate every day and rubbed in cheap oil so that, as Polybius said, it gleamed like a fresh pigeon’s egg. He had only one ear, which sported a huge brass ring; the other had been bitten off in a contest. Oceanus had dried it out, pickled it in brine and now it hung on a cord slung round his neck.

  Others from the tavern gathered around. Simon the Stoic, the self-proclaimed philosopher, was garbed in his usual shabby cloak. Today his mournful face was even more lugubrious, his bitter lips ready to recite some tragic line. Murranus wanted to be alone, but they were only trying to help; at least they distracted him from the blood stains on the floor, as well as those two ghouls, Charon and Mercury, standing with their backs to the wall, staring at him as if he was a bullock primed for the slaughter. Outside, the chanting of the crowd thundered ominously, but when it subsided the strident music ruffled Murranus’s nerves and made the sweat break out on the back of his neck. He wished the waiting was over.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he declared. He moved across to the table and stripped. Oceanus washed his body with a sponge soaked in cold water, dried him off and began to rub in oil. Once he had finished, Murranus wrapped a triangular loincloth about his waist, pulling the end up between his legs and pushing it through a knot at the front. Next came the thick belt with its golden stitching. Murranus jogged up and down, bulging out his stomach muscles. Once he had pronounced himself satisfied, he put on a leather guard over his left arm, followed by the embossed bronzed leg guards over their thick linen padding. Oceanus made sure all the straps were tied securely and rubbed more oil on Murranus’s bare feet, thighs, chest and right arm. The gladiator picked up his stout stabbing sword and oblong legionnaire’s shield, weighing them carefully, checking all was well. Finally the visored helmet, with a panther carved on top sporting a blue-black horse-hair crest, was handed to him. Its straps and buckles were sound, and Murranus slipped it over his head, making sure it sat comfortably, peering through the eye holes at his friends standing in a semicircle around him.

  ‘Pray for me, my friends.’ His voice sounded muffled. ‘Let fortune be with me.’

  He took the helmet off and grinned, although his stomach churned and a muscle in his right thigh trembled. Murranus had made his farewells the night before at the Cena Libera, the Free Supper, where gladiators due to appear in the arena the next day celebrated what might be their last night alive. He turned at the sound of voices, and saw a gang of young men, their faces painted, hair dyed, eyelids fluttering, come tripping down the tunnel. Oceanus drove them back.

  ‘Perverts!’ Oceanus jibed. ‘The only way they can get a hard-on is by watching a man getting ready to die.’

  Murranus laughed, eager to lessen the tension. He told them about how such perverts, both male and female, clustered round the Gate of Life to pester and taunt the Noxii, criminals condemned to be thrown to the beasts; how these degenerates would often push their bodies up against the manacled prisoners. On one occasion a former Emperor had issued secret orders that when the Noxii were driven out, these perverts should also be pushed out to face the wild beasts. Murranus’s story provoked merriment, abruptly cut short by loud laughter echoing along the tunnel.

  ‘Spicerius,’ Polybius declared, ‘and all his entourage.’

  The net man came swaggering out of the darkness, tall and lithe, quick on his feet, his bushy black hair kept in place by a red headband. He was already armed, resplendent in his silver loincloth with his gold-embroidered belt, a wickedly pointed dagger pushed through a ring just near the buckle. Gold-coloured padding protected his legs and left arm; an ornamented arm guard on his right displayed a snarling lion on the front with bulls’ heads around the rim. He wore a silver cord about his neck from which hung a lion’s tooth. Spicerius claimed to have killed its owner with his bare hands. As soon as he deigned to notice Murranus, he lifted the pointed trident and dangled the net tied to his left hand.

  ‘Come on, Murranus, come and get it.’

  Murranus put his helmet down and walked over. He scrutinised the net man carefully, those quickly darting close-set eyes, that smirking mouth. He noticed how Spicerius, as was his custom, had painted his face and drawn deep-green kohl rings around his eyes. His lips were carmined and he stank of some expensive perfume. Spicerius thrust his face closer, eyes fluttering.

  ‘Kiss, kiss, Murranus?’

  The young woman on Spicerius’s left shrieked with laughter, so loud Murranus suspected she was drunk.

