Honoria was sitting in a place of honour that night, her rich cloak hung with gold clasps, watching the musicians and the acrobats in the arena, twirling with their flaming brands and somersaulting over the bark-sprinkled ground. Her mother, refusing to be upstaged, sat beside her. Julia and Matidia had not replied to their invitations, so Leocadius would be going alone.
There was more than a smattering of soldiery there, as the Heruli, the Batavi and several of the city garrison, had left off their armour and jostled for good positions on the stands. If general Maximus did not approve of this reversion to the barbarism of old, he had not let the consul know that; but neither was he there in person. Hupo scanned the crowd as he returned to the arena. There was no Stephanus either, no Vitalis. He knew there would be no churchmen there; that was a given. But he smiled to himself as he caught sight of old Proclivius Parbo, the ex-consul’s old friend. The man was a thorough-going Christian, having booked his west-facing place in Dalmatius’ own personal graveyard beyond the Bishop’s Gate. Yet here he was, pissed as a fart, with a girl on each arm and a wreath of Bacchus’ ivy leaves lop-sidedly around his head.
‘We know,’ Dalmatius was holding the attention of his flock, rather smaller than he would have hoped that night, in his church to the west of the city, ‘what abomination goes on in the woods to the east. We know it, Lord, and we are here to beg you to put a stop to it, to end this sacrilege of slaughter once and for all. The deified Constantine himself spoke out against it. You shall not kill, you have told us, again and again. And yet, the wicked will not listen, because they have black evil in their hearts.’
‘Tonight,’ Decius Critus spoke in the cave of Mithras, the candles flickering behind his head, looking for all the world as if the fires of hell shone from his ears, ‘we will strike such a blow that Dalmatius and his Christians will never forget.’
The men in darkness with him murmured. Half of them, soldiers and ex-soldiers, would have loved to have been in the forest to the east where iron rang on iron and men died. But this was their greater calling. There would be other Games. Now that Paulinus Hupo was Aedile and Leocadius Honorius consul, they could count on it. Tonight, they would ring iron of their own. And Londinium would remember. At a word from Critus, they filed out into the night.
Consul Leocadius made his grand entrance at last, an army of scribblers and denarius-counters fluttering behind him. The tubas sounded his arrival with a fanfare and the crowd roared their delight. The acrobats stood still in the arena and, at a signal from Hupo, extinguished their brands in the bark. The Aedile made his way up the temporary staircase below Leocadius’ dais with its scarlet awning and its guttering torches and made a handsome speech of welcome. The consul replied in equally fulsome tones, neither man meaning a word of it and the Games could commence.
Leocadius took the white linen from a flunkey and raised it high. In front of him, a sea of expectant faces looked at him, eyes and teeth shining in the light of so many fires. He gave a half smile, enjoying the silence; enjoying the moment of absolute power. For those few seconds, Londinium and nearly everyone in it, belonged entirely to him. Then he let the cloth fall and the roar from the crowd was deafening. Hupo announced the first pairing, although nobody heard what he said and the betting started in earnest.
The pair circled each other, the Hoplomachus in his huge iron helmet with the black feathered crest. His right arm was bound in white fabric from shoulder to wrist, as was his left leg. Over this was strapped a greave of bronze. The torches shone on the silver studs that held his subligaculum at his waist. The short straight sword of his opponent, the Provocator, banged on the man’s round shield and they broke apart. The faces of both men were hidden completely behind the iron grilles and under the rims of their helmets. They grunted and wheezed as they traded blows, iron ringing into the night and dust and bark flying as their sandals slipped. The crowd roared delightedly as first one man, then the other, drew blood. The Provocator’s sword licked over his opponent’s shield to slice his forearm and as the wounded man stumbled he jabbed his spear into the Hoplomachus’ thigh, making him drop to one knee with the sudden pain and shock. The crowd were on their feet, screaming hysterically, their hands in the air, drawing their thumbs across their throats. But Hupo shook his head and laughed. As Aedile, he would say who lived or died tonight and this was not billed as a fight to the death. Besides, no man had given up yet as the Hoplomachus was on his feet again. The crowd groaned, disappointed that the wounds were only slight.
