by Paul Doherty
Chapter 13
‘Quod erat demonstratum.’ (‘What has to be proved?’)
Euclid, The Elements
‘I didn’t know you were a bull leaper!’ Claudia hoped she could disguise her trembling as she sat on the bench in the small cell-like tavern off the main tunnel beneath the amphitheatre.
‘Neither did I.’ Murranus grinned and, at Polybius’s request, stretched out his arms so both the tavern keeper and Oceanus could dry his sweat and oil his body. They took off his loincloth. Claudia, embarrassed, glanced towards the entrance, where two burly mercenaries kept away sightseers and well-wishers.
The tunnel was dimly lit; a place of flickering shadow and dancing flame, echoing ghostly with the sound of distant voices, the roars from the animal pens, and the shouting of the crowd now waiting for the high point of the day. The clamour from the tunnel grew abruptly louder. Claudia walked to the doorway. The arena was being cleaned, the bull’s corpse dragged out to the slaughter yard.
Claudia returned to her seat. She felt weak with relief, yet fearful at the imminent confrontation with Meleager, now arming in a chamber further down the tunnel. The crowd had been ecstatic over Murranus’s performance, truly astonished by his cunning tactics and the skill of that leap. Of course, others had seen the bull dancers of Crete, but very rarely had such prowess been shown in the arenas of Rome. Even the Emperor had risen in acclamation. Claudia had jumped up and down and it took some time for Uncle Polybius to calm her and whisper the message that Murranus wanted to see her.
‘There.’ Claudia looked round. Murranus patted the new loincloth. ‘As neat and tidy,’ he winked at Claudia, ‘as a bridegroom on his wedding day.’
Polybius and Oceanus now began to arrange the armour piled on the floor, the silver filigreed breastplate, the leather kilt, the oblong shield, the embroidered sword belt, leg greaves, and a shimmering arm guard.
‘Wasn’t that Spicerius’s?’ Claudia asked.
‘It was,’ Murranus murmured. ‘Today I’ll wear it in his honour.’
He picked the arm guard up. Oceanus hurried to tie the straps.
‘You seem little interested in the gossip.’ Polybius lifted up the ornate Thracian helmet, with its broad brim and heavy face guard. He used his fingers to brush the gorgeous scarlet horsehair plume. ‘I mean, don’t you want to know,’ Polybius thrust the helmet into Oceanus’s hand, ‘what they’re saying about Meleager?’
‘I’m not interested.’ Murranus was staring at Claudia. ‘I don’t give a damn about tittle-tattle. What does it matter, if I’m killed in the next hour?’
‘Don’t say that,’ Polybius urged.
‘I said if.’ Murranus patted him on the shoulder. ‘I have sacrificed the bull. Now I’ll go out and defeat Meleager, but, gentlemen, I thank you for your care and attention.’ He gestured at the entrance. ‘In ancient Greece the heroes of Homer always armed for battle with the help of a beautiful maiden.’
Polybius and Oceanus took the hint, clasped his hand, embraced him, wished him good luck and left. Outside, the tunnel echoed with the sound of voices. The herald shouted that Meleager was ready. Murranus walked over to Claudia, embraced her gently and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Bull leaper,’ she whispered as she leaned against him.
‘I didn’t want to tell you.’ Murranus kissed her again. ‘I was practising. I didn’t know whether such a trick would work. I couldn’t see you beforehand, I didn’t want to alarm you.’
‘You must not die,’ she whispered.
‘Pray to whatever god you desire, Claudia. I’ll call on the ghost of Spicerius and all the dead to be with me. At a time like this you can feel your dead thronging about you.’
‘There are other ghosts.’ Claudia had made a decision. She pushed herself away and walked back to the bench, patting it for Murranus to sit next to her.
‘What is it, Claudia?’
‘There are ghosts here,’ Claudia declared. ‘My father and my mother and, above all, little Felix. Murranus, I’m going to tell you something about which I’m certain I have not made a mistake.’
She grasped his callused hand. At first she spoke haltingly, but eventually the words came hot and fast. She described her meeting with Meleager, his friendship with Dacius and her unshakeable belief that he was the man who had raped her and killed her brother.
