“I must congratulate you. A superb demonstration. The provocator still has a thing or two to learn, but that murmillo is outstanding,” he of the greasy mop enunciates his words very clearly. “He will be quite something at the inaugural games of the Amphitheater. The contract is yours. From today, the Ludus Argentumis officially signed up.”
Ircius thanks him. He promises that the rookie Sergius will return to the bench for a while, and that Verus and the rest of the team will prove themselves worthy of the faith the Empire is placing in them.
The senators smile, the noblewomen titter. Only Fosca is left in a daze, looking for her husband, who has been taken out of view.
Verus follows the rest of the iron procession with his head hung low. Priscus squares up to him with an air of disgust.
“What on earth were you thinking? Have you forgotten how to lose? And to think it always came naturally to you…”
Verus is distraught.
He did not want to.
Truly.
And he will not stand by while his friend talks to him like that.
It is because of the rage, the fire. Those cursed flames in his head. And his heart, damn it.
The handful of men is leaving and Verus tries to keep up step with them.
Sergius is coughing up blood, in a bad way but still smiling. He is not angry with Verus, perhaps he does not truly understand.
“I wh-whipped your ass…” he dribbles red as he turns to the red-cheeked Briton.
Verus has tears in his eyes. He nods. “Strength and honor, veteran. Strength and honor.”
Cosmos quickens his step, loading the boy onto his shoulders. Priscus keeps behind him and has no desire to hear the Briton out. But the Briton speaks up anyway: “I only wanted to wreck something beautiful…” Even he does not know why he said it.
Priscus looks at him, as though seeing him for the first time. He hates and loves this man so much that he would tear his own heart out if it would ease the suffering the Briton causes him every single day.
But right now there is nothing but bile and bitterness.
Priscus claps his hands twice in mock applause, disappointed.
Verus falls to his knees as Priscus recedes into the dust.
The world is an ugly place. Tomorrow will be worse. Rome has frozen over, even with the end of spring in the air and the sun warming his skin.
The voice of the abyss fills his ears.
All the fire in the world would not be enough to melt the ice around Verus’s soul.
He died.
And there is nothing more to say.
He died, far from his wife’s arms.
He died in silence, without even the noise of the crowd to mark his passing.
He died hidden away, so that no one would spoil the party that is now about to start.
Sergius had a heart and balls of iron. Now he is only trash to be disposed of, meat wrapped up in a faded shroud, all ready for the flames.
No one blamed Verus.
“These things happen, in this damned job…” That was what Cosmos told him, before slapping him on the shoulder and offering him a drink.
Verus gulped down the flask of warm wine, while Ircius held out his arms: “My fault. I should never have made a novice fight a veteran. I was too hasty, and the youth died. The price of ambition is always too high…”
He speaks in clichés, but even as he does so his heart sings because he has secured the contract for the August games.
The greatest Rome has ever seen.
What is one miserable life next to everlasting glory?
Still, Sergius is no more. Gone for good, bled like a chicken for the pot. Verus’s blade went deep. The infection did the rest. A day and a night of agony.
When even Ezius had had enough of sitting by the youth’s bedside, Priscus offered to take his place. Verus asked to keep him company, but the Gaul banished him summarily.
The abyss between the two warriors has widened still further. Their bond, once solid and robust, is now taut as a windblown rope on a sailing ship, gnawed at by the salty air, one strand giving way at a time as opposing forces pull in two different directions.
They are many miles apart.
Sergius died at dawn on the day consecrated to Mars, denied the chance to vaunt the longed-for title of veteran.
He did not survive his first combat in the arena.
Since no one must find out about it, least of all Senator Polonius, the only rites that await him are an anonymous funeral and a pyre. The tears of his widow and the memories of those who loved him.
Cosmos, Priscus, and Tempest grip the edges of the winding sheet and place the body on the litter, lifting it onto their shoulders. They wear the traditional black cloaks. Hoods shroud their faces, making the procession of mourning warriors resemble a line of beggars, like those who wander through the villages of the North.
