In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  The woman smiled a humourless smile, which never touched her eyes. “If he wants sex, he pays for it like everyone else,” she said.

  Curtius grunted. “Never mind then. Just a bath and a massage. I’m sure he’ll get plenty of free offers later on.”

  The woman showed Brude to a changing room where she told him to strip. He left his clothes with a slave who assured him they would be safe. Brude didn’t care; they were old, dirty and ragged and Curtius had said he would get new ones. The slave passed him some wooden sandals, telling him to put them on. Then the woman led him through a door, to a room with a cold pool, which they walked round. They passed through some more doors to a warmer room where several men were sitting relaxing, some of them talking in easy tones. There was no pool here but around the room were several niches with stone benches, giving it a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere. All the men were naked but if that bothered the young woman, she certainly didn’t show it. She walked on, Brude following her obediently, his mind still too overwhelmed to have any thoughts that might lead to an embarrassing reaction. He was more interested in his surroundings anyway. The gladiator school had a bathhouse but it was little more than a small pool of warm water where the slaves cash off the sweat of the day’s training. This place, although small by Roman standards, was far more impressive, with its painted, tiled walls and floors, and its statues of goddesses and nymphs decorating the small niches in every room.

  The third room they went into was stifling. They walked through the wooden doors into a wall of steamy heat. Brude quickly realised why he had the sandals on, for the tiled floor was incredibly hot. The walls were decorated with paintings of trees, flowers and birds but they, too, were hot to the touch. In the centre of the room was a pool of steaming water. There were a couple of men already in the pool and the woman indicated to Brude that he should join them, pointing out the steps. “When you’re ready, come to one of the couches at the far end,” she told him.

  He slipped off the sandals, making his way cautiously down the steps. The water was hot and felt wonderful. Trying not to be self-conscious, nor to betray his inexperience in places like this, he stepped in until the water came up to his waist. He found that there were stone benches around the edge of the pool, under the water at a convenient height so that he could sit with his head above the surface. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He had never felt anything quite like it. No wonder the Romans were always going on about the baths, he thought.

  He idly listened to the two other men talking. With everyone naked it was impossible to tell what their social status was. The Romans, Brude knew, were very class conscious but here everyone was apparently equal. Until they started to talk, he suddenly realised. The two men were discussing some poem a friend of theirs had composed and they may as well have been speaking Persian for all Brude could make out of their conversation. He ducked his head under the water, letting it wash away the grime and sweat of the arena. Am I really free, he thought; am I really here? It seemed like a dream, but he could feel the luxuriously hot water, hear the voices of the other bathers and the hiss of the steam that swirled through the room. He knew he could not have dreamed this because it was like nothing he had ever experienced.

  He thought again of Josephus. Had the little man really intended to kill him with that sudden attack or had it been a ploy to distract the other gladiator? Perhaps Josephus had meant for him to dodge and so fall victim to the other man, giving Josephus a chance to win. Brude supposed he would never know. All that he knew was that he was here and Josephus was dead. There were no friends in the arena.

  He decided he had had enough of the hot water, for his skin was hot and the room was stifling. He walked up the steps, water dripping from his naked body, found his slippers and went in search of the woman. She saw him approaching and waved him to a long slab of a table draped with towels. At her instruction, he lay down on his belly. She began to rub warm oil across his back and shoulders, then all over his body, kneading his muscles, forcing the tension from them. Then she scraped the oil off, cleaning his skin, making it feel fresh and alive. She took her time, working patiently. Brude relaxed and enjoyed the sensation. When she made him turn over, she threw a warm towel across his crotch. “Just the massa distract clean, your friend said,” she told him, her voice quite matter-of-fact. Brude had felt a stirring when her hands had begun to rub his chest, and he was more alert now, conscious of the shape of her body under the tight tunic, but he knew that if he had paid the extra she would have performed the sex in the same detached, dispassionate way as she was cleaning him. For her it was just a job. She was not all that pretty anyway, he decided, and his passion quickly died.

