Every now and then the three of them enjoy the cool of the evening together after hours of frenetic training beneath the sun. Even the weather is beginning to mellow, and the long faces of Verus and Priscus grow shorter by the day.
“My son says that at Lando’s bakery there is a mosaic showing Cosmos at the climax of a fight, with his arms raised and a look of pride in his eyes. He hopes one day there will be a mosaic of me…” Sergius’s voice has a shrewd edge to it.
Verus laughs heartily: “A life of hard work, only to wind up on display in a baker’s shop!”
“Laugh all you want,” Priscus cuts in. “Remember that Cosmos’s name is all over the Eternal City. I saw his face painted on some amphoras at the Gulf. They trade them for six assarii before a fight, and they sell like hot cakes. The women are nuts about him!”
Verus takes the bait. “You’re the last one who should be moaning about a lack of attention, brother. By the way, how are things going with that noble slut of yours?”
Priscus lets out a sigh but does not answer back. Right now he does not feel like arguing.
“Women only bring trouble,” butts in Sergio, breaking the tension. “Best leave them well alone. Ever since my wife found out I’m no longer a novice, she won’t miss a fight. She’s checking up on me…”
The Briton would like to put the upstart back in his place, to remind him he still has a lot of hard knocks to take before he treads the sand and takes on some real men. But the instructorhas just arrived to prove him wrong. With that sidelong smile of his, so typical of the damned Egyptians, Aton gestures to Sergius to get up. He relays the decision.
“My boy, I don’t know what sacrifices that bitch of a wife of yours has offered up, but from what it seems, the gods favor you. Tomorrow you will have your chance to show us all what you’re made of. Near the Circus Maximus they’re putting on a demonstration of the school, for the benefit of some senators. Sergius, you’ll fight in the provocator’s armor. If you survive, you’ll have earned your tablet. By order of Decius Ircius.”
And there it is, an absurd slap in the face to the old guard.
First the newcomer skips his tirocinio,and now he is ready to play with the big boys.
Priscus is displeased. But more than anything, he is worried about his young friend.
For his part Verus is angry: he cannot abide shortcuts. Perhaps because nobody has ever offered him anything in his life. He sweated to earn the title “veteran” and now this impudent, beardless boy might get to steal his place without even trying.
“He hasn’t got a chance. He’ll be dead at the first lunge…” the Briton mutters through his teeth.
Aton stares at him with the eyes of someone who is always four moves ahead: “If Pluto wills it, his blood will stain your blade, you dim-witted, ignorant barbarian. You will be his opponent. Tomorrow, at sunset.”
Aton walks off, leaving only dust and silence behind him. Verus, Priscus, and Sergius sit motionless beneath the faded sunlight.
Nobody feels like talking now.
What a haircut. How can anyone go around with hair like that?
Everyone is wondering the same thing, but of course no one opens their mouth. The lowborn are not there to speak to the powerful.
And yet the mop on Senator Polonius’s head deserves a philosophical treatise, a satyra, at least a song. To be strummed beneath the moonlight in some malodorous tavern, the mockery transformed through the mouth of a drunken aoidos into a sonata, the truth into an indecent melody.
Marius Cotinus Polonius, member of a noble, patrician family with holdings in the center of the city and a splendid villa on the via consularis, is almost completely bald in spite of his high station. Or at least, he is missing a fair amount of follicular lining on his skull. Which is another way of saying there is an empty strip from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the size of which rivals the Forum itself.
Nothing wrong with that; baldness is as old as mankind and it strikes everyone sooner or later, apart from a few lucky bastards. The point is that Marius Cotinus Polonius, leader of the Eagle’s legions against the blond, warlike peoples of the North, victor of glorious pitched battles and slaughterer of foreign kings, detests the fact that he is losing his hair.
The very thought of it is abhorrent to him. And so he refuses to be bald.
That is why he has let those three tufts of hair on his right temple grow to such a length that, if he were honest enough to comb them to their full length like certain Oriental streetwalkers do after making love, they would easily reach his chin.