Verus trails along behind the cortège as it leaves the ludus, moving silently along the city streets. Ircius heads the train, waving back the professional mourners who tear out their hair as the nameless corpse passes by. He silences their fake grieving with a fistful of assarii.
A few improvised tambourines are played as the corpse passes the forums and then turns down toward the river, past the Circus Maximus and beneath the obelisk of Rameses II. Half an hour later the mourners reaches their destination, a semi-deserted hillside. Only the pyre and a few pale faces await the arrival of the grim procession, while next to the busto—the place used for building fires at the cemetery—hired hands have piled dry branches and crisp leaves to receive Sergius’s body.
Fosca’s eyes are red from weeping. The children cling to her on all sides, terrified and tearful.
Cosmos and Tempest place the cadaver on the pyre as somebody lights the fire.
Priscus takes a silver coin from his pocket and places it on the dead man’s lips. This is the ferryman Charon’s fee, the price of the dead man’s final journey.
Fosca sobs as the flames rise. Ircius goes over to her and holds out a small bag: “Five thousand sestertii. The fee for the five years your husband gave me.”
Fosca does not know what to say; such a gesture is most unusual.
But Decius Ircius is no villain. He knows the price of sacrifice, knows hunger and misfortune better than anyone.
Decius Ircius is an honest man.
He wants no debts on his conscience.
The woman accepts the money in exchange for her most treasured possession. She knows the contents of the sack will allow her to put food on the table for her little ones every evening, without having to spread her legs for the baker or the bean merchant. But in spite of that, she cannot help but hate the lanistaand all he stands for. With all her broken heart.
One particular flame seems to leap higher than the others, unsettling those present; the smell of burning flesh is nauseating.
“Nobody has said the funeral rites,” Cosmos observes.
Verus takes a step towards the fire with such determination that he seems ready to throw himself into the searing heat.
“Sergius was a righteous man. And he did not deserve to die…”
Fosca collapses in tears, her legs give way, the children barely manage to hold her up.
Priscus steps up to Verus. “We all deserve to die. Every one of us,” he intones, shooting a dark glare at his friend before pulling up his hood again and walking away.
Cremating a human body is a slow and laborious job. It can take a whole day. Almost nobody has the time, the stomach or the patience to sit it through to the end.
The gladiators in black are the first to leave the field. Ircius follows shortly after, and is suddenly surrounded by insistent beggars and a few wastrels in search of adventure.
Fosca remains alone in the company of the men tasked with carrying out the cremation.
By the time the fire is finally spent, darkness has long fallen.
Sergius’s soul flutters in the windblown ash.
; It is pitch black when the two warriors of the Ludus Argentumclose the heavy gates again behind them and head for their cells. As Verus and Priscus cross the threshold into the barracks, a small figure cloaked in darkness is waiting for them.
The figure approaches the two fighters, who are unsuspecting, so tiny and innocuous is the shadowy figure before them. Then they notice a few wisps of blonde hair protruding from inside the cloak, pulled down over her curls.
It is Julia. She lowers the hood and reveals her diamond eyes. Verus’s heart suddenly leaps furiously in his ribcage.
The Briton had returned to the school in silence, his soul shattered by too much life and too much death. He feels alone and lost, cast adrift. He feels like getting drunk and picking a fight, but even the right to anger is denied to a slave. As his inner fire consumes him, he stands wordless before the apparition.
As for Priscus, he feels a twinge of irritation as she says languidly: “I can think of nothing but you and you alone. I have been waiting here for hours. I cannot go on like this…”
The Gaul has a sudden urge to turn his back on her. But her family is of a certain standing, and a slave cannot afford to offend his superiors. So he tries to extricate himself with all the tact and courtesy he is capable of.
