Caligula

by Douglas Jackson

  'It is no longer a question of deciding who I sell my stock to,' Fronto complained. 'The Emperor's procurers are everywhere. They come out to the farm with half a dozen guards, say "I want that, that and that" and off they go again without another word. Not that I'm complaining: the Emperor pays top prices. I want you to take the big black-maned lion – not Africanus, the other one – and two leopards and that half-lame cheetah to the new arena out by the Praetorian barracks. They're to be used in some big spectacle the Emperor has planned. You might see your friend Cupido – he's on the same bill.'

  When he arrived at the arena, Rufus recognized Sabatis and a few others from Cupido's school preparing weapons and armour, but the gladiator himself was absent, so he decided to return the next day. He approached one of the animal handlers and volunteered his services. Since his single appearance before the crowd Rufus had achieved something close to celebrity status among the keepers and cleaners who fed and cared for the arena animals, and the man was pleased to have his help.

  When he reported for duty the following morning he was surprised to find many of the cages filled with a ragged assortment of half-starved and terrified prisoners.

  'They are the noxii, condemned criminals. The Emperor has decreed that they must be executed in the arena so that their deaths can be witnessed by the populace,' the animal handler explained. 'They are mostly low-bred scum, but I've heard that some of them are knights who plotted against the Emperor. He is coming here to see them die.'

  The spectacle would not start for some time, and Rufus sought out Cupido before he began his preparations. The fair-haired young gladiator was sitting with other members of his school, but when he saw Rufus he rose and the pair walked together to the main entrance, where they watched the stands fill.

  'Look at them,' Cupido said, his voice thick with scorn. 'They are like sheep. They won't move all day, even to get up for a piss, in case someone steals their precious seat or they miss one bit of bloodletting.'

  Rufus studied his friend as they stood in the shade of the doorway. The light streaming from the arena created shadows and hollows in his handsome face that made him seem much older than his years. A dark tinge round his eyes hinted at nights spent staring into the darkness waiting for sleep that never came.

  'Fronto tells me you are more famous than ever,' he said lightly, trying to break the mood. 'But he says you are so fat on good living they will soon have to wheel you in on a cart.'

  Cupido looked at Rufus and raised one blond eyebrow. 'And he tells me that you are even more famous than I am – but only in those places where they bathe but twice a year and have never been privileged to see a proper performance.'

  Rufus laughed. 'Yes, Fronto is as big a liar as he always was.'

  Rufus told the gladiator of his travels and the places he had seen, the great triumphs in small arenas and the way the troupe had been honed into a spectacle worthy of Rome's finest amphitheatres.

  'But now it appears we are not wanted. The Emperor, it seems, is interested in blood, but not in entertainment.'

  'Did Fronto say that?'

  'Yes. He wanted us to stay in Pompeii. He fears the trained beasts will be forced to fight to the death again.'

  'I think he is wrong. It is true there will never be enough blood spilled to satisfy the Emperor, but Caligula devours art and spectacle of every form. He surrounds himself with actors and singers, as well as the gladiators who please him, and he spends as much time at the theatre as he does at the arena. To give a performance in front of him would be a risk, but the Emperor's favour can be a very valuable commodity.'

  'And you, Cupido, have you won the Emperor's favour?'

  Cupido shrugged. 'He can find someone else to kill the greybeards and the boys barely ready for the toga. There are plenty of people willing to do it for him.'

  'Fronto says you are a fool to play games with this Emperor.'

  'What does a fat swindler who stinks like a buffalo know of the arena?' Cupido replied evenly. 'I, and every one of my kind, face death each time we go through these doors. Those of us who survive do so on our own merit. Does he think anyone but the gods can make the arena a more dangerous place than it is now?'

  'Perhaps you are right and he is wrong, Cupido,' Rufus admitted. 'But have you not always told me the best way to survive is to keep risk to a minimum wherever you can control that risk? Pleasing the Emperor is within your power, so at least consider it.'