But Polonius is dishonest by nature: that much is clear from the way he keeps his hands buried in the pockets of his neat senatorial toga, while his lanky strands of hair sit piled on the naked, greasy skin of his scalp, dripping with oil to make them adhere perfectly to the bald spot and combed flat as though they truly belonged in the middle of that pale, pink gap, instead of having been forced into such a state by the vanity of an impotent old fucker.
The upshot is revolting to behold.
He looks like a newborn lamb that has slithered out of his mother’s belly this very moment, pieces of placenta still clinging to him.
And yet, what a proud look Marius Cotinius Polonius has in his eyes as he comments to his colleagues on the fight taking place in the arena. He seems born to pontificate.
“I do not think the murmillo will make it. He looks a little out of shape to me, what do you say?”
The senator to his right casts an eye over Cosmos’s imposing physique: “I would not say out of shape. He seems fairly well built. A little sluggish perhaps, do you not think?”
Polonius nods. Then he speaks his mind and goes a little too far: “It is probably his hair that makes him look like a loser. If it were down to me I would have all slaves’ heads shaved.”
His colleague cannot help but stare at the horrible mess stuck to the senator’s head.
Look who’s talking.
Polonius purses his lips and turn his attention back to the fight.
There is a select but numerous crowd on the wooden terraces of the arena: senators and their slaves, a few prim-looking noblewomen, an old wet nurse with a couple of sons of the Empire on her lap.
Decius Ircius spent a long time talking to Polonius about his gladiators before starting the show, pointing out their features, exalting their prowess and versatility.
Polonius is one of the most important muneratori in the city. It is he who compensates the lanistaswhen the games are held, he who pays good money for the blood and sweat of the gods of the arena.
“Remember not to let anyone die. I do not want to pay any more than I am already.” The senator’s voice is still echoing in Ircius’s ear when he explains the situation to his men, already kitted out to tear each other to pieces: “Fight with honor and give it your all. But nobody must fall, we cannot afford it. Polonius has not yet decided if he is going to entrust the job to the Ludus Argentumand does not want to waste his money. I am paying for this demonstration, but if something should happen to one of you, of course he would have to reimburse me. And that must not happen, got it?”
The gladiators nod in unison and give a quick shout of agreement.
“Strength and honor,” the lanista ends his speech.
“Strength and honor,” replies the iron-clad rabble.
First up are Cosmos and Priscus. The murmillo wears his hair long in the barbarian style, an idea of Aton’s grudgingly accepted by Ircius. The Gaul is on form and gives nothing away to his adversary.
Cosmos overindulged on wine and women last night: his is a big name in Rome, he is becoming famous and all the women want a piece of him. And every time Ircius lets him get away with it or turns a blind eye, Cosmos gorges himself. He is a hungry bear; that is his nature.
Today though, he is paying for his debauchery: he is sweating like a pig and locks of greasy hair hang out of his helmet and stick to his chest and shoulders, givi
ng him a feral look. Slow all round, he is not managing to lunge like he should and hangs back on the defensive, rectangular shield held over his head, gladius dangling in his left hand.
Priscus is sharp-eyed as a hawk, employing his sica with skill and making a cut to his opponent’s bare leg. When the giant lowers his guard he makes a half-hearted lunge, mindful of Ircius’s orders. But as the fight goes on the naked chest of his colossal opponent starts to look like a skewered beefsteak before it is thrown on the broiler. Cosmos does not care—he has other wounds on his mind. But he presses ahead when he should have given up already. The senators have no time to lose.
So Priscus, at a nod from Ircius up on the terraces, takes the situation in hand and tries to bring things to a close.
First a head-butt that sends the giant staggering backwards.
Then a good, firm kick in the balls.
He finally drops his shield and gladius. Priscus kneels on his opponent’s chest and holds the sica to his throat.
Cosmos would like to submit and end things there, but all he manages is to pull off his helmet and vomit a reddish mush onto the ground.