Again they swung to the attack, but this one was short-lived. The Provocator banged hard on his opponent’s helmet, twisting the iron so that his skull hit the side. Padded or not, the man fell, his senses gone, his brain damaged for all time. Again the crowd were on their feet and again the thumbs slashed horizontally. Now they begged the Aedile, now was the time for the coup de grace. Hupo raised the hand of the tired Provocator and the medici scurried over to carry the unconscious man away.
The children of darkness had left their lair by the Walbrook and were making their way silently through the streets. They were dressed in dark clothing so that they would not easily be seen and they covered their faces so they would not easily be recognized. They travelled in threes and fours, the brands that would light their way and burn Dalmatius’ church still mere sticks in their hands. Critus alone wore the robes of his calling, the bull flashing silver on his chest and his long, tasselled sleeves trailing the ground.
The few drunks still rolling along the alleyways saw them and scurried away. Men in shadows was bad news in a city like Londinium; it usually meant death.
Paulinus Hupo’s timing was immaculate. He knew what pleased a crowd. Make them laugh. Make them cry. Make them wait. The wine and beer were flowing fast and the trinket sellers moved among the crowd, anxious to milk the moment for all it was worth. There was a roar as the Aedile announced the second pairing and two huge men strode into the arena – the Thracian against the Myrmillo. Money flew thick and fast and the stakes were high. Hupo was delighted; above the appreciative roar of the crowd, he could hear the sound of serious money.
The Myrmillo’s helmet was sculpted into myriad facets, so that it glittered like fish scales and a huge white plume stood tall like a fountain above it. His shield was large and rectangular, of the type the army used to carry long ago and it curved around his body. Diana the huntress was carved on the greave buckled to his left leg and his sword was short, straight and double-edged. The Thracian’s curved weapon clanged against it, the blades flashing sparks in the torch light. Their shields locked for a moment, then they pulled apart, hacking and parrying to the delight of the crowd. The Thracian lunged and lost his balance and the Myrmillon was on him, swinging his sword down so that it hit the neck defence of the man’s helmet and he sank to his knees.
Hupo dashed into the arena. The crowd would have his blood if the bout ended so quickly, so he barked at the Myrmillon to wait until the Thracian had recovered. For a moment, the man sat in the scattered bark, his sword and shield still in his hands, waiting for his vision to clear. All around him the mob were hissing and booing, throwing anything at him that came to hand. ‘Get up, you bloody coward!’ ‘What are we paying good money for?’ ‘Call yourself a Thracian?’
Then he staggered upright and the fight went on.
They reached the square of the old temple of Jupiter, Highest and Best. Lights were twinkling in the small high windows and those nearest could hear the chanting of the faithful inside Dalmatius’ church. Critus lit his torch and passed the flame to the next man, who passed it to another. Suddenly, in the eerie semi-silence the alleyways that led to the square burst into light.
Critus raised his flaming brand. ‘Mithras, god of the midnight!’ he yelled and the cry was taken up by the others, hundreds of determined men rushing across the square with hatred in their hearts.
In front of the main doors two men stepped forward out of the shadows. One was a tribune of the VI Victrix, although tonight h
e wore no armour and carried no weapon except his sword. The other was Pelagius and he carried no weapons at all.
It was time for the final bout of the evening. To nobody’s surprise the concussed Thracian had gone down to the Myrmillon and there were shouts of ‘Fix!’ and ‘Resign!’ – both of these delivered to the Aedile. Being Master of the Games was a two-edged sword but Hupo knew that the best was yet to be. He walked into the centre of the arena and stood there in his ceremonial robes until the clamour had died down.
‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘we have a special contest.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I give you, Hermes Psychopompus.’ There was an ecstatic shout as two of the long-suffering slaves who had been hauling seating and scenery all day appeared at the Aedile’s elbow wearing masks and carrying red hot irons, glowing in their hands. The tension in the auditorium was electric. These were the guides who would take the dead to the underworld. The irons would be used on any gladiator whose nerve left him and he refused to fight.
