But thrusting is a very tiring business. And if done with too much zeal the novice runs the risk of a counterblow, which might mean anything up to a cracked rib if he is unlucky. Still, there is no alternative. Rubius and his whip see to it that the slowest learners are sufficiently motivated to master the supreme art of war, every time a stab is not quite up to scratch.
This continues nonstop all through the morning.
At lunch time the novices are tasked with serving the veterans and the guards.
The instructorand the doctor eat by themselves, they have no need of cupbearers or damned waiters.
Whatever is left of the unchanging slop of barley and beans ends up in the grumbling stomachs of the humiliated novices. Verus and Priscus eat a bowl of leftovers, picked up off the ground after a fight breaks out amongst the primi. Even the gods in the Elysian Fields do not eat in peace; in the barracks there is no chance.
The training with the pole, the obsessive repetition of the same movements—thrust, parry, dodge, thrust—are what make up the rich earth into which the saplings’ roots must spread before their branches can be allowed to reach skyward, before their leaves may open.
The school does not train only one type of gladiator. There are many different classes, and many different fighting styles. The recruits often discuss what kind of future the instructorhas in store for them, but they can never be sure.
“Gladiators are like plants,” Decius Ircius declares one day, walking through the courtyard as he does every afternoon, touring the individual duels. “In the wrong soil, even the toughest of shrubs may wilt. From the right graft, you can get the perfect tree out of two very ordinary plants.” To judge from what happens in the courtyard of the school, he is not wrong.
Later on the weapons are brought in for the veterans, and it is not unusual, even in training fights, for the physician to be called on to stem a hemorrhage, brought on by an overly enthusiastic jab of the trident or slash from the sica, the curved Thracian blade.
But there is no let up for the novices either, that much is certain. They are paired up, after which the master at arms invites them to begin stabbing at one another with their wooden swords before dropping them on the ground and starting to punch and kick each other’s faces in.
At this stage of their athletic training, the novices’ destinies are not yet set in stone. And that is just what the brawls in the sand are for: apart from building character and strengthening muscle, they let the instructoruncover the hidden talents of each individual killer.
If he is well built and deals a lethal blow, he will learn to fight as a murmillo or a Thracian.
If he shows himself capable of turning powerful joints and ferocious muscles to his advantage in a fight, he will be a secutor or a retiarius, a net fighter.
If his eyes are hungry for death then he will be given the curved swords of the dimachaerus or the half-moon of the scissor.
The liturgy of arms is sacred. Verus and Priscus are fighting, caked in sand and sweat, when the guards lead the veterans, under strict surveillance, into the equipment rooms. The two slave novices are overcome with curiosity every time, guessing and placing bets on who will wear what, which part of the warriors’ armor will shine most brightly, whether the Thracian’s closed helmet or the bronze shield of that day’s hoplomachus.
Needless to say, they rarely guess correctly. The show is full of surprises, and Decius Ircius knows how to entertain his audience and renew their wonder, fight after fight. The lanistais a fanatic when it comes to looking after the “stuff.” Arms and armor are kept in different parts of the house, some of them very well hidden. In the building where the gladiators sleep, tales are told of secret rooms crammed with gilded armor and helmets decorated with feline grins and double-pronged horns. Unlike in most schools, the equipment has not been wrecked from overuse: helms, swords, tridents, and shields all bear signs of the blows they have suffered and the blood they have spilt, naturally. But every evening Ircius has the armor polished and cleaned, just like his fighters’ muscles.
Decius Ircius is a control freak: he keeps a tight rein on his school and on his life, and rules both with an iron fist.
Here they come, then. The damned veterans.
The arena is in the courtyard’s eastern corner, a modest training ring with wooden terraces and everything else required for a proper fight. The names of the senior gladiators are legendary, displayed on the bone tablets that transform them into both heroes and survivors: Tigris, Marcus of Capua, Tempest, Bato, Columbus, and of course Cosmos, king of the murmillones.