“My lady, not tonight, I beseech you. I would be poor company: we have just finished burying our brother…”
Julia is taken aback and has no answer as she watches the Gaul lumber off toward to his bare cell. Verus follows on his friend’s heels, drinking in her perfume with a deep breath as he walks past. In that moment, the eternal sleep suddenly seems sweeter than wakefulness.
Julia lingers in the courtyard of the school for a while, unsure whether to leave or to pursue the object of her desire. Then through the silence she hears her beloved’s agonizing sobs. His weeping is like a river of despair that has burst its banks, sweeping all before it. She imagines Priscus’s face twisted in grief.
In her mind’s eye she is comforting her lover as she shuffles quietly into the building and already imagines kissing his salty lips, easing his pain in the only way she knows how, pushing life into life where oblivion has snatched it all away.
She follows the sound of the sobs, but to her surprise she does not find what she is looking for.
Leaning against the wall of the armory is Verus, alone.
Verus, wracked by a suffering deep enough to shatter the universe itself.
Julia approaches him cautiously, her pulse quickening. The Briton looks up and meets her glistening, silken eyes. They draw closer and closer, a mere warm breath away. Julia wants to say something, but the Briton does not give her time. He kisses her furiously, and she gives in to him.
Bloodthirsty hands pull off her cloak and rummage through her clothes, clumsily loosening knots. Julia is naked and magnificent, her breath heaving and cunt moist and ready. Verus tastes it for the first time and gulps it down, like a dying man at the fountain of youth.
Julia groans and screams, her polished nails scraping against the wooden door.
He turns her over, pulls up her dress and takes her from behind. She gasps with pleasure, Verus’s powerful hands gripping her hips.
He pounds away at her even as his tears continue to flow.
Julia grabs hold of his fingers and places them on her sex, convincing him to explore her properly.
They climax together. Suddenly, as in a dream. Verus’s fire explodes into Julia’s serenity. Hot seed seals their impossible and cowardly love.
Sweat and steaming skin, there is nothing more now.
Neither of them notices the shadow watching them, a shadow disgusted with himself and revolted by the world.
Priscus has witnessed the entire scene. Brimming with a mixture of hatred and desire, he curses himself and his erect manhood, for him a humiliation even greater than dishonor. Nothing makes sense any longer, and ice turns to fire. Jealousy and disgust swallow up everything else, digesting the future in a sea of gastric juices.
Outside, beyond the bare window, there is only starless void.
It all ends tonight, it ends to begin again.
Love is such utter nonsense, such trash.
Ah yes, death is more honest, far more honest than this crap.
Rich Bastards
Whoe’er has […] gold, secure may sail
PETRONIUS, Satyricon, CXXXVII
Rome, AD 80, June
TODAY IS A holiday.
A magical day, that much is clear from the first rays of sunlight, warm enough to be taken as a promise of summer. It is heralded by a messenger from the Emperor, who does not stop pounding away at the door knocker until the master has awoken.
These days the lanista Decius Ircius sleeps fitfully, dreaming of serpents and tarantulas biting his balls all night long, god knows why. He has been living permanently inside the Ludus Argentum ever since he returned to Rome.
At the sound of the knocking he wakes up in a cold sweat and runs to the door. He would love to be able to buy a slave to take care of this kind of damned chore, but fears the men may think he is getting old. Or worse, that his strength is not what it once was. On top of that, an excessive number of servants in one’s home is the first, unequivocal step towards full-blown homosexuality.
Which is why he goes to answer the door himself, before the idiot breaks it down. He throws it open with every intention of bollocking whoever has dared to disturb his morning rest, but when he spots the Emperor’s ensign on the man’s clothing, a shrewd smile spreads across his face.
The messenger is by no means accustomed to apologizing or observing other social niceties—he is there on the business of the sovereign, after all.
“Emperor Titus,” he begins peremptorily, “will come to visit your school in the company of his daughter, at the fifth hour, or else when he sees fit—in any case before the sun reaches its zenith. Prepare yourself to receive this greatest of honors, Decius of the House of Silver.”