Murranus listened intently. Only a muscle twitching high in his cheek and the cold, dead look in his eyes betrayed the anger seething within him. When Claudia had finished he gathered her in his arms, pushing her head against his chest whilst stroking her hair. She wished she could stay there but she had spoken enough.
‘Murranus, are you ready?’
The herald, dressed like the god Mercury, stood in the doorway, his white wand beating the air.
‘Murranus,’ the messenger’s voice sounded hollow behind the grotesque mask, ‘the Emperor awaits, the people of Rome are waiting.’
Murranus gently pushed Claudia away and stood up. She helped him arm, fastening the straps. Once finished, he stretched and flexed his muscles, then he kissed her once more, put on the helmet, picked up the sword and shield and walked out into the passageway. Meleager, similarly armed, his breastplate gleaming, was already waiting, helmet crooked under his arm. As Murranus approached, Meleager put his helmet on. Claudia noticed how the great horsehair plume seemed like a spray of blood above his head. Meleager went to grasp Murranus’s hand, but the other gladiator just brushed by him, sending officials and servants scattering out of his way as he walked into the glare of the arena. Meleager had no choice but to follow, as the trumpeters, caught off cue, brayed their salutation. The crowd sprang to its feet and roared in acknowledgement that the height of the games was about to begin.
Claudia did not return to the imperial box. She stood at the Gate of Life. Murranus and Meleager were now striding across the sand to stand in front of the box. They took off their helmets, raising sword and shield in salutation, and gave the usual cry: ‘We who are about to die salute thee.’
Constantine raised his hand in acknowledgement. The gladiators separated. Murranus put his shield and sword on the sand and took off his helmet, the agreed signal that he wished to talk. He wasn’t aware of how silent the arena had become; he just wanted to see Meleager’s face, to tell him directly that he was about to die.
‘What is it?’ Meleager took off his helmet and shook the sweat drops from his face. ‘Are you willing to concede? The crowd will understand that, especially after your luck with the bull.’
Murranus smiled lazily back. He wanted to study this face, remember how Meleager looked. The crowd was now shouting, but Murranus didn’t care. He picked up his helmet and brushed the sand from its plume.
‘Your friend Dacius.’ He could tell by Meleager’s expression that his opponent knew only too well what had happened. ‘He’s fled Rome.’ Murranus winked. ‘He won’t be here to see you die.’
The fixed smile faded from Meleager’s face.
‘And you are going to die,’ Murranus continued. ‘In a tunnel behind you stands a young woman, Claudia, the love of my life. Eighteen months ago she and her brother were down at a lonely spot on the banks of the Tiber. A stranger attacked them. He killed the boy and raped that young woman. Her assailant was strong and muscular, and on his wrist he had the tattoo of a purple chalice, the same insignia Dacius wears. You’ve had yours washed off.’ Murranus noticed how his opponent was breathing more quickly, blinking in astonishment. ‘You’ve had it washed off,’ Murranus repeated, ‘but you can’t wash away the crime, and you’ll pay for that now.’
Murranus put his helmet on, fastening the buckle, only now becoming aware of the shouts and cat-calls interspersed with a few boos from the increasingly restless crowd. He had chosen his time well. Meleager was disconcerted. Murranus was the first to re-arm, and walked away so that he stood with his back to the imperial podium. The crowd’s curiosity was now whetted. They wondered what had happened and were taken a
back by the fury of Murranus’s attack. Usually professional gladiators danced and skirmished, testing their opponent’s agility, assessing his strength. Murranus would have none of this. Shield up, he rushed straight at Meleager, sword flickering like a serpent’s tongue, seeking the soft lower neck. Meleager, taken by surprise, retreated quickly, turning slightly so that the death-bearing cut merely sliced a piece of leather off his shoulder guard. Again Murranus charged, using both shield and sword like a battering ram, kicking the sand, forcing his opponent back. Meleager fell, rolling in the sand, losing his sword. Murranus drew back and kicked the weapon towards his opponent; a casual gesture, full of contempt, as if he had already decided he was the victor and it was only a matter of time. The crowd was now roaring its approval.