  ‘This is Agrippina.’ Spicerius introduced her. ‘A noble daughter of a noble family.’

  Agrippina was tall and willowy, her black hair tied up in a net, a gesture of comradeship with her boyfriend. The snow-white linen wrap around her shoulders did little to hide the plunging neckline of her gown. She wore mullet-red shoes, and earrings, bracelets and bangles of the same colour, as if proclaiming her love for the colour of blood.

  ‘I’ve come to kiss Spicerius goodbye,’ she announced pertly. ‘No,’ she shook her head, ‘on second thoughts, just to wish him well. I’ll proudly kiss him on his return!’

  ‘Kiss my arse!’ Oceanus bellowed from where he stood behind Murranus. Spicerius moved to confront him but Murranus blocked his way.

  ‘There’ll be time soon enough,’ he murmured.

  ‘Aye,’ the net man replied, lowering his trident to rest under his arm, ‘there’ll soon be time for everything.’

  The Director of the Games, all flustered and sweaty, came forward, gesturing at a tray bearing a flagon of wine and two cups on the shabby table against the wall. He beckoned the gladiators forward and filled the earthenware cups. Each took one and toasted his opponent.

  ‘Usque ad mortem,’ Murranus declared.

  ‘Usque ad mortem,’ Spicerius replied. ‘To the death.’

  They drained their cups and returned to their entourages for the final preparations. The Director was standing at the Gate of Life, gesturing with his hands. A strident blast of trumpets silenced the crowd, and both gladiators returned for one more drink. Spicerius checked the net tied to his wrist whilst Murranus lowered his helmet on his head.

  ‘Now,’ a voice bellowed.

  They walked out of the darkness into the blazing light. Trumpets shrilled, cymbals clashed, the crowd thundered its applause whilst the heat caught them like a blast from a fiery oven. The musicians, sand-rakers and cleaners had disappeared. Murranus walked carefully across the sand, Spicerius keeping pace. They stopped before the imperial box and gave the salute, and a figure high above them lifted his hand in languid reply. Both gladiators turned, saluted each other and quickly drew apart. The clamour of the crowd subsided into a whispering chatter as so-called experts delivered their judgements on the combatants.

  Murranus tried not to be distracted. Claudia was in the imperial box; he wished she wasn’t. He did not feel good and tried to shake off his fears. He had visited a magician, who had sacrificed a dove in a pool of water and prayed that all the gods would assist Murranus. Murranus did not want to die. He had to be Victor Ludorum and receive the gladiator’s crown. Spicerius was still moving away, drawing free of the wall, which could impede his net. Murranus followed slowly. Spicerius began that strange dance all net men did, moving swiftly to the right then the left, trying to detect whether his opponent’s view was blocked or hampered. Murranus brought up sword and shield. He ignored the net and trident, but watched Spicerius’s face, those eyes: which way would he go?

  Murranus’s bare feet caught something in the sand. He stepped back and looked down: a severed arm overlooked by the rakers, a grisly reminder of the beast hunt earlier that day. Spicerius hadn’t noticed it. Murranus moved forward quickly and pretended to stumble. Spicerius darted back, net whirling above his head. Murranus quickly retreated, and the net fell short. Murranus
rushed in. Spicerius was faster, thrusting his trident towards Murranus’s face. He quickly drew away. The crowd roared their approval. Spicerius was dancing again, showing off. He came in too close and paid the price, a cut to his right thigh which warned him off. Murranus ignored the applause and followed Spicerius, but something was wrong: the wound he had inflicted was superficial, yet the net man was blinking, shaking his head. Was this a trap? Murranus cautiously paced forward, then stopped. Spicerius no longer crouched. He was standing up straight, staring at his opponent, eyes puzzled, mouth moving. The trident dropped from his hands. He took a step forward, tangling his feet in the net, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

  For the briefest moment there was silence, shattered by a roar of disapproval. The crowd had come for blood, not to see someone collapse in the sand. The Gate of Life opened, and Mercury hurried across with his red-hot iron. He jabbed Spicerius’s leg, but the net man only groaned, tried to move, then lay still. Charon turned the body over. Spicerius’s face was pale, his eyelids fluttering, and he was coughing and spluttering. Charon turned him back and Spicerius began to vomit.