The lanista examines their equipment along with the instructor. Together they inspect every last inch of the iron uniforms worn by the magnificent six, searching for a speck of dust or a suspicious stain.
As he walks up and down the line, Ircius holds a whip tightly in his right hand, making short lashing movements in the air. It is a constant threat, and represents the tension that must run through the warriors’ veins before every fight.
Who cares if it is only training.
The sun’s rays, now low in the sky, glint off the gladiators’ helmets. As they try to outdo one another in the sand, Verus and Priscus cannot help admiring once more the splendor of the bronze Corinthian helmet with its apple-green crests running along the ridge, worn by Tigris, today’s hoplomachus. And the greaves strapped to his shins, as polished as the cup of Ganymede itself.
The equipment of the primi is appalling and magnificent, like death in battle. Cosmos the murmillo holds a curved shield that weighs as much as a couple of chubby little boys: wood and wrought iron, folded by fire and the hammers of experienced artisans, painted in lustrous black—the color of Pluto and of silence—and embossed with red in the shape of two mysterious, intertwined fish, mouths wide open around the brass bolt in the middle of the clipeus. He too wears shin guards, and a manica made of fabric, leather, and metal plate to protect his arm. In his right hand he holds a gladius, the short Roman-style sword, to use against Tigris’s spear; no soldier of death is ever alone.
Then the gladiators fight one another.
There are tried and tested sparring pairs, and this is what the categories are for: murmillo against hoplomachus, Thracian against murmillo, murmillo against retiarius, scissor against scissor, scissor against retiarius and so on.
The first into the arena after Decius Ircius’s inspection is over—he has now taken a seat on the steps with his hands under his chin and his eyes eager for action—are these last two on the list. Bato is the scissor, the bloodthirsty son of a whorehouse, and Tempest is the retiarius, armed to kill but practically naked.
The instructorgives the signal.
Ircius shouts, “Strength and honor!” and the fight begins.
There is no rush when the fighters enter the arena. The crowd loves to hold its breath.
Bato is a terrifying sight—he appears to be built of iron. An automaton possessed by a demon, or something worse. On his head an oval-shaped bascinet helmet of gleaming bronze. On his chest and arms hangs a clinking shirt of sharp-scaled mail. On his legs tubular greaves that match the helmet, in his right hand a gladius and his left the real showpiece: his forearm is covered by an artificial metal limb, a lethal, perfectly molded tube terminating in a curved blade. It is the ideal tool for cutting an opponent’s throat, or for escaping from the net that Tempest is already whirling above his bare head.
The retiarius has a vile job. He may well have more weapons to hand than his adversaries (dagger, trident and net), but his body is all but naked. A bronze belt around his waist, just above the subligaculum loincloth, the standard “uniform” of all fighters in the arena, and a metal plate covering his throat and left shoulder. And that is all. He is basically defenseless, and forced to concentrate on the attack, aiming to outmaneuver his enemy and put him out of action as rapidly as possible.
It is a job for madmen and dreamers.
Tempest casts his net and the other attempts to dodge it, but the armor s
lows his movements and Bato finds himself sprawling on the ground like a lamb manhandled by a shepherd. The retiarius approaches with his trident raised—he wants to finish it quickly. Of course, he will not run his opponent through—this is only training. But he might leave him a little reminder on his thigh, who can tell.
Today Tempest is in a good mood.
The scissorsquirms, rolling around impotently in the thick mesh, while Tempest circles him like a curse. Bato manages to free his left arm and the curved blade does its work, tearing through the net just enough to let him wriggle free. But not before he has embroidered his flesh with a delicate pattern in blood, courtesy of the fish hooks coating the inside of the net.
Bato shouts with fury before pouncing at Tempest, who weaves to the right and runs a blade up his opponent’s arm. Bato’s blood pounds at his temples and dribbles down out of the baking helmet. He charges head first into his enemy, who lands on his ass, and kneels on top of him, slicing at his chest with the half-moon blade.
