A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii (15 page)

If it weren’t so hot, I’d try to persuade him to come to the games today
, he mused. Seeing Pugnax win would do him good. It’d show him that I’m capable of doing something right.

Fresh doubt gnawed at Rufus. Would Pugnax really triumph? His aging gladiator had been lucky to be reprieved the second time he’d lost, two months before. If he were defeated yet again, Rufus wouldn’t just have debts on his hands, he’d have a dead gladiator. The compensation he might receive would be paltry.

Pugnax will do it
, he thought fiercely. He has to, or I will have nothing to pay Jucundus’ thugs with. And
that
would eventually result in more than a beating.

The appeal of the
frigidarium
lessened a little.

Rufus consoled himself with a vision of Pugnax winning. When that happened, bookings and down payments for other fights would come flooding in. It was ironic that he should feel grateful for the earth tremors like the ones this morning. The earth had been stirring all month. Because of them, more contests were being held than was usual for the time of year. The tremors had unsettled Rufus too, but unlike the easily terrified citizens he’d seen leaving this morning, he didn’t need to be placated by the staging of games and gladiatorial fights. He grinned. If this was the response of the rich and powerful when there was even a hint of unrest, who was he to argue?

RUFUS bypassed the forum on his way south. This early, Jucundus wasn’t likely to be in the town’s largest public space, where so much business was conducted, but various employees of his would be. It was easier to avoid trouble than to extract oneself from it. Thus Rufus’ eyes scanned the street ahead as he walked; every so often, he glanced over his shoulder. Pompeii was small enough that it was a constant battle to elude his debtors. At least he only had two major ones, Pansa and Jucundus. The others—and there were a host, from tavern owners to butchers and bakers, and a fuller who had recently made him a fine tunic—weren’t owed enough to want to hunt him down. Yet. Guilt tugged at him.
I’ll pay them all soon
, he thought.
When Pugnax wins.

Rufus felt more remorse as he passed the street that led to his father’s house. He had decided to postpone his visit while in the baths.
There’ll be time to call in before the fights began
, he told himself. It was more important that he saw Pugnax first and filled his head with ideas of victory. Rufus was sure that Pugnax’s streak of ill-fortune was in part due to the self-doubt that plagued him.

The man thought about things too much. His father’s saying came to mind: “Don’t worry about a task that’s before you, no matter how hard it seems. Get on and do it. Then it’s done. If it proves impossible, you’ve tried your best.” The maxim didn’t quite apply to Pugnax, Rufus decided ruefully. If his best weren’t enough later on, he’d be dragged out of the Gate of Death while the crowd bayed for more blood. But that wasn’t to say that Pugnax shouldn’t do his utmost.
That
was the way to win.

The main gladiator barracks was situated in the portico of a large, disused theater that was situated close to the Stabian Gate, in the south wall. It had been moved there from a spot by the amphitheater after the major earthquake seventeen years before, when so many of Pompeii’s buildings had been damaged. The change in location suited Rufus; the barracks were a much shorter walk from his apartment than from the amphitheater, which lay in the far southeastern corner of the town. In this heat, the less time spent outside, the better.

A hundred paces from the theater, his lips twisted upward. The bellows of the
lanista
were already audible. If he were ordering about the gladiators this early, Pugnax wouldn’t have had time to feel worried. The guards at the gate, two scarred army veterans whom Rufus knew, grinned and saluted when they saw him. “
Tesserarius
,” said the more senior.

“There’s no need for that, brothers,” Rufus replied in a half-hearted way, but the little reminder of his former status lifted his spirits, as always. “The
lanista
is in fine fettle this morning. I could almost hear him at the forum baths.”

“He’s in a bad mood. The heat kept him awake half the night, he says.”

“Like all of us. But what can we do?” added the second guard with a shrug.

“Aye, but just when he was falling back to sleep, the tremors woke him again.”

Rufus felt a twinge of concern. “There’s been nothing about the games being canceled, has there?”

The senior guard shook his head. “It takes more than that to put off a man like Pansa.”

“Have you seen Pugnax?” Rufus watched the men’s faces carefully.

The senior guard chuckled. “Oh, yes. He went for a run before dawn. Said he’d had a dream that the gods would favor him if he did. Did the whole bloody perimeter of the walls, in his armor, and ended up at the temple to Mars, where he offered a sacrifice. He came back with a huge grin plastered all over his face. Murranus is a dead man, he said.”

“Excellent.” Previously, Pugnax had been a little worried about facing Murranus, a
murmillo
and fellow “Neronian” who’d been bought not long before from the imperial gladiator school at Capua. Rufus felt himself smile. Today was going to be a
good
day. Pugnax
was
going to win. “I hope you’ll be betting on him?”

The guards exchanged a look. “We might do, sir, yes.”

Rufus didn’t care if they believed that Pugnax’s run of bad luck was over or not. He did. “Let me in, will you?”

“Of course, sir.” The senior guard stepped away from the archway that formed the barracks’ entrance.

The hobs on the soles of Rufus’ sandals clashed off the plain mosaic floor in the short passageway, reminding him of the immense noise as his legion had marched along imperial roads. In summer, the dust had been unbearable, but the sound of thousands of feet hitting the ground in unison had always filled him with pride. Even now, he loved to see soldiers on the move.

Beyond the passage was a square open area, filled with training gladiators, and surrounded on all sides by a colonnaded walkway. The
lanista’s
apartment and the bedrooms of the best fighters were situated above, on the second floor. As Rufus had expected, the
lanista
was standing on the wooden balcony outside his quarters, where he could best oversee his men. Apart from his well-cut tunic, the short-haired man looked no different than many of his fighters. His muscles rippled under nut-brown skin that was welted with cicatrices, and under his lowered brows, his eyes were hawk-keen. He took in the visitor at once. “Rufus. You’re here early.” He didn’t sound pleased.