  The gladiator shook his head. 'Sometimes a man's pride, even a slave's pride, must decide between what he should do and what he must do. In the past, I had to fight to survive, because the men I faced were all capable of killing me. Since the passing of Tiberius I have become less a fighter and more an executioner. When I enter the arena today I will have a choice, and I will only make that choice when I see my opponents. I will live with that decision and so must the Emperor.'

  As he checked the ramps and gateways later, Rufus became aware of movement in the pens holding the captive criminals. Guards separated five or six prisoners at a time and sent them in batches towards the arena floor. The shackled men prayed or pleaded for mercy. Rufus watched an overseer lash out with a spiked club, drawing a howl of agony from his wounded charge. Many of the prisoners were already injured, with blood flowing from open wounds. As the first batch of men were marched away, the order came to release the lions.

  The screams were unbearable, even deep in the bowels of the arena.

  Rufus had seen and heard men die, but the sound that reached him now was like nothing that had ever emerged from a human throat. It was not just the volume, which spoke of unbearable pain and unimaginable horror, but the duration of that agony which clutched like an iron fist at his heart. It seemed impossible that anyone could maintain such a sound for so long.

  An hour later, his senses stunned, the piercing shrieks of men dying in unspeakable agony still rang in his ears. The selection from the cages continued, but now there was no more weeping. No more pleading. These were men without hope. They knew what awaited them, but they made no move to escape. It was as if their numbed minds could not come to terms with what lay ahead and had shut them off from the world.

  But there was no sanctuary for Rufus. His mind would not shut out the screams and he truly believed he would go mad if he did not get out of the darkness. He could take no more of it. He stumbled up the stairs and the passageways to the doorway where he had earlier stood with Cupido. The sight that met his eyes was one he would never forget.

  The arena resembled an abattoir.

  A dozen lions, leopards and cheetah feasted on the carcasses of their prey, but Rufus could see that they were close to being sated by their human banquet. Their movements were lethargic and they chewed at the flesh and bones mechanically, as if more by habit than desire.

  He turned away while the last of the terrified prisoners were led towards their fate, but his eyes were drawn to the purple-clad figure lounging on a throne surrounded by his guards in the stands. Even from the opposite side of the arena Rufus recognized that Caligula was an imposing figure, taller by half a head than anyone in the throng surrounding him. He also sensed something that astonished him: this man, who had watched a hundred condemned captives being torn apart by wild animals at his whim, was bored. There was no mistaking it. The young Emperor yawned. He looked at his manicured fingers. He made small talk to the senator seated to his left. Even when the screams resumed he barely glanced up to see what was happening.

  But the entertainment had the opposite effect on the crowds surrounding him. They gasped as bones cracked. Howled in delight as flesh tore. Laughed as screams reached a greater pitch than before. In Tiberius's time these enthusiasts had seen dozens die in the arena, in single combat, or even in great battles. But this Emperor had given them something even they had never witnessed: human sacrifice on a grand scale.

  Finally, the screaming stopped. The beasts were herded from the arena and, white-faced, Rufus joined the other workers in the gruesom
e task of clearing the arena of its human carrion. He breathed through his mouth in an attempt to avoid the sewer stink of a hundred eviscerated bowels, but his throat filled with burning liquid as he imagined he could taste the foulness that filled the air around him. He averted his eyes from the scattered remains, but his unwilling mind identified every piece of inanimate flesh that defiled his fingers.

  When the job was completed, fresh sand was thrown across the blood pooled in the dirt, not to disguise what had taken place, but to ensure that the next actors in the gory drama which had been devised for the Emperor had firm footing to show all their deadly skills.

  The gladiators.

  Rufus listed the men of Cupido's school as they trotted into the arena. Buffalo-shouldered Sabatis with his distinctive mesh body guard, face hidden behind a murmillo's fishtail-crested helmet; Flamma, the Syrian spearman, veteran of a score of contests, who fought in an unvisored bronze helmet of a style which had gone out of fashion a decade before; little Niger, the retiarius, net in one hand and trident in the other; and finally the golden one himself.