He gets a little too carried away, so Rubius jumps over the terraces, runs into the arena and lands him a kick strong enough to knock him over. He does not even see where the blow comes from, but he feels it alright. He loses his balance and the battered retiarius takes the opportunity to regain his feet.
The master warns Bato: “Go easy, I need that little eunuch alive!”
The instructorreturns to his place, it is anybody’s fight again.
Tempest clutches his trident like a battering ram, aiming for the iron stomach of the scissor, who has been slowed and somewhat dazed by Rubius’s surprise attack. Bato judges his reaction time poorly and ends up with a couple of inches of polished iron in his foot.
The pain is excruciating and Bato screams like a little girl. Tempest is breathing hard but has a smile on his face—low blows are his specialty. Bato gets to his feet and calls for the physician. Meanwhile Ezius Tortonus has dragged himself from his lodgings to the arena with his usual complete lack of interest. He even offers the retiarius a scornful round of applause.
“Well done, dickhead. He’ll be out for a month now…”
Decius Ircius shakes his head and abandons the arena.
Rubius climbs over the terraces once more, just as the untores aided by the physician carry the scissoraway, his foot gushing like a fountain at the public baths. The instructorwalks up to Tempest, looking him straight in the eye.
“Think you’re a man, eh?”
Tempest does not know what to say. The instructorscares him.
“Fight then, you nobody. Fight with me, now.”
Rubius is unarmed, Tempest goes to lay his trident and dagger on the ground. But Rubius shakes his head.
“Come on…”
The retiarius looks to where Ircius normally sits, but he has gone.
All eyes are on the gladiator. Verus and Priscus have stopped striking each other and are now watching the scene, their breath laboring.
Tempest has no choice. The burning on his chest is driving him crazy. He attacks with a thrust, aiming to harm.
Rubius does not even break a sweat. He dodges to the right and smashes his forehead against his opponent’s nose. It breaks with a clean snap.
Tempest falls to the ground, a stream of red leaking from him.
Now Rubius is over him, his hands behind his back. He disarms the gladiator and starts kicking his ribs with his bare feet. Finally, he drops down onto breastbone of the terrified and battered retiarius, feeling a couple of ribs give way under the weight of his knee.
With his hands still behind his back.
Tempest’s eyes are wide open, but those of Rubius look like dark wells.
The instructorhead-butts the gladiator.
And again.
And another one.
Until the retiarius loses consciousness. Until everybody understands, in case it was not quite clear before, who is in charge in the arena of the Ludus Argentum.
The instructorwears an expression of disappointment and disgust as he gets back up. Thirty pairs of eyes look on as he stares down at his hands, free again from their imaginary bondage. Rubius spits on the ground. He walks off towards his lodgings, but not before ordering: “Bring on the next two.”
Cosmos and his adversary prepare themselves to enter the circle of blood and sand.
From their post at the end of the courtyard, Verus and Priscus have just grasped that there is still a long way to go. A damned long way.
Days, weeks, months.
Like circus animals, performing monkeys, caged lions.
It is a game of knees, asses, and elbows.
Knees, asses, and elbows.
Ass counts for a lot. A man’s ass and a man’s balls can save his life.
The barracks is a strange little universe unto itself. There are no women but that does not mean there is no room for sex. Men make do.
Verus noticed it early on, one night when Tempest slipped into his bunk and stretched out his hands. For a little while, Verus let him. But then, when he opened his eyes and realized what was happening, the Briton reacted without thinking. “By Mercury’s ball sack!” he shouted, landing a stiff elbow in the lothario’s face.
Tempest’s nose was a mess, with fragments of bone and cartilage moving around in it like galloping Imperial messengers. The blow stunned him and the pain laid him out for the count. Neither one of them has spoken of the incident in the days that have followed.