  When she was finished, she told him to return to the pool for a few minutes, then go back to the frigidarium, the cold room, and use the pool there. She walked away, leaving him to suppose that the treatment Curtius had paid for was over. He went back into the warm pool, busier now as three more men had arrived. They were talking animatedly about the climax to the games and Brude listened as they discussed what they had seen. They began arguing about the move the Samnite had made to defeat the tall Retiarius, deliberately getting caught in the net so as to get close to the man with the trident. One of them insisted it was an accident, the second thought it was deliberate while the third man wasn’t sure because he had been watching another pair fighting and had missed it. They talked as if the men who had fought and died were unimportant. Brude knew that was because, to them, they were unimportant. Gladiators were merely slaves who fought to please the people of Rome; they had no other purpose and were not regarded as real people at all.

  One of the men saw Brude was listening. He smiled across at him. “Were you at the games, friend?” he asked.

  “I was there,” Brude acknowledged.

  “Did you see the Samnite getting stuck in the net? Was it deliberate, do you think?”

  Brude felt he should have been angry. Twenty-six men had died, his friend among them, and these men were sitting arguing about the niceties of one fight. Yet the warm bath and the oil seemed to have washed his anger away along with the dirt. He looked at the three of them and, though they had been part of the crowd baying for blood, he knew they were just men, men with lives of their own who could not possibly understand what he had been through. They were not worthy of his anger, he decided.

  It was then that he made a silent promise to himself. He had had enough of killing. The promise started as a vague notion but quickly grew into a conviction, becoming firmer and more solid as he thought about it. He would not fight again unless there was no alternative and, if he did ever have to fight, he would not kill unless there was no other way. He smiled, the promise having lifted a cloud from his mind the way the oil and water had lifted the dirt from his skin, a cloud he had scarcely realised was there.

  The men watched him, waiting for an answer, seeing him smile. “I had a very good view,” he told them. “It was deliberate.”

  One of the men grinned, saying loudly to his friend, “I told you so!”

  “That’s just an opinion,” the second man countered. “Only a crazy man would do something like that.” He turned to Brude, appealing to him. “I think you’re wrong, my friend.”

  Brude pointed to his forehead where he knew there was a small bruise. “I’m right, friend,” he said pleasantly. “I got that when I hit his head with my helmet, just before I took his trident from him.” The man’s jaw dropped in astonishment when he realised what Brude was saying. Brude nodded politely to the three of them then climbed out of the pool, hearing the laughter of the first man and the mutters of “It’s him!” as he made his way back to the room with the cold pool. He felt good. The hot bath, the massage, the joy of putting the innocent spectator in his place, all combined to free his spirits. Free. He really was free. He had spoken to a Roman and had not had to call him ‘Master’.

  He began shivering as the colder air in the frigidarium passed over his warm skin. He knew that to cli
mb into the cold pool would be an agony so he jumped straight in, gasping for breath and feeling the exhilaration of the sudden change of temperature. He splashed about in the small pool, which he had to himself, swimming quickly from one side to the other. He had learned to swim as a boy in the cold waters of the Tava but this was infinitely more fun, even if he could cross the pool in only five strokes.

  Refreshed, he climbed out, accepted a towel from an attendant and went back to the changing room where Curtius was waiting for him with some new, clean clothes; fresh undergarments, a white tunic and leather sandals. “Feel better?” the old lanista asked him.

  “Wonderful,” Brude replied as he pulled on his clothes and smoothed his damp hair.

  “This is just a small bathhouse. You should try the Neronian baths some time. Now, though, we need to get a move on. We are expected for dinner.”

  “Dinner? Where?”

  “At the house of Trimalchio, your former master. The man’s an ass, but he throws a good dinner party and you’re guest of honour. Here, you’d better take this.” He handed Brude the wooden sword. “It would probably be easier if you wrap it up to keep it out of sight while we’re going through the streets, though.”