  Cupido was magnificent. If he felt the weight of expectation, it was hidden behind the golden mask and no trace of weariness showed as he loped across the heavily sanded floor. He fought without armour, but the harsh sunlight reflecting from his oiled muscles gave him a more martial appearance than any of the others in their brightly polished metalwork. He halted in the centre of the arena, head held erect behind the golden mask, the long sword steady in his left hand. He looked what he was. A killing machine.

  But, Rufus wondered, would he kill today?

  X

  From a doorway directly opposite Rufus, a phalanx of perfectly matched gladiators jogged into the arena and turned to face the Emperor. Rufus counted them with disbelief: eight, ten, finally fourteen . . . Cupido and his fighters were hugely outnumbered.

  Dressed in the leather greaves and griffin-crested helmets of Thracian light infantry, the enemy were matched physically in height and build as if they had been chosen for some human chariot team. As one, they knelt on a knee and roared: 'Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.'

  Cupido's group stood silent, the only sound the chink of metal as Sabatis adjusted the chain armour which protected his shoulder.

  Caligula should have been offended by this show of defiance, but he gave a thin smile and waved a limp hand towards the editor, who proclaimed loudly: 'Let the combat begin.'

  Unknown to the crowd, their Emperor had decided this would be no normal display of arms. A message had been sent to Menander, the Thracian leader, in the arming room: 'Strike every blow to cause the greatest pain and disfigurement. Cupido will pay for his insults to the Emperor, or you will.'

  There would be no quick deaths today.

  The two lines of Thracians moved smoothly to form a single ring round their opponents, but as the minutes passed it became obvious that Menander's strategy would be more difficult to execute than he had anticipated. Cupido's gladiators fought back to back, each covering the other's weakest side. Any attempt to split them by feint attacks or outflanking manoeuvres only made them move closer.

  At a word of command, two Thracians at opposite sides of the circle dashed straight towards Cupido's group. If they struck the positions covered by Cupido or Flamma, the spearman, their momentum would have achieved Menander's aim: to smash open the little group and leave them individually vulnerable. But with a shuffle of feet it was Niger and Salamis who faced them.

  The retiarius swung his net with a flick of the wrist and the first Thracian fell sprawling at his feet. With one movement Niger stabbed the man in the throat with his trident, retrieved his net, and resumed his position facing the enemy. In the same instant, Sabatis smashed his shield into the face of his charging attacker and knocked him backwards. With a single thrust, he pierced the off-balance gladiator's exposed belly with his gladius and left him writhing in the dust, blood spurting like wine from a punctured goatskin.

  The crowd roared their appreciation and the depleted ring of Thracians retreated to their original positions. Menander glanced into the stands where Caligula watched with cold eyes and felt a deathly shiver run down his spine.

  Rufus could see the Thracian leader's hesitation, and he knew that Cupido, who lived or died by his instincts, would have sensed it. But the four were still faced by a dozen.

  Menander now knew that piecemeal attacks would only result in a slow stream of casualties and in growing frustration for the Emperor. He must stake everything on one throw, using the strength of his numbers. 'Form lines,' he ordered.

  The Thracian ring transformed into two ranks, rectangular shields locked solidly together. Menander took up position on the far left of the first line and shouted: 'Advance!'

  Rufus recognized that the tight-knit formation adopted by Cupido and his gladiators would not protect them against the classic battle tactics of the legion. When the two ranks reached the smaller band they would wrap around their flanks and while the front rank was testing their defences and taking the casualties, the second would exploit any gaps. Cupido would be overwhelmed.

  Cupido had known this moment would come. He had hoped to be able to inflict more casualties on the Thracians, perhaps Menander himself, before he was forced to change tactics, but it was not to be.

  'Flamma,' he said quietly.

  The Syrian gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.

  'Wait until I give the order to break. They will be confused for a moment. One, perhaps even two, will give you an opening. Aim low. I want to hear them screaming for their mothers.'