  ‘Poison!’ The word seemed to carry like a bird whirring round the amphitheatre.

  Murranus walked away just as the booing began. He strode towards the Gate of Life. The Director of the Games had already picked up one of the wine goblets and was waving it around.

  Gaius, principal centurion in the Imperial Comitatus, the cavalry escort which always guarded the Emperor, bit into a soft golden apple. He closed his eyes and savoured the sweet juices. Gaius was sitting in the cool colonnade which overlooked the peristyle garden of the Villa Pulchra. He was deep in thought; he had so much to reflect on, so much to do, so little time to do it. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes. This was a very pleasant change from the musty barracks and hot stable yards of the imperial palaces. He was relieved not to have to wear the imperial dress uniform; instead he could relax in a cool embroidered tunic and short toga, although beneath the folds of that robe he wore a narrow leather belt with a long stabbing dagger in an embroidered sheath.

  Gaius had been born not far from this very villa. He claimed he was Roman, though some said his ancestors were Spaniards, which accounted for his dark good looks and fiery temper. He had not yet reached thirty and was already one of Constantine’s most trusted officers. He had received the crown of bravery for his courage at the battle of the Milvian Bridge and his ruthless pursuit of the enemy when it retreated. However, he still couldn’t believe his luck at being brought here for such a meeting. Of course, he hadn’t objected and good-naturedly received the envious congratulations of his fellow officers. He had left Rome a few days ago, escorting the carts and pack ponies, the long lines of slaves and servants, bringing goods from the Palatine palace to this imperial villa. It had been so refreshing to leave the city, travelling along the Via Latina before taking the country roads to Tibur and Constantine’s summer residence.

  This great villa, with a large farm attached, stretched across the brow of the Alban Hills, a place of dark green woods, pastures and meadows, all fertilised by the cool, sparkling Anio River. The villa was protected by its own curtain wall with guard towers and a wide fortified gate. Inside stretched a veritable paradise of gardens, sparkling fountains, man-made channels and rivulets, garlanded porticoes and shaded colonnades. The villa boasted avenues of cypresses, olives and pine trees which, the garrulous old gardener had assured Gaius, were watered with wine. Elm and holm-oak flourished, as well as shrubs such as myrtle, box, oleander, laurel and bay. Around the villa were sweet-smelling orchards of apple, pear, peach and cherry, and beds of roses, lilies and violets, whilst exotic lotus blossom floated on pools and fish ponds.

  Once the carts were unpacked and the sumpter ponies unburdened, Gaius had spent the last two days wandering the villa. Its entrance hall or atrium was breathtaking in its beauty, with its long pool beneath an open sunlight, gorgeously carved pillars and vividly painted wall frescoes. The triclinium, or dining room, was just as luxurious, as were the various chambers and rest rooms for the imperial family and their court. Every luxury and need was catered for. The villa had its own kitchen, bake houses, vineyards and wine cellars. There was even a latrine with twenty marble seats at the far side of the villa, near the wall which divided it from the farm, which was a small estate in itself with its stables, pig pens, chicken coops, dovecotes and vegetable gardens.

  Gaius had his own chamber beyond the peristyle, rather narrow but it did possess a large window, a carved chest, a stool, a small table and a comfortable cot bed. There was even a wall tapestry depicting Aeneas fleeing Troy, whilst the floor mosaic was of a dolphin’s head thrusting up through sky-blue waves. Gaius had little to do but plan and plot while ensuring his guards were vigilant. The preparations for the arrival of the Purple Lords were not for him; those were left to the chamberlains and stewards. Gaius was in charge of security, and he had scrupulously memorised the plan of the villa. Only one distraction concerned him: the other soldiers. These were not from the imperial regiments; merely German mercenaries in their baggy trousers and tunics, their ruddy faces almost hidden beneath straggling hair and moustaches. The Germans were friendly enough, under the command of Burrus, Emperor Helena’s personal bodyguard. They’d arrived two weeks ago in order to guard what they called in their broken Latin the ‘Sanctus Gladius’, the Holy Sword, apparently a great Christian relic which the Empress had found near the grave of Paul, one of the first leaders of the Christian Church. Paul had been decapitated by the Emperor Nero some two hundred and fifty years earlier; the faithful had obtained the sword which severed his neck and kept it in a secret place. Gaius regarded it all as childish trickery but the Germans were overcome by awe and took their task seriously.

