Blood of a Barbarian (9 page)

Suddenly, the smell of death was even more present in the air than it had been, and I heard the cries of men in pain even above the sounds of the cheering crowd. We passed by what I assumed was the Saniarium, where Venators, or beast hunters, who had been wounded earlier, were having their wounds stitched up by the Medici. As we passed the room in the near-darkness, two slaves emerged from the doorway carrying a stretcher. On it, lay a man who was now dead. He had obviously succumbed to the wounds he had received. It looked as though he had been badly mauled by a bear, judging by the claw-scratches gauged into his torso. We stepped to the side to let them pass as they headed for the Spoliarium, where the dead were sent to be stripped of their armour.

All around us were the sounds of death and glory: A sword being sharpened, the groans of dying men, and the sharp crack of the beastmaster's whip.

Eventually, we came to the Armanentarium, which was a large room just off the main passageway. At the end of the passage was the Gate of Life, through which we would soon be passing, and through which, the flickering shafts of torch-light danced and played on the stone walls. I received from the armourer my full complement of Secutor equipment, excepting my sword. No gladiator was ever trusted with a blade before he actually stepped into the arena, all thanks to the Spartacus revolt some three-hundred or more years ago, which had been made up of rebelling slaves. Because another such revolt had since been feared, guards were posted every forty paces or so throughout the Hypogeum.

I took my armour and put it onto the ground out in the passageway. The Gate of Life itself was really a large iron grill, which, when the time came, would be hoisted up on its ropes by several guards. Through the grill I could see most of the arena floor, and off in the distant center two junior gladiators warmed up the crowd by engaging in combat. They were armed only with wooden swords, but fought fiercly against one another. This would make the mob even more excited, for they wanted to hear the sounds of real iron clanging off of iron, and the sense of anticipation seething from the masses had become, by that time, almost palpable.

I tried just to focus on putting on my equipment properly. I didn't want to subvert my own chances of victory simply because I'd not tightened one of my many draw-strings well enough, or forgotten something.

First, I removed my tunic, then put on my subligacalum, or loincloth, which had to be tied in a very particular way. I let one end hang down the back, while the other two ends I wound round my waist, and then knotted at the front. The hanging end I then passed between my legs and through the knot, and then allowed the cloth to hang loosely at the front. Next, I put on my leather cingulum, or metal-studded belt, which went over the top of the loincloth, and fastened at the back with two small hooks. My torso was to be left open, mostly because the Romans love to see a well-toned and sweaty abdomen twisting and turning in the light, as well as the fact that it was neccessary to leave something exposed - some chink in the armour to make the fight more exciting.

I then put on my manicae, or arm-sleeve, with the assistance of a slave, and the subarmallis, which went around my legs. The purpose of this straw-filled linen padding was not only to protect my legs, but also to act as a cushion for the greaves, or curved amour, which guarded my shins. Next, I put on my balteus, which was a sort of sheath for the sword which I was soon to receive, and lastly, took my knitted woolen arming cap, which I would later slip on over my head like a hood. I put this into the basin of my Secutor helmet, which I placed beside my curved shield. These three items, as well as the sword, would only be taken up in the moments before the fight.

As I did a final check on everything, I couldn't help but wonder to myself how many men had already fought, and bled, and died in this armour -it had been alot judging by the smell of it.

Beside me stood Vulcan, the Gaulish Myrmillo with whom I had had an argument years before in the baths. We had never quite become close in the meantime, but we were at least no longer enemies. I leaned over to him, and nodded my head toward the sound of the noise streaming in through the gate. "We are no longer the Dogs of the Underworld," I said with a grin, "but the Gods of the Underworld!" Vulcan nodded and gave me a wink. He knew that I meant that all these people out there were cheering for us, and that in their eyes, we were, for an instant anyway, at least the equal to the demi-gods and heroes of Heaven and Earth.