Murranus turned, eyes searching for that lithe, small figure standing just within the Gate of Life. He lifted his sword in salute, then continued his onslaught, fighting like a man possessed. He no longer thought of tactics. He was only aware of his opponent: his grunts, his smell, the face behind that visor, his body protected by armour, sword and shield. He was not conscious of any ache or any fear; he was determined to destroy his opponent, take away both life and honour.
The end came swiftly. Meleager, taken completely by surprise by the swift ferocity of Murranus’s attack, tried to curb his opponent’s onslaught by making a cut at his leg. For a few seconds he left his shoulder exposed, and Murranus brought down his sword. Meleager moved, avoiding the full force of the blow, yet the sharp edge of Murranus’s sword dug deep. Meleager dropped his own weapon and staggered away, Murranus following in pursuit, using the boss of his shield to knock his opponent over. Meleager tried to roll away, but Murranus followed, finally putting his foot on his fallen opponent’s chest. Then he leaned down, took off Meleager’s helmet and tossed it across the arena. The entire amphitheatre was now standing, cloths being waved, hands extended to indicate Meleager’s fate. There were shouts of ‘Kill him!’ and ‘Let him have it!’
Meleager lay still, staring up at Murranus through half-closed eyes. He didn’t ask for mercy, whilst Murranus didn’t even look at his face, but turned to the imperial box, sword raised, waiting for the Emperor’s wish. Constantine was now leaning over the purple balustrade, right hand extended, thumb out. If he turned his thumb upwards, Meleager would die; down, and Murranus must show mercy. The gladiator waited. Someone was talking to Constantine; the hand fell away, then came back, a swift thrusting movement, thumb downwards. Meleager was to live. Murranus leaned over, pressing the tip of his sword against his opponent’s neck.
‘You fight like an ape,’ he hissed, ‘and you will die like an old dog.’
He stepped away, kicking his opponent’s sword towards him.
‘Use it,’ he taunted, ‘to get up and hobble back to your degenerate friends.’
Murranus walked away. Claudia, standing in the entrance of the Gate of Life, watched as if it was a scene from a play. Murranus had now dropped his shield, but was still holding his sword, striding towards her, his booted sandals kicking away the sand. People were standing in the imperial box; the crowd still shouted their approval, saluting the hero of the games. Claudia saw Meleager move. He grasped his fallen sword and got to his feet, scrambling towards Murranus at a half-crouch, sword out. She opened her mouth to scream but she couldn’t. Murranus turned abruptly, his sword coming up. He knocked his opponent’s arm away before thrusting his own sword deep into Meleager’s belly, turning it to the left and right, dragging Meleager close so he could watch the life light die in his eyes. Only then, using his foot, did he free his sword and allow the corpse to collapse on to the sand, a pool of blood gushing out from the jagged cut which had sliced his stomach.
The crowd was stamping and screaming, coins and flowers were thrown, trumpets blared. Murranus took off his helmet, threw it on the sand and turned, sword raised, Meleager’s blood coursing down it, to receive the applause of the Emperor and people of Rome.
Claudia could only stand, body taut, thrilled with excitement, watching this man turn round and round, screaming back his own song of victory. The Emperor had allowed Meleager to live and the fallen gladiator had breached both imperial wishes and the only rule of the arena: a man could live for his courage but had to die for cowardice. Meleager’s attack had been treacherous. If Murranus hadn’t killed him, Constantine would have sent troops to finish the task. Very few spectators realised how Murranus had provoked his opponent before walking slowly away. Claudia had seen him turn his left hand, using Spicerius’s arm guard to watch what was happening behind him. Meleager had been a dead man as soon as he grasped his sword and decided on that last cowardly attack.
Any hopes Claudia had that she and Murranus would be left alone were quickly dashed. As soon as Murranus entered the Gate of Life, court officials came hurrying down with the Emperor’s demands that he appear in the imperial box to receive the victor’s laurels. Constantine was apparently delighted, eager to be associated with this new champion of Rome, even though the mob’s memory was fickle and Murranus’s exploits would soon take second place to anything which occurred during the games over the next few days. Murranus hugged and kissed Claudia. The officials collected his weapons and he was escorted back up through the tunnels, along the passageways, to where Constantine was waiting for him. Claudia watched him go. She couldn’t stop her trembling, and she felt the little food she’d eaten curdle in her stomach. She sighed with relief as she walked back to the tunnel and Narcissus stepped out of the gloom.