But the echo of sex is everywhere—blue balls are a serious problem for a bunch of twenty-year old men. At night, in the darkness of the cells, flesh sounds on flesh. The veterans have greater freedom: there are no bars for those who win in the arena. Guards and untores turn a blind eye when the primi pali seek solace in one another’s arms.
Verus does not think about it very much, but for his part, Priscus’s heart thaws with each passing day. He has never been a great seducer, Priscus. Women have always thrown themselves at him, only natural for a man of his ilk. His eyes, his hair, his square chest all tell of a destiny that is already written, in cunning and easy smiles. The memory of a few stolen kisses and a couple of nights with not a lot to tell for them are the sum total of his experiences when it comes to talking to his friends about his encounters with the fairer sex.
In here though, he feels better.
Every day, his relationship with Verus grows closer. They are both brothers and partners in life.
Priscus is not the brooding type, but nor is he as dim-witted as the Briton. Priscus is ice. Verus is fire.
The two have trained together every single day, with persistence and zeal.
They have lived on sweat and adrenaline, gritting their teeth to breaking point.
They have fought.
Every day the instructorpairs them up so they can learn to survive.
Every day the two of them lay into one another with wooden swords: naked skin and the will to dominate. Fighting looks an awful lot like sex, but only Priscus seems aware of this. It is different for Verus—he does not think of love. Or sex. He has the future on his mind. Especially since they swore the oath.
After months of desperation and exhaustion, of abuse and food picked up off the floor, of sweat and too little water, they finally swore the oath.
Heads bowed before their seniors and their master, Verus, Priscus, and the rest of the novices pronounced the magic words: “I will submit to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, to be killed…”
They repeated it three times, turning the string of words into a revelation, their own miserable existence into pure dedication.
The Briton and the Gaul have begun their true tirocinio, the real training; finally, they have become genuine tirii. In terms of their daily life not much has changed: fighting and running all damned day, the usual slop for lunch and dinner. But now they eat at wooden tables, albeit still separate from the veterans, and those who wish to may sleep together. Neither Priscus nor Verus has given up sleeping alone, but from time to time they stay up all night
together, telling of faraway islands and forests, of eyes that take the breath away and of hunger for glory.
The best part of not being a novice any more is the weapons.
An unusual frenzy has gripped the school in the days following the oath. A thick stench hangs over everything, notably sweeter than the usual stink that rises mercilessly from the latrines. Each sunset sees more mice in the courtyard and not even Ircius’s greedy housecats, noted for their undeniably sharp hunting instincts, are managing to keep up with the unwelcome guests. They sit about the edge of the arena, fat and sated with stomachs stuffed with prey, scratching at non-existent bites, their ears as clean as a vestal virgin’s thighs.
The air is dense and stuffy, men keep coming down with fever. Already this week, three untores have not been able to get out of bed. The instructorcoughs a lot during training, but nobody really notices. Rubius has the strength of Hercules and the balls of Jupiter.
But the change is not the air, nor the malaise.
The weapons are what change everything.
The weapons, damn it.
The instructorhas gotten a good idea of his lads. Verus has great determination and gives it everything he has, right to the limit. He is not very gifted from a technical standpoint, but his body is strengthening, and every so often he seems to think clearly enough.
With those qualities he is cut out to be a murmillo, it has been decided.
Priscus, on the other hand, is thickset and brutal. He strikes to cause harm, yet knows what honor is. He does not like to take advantage of a situation, preferring to fight with his principles intact. He saves his strength, but does not hold back when the decisive moment arrives.
He is destined to be a Thracian.
Verus and Priscus are the perfect couple; they are made to fight one against the other.
They are fire and ice, it is their nature.
The training fights grow ever more intense, in part because the master at arms announced ten days ago that a couple of tirii will be picked for the first official fight. Two recruits will have the chance to become veterans, fighting one another in an arena a short distance from the Forums.
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