‘Gladiators!’ Narcissus called out. ‘Greet your Emperor!’
There was a pause before the men mumbled an uneven salute whose words were barely distinguishable. Claudius, bemused by the wine he had consumed, could not help laughing and as the salute died away he shook his head.
‘Come, you men. You c-c-can do better than that, surely?’ The Emperor raised his free hand. ‘On three! Ready? One, t-t-two, three!’
‘Hail, Caesar!’ the fighters bellowed in one voice. ‘We salute you, those who are about to die!’
Claudius shook his head as he saw that some of the men had not joined in. He raised his cup and slurred, ‘Or not, as the case may be. On that I gi-give you my word.’
The gladiators glanced at one another as they digested what the Emperor had just said. Claudius turned to Narcissus and muttered.
‘Get ‘em on the ships and start the ba-battle, before any more time is w-w-wasted.’
‘As you command, sire.’
The Emperor turned and lurched back towards the interior of the pavilion, wine slopping from his cup. As soon as he was gone Narcissus hurried to the rail.
‘To your ships! Prepare for battle!’
Cato was watching the fighters closely. Several were talking animatedly and the rest were clustering round, shouting their support.
‘There’s trouble.’
‘What are they saying?’ asked Macro. ‘Can’t quite make it out.’
Cato caught the odd word but not enough to make any sense and he shook his head. Above them Narcissus’s voice rang out again, shrill and angry.
‘Get to your ships or I swear I will crucify every last one of you who survives the fight!’
The fighters parted and one of the gladiators stepped forward, thumbs tucked into his belt as he gazed defiantly at the imperial secretary. ‘Nothing doing. We all heard the Emperor, as you did. It was clear enough what he said. We’re pardoned. The fight is off.’
Macro turned to Cato with a surprised expression, and Cato shook his head uncomprehendingly.
‘What did you say?’ Narcissus asked in astonishment.
‘The Naumachia. It’s off. That’s what the Emperor said.’
‘Are you mad? What are you talking about?’
The gladiator frowned. ‘It was clear enough to us. He said we weren’t to die. He gave his word. You heard it from his own lips. The Emperor’s word is law. There was a rumour going through the pens last night that the spectacle was off. Looks like it was true after all.’
‘He meant nothing of the sort, you fool! Now get to your ships!’
The gladiator turned to look at his nearest supporters and there was a muted exchange before he turned back to Naricissus and folded his arms. ‘We are pardoned men. The Emperor said as much. We demand to be set free at once.’
‘You demand?’ Narcissus choked. ‘How dare you, slave!’ The imperial secretary leant over the rail and shouted down to Tigellinus. ‘Centurion, kill that man, and any others who refuse to obey their orders.’
There was a brief pause and the air filled with tension as the gladiators and the other fighters reached for the handles of their swords. Centurion Tigellinus stepped in front of his line of men and looked up at Narcissus. ‘Sir?’
Narcissus stabbed a finger at him. ‘Do as you are ordered, or you’ll share his fate. Do it!’
Tigellinus stepped back into line, raised his shield and drew his sword. He sucked in a nervous breath and called out the order. ‘Sixth Century! Advance javelins!’
There was a loud stamp as the guardsmen planted one foot forward and then lowered the tips of their javelins at an angle towards the gladiators. Cato looked over the men opposite and calculated that there must be at least eighty of them, more or less even odds if the situation got out of hand. Beside him Macro fixed his stare on their leader and growled, ‘I had hoped never to fight slaves again. Gladiators least of all.’
‘A sestertius to a denarius that this lot were trained at the school in Rome,’ Cato muttered.
Macro glanced at him. The Great School was famed throughout the empire for the quality of the gladiators it turned out. Macro sucked in a deep breath. ‘Then we’re in trouble.’
Centurion Tigellinus must have shared their anxiety and turned to order one of the men to run to Tribune Burrus to request reinforcements. As the guardsman hurried off, Tigellinus raised his shield and turned it to face the gladiators. ‘Sixth Century, at the walk, advance!’
The line of Praetorians rippled forward, their ceremonial armour gleaming on top of their spotless white tunics. It had been some time since Cato and Macro had fought as part of a battle line, rather than in command of one, and Cato concentrated on keeping the length of his pace the same as the men on either side of him. Before him the leader of the gladiators stretched out a hand towards Narcissus.
‘Tell the Praetorians to halt! Or it’ll be the blood of your men that’s shed. And the Emperor will hold you responsible, freedman.’ His voiced dripped with contempt as he uttered the last word.
Cato glanced back quickly and saw Narcissus glaring down on the scene, his lips pressed together in a narrow line.
‘Gladiators!’ their leader bellowed. ‘Draw your weapons!’
The air filled with the sharp rasp and rattle of blades being ripped from their scabbards and Cato raised his oval shield higher so that it protected his torso and the lower part of his face. The gladiators were less than twenty paces away. Behind them a palisade stretched from the shore to the pens. A handful of auxiliary troops in a watch-tower beyond the palisade had witnessed the confrontation and one was now calling down to his colleagues to alert them. There would be no escape for the gladiators in that direction, Cato decided. Indeed, there would be no escape for them in any direction. They could only stand their ground and die, or make for the ships. Those who had already boarded crowded on to the foredecks to watch and Cato prayed that they would not be fired by the indignant zeal that had caused their leaders to defy Narcissus. Fortunately, they were far enough away not to have heard the Emperor’s offhand remark and the bitter exchange it had provoked.