Again, Hupo the consummate showman waited for quiet. He raised his hand high and boomed out, ‘Behold, the Ferryman.’ This time the roar turned to a boo, not against Hupo but against the black-cloaked figure with the hook-nosed mask of the death demon, Charon. In his hand, he carried a two-handed stone-headed hammer, ready to shatter the skull of the gladiator who lost.
‘This,’ yelled Hupo, although he had absolutely no need to tell the crowd, ‘will be a fight to the death.’
The roar in that strangely haunted forest was deafening and everybody was on their feet, shaking their fists in the air, turning to each other, gabbling excitedly and slapping each other on the back. A tall man with blond curls sauntered casually into the arena, waving and smiling at the crowd, loving the moment. He wore a scarlet sublicagulum, fringed with gold and a chequered band around his head which was otherwise bare. His legs below the knee were padded with white fabric, bound and strapped and he had a bronze plate strapped to his left shoulder. In one hand he trailed a nine foot square net hung with little lead weights to ensnare his opponent and in his other a trident, five feet long and ending in three murderous iron prongs. His body gleamed with oil in the torchlight and there were adoring ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the ladies and, furtively, a few of the men.
‘This is Danaos,’ Hupo shouted once the noise had dropped a little. ‘He has forty nine kills to his name. Who will make it fifty?’
‘That’s far enough, Critus!’ Vitalis shouted. The chants and curses of the children of darkness died down and the only sound then was the hiss of iron as the tribune drew his sword and held the blade naked in the torchlight. ‘There is no place here for you.’
‘Nor for you, traitor,’ the Mithras priest growled. ‘I should have known. When you did not come to the Mithraeum, I should have known. Are you a damned Christian now?’
‘I may or may not be a Christian,’ Vitalis said, ‘but I am probably damned.’
Pelagius murmured out of the corner of his mouth, ‘You don’t have to do this, Vitalis. Get out of here while you can. You owe nothing to those people in the church.’
‘No,’ Vitalis said, ‘I owe it to myself.’
The doors of the church crashed back and Bishop Dalmatius stood there, wearing his robes just as Critus was wearing his. He stepped forward into the light of the torches, facing the children of darkness with a growing army of muscular Christians fanning out from the building and facing the square. The lines of battle were drawn.
‘I accept the challenge!’ a voice shouted in the darkness of the gate of death. Charon raised his hideous masked head and cradled the hammer in his arms. The crowd fell hushed as Leocadius Honorius, the consul of Maxima Caesaeriensis, walked into the centre of the arena. He was wearing the armour of a Thracian, a broad silver belt holding the green sublicagulum and oil gleamed across his shoulders, back and chest. Bronze greaves glowed in the torchlight on both legs and his right arm was encased in articulated iron, overlapping plates as oiled as he was.
No one, other than those sitting nearest him, had noticed the man slip away earlier, during the last bout. He carried a small shield in his left hand and a large, griffin crested helmet in his right, the high horsehair crest trailing the ground now as he walked. The crowd would have roared anyway, but when they saw who it was, they roared even louder. No one, in that insane cockpit of butchery, was asking themselves the question – why? What had possessed the new consul that he should lay his life on the line for a wager? What would make a man like him risk all for the roar of the mob?
Only one woman was asking herself all this and more as she looked down at him. Honoria was on her feet, not screaming delight with all the others, but covering her mouth in horror, her eyes wide. Hupo caught the moment, saw the girl who was the mother of his child, shouting animatedly at her own mother sitting beside her, pulling the girl’s cloak, trying to calm her down. Hupo caught the moment and remembered it.
He turned to face the fighters, who stood before him, bare-headed and with legs apart. They gave the Aedile the ritual greeting, chanting together, ‘We who are about to die, salute you.’ Then, Leocadius buckled on his helmet, clashed his curved sword blade on the prongs of the retiarius’ trident and stepped back. Many in the auditorium that night had never seen a fight to the death. This in itself was worth the entry fee and Hupo found himself smiling while Honoria sat high on her stand, frozen with the horror of it all. The man she loved was facing a professional killer and she knew he stood no chance at all.