The startled Ircius gives a quick bow, shakes the messenger’s hand and drops a handful of assarii into the messenger’s pouch. The man almost sneers in disgust but shows no inkling to return the money, and instead beats the sand off his sandals and continues on his rounds.
The lanistaturns from the door and rushes madly through the corridors of the school, raising everyone from their beds. A visit from the Emperor! Expected within the next four or five hours! There is so much to be done!
Aton lines up the men in the courtyard, while Ircius assembles the physician and the untores and sends someone to hire some slaves for the day to clean the ludus from top to bottom.
A barracks is not exactly the ideal place to receive his Imperial Majesty, even if there have been many monarchs throughout Roman history who have been great enthusiasts of the gladiatorial games and their heroes.
There is at least one room in the Ludus Argentumthat is appropriate for receiving guests: it is certainly no banquet hall, but it is big enough to hold a couple of triclinia, some polished bronze braziers, broad tables laden with food and a few mirrors, expertly distributed to create an optical illusion of more space than there actually is. The room is on the top floor of the school, where Ircius’s rooms are also located. And it opens onto the broad balcony, transformed for the occasion into the place of honor. From here in complete comfort the Emperor will be able to watch the fights in the arena below, laid on by the master of the ludus.
At the peak of the fifth hour and not a minute later, the lord of the Eagle arrives.
Titus Flavius Vespasianus looks worn out. The lined face of a man with too much to think about, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, yet his hair neatly combed—as befits his rank.
He wears nothing extravagant, but the material his clothes are made from is feathery and rustles, the cloth of the gods. The cobalt-blue tunic is broad and clings to his bulky physique, secured at the waist with the traditional belt. Hand-carved Bithynian leather, the buckle a wolf’s
head. The string uppers of his light-colored sandals squeak as he walks. Brass bracers cover his wrists, the height of fashion. Over his tunic, a light cloak, also of dark leather and elegantly decorated. Titus had no wish to put it on, but his daughter insisted: “You are power incarnate, father. All of Rome must know it!”
The Emperor would have liked to counter her with: “My little goldilocks—all of Rome knows it already,” but arguing with his daughter first thing in the morning is one of the ten things Titus most dislikes in this world, along with eating capers and walking in the foothills. So he yielded to her, as always.
The girl is petite and very beautiful. Her head covered by a silken shawl that reveals its costly transparency in the daylight, allowing her blond locks to shine in the fiery midday sunbeams.
Her delicate dress is lightly girded with a garland of rose petals, and her slender ankles, bound by the interweaving straps of the sandals, lend her an ethereal lightness.
The gladiators are lined up smartly in the courtyard, dressed up in iron for the great occasion. The warriors stand motionless and powerful, burnished metal glinting in the sun, manicae and greaves in place, helmets tucked under an arm, ready to spill their blood in order to wrest a smile from the Emperor.
Cosmos, Tempest, and Bato are left gazing open-mouthed at the innocent beauty of Titus Flavius Vespasianus’s firstborn, this noblewoman of Rome. But the real shock is in store for Verus and Priscus: a shiver runs down each of their spines when the girl lowers her shawl, revealing her true identity. Julia.
The name chimes in the Gaul’s and the Briton’s heads like a broken bell.
Julia.
The beginning of the end, their rift, the bone of contention.
Julia.
Foolish, reckless love.
Julia.
The Emperor’s daughter.
Julia.
An impossible love.
An ocean of thoughts washes over the gladiators while the house breaks into acclamation for the great leader.
Titus blesses them with a movement of his hand.
Julia greets them, feigning shyness. She has the nerve of a sixteen-year-old, and a destiny of gold and salty tears tied firmly to her shoulders. Her smile is a shoot breaking free of the earth, a shattered dream, a sailor’s promise.
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