Priscus feels the hatred creeping through his teeth; he clenches his jaw furiously, until he can hear the grinding of his incisors. But he does not stop smiling, because his role demands it. Because he is a servant, just like Verus.
Verus is even harder hit; he is crestfallen. He held a dream in his hands, the night of the funeral: the unspeakable dream of having her for his own. Julia, a name that flushes his skin and stirs his innards.
He allowed himself to fantasize, something a slave should never do: his past and his future do not belong to him. He dreamt, as he clasped the girl’s hips, of a life together. Of waking up and falling asleep next to her, ready to satisfy her every desire, prepared to protect her with his very life. As he danced inside her he imagined she was his, that he had uncovered the secrets of her body and opened up her heart. But it was all a delusion.
What sort of future could a servant ever have with the Emperor’s daughter?
For the wild lovers there is no tomorrow; real life has come to claim its due.
Ircius knows nothing of this, or simply does not wish to know. It is no business of his what the men get up to between the thighs of the nobility. The desires of the rich are nothing to do with him; the silvery drool of the powerful is disgusting enough for him to profit from it without suffering any feelings of remorse.
Decius Ircius is man of honor, and a man of business.
And he will not miss his chance to become king of the rabble.
Not today.
“On the occasion of your visit, o magnificent one, which honors my home more than the sun of Apollo or the favor of the gods, allow me to offer you a combat worthy of the lord of the Earth. Murmillo against Thracian, the quintessential gladiatorial contest. Verus, Priscus, prepare yourselves!”
The command is abrupt, delivered without hesitation.
Titus and his extraordinary outfit sink into a chair decorated with gold leaf at the center of the royal box, improvised but glossy as an eyeball. Julia seats herself beside him with a mischievous smile, biting her lip with anticipation.
The girl is not made of ice; she knows what is happening.
Just the same way as she knows she is the cause of the tension that she can definitely sense between the two men. Women know. But youth and recklessness are the wings of a butterfly at the eye of the cyclone. Sandstorms ink out the blue skies of common sense.
Julia does not know what she wants, that much is certain.
But she wants it all, just the same.
Sitting by her father she crosses her legs, a double lock sealing the gates of pleasure, and waits for blood, the justice of the sand.
Verus and Priscus put on their helmets and enter the arena, each ready to harm the other.
They have good call to be furious.
Excellent reasons to trample the very life out of one another.
Priscus hates himself and loves Verus. Loves him, there is no more doubt about it. Not as a friend or a brother-in-arms, but as Venus commands of curious hearts. He is wracked with jealousy every time the Briton’s gaze meets the dewy eyes of the Emperor’s daughter. He knows what lies beneath the surface of his forbidden dream. He understands the chafe of desire because he feels it in every moment. He both loves and rejects the fire that has been consuming Verus since the night when he lost everything and life began again.
He still cannot fathom what happened to Sergius, but he remembers word for word what he told the son of the Island on the day they were recruited: We’ve signed a pact with death. That’s what it means to be a fucking gladiator.
He pities himself and his own unrealizable passion, but he accepts his destiny like a man. And he knows his road will take him far.
Verus, for his part, is incandescent with rage. He curses himself, his loneliness, the cruelty of a destiny that enjoys nothing more than tearing him away from everyone around him. First Priscus, snatched violently away by the seeds of rivalry. Then Julia, scented and then lost like the perfume of winter flowers, poking through the snow only to then freeze to death.
Verus’s rage is a slap in the face of reason, the urge to fight is his inexhaustible fuel. Always.
He knows he should not blame his friend, and would much prefer to fight himself if he could; to enter the arena against a twin of flesh and bone, to punish him and punish himself for the nothingness he has created. But the law of iron is the same for everyone: the oath of the ludus demands it.
Fratricide is their daily bread, and pity a bland condiment for days of fast.
To arms then, because tomorrow is but a shitty illusion.
The silence is a vise, a surreal blanket.
This is not the place for martyrdom; blood deserves a noisy crowd, crazed shouting.
But today there is nobody.
Except the Emperor, his paltry entourage and his beautiful young daughter, of course.
Except his companions, the untores, the instructor, and his master.
Today the crowd is mute. They are fighting for themselves.
Verus and Priscus take a while to get into the swing of it.
Their ears are left ringing by the absence of noise.
Even during training there is never silence: their companions generally shout and tease, insulting mothers, sisters and brothers. Even their old fathers do not escape this treatment. In the final analysis, swearing is an integral part of training: it strengthens character, teaches them to focus while all around them everything descends into madness, it accustoms them to being on their guard. Learning to dodge spit and insults teaches you alertness, and your opponent’s attacks seem less daunting.
What is iron, next to the power of words? How much can a scratch on your flesh hurt you, compared to a gash in your soul?
There are insults that eat away at a man’s subconscious like water dripping patiently on rock, Priscus knows very well. When he was a little boy there was one that could keep him awake for days, a torment worse than winter’s first fevers: coward.
He recalls the fire in his belly, the flush of his cheeks, punches thrown and punches taken. He knows the ruinous power of the spark on the kindling. That is why he is repeating it over and over again, to the only man he has ever loved.