I took a brief moment of silence to remember Titus, and inside myself dedicated the games tonight that I woud play a part in to him. He had, after all, helped me with my training, and if I survived, than it would at least partially be due to the role he had played in my life. I then made a silent entreaty to the gods, to Fortuna, the Goddess of Fortune, and to Mars, the God of war, and lastly to Jupiter, the God of all, asking for victory this day.

Behind me, the other men parted away, and I heard the gruff voice of Doctore Furius. He marched through us, followed by a slave carrying a box, which he lay down on the ground before the steps. Furius stepped up onto it.

"Men," he said. "Gladiators... Can you hear them out there?! Do you hear how they are cheering? They are cheering for you! They are calling out for men brave enough to show them the way, to show them how to die, and to show them how to live... So go out there, and die well, or through the merit of your skill with the blade, earn your lives for another day!"

We all let out a loud shout, to show our approval of his words. We were happy that Furius didn't bore us woth long speeches, and didn't try to insult us with false praise or unwarranted threats.

"Gladiators!" Furius called out again as he stepped off of his box. "Take up your positions!"

As the highest ranked man present, it would be my task to lead the men out into the open, and so taking my helmet from under my arm, I stood at the center front of the two lines of men. We had rehearsed what was to come at least a hundred times, and I tried not to forget my role.

All at once, and blaring loudly, came the sound of the Imperial trumpets, which blasted out three long notes.

That was the signal, and immediatly the guards began to hoist the iron gate up by its ropes. Slowly, it began to creakingly ascend, and as it did, we all felt every eye in the audience turn toward the entrance, and toward the Gate of Life. The sudden silence seemed to be almost more deafening than the noise of the cheering had been, and I waited for Furius's signal to step forward, forward into the torch-lit night, and out onto the cool sands of the arena floor...

CHAPTER TEN

The First Sword

The sun had now gone fully down, and darkness had enshrouded the Amphitheater as though a black curtain had been laid over it. I strode up the short flight of stone steps that led up to the Gate of Life, and as I appeared, the crowd went wild with cheering. Their faces appeared to me as no more than a blur, a dark confused writhing mass in an inky night, but they were enthralled with the sight of us. Our bodies were resplendant and dazzling. Just moments before, slaves had draped all of us gladiators in long golden gowns, and they must have made quite a spectacle as they glimmered in the flickering light of the torches that had been set up all over the arena floor.

Just then, I noticed something coming down from the sky. It was actually thousands upon thousands of flower petals that had been thrown by men high up on the rafters of the stadium. These petals came down like rain, and landed on our sweat-soaked bodies and faces, and filled the air with their sweet scent. This was called The Flower Rain, and the purpose of it was to make the air in the stands, which was rank with the smell of people's garlicy breath and sweat, a little more bearable. I couldn't help but feel that the petals, especially when the red ones landed on our skin, were a kind of prefiguring of all the wounds yet to come, and they mingled in with the patches of blood that already littered the sandy ground, from where men and beasts had died earlier this day.

As I walked through the sand, trying my best to steer the other men in a complete loop around the stadium, I raised my arms and several times saluted to the cheering masses. This was their chance to look down upon us, and to lay bets on the men they thought looked the fittest. Behind me, there were other Secutors like myself, as well as several Samnites, with their large shields and plumed helmets, which they held by their sides. Next to them, strode the scissores, with their hook-slashers and bent Sica swords -I was glad I didn't have to fight them! Then there were the Dimachaeri, who wielded two swords, and of course the Thraex, the Myrmillos, and the Hoplomachus, who were of the heavily armoured type. Then there was my own personnel adversaries, the Retiarius.

Behind our Procession, or Pompa, as the Romans called it, was a long train of local dignitaries, Vestal Virgins, and page boys, as well as the Lictor and other officials. Some had a role in the games as judges or as sponsors, while most just wanted to trail behind us and enjoy, second-hand, some of the applause which we gladiators were basking in. It was always helpful for a Roman citizen to be able to associate themselves, however remotely, with the glory which we earned with our blood.