The leader of the gladiators lowered himself into a crouch and held his buckler forward of his body, ready to punch it into the face of the first enemy that dared to oppose him. His sword was drawn back, ready to stab. The other men quickly followed his example, spreading out to give themselves space to move. Cato could not help wondering at the difference in fighting styles between the gladiators and the Praetorians. One side trained to fight as individuals, experts in the techniques required for the individual duels that defined their lives. Ranged against them were the elite soldiers of Rome, drilled to fight in disciplined battle lines, each man just one part of a machine.
Tigellinus called out to them, ‘Save yourselves! Give up that man and you will be spared.’
‘Fuck you!’ a voice screamed back.
Their leader’s lips parted in a feral grin and he slapped his cuirass with the flat of his sword. ‘Come and get me!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘So be it,’ Tigellinus responded coldly. ‘Sixth Century, halt! Ready javelins!’
Cato and Macro drew up with the rest of the men, and then adjusted their grip and hefted the javelins back and tensed their muscles ready to hurl the missiles when the centurion gave the order. Cato had lived through this moment in previous battles and waited for the enemy to flinch and waver. Instead the gladiators held their ground, unmoving, their eyes fixed unblinking on the Praetorians, their muscles poised to dodge the first strike of their opponents.
‘Try for their leader,’ said Macro. ‘If he goes down, the rest may give up.’
Cato nodded.
‘Release!’ Tigellinus yelled.
Cato hurled his arm forward, throwing his weight through the line of the javelin’s flight and releasing his grasp at the last instant. The dark shaft arced up into the air with the others javelins of Tigellinus’s century. They rose up between the two bodies of
men and then seemed to slow at the top of their arc before plunging down. The gladiators had developed sharp reflexes as part of their training and darted aside as the javelins landed among them. Only a handful of men were struck down, one skewered through the top of his skull, the point passing down his neck and deep into his body. Cato saw the man stagger on the impact, then hold still before he pitched forward and was lost from view. Two more were mortally wounded as the deadly iron lengths of the javelin heads ripped through their torsos. The last, standing directly in front of Cato, howled as the javelin slammed through his boot and pinned his foot to the ground. The remainder, incredibly, had escaped harm.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Macro. ‘They’re good. Never seen men move so damned fast.’
‘Draw swords!’ Tigellinus yelled.
Cato grasped the handle of his weapon, taking care to lock his fingers firmly round the leather grip, knowing full well that it was fatal for a fighter’s sword to slip in his hand during battle. He pulled the weapon from his scabbard and held it level, the side of the blade resting against the trim of his shield with no more than six inches protruding beyond the shield. On either side of him the rest of the guardsmen continued to advance on the gladiators, sword points glinting.
Their leader, unharmed by the Praetorians’ javelins, swiftly sheathed his blade and snatched at one of the shafts angled into the ground. He yelled to his followers. ‘Come on, lads, give them some of their own medicine!’
He hurled the javelin towards the guardsmen, now less than twenty paces away. He could hardly miss the line of shields and gleaming helmets bearing down on him. The javelin punched through the shield of the man next to Macro, bursting through his shield arm and lodging hard against the guardsman’s mailed chest, before the weight of the shaft dragged his shield and arm down. He let out a roar of pain as his pace faltered and he dropped out of line, sheathing his sword, and then wrenched his shield arm free in a welter of blood.
‘Close up!’ Macro ordered instinctively. ‘Close the line!’
Several of the gladiators followed their leader’s example and four more of the guardsmen went down before Tigellinus could react to the danger and prevent the loss of more of his men.
‘Charge!’ he cried desperately. ‘Charge!’
Macro’s mouth opened wide as he let out a deafening roar of battle rage, then he lowered his head and pounded forward. Cato gritted his teeth and stayed close to Macro’s flank. Ahead of them the gladiators braced themselves for the impact. Those with javelins still in hand grasped the shafts tightly, ready to use the weapons as spears. There was a rolling clatter of thuds and grunts, broken by the sharp ringing rattle of blades clashing as the Praetorians surged in among their foes.
Macro made straight for a barrel-chested German with shaggy hair tied back from his face. The man raised his heavy round shield and held a falcata out to the side, ready to strike. He bared his teeth in a snarl and leaped forward. The shields crashed together forcefully, but the greater momentum was with Macro. He threw his weight in behind his shield for good measure, causing the German to stumble back a couple of paces. Even so he was trained to recover swiftly and savagely parried Macro’s thrust, sending the point wide. Good as his responses and technique were, it was his training for individual combat that did for him. His attention was fixed on Macro and it was only at the last instant that he recognised the threat from Cato, coming from the other side. Cato punched his shield in, catching the German hard on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He went down, his wide back bent over one knee. Cato struck without hesitation, ramming his blade deep between the shoulder blades, ripping through muscle and shattering the man’s ribs and spine. He wrenched the blade free, with a spray of hot blood, and instantly turned to guard against any attack.