“Coward.”
The Briton gnashes his teeth behind the solid visor of the Corinthian helmet. He is boiling and the heat clouds his thinking, he feels Julia’s eyes on him with every move he makes. He slashes blindly, occasionally striking Priscus’s curved shield, only to hear him continue his wearing litany.
“Coward.”
Drop by drop his nerves begin to fray, his lunges growing stronger and more desperate.
Priscus readies his legs to strike, gathering his strength one cubit at a time like a loaded spring. With every parry his energy grows as Verus’s wheezing lungs mark the rhythm of their warfare.
When the Briton is so exhausted he can barely catch his breath, Priscus the ice-serpent strikes. Just once, a downward swing: the Gaul’s sica scores a direct hit right where the two crests are welded to the top of the helmet, slicing the one on the right clean off. The sound is overpowering, Verus’s head is fit to burst. The echo of the blow in his skull, the hot blood oozing from his scalp, the heat of the iron on his face.
Staggering and sputtering, Verus rolls to the ground and does just what he should not do: he pulls his helmet off. Priscus’s foot smashes into his jaw like a wave of granite, laying the Briton out.
Julia applauds as is befitting of her rank, her father showing his approval with a nod of the head.
But the rabble of the ludus lets out a visceral roar, acclaiming Priscus the victor as though he were Achilles himself.
He raises his arms, his pure heart reflecting the scorching sun. The son of Gaul drinks in the glory, and makes his first mistake.
Never turn your back on an opponent.
Verus takes a while to recover from the blow: Priscus is no si
ssy and he knows his friend’s weak points.
Today though, there is no reason in the world to hold back. Today is the day of blood.
The Briton could stay down and end it there, but he would sooner be impaled like Spartacus than give in.
Not here. Not today. Not in front of her.
He jumps to his feet, eyes red with pure rage.
He snorts like a bull, spatha held tightly in his right hand. He no longer needs his shield as he steps quickly across the sand. Priscus fails to realize that the wolf is back on its feet.
Verus launches two memorable thrusts from left to right, left to right, tracing a dirty, bright-red trench across his friend’s powerful back. But he is not sated: he slashes at knees and elbows, forcing Priscus down into the sand. Now he is over him, quicker than a scorpion, slashing him with the point of his sword. The blade of the spatha skewers the Gaul’s right hand to the ground.
Priscus cries out.
Normally that does not happen. Normally it is Priscus in control.
Normally…
Verus is pure spite, his face a mask of blood.
His head explodes when Julia puts her hands to her mouth, trembling at the sight of Priscus’s impaled hand.
Whore.
Fucking Roman whore.
Priscus cannot get up. Verus circles him, landing kicks so hard that the Gaul loses consciousness.
Then he raises his arms to accept his own applause.
That of his companions, hungry for violence.
Not once during the ovation does he take his eyes off Julia, who now seems to be looking at him differently.
She even says something in her father’s ear, who answers indifferently, “If you really want to…” Verus reads his lips with ease.
In the meantime he has not taken his eye off Priscus. The serpent might have fainted, or he might just be pretending.
He approaches his friend cautiously, lifting his helmet with care. The man’s eyes are closed and liquid dribbles from his mouth.
Verus grabs the hilt of his spatha and pulls it from the ground: icy metal scraping over the broken bones of the Gaul’s hand. Priscus regains consciousness, emits a shout.
The entire school shouts along with him.
He is livid now, burning with fury like a dying star. He gets to his feet as best he can, supporting himself with his good hand. He throws himself into a charge with everything he has left. With his right hand he begins to punch Verus’s face, over and over.
The Briton gives as good as he gets, landing roundhouse blows on his adversary’s trunk with his knuckles still grasping the blade. It tears at the skin of his belly, but they are only flesh wounds.
They continue thrashing each other until pain, that damned bastard, gets the better of Priscus. The umpteenth spasm, the copious blood he has lost, his hand shredded. He staggers just enough to let Verus adjust his stance and throw a hook that concentrates all the strength he has left into his elbow. The Briton’s forearm lands right on the Gaul’s nose, cracking it.
Blood spurts, a gurgling breath catches in his throat.
Priscus is floored.
Verus wins.
There is nothing more to say.
In the air thick with cheap glory, oil and sweat; in the applause of the school; in the benevolent gestures of the Emperor and the confused smile of the one; in the gleaming eyes of Decius Ircius. Here, in these things, there is Verus’s whole, wasted life.
Lord of emptiness, just for the day.
Hero of the abyss, champion of those who love him.
This is a farewell and he does not know it.
The downhill road awaits him with open arms. He would be better off running over to Priscus to wake up his brother, lying in the sand. To beg his forgiveness and kiss him on the lips. To believe in him, as he would a sacred prophecy.
But the Briton is all aflame now, a distillate of wild instinct, his blood driving his actions under Julia’s gaze, towards a heart that has been locked away, bare feet in the damned abyss.
Enjoy your glory, Verus.
The season of pain has just begun.
He cannot blame the night. Nor the fire, this time.
Verus cannot stand walking around like this, dressed up like a lordling, but Decius Ircius had made up his mind. And the master’s orders are never questioned.