‘Just the person I want! You have my walking cane and cloak?’
Narcissus gestured to a shelf behind him.
‘Good,’ Claudia breathed. ‘I’m going home, Narcissus, and you’re coming with me. I’m going to forget Meleager and fall asleep beneath the orchard trees whilst you stand guard over me.’
The sun was beginning to set and the breeze had turned refreshingly cool when Claudia was woken by the sounds of Polybius and Poppaoe preparing the tavern garden for what her uncle proudly termed a ‘midnight feast’. She struggled awake, rubbing her face.
‘I’m too busy to talk to you.’ Polybius wagged a finger. ‘I’ve got Oceanus with some of the local lads guarding the door, otherwise we’ll have half of Rome here. What we’re going to do is feast Murranus, toast his victory, and get as drunk as sots.’
‘Have there been any visitors for me?’ Claudia asked.
‘Visitors?’ Poppaoe came running across the grass, her arms full of crockery. ‘Where’s that bloody table?’ she shouted.
‘Visitors?’ Claudia repeated.
‘I don’t know,’ Poppaoe sighed. ‘We have half of Rome here and you’re talking about visitors?’
Claudia soon realised which way the tide was turning. Poppaoe and Polybius were not only celebrating, but giving vent to their own relief. Polybius adored Murranus, saw him as the son he had always wanted, and during the preparations he kept up a constant commentary about what he had seen in the arena that day. Claudia helped her uncle, bringing out cushions and stools, oil lamps and candles, before going into the kitchen to lend a hand with what Polybius termed ‘a feast for an Emperor’. Oceanus guarded the door and only a few chosen clients were allowed in. Once they were inside, Simon the Stoic and Petronius the Pimp included, Poppaoe immediately grabbed them to help with the preparations.
Dusk had fallen when the shouts and cries from outside signalled that Murranus had returned. He staggered into the eating hall, the victor laurels all crooked on his head, in one hand a silver wine cup and in the other a gold-embossed jug.
‘The Emperor himself gave them to me,’ he slurred. ‘I’m going to marry his mother!’ Then he looked up at the ceiling, rolled his eyes and fell to the floor, sending jug and goblet dancing across the room. Claudia helped take him out to the garden, where he was made comfortable on a makeshift bed of cushions, with Sorry kneeling beside him to waft away the flies.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Polybius shouted. ‘A couple of ho
urs’ sleep and he will be in fine fettle.’
Claudia stayed chatting to Sorry until Poppaoe ushered Sallust the Searcher into the garden.
‘I have news for you.’ He glanced down at the prostrate Murranus. ‘I’d have got it to you sooner, but your man’s to blame, very much the hero of the day.’
Claudia took Sallust down to the vine trellis and listened intently as he reported what his man had found in the town of Capua. When he had finished, she offered to pay him, but the searcher shook his head, gesturing back at the preparations.
‘If Polybius invites me to that, I will consider it a job well done.’
Claudia arranged this with her uncle, and while Poppaoe dragged Sallust off into the kitchen to dice some meat, she went up to her own chamber, took out her writing tray and squatted with her back to the door, listing everything she had learned. She felt certain about her conclusions but wondered what to do next. In the garden below, someone began to sing a soft, lilting song about unrequited love.
‘That’s the cause of it,’ Claudia murmured. ‘Love all twisted turns to hate.’
She made a decision and brought Sorry up to her chamber. She thrust a coin and a small piece of parchment into his hand.
‘You are to go to the palace on the Palatine,’ she insisted. ‘You are to seek out the Captain of the Guard; his name is Gaius Tullius.’ Claudia tapped the piece of parchment.
‘Sorry?’ the boy said.
‘Gaius Tullius. Tell him he is to seek the help of . . . Oh, never mind,’ she snapped, ‘you can keep the coin.’
‘Sorry,’ the boy wailed.
‘No, no,’ Claudia replied, ‘it’s a complicated message. I’ll get Sallust to do it. Come on, Sorry, who’s looking after Murranus? We have to get him ready for the feast.’