‘Good kill, lad,’ Macro acknowledged.
The skirmish raged around them, the gladiators holding their own as they fended off the Praetorians’ blows with their shields or parried them away with deft flicks of their wrists. As Cato watched he caught sight of the leader as the man slammed his buckler into a guardsman’s helmet, snapping his head aside. Then the gladiator followed through with a powerful thrust into the exposed throat, ripping the blade free at once as he stepped back, lowering his body into a crouch, looking round for his next opponent. There were other Praetorians on the ground, Cato noted, and only two gladiators. Only the armour and larger shields of the Praetorians were saving them from suffering even more casualties in the uneven fight.
‘We’re losing this,’ Macro observed. ‘We’d better do something. We have to take charge.’
Cato nodded, keeping his eyes on the fight. It would draw attention to them, and there would be those who might wonder at their easy assumption of command – if they survived the skirmish.
Macro snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Praetorians! On me! On me!’
Cato echoed the cry. The nearest of their comrades began to edge towards them and quickly a small ring formed, shield to shield, as the guardsmen sought the protection of the formation.
‘Hold your position!’ Macro called. ‘There’ll be help any moment! Hold on!’
Tigellinus had echoed the cry and a second ring of Praetorians had formed a short distance away. The rest fought back to back or were locked in a series of individual combats across the open ground. Cato kept his shield up as he stood beside Macro. Glancing to the other side he saw Fuscius breathing heavily. The optio’s eyes were wide and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Despite the fierceness of his expression his arms were trembling and the end of his sword wavered as he pointed it at his foes.
‘We’re safe enough,’ Cato said to him. ‘If we keep together and hold the formation.’
Fuscius glanced at him quickly and then looked back, nodding vigorously.
The gladiators surrounded the ring, but there was no coordinated attempt to charge home. Instead each man seemed to have chosen a particular soldier as his opponent and either stood sizing them up or darted forward to attempt to slip their weapon round the shield. Some made feints and then tried to strike. In all cases the presence of the soldiers on either flank of their chosen target foiled their attempts. This was not the kind of fight they had been trained for and their frustration was evident. There was a lull in their attacks. Cato sensed the opportunity to make a fresh appeal to them to end the fight.
‘You cannot win!’ he called out. ‘There’ll be more soldiers here any moment. You’ll be cut to pieces if you resist. Lower your swords!’
‘We die either way, brothers!’ the leader called out. ‘Out there fighting to entertain Romans, or here and now, fighting Romans! Fight on!’
With a bellow of rage the gladiator charged at the man just beyond Fuscius and punched high with his shield, forcing the Praetorian to raise his shield to counter the blow. At the same time he drew his arm back and swung it in a hooking arc, under and round the bottom of the guardsman’s shield, then up in a vicious thrust into the Praetorian’s groin. So hard was the blow that it drove the air from the man’s lungs and almost lifted him off his feet as the blade punched up into his vital organs. With a savage cry of triumph the gladiator ripped his sword free and leaped back, then punched the gore-stained blade into the air.
‘Kill them! Kill them all, my brothers!’
There was a chorus of roars and shouting from his companions as they closed round the two rings of Praetorians and hacked and slashed at the shields and helmets.
‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’
Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily
down on the scene.
‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’
Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’
Macro nodded and braced himself in a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Ready, lad?’
‘Ready.’
‘Now! Disengage.’ Macro stepped back into the ring, closely followed by Cato. At once Macro called out another order. ‘Close up!’
Fuscius and the man to Macro’s right edged towards each other while Cato and Macro sidestepped round until they were lined up with the gladiators’ leader. Cato moved forward, pushing between two of his comrades. ‘Make way there! Make way.’
The guardsmen shuffled aside to let them in and Macro stared intently at the man no more than eight feet away. ‘We’ll take him when he next strikes. On my command.’
Cato tightened his grip on his sword and felt his blood surging through his veins, making his muscles tingle with the familiar tension of battle. The gladiator fixed his eyes on Macro who grinned and beckoned with his sword hand. ‘Go on then! Try me, if you dare!’ Macro moved his shield arm to the side to expose his chest, taunting his opponent.
The gladiator’s brow creased and he roared, ‘Then die, you bastard!’
He sprang forward, sword angled up at Macro’s throat. Macro kept his shield low and swung his sword up to parry the blow. At the last moment the gladiator did a cut over and redirected his attack at the angle between Macro’s helmet and his shoulder. The same instant Cato leaped forward, slamming his shield into the gladiator’s side as his sword hacked down into the other man’s extended sword arm. The edge cut deep into muscle before jarring against bone. The arm spasmed and the fingers exploded away from the sword handle so that the weapon clattered clumsily off the double layer of mail on Macro’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from his wound as he let out an animal howl of rage and pain. His followers parted around him, pulling back from the Romans, staring aghast at their leader. His sword arm hung uselessly at his side. He cast his buckler to the ground and clamped his shield hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.
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