The invitation did not arrive out of the blue. Decius could sense that something was afoot: it is not every day that the Emperor pays a visit. But a summons to the Imperial court is another matter. It must be to discuss business, he is sure of it.
The lanista rubs his hands together as a servant tends to his aching shoulders. The closer the games are, the more hefeels the effects of his stress: his trapezius muscles are solid rock, his back a bundle of tense fibers. In the morning he wakes up with a headache after grinding his teeth all night long, a very bad habit.
But the deal of his life is before him; the Amphitheater will open up new horizons he can scarcely imagine for those in his line of work. Entering the circle of the elite means a taste of the succulent fruits that tomorrow will bring, while the competition is still dozing. Titus was satisfied when he left the Ludus Argentum and his young daughter had absolutely insisted on taking a piece of that extraordinary spectacle back with them.
And so the Imperial messenger who had pulled him out of bed at dawn returned the next day, again at sunrise, to deliver an official invitation to Decius Ircius. This evening there will be a banquet at court, one of many held each week. But this evening—and only this evening—Ircius will have the chance to delight the guests with his new champion. The Palace awaits Verus with impatience.
These days, blood, money and fine clothes always go arm-in-arm. Hence the red tunic brought out for special occasions, the greased leather bracers round his wrists, the oiled footwear, and the carved balteus. Ircius insisted that Verus wear a modest headdress as well. Nothing effete of course, just a simple bronze strip beaten into the shape of a serpent, slithering around the nape of his neck and terminating with a roaring lion on the warrior’s forehead. A finely crafted ornament that would not be out of place on an Egyptian pharaoh’s honor guard.
Things pretty enough to make Verus feel ill at ease, in other words. He walks slowly, repositioning his loincloth with every step. Even that feels too tight on him, who knows what surprise bulging beneath it.
“Get a move on,” Ircius says to him as they near their destination. They have crossed the city in silence, making the most of the last hours of sunlight. Feasts generally begin long before sunset. In Rome as in the rest of the Empire, dinner is served around the eighth or ninth hour, during the early afternoon. But this is not just any old feast in any old house. Titus’s residence is not like the rest of the damned Empire.
Verus and Ircius realize this the moment they knock at the wooden doors. In place of a handle there is a sculpture of gold and bronze, fused together in a mystical embrace: the Eagle and the Wolf, symbols of august power, bound in an unbreakable circle of domination.
The slave who answers the door is wearing more jewelry than a Coptic whore.
A litter comes to a halt behind the two guests. With great difficulty, four bearers have brought a fat, pompous-looking couple to the house. She is dressed in silk and he wears the white tunic of the Senate. Laurels decorate their gray hair—who knows what they are celebrating. They do not even acknowledge Verus and Decius: people of their rank can afford to be more concerned about climbing out of their sedan than such trifles as good manners. Other servants rush to position a damask-quilted stool and a mat as light as the northern wind. The two opulent children of the Empire descend, ferried the few steps that separate them from the door by the steady hands of their cowed slaves. They advance into the belly of the florid beast.
The revelry is about to begin.
The lanistaand the gladiator follow the flow of people without offering resistance. They know they are mere second-rate guests, two lucky mortals admitted to bathe in the purple
light that emanates from the very heart of Rome.
They pass dumbstruck through a truly breathtaking peristyle: the pool where rainwater collects looks like a miniature lake. Wrapped around it is a garden that recalls both a forest and the Field of Mars. All around are scenes of war in bronze and painted marble. Statues of demigods, naked as the day Jupiter made them, chase one another, javelin in hand. In a small copse noble couples of flesh and blood sit caressing one another, ready for love before the sun has even set.
A muster of haughty peacocks scratches through the freshly cut grass, pecking at invisible seeds. One of the males faces Verus with a brazen air and mistakes his red tunic for a mating signal. It displays a splendid wheel of make-believe eyes, dipping its feathered neck and drawing back its right foot.
“There are wonders at every turn in the Emperor’s house!” exclaims Ircius, much amused. Verus needs to take a piss—he forgot to go before they left. When they reach the atrium they are received by a fresh host of servants who invite them to be seated, handing splendid linen napkins to them both. The Briton has no idea what to do with it and his bladder is bursting, but he keeps his mouth shut. He is too ill at ease to speak.
The slaves remove the guests’ footwear and use scented water to wash their feet, caked with the dust and dung of the streets of Rome. Rose petals float in the villa’s impluvium, tiny barques adrift on the infinite nothingness of wealth. Among the constellations of frayed flowers, exquisite lanterns in the shape of stylized eagles burn incense from across the seas. A line of columns encircles the pool, the gaps between them decorated with vermillion drapes. These immense curtains, strung together, seem to be holding hands in a never-ending circle.
Clean feet are an aid to clear thinking. The servants help Ircius and Verus to stand, and lead them into the banquet hall. In any other domus this would be a short distance away, a few steps along a corridor hung with family heirlooms: the sword of a grandfather who gained the rank of general, a few terracotta cups, an Oriental lamp. But this is the house of the Lord of the Earth, and the route towards gluttony is lined with marvels.
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