  Cupido waited until the advancing lines were less than ten paces away before he gave the command. 'Break!'

  Immediately the huddle split, with Sabatis and Niger moving left, the big murmillo taking position just beyond the flank of the Thracian line, and Cupido moving right to do the same. As Cupido predicted, for an instant Menander and his men did not know how to react. The ranks halted, uncertain how to deal with this threat to both flanks.

  The split second of confusion was enough for Flamma, who stood, balanced and ready to throw. The first javelin took the centre man of the front rank low in the groin, the leaf-shaped blade nicking an artery as it buried itself, leaving him writhing in the dust, shrieking in torment.

  The second spear was in Flamma's hand almost before the first had reached its victim. It should have taken its target just below the ribs, but the Thracian's shield edge deflected the point downwards, through the cloth of his linen kilt, to pierce the muscle of his upper thigh, crippling him.

  While the Thracians were still stunned by the death cries of their comrade, Flamma, now armed only with a dagger, took up position behind and to the right of his leader.

  Menander cursed under his breath. It was time to end this cat and mouse game. Splitting his remaining men into three groups, he threw them forward, himself joining the unit attacking Cupido and Flamma.

  The first precipitous rush cost Menander one of his gladiators, who died with Cupido's long sword in his throat, and left a second nursing a ragged slash that was his reward for underestimating Flamma's ability with the dagger.

  Rufus had been so mesmerized by what was happening to Cupido that he was blind to anything else in the arena. But now he could see that the overwhelming numbers pitted against Sabatis and Niger had begun to tell. The little retiarius was bleeding from at least three cuts and struggled to hold his surviving opponents. As Rufus watched, Niger plunged his trident deep into the chest of the nearest. But the other Thracians attacked simultaneously and he went down under a hail of blows. Above the baying of the crowd, Rufus could hear the sickening thud of blades hacking through flesh and bone before one of the men bent and picked up Niger's severed head by his shock of dark hair and raised it towards Caligula.

  Sabatis, great Sabatis, had given his all. Three of the enemy crawled or lay in the dust around his kneeling form as he choked out his life in dark strings that stained the dirt, his body pierce
d by a dozen wounds, but still unwilling to die.

  Only Cupido was untouched. Flamma had taken a slash which had cut deep into his knife arm. Now he was truly defenceless.

  Menander ordered his men, reinforced reluctantly by Niger's killers, to hold Cupido's attention as he manoeuvred to take the golden gladiator in the flank. Cupido could sense his intention, but facing four swords he could do little to counter it. Seeing an opening, Cupido cut first right, and then left, into the necks of the two most vulnerable Thracians, but the commitment left him open to attack, and Menander needed no invitation.

  The Thracian commander scythed at Cupido's exposed ribs, intending to cut him to the spine. But he had reckoned without Flamma. The little spearman threw his body between the sword and his leader, taking the blow across the nape of his neck and dying instantly. Flamma's sacrifice gave Cupido the instant he needed to force his remaining opponents back. One he cut down before the last, terror in his eyes, dropped his weapon and fled.

  For a long moment Cupido stood, shoulders bowed. Rufus could see his chest heaving with the exertions of the prolonged combat, and rivulets of sweat created intricate designs in the opponents' blood which stained his skin.

  The golden gladiator looked up into the stands where Caligula stood, his face a confused mixture of anger and frustration, then turned to Menander.

  The final combat took less than a minute. Menander knew he was no match for Cupido. His parries were sullen and slow and his feet seemed unwilling to move. Finally, Cupido, seemingly casually, slipped his leg between the Thracian's and flipped him over on to his back as if he was a novice at his first training session. Almost nonchalantly, he held his sword beneath Menander's chin, the point forcing his opponent's head backwards and exposing his throat.

  Once more the empty-eyed gold mask turned to the stands, where the Emperor waited, hands clenched tight on the rail in front of him. Caligula raised his thumb, before ostentatiously hiding it in his fist to show that Cupido should sheathe his sword.