  Brude was inclined to agree with Curtius’ assessment of Trimalchio. Brude’s former owner was gross in many senses of the word. His hugound belly and chubby features were exceeded only by his ostentatious wealth and the delight he had in showing it off. There were around twenty guests at the table, reclining on couches in the way of upper-class Romans. Brude could tell that, apart from one or two individuals who looked as though they found Trimalchio rather vulgar and would prefer to be somewhere else – but were either too well mannered, or perhaps too hungry, to leave – the guests seemed to be in a similar mould to their host, laughing too loudly at his jokes and fawning over his every word. Brude wasn’t quite sure how upper-class Romans were supposed to behave but he had a feeling that this was not it. They ate and drank to excess, laughed and occasionally tossed food at each other while servants and slaves brought dish after dish, each one more exotic and fabulous than the one before.

  Curtius sat in a foul humour all evening but Brude was enjoying himself. He was the centre of attention, especially from the women who seemed to grow more attractive the more wine he drank. Lentulus sat at the head of the table alongside Trimalchio, both of them exuberant over Brude’s success at the games. Brude tried the various dishes that were presented, drank copious amounts of expensive Alban wine and said as little as possible. These people may not be the elite of Roman society but they were still his social superiors. Curtius had warned him that, once the glamour of his victory had worn off, they would want little to do with him. “Everyone loves a successful gladiator,” Curtius had told him, “but nobody loves an ex-gladiator. Enjoy it while you can, lad.”

  Brude intended to. He drank some more wine and tasted some lark eggs. Then he realised that Trimalchio was speaking to him. “A name!” the fat man said loudly, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Our friend Brutus needs a proper name.”

  Brude was puzzled. He had a name, even though they never called him by it. To the Romans he was simply Brutus, if they bothered with a name at all. Slave or Boy was usually good enough. But he saw that Lentulus, who had never even spoken to him directly, was nodding sagely. “Yes indeed, he must have a proper name. Brutus is all very well as a name for the amphitheatre but he is a citizen now, after all.”

  “Well, the nomen is easy,” Trimalchio said. “He was freed by the emperor so he must take the emperor’s family name.” There were choruses of agreement from around the table. Brude looked across at Curtius for help but the old gladiator just shrugged. It was decided that Brude’s family name was to be Septimius and the conversation moved to his praenomen. It seemed he had to pick from a fairly short list of names, one of which every Roman man used. He had no idea whether he wanted to be a Gaius or a Lucius and there was much drunken debate around the room. Curtius sourly suggested that he did not need a praenomen as it was usually only family who called people by this name and Brude had no family. Trimalchio dismissed this objection. “We are his family now!” he boomed.

  “In that case, call him Marcus,” Curtius said. “It’s supposed to be the name of those who follow Mars, the god of war, and he’s a warrior if I ever saw one.”

  Brude could think of no objections and Trimalchio was happy at the suggestion so Brude was now Marcus Septimius Brutus. Most people would call him by his third name, the cognomen, of Brutus, the name that would mark him out from the hundreds of other Romans scattered around the empire who also happened to be called Marcus Septimius. The woman sitting next to Brude, a brown-eyed, brown-haired woman who he guessed was older than she was trying to appear, told him that a cognomen was usually given for a distinctive feature or trait. She suggested in a rather lewd way that he take the name Maximus because he was very large. She smiled suggestively at him and he smiled back, not discouraging her.

  “Excellent,” Trimalchio gurgled over his wine. “Our friend has a proper name. So what are your plans now, Marcus?”

  Brude wondered who Trimalchio was talking to when the woman beside him nudged him, reminding him that he was now Marcus. Plans? He had no plans, did he? “I thought I would go home,” he said, without thinking.

  “Home?” Trimalchio was intrigued. “And where is home?”

  “The land of the Boresti, north of the Wall of Hadrian.”

  “North? You are from Caledonia?” Trimalchio was surprised but Brude sensed a renewed interest from the woman reclining alongside him. “Whatever do you want to go there for?” Trimalchio asked him. “No! No! Tomorrow you can go back to the school to collect your things and then you must return here. I have plenty of work for a former gladiator.” Brude was about to argue but Curtius threw a small piece of bread at him and shook his head.