‘You will not violate this sacred ground!’ Dalmatius’ voice carried across the square.
‘What sacred ground?’ Critus bellowed back. ‘Look around you, you blinkered buffoon. You are worshipping in the Temple of Jupiter. Your Galilean carpenter has no more place there than he has in my Mithraeum.’
‘You’re wrong, Critus,’ Pelagius said. ‘The Lord Jesus has a place everywhere. In the Temple of Jupiter. In the Mithraeum. In my heart and in yours.’
The first torch sailed into the air high over Pelagius’ head to bounce off the plaster wall and do no damage. The second hit the thatch of the barn next door and the third landed in the centre of the Christian mob, one of the deacon’s robes exploding in a roar of flame. Both sides closed together, punching, gouging, kicking and somewhere in the middle of it all, Vitalis and Pelagius were trying to stay alive.
Leocadius was trying to stay alive too. The sword in his hand was not the weight he was used to. It was shorter, lighter and curved. The shield was too small, although what use it was against that bloody net, he had no idea. His bigger problem was the helmet. The thing was heavy and the retiarius bobbed in his vision through the eye-holes of the grille. He could hear his own breathing in that bronze bucket, echoing and re-echoing like the rattle of chains in hell. The noise of the crowd, at least, was muffled and he was grateful for that. He did not have time to watch them, to pick out faces. He was too intent on the net and the trident in front of him.
It was no consolation at all to remember that the net man had done this at least forty nine times before and this was Leocadius’ first fight. Twice the net slapped over his head, the lead weights pinging off his helmet and peppering the skin of his back. He drove the taller man back with his shield and hacked with the sword. The trident whirled across and caught the blade on its hooks and he twisted sideways, throwing Leocadius off balance. He dropped heavily to one knee, then thrust upwards, grazing the retiarius’ thigh as he did so. The man fell back, cursing under his breath as the blood began to trickle from the open cut.
The crowd were screaming, ‘Kill! Kill!’ as though they could literally smell the blood. The pair circled each other, Leocadius finding breathing ever more difficult in the suffocating helmet. He saw the trident coming for his face and parried desperately with the sword. Then the net hooked around his ankles and he went down, the fall knocking the wind out of him. The blond killer stepped onto his sword arm and the fight looked to be all over. Leocadius saw the trident raised and turned his head. Char
on in his blackness stared back at him and he knew, although he could not see them, that the crowd had their thumbs at their rthroats while the Aedile made his lightning count.
Hupo smiled. It was gratifying to know that most of them wanted Honoria’s darling dead. And the best news of all was that Hupo himself would have no responsibility for his death. It was the will of the people of Londinium; what consul could wish it any other way? He raised the white cloth in his hand, the one he would soon dabble in Leocadius’ blood once Charon had demolished his skull. But first the honour of actually killing the man would go to the retiarius. Hupo dropped the cloth and the trident came up, held by the gladiator in both hands, ready for the final, downward thrust.
‘The city!’ someone yelled. ‘The city’s on fire!’
‘Fire!’ that was Magnus Maximus’ voice yelling on one side of the square.
‘Fire!’ that was Stephanus the German’s on the other side. With roofs blazing at their backs, solid lines of Heruli and Batavi archers were emptying their quivers into the crowd. Longbows hissed, crossbows thudded. Christian and Mithraean went down to the deadly shafts and the tide of battle drew back.
There were bodies everywhere, men with broken arms and legs, pressed to death in the crush. Once-flaming brands lay burned out on top of corpses and the fight in a Londinium square was over.
The only sound now, apart from the groaning and whimpering of the wounded, was the crackle of the flames. ‘Put that out!’ Maximus yelled and half a cohort jumped to it, grabbing buckets, ewers, pitchers, anything they could and forming a human chain to the Walbrook.
The general walked into the heart of the battle. ‘If any of you people want to continue this,’ he said, ‘now would be the time. I’ve got two legions primed and ready and they don’t care who they kill. The Christ or Mithras – it’s all one to them.’
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 29