A great idea to get drunk before the show, you damned fool.
And the first fight is over. Polonius holds his nose as he gestures for the next combat.
“It could have been worse,” says Priscus with arms outstretched as he walks past the lanistaon his way out of the arena. But the latter shakes his head.
Cosmos staggers along behind the Gaul, bent double from the pain in his abdomen. He crouches in a corner, far away from prying eyes, and opens his bowels. Thank the gods nobody notices, all eyes are on the next fight.
Ircius clears his voice: “Sergius the provocator against Verus, a magnificent murmillo, pride of the Ludus Argentum!”
The senators are not exactly what one would call a passionate crowd, but their women greet the warriors’ muscular chests with a few cries that are worthy of note.
Verus is the dark god of war: the burnished iron suits him well, the lion from Ircius’s coat-of-arms that adorns his shield roaring hungrily for blood. Greaves and balteus are in tip-top condition while the proud plume of his helmet flaps in the wind, greeting the crowd.
Sergius too is quite a sight: the oval helmet confers a mechanical air on his movements. It is polished enough to use it as a mirror, with two round holes for the eyes, protected by a grate of fine mesh. At his neck glints the top of the cardiophylax, the bronze chest armor protecting his heart. The short greave on his left shin is made of the same material. A padded fabric sleeve circles his right arm, held together with leather and sweat. A gladius as sturdy as an anvil and a very black rectangular shield complete the equipment of the novice who is ready to become a man.
Ircius gives the signal and the adversaries study each other’s moves as they begin to circle.
Despite his name, it is not the provocator who unleashes the first attack. The only trace that remains of those condemned men who could appeal to the mercy of the mob by means of a provocatorio is the name, which over the years has become one of the most sought-after classes of gladiator.
Normally, provocatorsfight one another. Other times, they face murmillones. This kind of encounter is rare though, which is why Ircius has insisted that Verus fight the newcomer. In general, the more exotic the match, the more satisfied the munerator.
Polonius’s job is more difficult than many might think. At any event, it is he that must justify the choice of entertainments laid on in the arena to the Emperor. If the athletes selected die too quickly, or even worse if they do not give it their all and the crowd gets bored, someone will come to ask the munerator and his ridiculous comb-over for an explanation.
Polonius tours the city with his entourage in order to sort the wheat from the chaff. That is why he is so happy when Sergius the novice slices open Verus’s bare arm with the edge of his gladius. One does not see an attack like that every day.
The Briton’s senses are reawakened in an instant. He cries out and rolls to one side, spatha held over his head and heavy shield protecting his body. He lands a couple of decent blows, but Sergius is buoyed by that winning lunge and gives him a hard time of it. The boy has some fancy footwork, fast for a provocator, but he has memorized everything Priscus has taught him and is in no rush to finish things. He awaits the Briton’s next move.
Verusputs his faith in brute force, an integral part of his warlike nature: he backs Sergius into a corner, pushing hard with his shield, and starts to hammer at his body with his fists. Sergius takes the blows, feints a right hook and then lands a punch that could put a bull out cold. Verus loses his helmet and ends up on the ground, dropping his shield. He is now only muscle and blade.
In the meantime a curious little group claws its way through the crowd of senators to acclaim the new hero, just as he is raising his arms. It is Fosca, Sergius’s young wife, together with their three wild pups. They look like a family of smiling mice, very white and ragged, like certain granary rodents.
“Well done Dad!” they exclaim in unison, while Verus spits on the ground and readies himself for his comeback.
Sergius is proud and courageously jerks off his helmet as well. He wants to prove his worth by fighting with the same handicap.
Ircius shakes his head on the terraces, whereas the Briton shoots the youth a malevolent glance. “Pick it up,” he warns him, and as Sergius shrugs carelessly, a head-butt arrives without warning that neatly breaks the curly haired warrior’s nose with a crack.
One of the children begins to cry and his brother shouts at him. Fosca bites her lip—maybe coming here was not such a good idea.