Rufus kept his face serene. “It’s an important day. I wanted to see Pugnax.”

“A man who’s on his last chance. Murranus will gut him, or I’m no judge. Then I’ll no longer have to feed the greedy bastard. He eats more porridge than any two other fighters,” said the
lanista
with a scowl. He pointed to a far corner of the training area. “He’s over there.”

“My thanks.” Rufus strode off down the walkway, glad that he’d remained calm. It was unusual for a private citizen to have a gladiator here, among a
lanista’s
troop, but the legal agreement he’d made with the trainer still stood. It was odd, but he had Pansa to thank for it—another reason to be grateful to his second largest creditor. A year ago almost to the day, Pansa had been sufficiently impressed with Pugnax—a fighter whom Rufus had just purchased—to lean on the
lanista
to let Pugnax live and train among his men.

“He’ll be a fine addition to your lot. Neronians of his quality always bring in the crowds,” Pansa had said. Rufus had been overjoyed, but Pugnax’s instruction in Capua had made little difference to his subsequent career. That would all change today, thought Rufus determinedly. Pompeii would see what Pugnax the Neronian was capable of.

“Take it easy, Murranus!”

The name halted Rufus in his steps. He searched for Murranus amid the nearest gladiators. There was only one
murmillo
, recognizable because of his fish-crested helmet.

Murranus was sparring against a
thraex
, a Thracian. Both men bore wooden swords, but they were in the full armor they’d wear in the arena. As well as his helmet, Murranus had a large, rectangular shield. A single greave covered his leading, left leg, and protective padding encased his right arm. His opponent wore the griffon-crested helmet so characteristic of the
thraex
; he also had thick fabric and metal padding on his right arm. Because his curved shield was quite small, the
thraex’s
greaves were very tall, reaching up to mid-thigh.

It was clear that Murranus was the more skilled fighter. Clashing his shield off that of the
thraex
, he drove him back several steps, battering his sword off the other’s helmet in a flurry of blows.

“Murranus!” shouted the
lanista
even as the
thraex’s
knees buckled. “This is a training session, remember! Save your efforts for the arena.”

“
Lanista
.” Murranus raised his sword in salute before watching with evident pleasure as his opponent rose groggily to his feet.

Rufus hurried off along the walkway before Murranus saw him. His confidence in Pugnax was a little weaker than it had been, but he wasn’t going let that show. “Pugnax!” he called. “I hear you’ve been up for hours. Would you care for a cup of wine, to grease the joints?”

PUGNAX was taking this fight with deadly seriousness, thought Rufus proudly. He’d had the innkeeper dilute his wine to a far greater extent than the normal ratio of one to four. “I have to stay sharp,” he said, his brown eyes dancing. “There’ll be time to get drunk tonight.”

“There will. And the night after, and the night after that.” Rufus regarded his gladiator with pride. Pugnax was probably ten years younger than him—so, about thirty-something, which was old for a fighter. Fortunately, he didn’t look it. There wasn’t a gray hair to be seen in his thick black thatch, and his broad, pleasant face was unmarred by wrinkles. If it weren’t for his crooked nose, he’d have been handsome. Like most fighters, he was heavily built. The layer of fat that covered his well-developed physique was a form of protection against injury, allowing him to take flesh wounds that didn’t damage the muscles underneath.

“Did you see Murranus training?”

Nonplussed by the direct question, Rufus floundered for an answer. “Err, yes.”

“He’s looking good, eh?”

“I suppose.” It felt wrong to say something positive about Pugnax’s opponent.

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking the truth, master. He’s been out in the yard from dawn until dusk for weeks now.”

“He seemed sharp,” admitted Rufus, wondering what Pugnax was playing at.

“I’m glad. It wouldn’t look good if I defeated him too easily. Everyone likes a close contest.” Pugnax bared his teeth. “He won’t see tomorrow’s dawn, though, I swear it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Rufus clapped him on the arm.

In unison, they clinked their clay cups together. “To victory,” said Rufus. And to Jucundus giving me a little more time once I’ve given him my winnings, he added silently.

“To victory,” echoed Pugnax.

They both drank deep.

“How long does a man have to wait to get by?” cried a voice outside.

“Calm down, graybeard,” growled someone in reply.

“I’ve been following you for an eternity now. You’re stopping at every damn inn.”

“Course I am. Lucius Caecilius Jucundus supplies all the taverns in this quarter with their wine, and today is delivery day. If you’ve got a problem with that, me and my mate would be happy to discuss it further. If you prefer, you could take it up with Jucundus directly.”

Like most, the
caupona
they were in was open-fronted. Rufus peered out onto the street. A wagon drawn by two donkeys had pulled up right outside. Its load was an enormous leather bag; the wine within was dispensed at the back, from a long metal tube with a tap at one end. Two farm workers, both solid as tree trunks, were in charge. It wasn’t clear which one had intimidated the old man with a small cart behind, but both looked capable. The short cudgels in their hands were further proof of their willingness to use force.

The innkeeper had seen what was going on. A pair of slave girls were sent outside, one small and dark, the other buxom and blonde, each managing to carry a pair of medium-sized
amphorae
over their shoulders. The old man watched with poorly concealed resentment as Jucundus’ men set about filling the vessels with the speed of ill snails. There were at least two other vehicles that were being delayed, but no one dared challenge the deliverymen.

“I wonder if there’s
anyone
in Pompeii who likes Jucundus?” muttered Rufus angrily.