Most interesting for the crowds though, besides the fighters, were the many tame exotic beasts which were led by slaves in our wake. There were zebras, and ostriches, and wild deer of many different varieties, which the people seemed to adore seeing. The whole thing was just an show, a kind of play-acting, and yet there was nothing unreal about the spectacle of death and the horror which was soon to be enacted out for the pleasure of the masses.

I had been instructed to make one full lap around, and then to assemble the men before the Imperial Box, which was in the front and center of the arena. As First Sword, it was my honour to line the men up into their correct alignment, while we waited for the arrival of the Emperor, who always entered last. We were to present ourselves to him, and offer our weapons to his service, weapons which, only now, were being handed to us by several trainee-gladiators. This presentation was called The Pantheon of the Gods, on account of the fact that this assembly of men was meant to represent the highest manifestation, outside of the Emperor himself, of the divine made flesh. It was our bodies, which had been honed to such perfection, and our skill with weapons, that best symbolized the true strength and virtue of Rome.

Just as we had settled into our positions, an official, known as a Lictor, stepped forward. He was a wizened old man, and his task was to examine both our armour, as well as our weapons, to make sure that no tricks were played. In times past, it had not been uncommon for men to put metal spikes on their knuckles, or to hide an extra weapon in their manica, or greaves, and so a careful and thorough inspection was made before an assembled group of judges. When all was declared satisfactory, the men stepped back, and disappeared through a door in the wall, as we men stowed our swords into our balteus.

We stood for a brief moment in the cool night air, neatly lined up in two rows before the gilded Imperial Box, and soon after, there came the shrill cry from the Imperial trumpets, announcing the arrival of the Emperor. At first we saw nothing, for the Box was elevated quite high, but we heard the roar go up from those assembled, and they all rose from their seats in order to applaud the Royal Family, who entered with their Pretorian Guard. The Emperor took his seat slowly, arranged his purple toga, and then raised his hands as a signal to proceed. Everyone in the audience then took their seat, and the musicians on the far side of the arena began to play. It was a haunting tune, and the strange vocals made by the male and female chorus-line made it all the more so. This was the signal, and I withdrew my sword and raised it high before the Emperor. The pale, weak-looking figure in the Imperial Box acknowleged us, and then slowly stood on his wavering and uncertain legs.

"You may proceed with the games," he said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, and then sat down again. I had heard rumours that this man enjoyed studying the expression in a dying man's eyes, the better perhaps to understand the enigma of death, and for this reason, he best enjoyed fights that featured my opponents, the Retiurius. The fisherman did not wear an obstructing mask, and this obviously afforded the Emperor the best possible view of a man's face as he died. It was my intention to give him just such a show, when later I took to the sands myself with a fisherman.

Now the musicians stopped their melody, and the sound of a single instrument, a Tibia Impares, or oboe, blasted out one long note. That was the sign for the games to begin. Most of us filed out of the arena in an orderly manner, and went back through the Gate of Life to await our turns. The only two who stayed behind were the Gaulish Myrmillo, Vulcan, and my fellow German, Decimus, who was a Hoplomachus. Both men were about equally matched when it came to skill, strength and armour, but they were also good friends, and it horrified me to think that they had been pitted against one another.

We all gathered at the open Gate of Life to get a good view of the proceedings, and by the time I had elbowed my way to the front of the men, the fight had already begun. Both were fighting well, and hard, and any doubts I had had about them being willing to fight one another were obviously unfounded, as they were busily slashing at one another as though they had been bitter foes all their lives.

Vulcan got the first really good blow in, straight on Decimus's helmet, and he staggered backwards for a moment before regaining his composure. Decimus did not waste any time before launching his retaliatory assualt though, and when he slashed at Vulcan's arm, it looked as though he might have cut through the manicae. Still, that would not be enough to stop a beast like Vulcan, and he only redoubled his efforts to keep Decimus on the defensive. The crowd, meanwhile, was loving it, and could not seem to stay in their seats. Even the Senators, usually so dignified, were hooting and jeering at the two men, yelling "Hit him!" and "Again, that's it!"