Sergius is not intimidated, and fights with a steady blade. The clash of iron against iron that ensues is ferocious, sparks rain down onto the sand.
Now Polonius is really interested: that provocator has courage to spare, and the murmillo too is proving a formidable fighter.
Sergius nicks Verus’s chest with a couple of perfect jabs. The Briton answers with a series of kicks, putting his opponent’s ligaments to the test.
The low-hanging sun makes the gladiators sweat, their foreheads are caked in dust and their hair sticks to their faces. Both are wheezing from the effort.
Verus throws himself forward and Sergius twists away to one side. The Briton attempts a double-handed blow as he executes a one hundred and eighty degree spin, but his opponent blocks it with his spatha: the impact is strong enough to rattle the teeth in his jaw. The shock unsteadies him and he falls to his knees, knowing defeat is close at hand.
Sergius slashes his shoulder and the Briton is forced to back up. The younger man has victory in his grasp and winks to his family on the terrace. Fosca clutches their smallest daughter to her chest, so tightly she lets out a cry. The two boys are shouting and howling like excited wolf-cubs, attracting a sea of disapproving stares from the impeccable, bejeweled noblewomen.
Sergius is on top of Verus, right hand brandishing the gladius and left held up high, signaling to the Briton not to be a hero. As usual, the panting Verus has miscalculated. He let enthusiasm get the better of him and underestimated the novice. Now his companions will make fun of him and the humiliation will weigh heavily on his shoulders for weeks to come. He will arrive at the inaugural games demotivated, and all because of this arrogant youngster.
Verus grits his teeth, the jumble of thoughts twisting his guts. Fire bites his tendons and the pain of his wounds saps his strength.
He is angry, furious. A wild beast is raging through his insides.
Sergius walks quickly towards him and delivers the knockout blow from on high, with the flat of his sword.
All Verus need do is await the blow that will lay him out cold.
Game over, everyone back home to lick their wounds.
But anger is a bitch, thirsting for vengeance.
Fire plays dirty tricks, consuming and burning without so much as a by-your-leave.
An instant before the sword strikes, putting an
end to the fight, Verus sticks the point of his spatha in the boy’s belly. A low blow.
He is rapid and precise; he has learnt from the best.
Rubius, may the gods have mercy on his filthy soul, was the fucking king of low blows. He taught them to his pupils as a way of gaining a breathing space. Or to end a fight when things were going badly. He also taught them how to dodge that sort of thing—Verus and Priscus started out with sideswipes before they learned how it was done.
But Sergius is just a novice. A novice who thinks he is a man.
And his instructoris just an Egyptian thug, who has not had enough time to show him how things really work, out there in the world.
Verus lunges, but the moment the tip of his sword enters his victim’s liver, he realizes he has done something horrible. Then Sergius’s strike lands and someone turns the lights out.
Ircius goes pale: he knows his trade too well not to understand what has just happened.
Sergius takes it like a man. He does not manage to avoid the stab—nor did he expect it, at some shitty demonstration—but he does not fall to the ground when Verus’s blade pierces his belly. He stays firmly on his knees and covers the wound with his hand, stanching it with his balteus. The lanistaruns up to the victor to support him, and keeps him from falling. He kicks Verus, sprawled on the ground, who awakens from his torpor.
Ircius shakes his head, staring down at the Briton as he raises Sergius’s arm to proclaim the victor.
Priscus and Cosmos rush over to help the Briton up, and Sergius blows a kiss to his family in an attempt to reassure them, the color visibly draining from his face. The children do not understand what is happening. They shout their love for him at the tops of their voices while Fosca, his wife, is too anxious to keep her sweaty hands in one place.
They move quickly—Decius is the master of illusions. He orders his men to take Sergius back to the ludus. Ezius will take care of him. Polonius cannot watch the boy bleed to death. Not now that his eyes are glowing with contentment at what he has seen.
The senator approaches the lanistaand clasps him at the elbow, giving a satisfied shake.
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