  Gaius scratched at a cut on his arm and gazed down at the golden carp nosing lazily amongst the reeds. He couldn’t believe a sword had been preserved for over two hundred years, but there again, everything was changing. Gaius narrowed his eyes in disdain. The Christians . . . well, they swarmed like rats spilling out of their sewers and underground caverns. When they were not nosing where they shouldn’t, they were busy fighting each other. Gaius tapped his foot impatiently. He and the other officers did not like how this coward’s faith was replacing the glories of Mithras. Was this what they had fought for? Their allegiance was to Rome, yet the Augusta was insistent that that bloody sword had become more precious than an imperial standard. Burrus had told him all about the so-called relic; the German was garrulous, especially after he had drunk a few cups of the heavy wine of Lesbos, and had confessed to Gaius how he took his task most seriously, out of awe, as well as love for his Empress.

  ‘She feeds me so well,’ Burrus had slurred. ‘Dormice,’ he continued. ‘I never thought I’d like them, but, soaked in honey, with a sprinkling of sesame seeds . . .’ He stroked his stomach appreciatively. He was not so polite about the arrival of the philosophers, however. ‘Christians,’ he jeered, ‘with nothing better to do than chatter like jays. The sword has been brought here to impress them.’

  ‘Where’s it kept?’ Gaius had asked.

  ‘Just behind the atrium,’ Burrus confided, ‘stands a door with steps leading down to a cellar. Apparently the builder of this villa had hoped to create an ice house by plastering the walls and laying a cement floor with a great circle of earth in the centre where the ice tub would stand. It was a dismal failure, so the cavernous chamber was turned into a strong room where the owner could keep his treasure. Now,’ Burrus leaned closer in a heavy gust of wine, ‘there,’ he stumbled over the words, ‘is the Locus Sacer, the Sacred Place.’

  Timothaeus, Chief Steward of the villa, a self-confessed Christian who wore the fish symbol around his neck, had nodded in agreement. The steward, with his jovial red face and infectious laugh, always joined their little suppers. He never took offence at Burrus’s contempt for Christians, but always warned that the mercenary should be careful, for surely one day the Empress Helena wo
uld be baptised and received in the only true faith? The German had grunted his disapproval and started asking questions about this great Paul, before offering to show Gaius the renowned relic. The steward had accompanied them down the steps to the iron-studded cellar door. At each side of this squatted two of Burrus’s men, looking rather fearsome in the dancing light of the pitch torches pushed into wall brackets above them. They rose, swaying drunkenly.

  ‘Is your leg better?’ one of them asked Timothaeus.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the steward replied hurriedly. ‘Now, Burrus, your key . . .’

  Apparently there were two locks to the door, each served by a different key. Burrus held one, Timothaeus the other. The mercenary inserted his and turned it; the steward followed suit and swung open the door to the sacred place. The inside of the cellar was dark, reeking of incense and beeswax. Gaius stepped over the threshold and stared around.

  The chamber was long and cavernous, a place of shifting shadows due to the candles in their translucent alabaster jars fixed in niches along the walls. The ceiling was high, ribbed by stout beams supporting the floor above. In the centre stretched a huge circle of sand sprinkled with gold dust and edged with polished bricks arranged in a dog’s-tooth fashion. Pots of incense displaying the Chi and Rho of the Christian faith were placed around the circle, the crackling charcoal sending up fragrant gusts of incense. The object of all this veneration hung on a stout chain from a rafter beam: the Holy Sword of the legionary who had executed St Paul. Around the stone-rimmed circle were prayer stools for the faithful to sit or kneel whenever they came to venerate the sacred relic.

  ‘Where’s Burrus?’ Gaius asked. Timothaeus had followed him in, but the German had stayed chattering to his companions outside.

  ‘He’s frightened,’ the steward whispered. ‘This is a sacred place. Burrus is frightened of the Christian angels.’ Gaius grunted and walked to the edge of the circle.