  After the meal there was some entertainment as jugglers and clowns tumbled around the room. As the evening wore on, some guests made their excuses and left. Trimalchio invited those who remained to join him in his private bathhouse. Brude, more than a little drunk by now, thought the chance of a second bath in one day was too good to pass up so he went along. He was surprised to find that the men and women all shared the same hot pool. Trimalchio’s bathhouse was large, tiled with yellow-streaked marble while the pool itself was lined with blue painted tiles, making it seem like a warm part of the sea. Slaves stood around the edge of the pool, with trays of iced drinks and small pieces of cut fruit, while Trimalchio and his guests threw off their clothes and clambered into the warm water. The woman who had been next to Brude stayed close to him. He could not help but look at her naked body. She sat beside him, their arms and legs touching. Then she leaned over and whispered, “I was right, we should have called you Maximus.” She leaned into him and kissed him full on the lips, her breasts, warmer than the warm water around them, brushing his chest as one hand clamped round the back of his neck, pulling him to her hungry lips. He was startled, wondering what the others would think, but when she eventu pulled away, he saw that other couples were already entwined in each other’s arms. The woman, who told him her name was Poppaea, took his hand and led him out of the pool, both of them naked and dripping wet. They passed through a maze of corridors with tiled floors and garishly painted red and yellow walls which eventually led to a bedroom. She pushed the door shut behind them then kissed him again. They did not go back to join the others.

  Curtius woke him early the next morning. Brude’s head was sore from the wine and he cursed Curtius for waking him on the first day in eight years that he had had the chance to sleep late. Poppaea mumbled and stirred on the bed but did not wake. Curtius threw Brude’s clothes at him and told him to get dressed. “We have six funerals to attend,” he snapped.

  As well as Brude’s discarded clothes, Curtius had found Brude’s wooden sword, which he had left lying in the dining room, still wrapped in a piece of cloth. Brude could no
t face breakfast so Curtius led him through the still sleeping household, out through the atrium, the small courtyard open to the skies at the front of the house, and into the streets of Rome.

  It was the second hour but the summer sun was already hot. Curtius apparently knew where he was going so Brude tagged along, his stomach churning and his head thumping. They had only gone a short distance when he had to stop to throw up in the gutter. Passers-by moved to avoid the unpleasantness but Curtius, who seemed to be happiest when he had something to complain about, laughed. “Too much wine and too much rich food, lad,” he chuckled. “I expect you’ll feel better now, though.” He hauled Brude upright, forcing him to walk on, heading towards the centre of the city. Brude could make out the top of the Flavian amphitheatre occasionally peeking over the roofs of the high tenement blocks that housed most of Rome’s inhabitants. Curtius asked him, “So what do you think of Trimalchio?”

  Brude smiled weakly. “He’s an ass, but he throws a good dinner party.”

  “Glad you’ve been paying attention,” Curtius said grimly. “You’ll be well fed at his house and have your pick of the women. For a while at least, until they get bored of you. Just watch you don’t overdo the good eating or you’ll end up as fat as Trimalchio.”

  Brude didn’t want that to happen. He had never seen anyone as fat as Trimalchio and said so to Curtius. “That’s because he has nothing to do except make money and spend it on food,” the old lanista told him. “Whatever else he is, the man’s got a fine business brain. He’s richer than most people in the city, including some senators. That’s why he has all those hangers-on and whores at his house every evening.”

  “Poppaea’s not a whore,” said Brude sharply.

  Curtius grunted. “Not the way the street girls are, maybe. Her husband’s a merchant. He’s away a lot, working for Trimalchio. She has to eat so she either buys her own food from what money her husband leaves her while he’s away or, like a lot of Romans do, she gets herself invited to other people’s houses for dinner. She gets invited there a lot. In fact she gets invitations to lots of homes because people know she’s free and easy with who she sleeps with.”