The Song of the Gladiator (35 page)

Now Claudia took a deep breath and stretched out her legs, forcing herself to relax. She stared around the box. Sylvester, Athanasius and the other orators were present, although they had turned their backs on the arena, showing their public disapproval of such bloody games. Claudia sympathised with them. She had hidden herself away from the morning spectacle when condemned criminals had been killed, bodies blooming blood, flesh stripped away as they were mauled by tigers or panthers. The sand in the arena had blossomed like some gruesome flower, the blood spurting and spluttering, the air riven by the roars of beasts and the shouts and cries of their victims. Claudia couldn’t decide which was more terrifying, the hideous scenes in the arena, or the complete lack of interest shown by those in the imperial box. Constantine gossiped with his friends; Helena dictated to her clerks and scribes, or loudly demanded that a scroll be brought to her.

Claudia felt she was a lunatic in a house of fools. The blood flowed, criminals were slaughtered, eaten or burned but no one cared; yet was she any different? The problems which vexed her were like the men and women who died in the arena, something to be dealt with. She concluded that the human heart could only take so much fear, feel only a certain amount of compassion before it turned to its own problems. She was only concerned with one thing: would Murranus live or die? What happened in the next few hours would decide her life, perhaps change it for ever. The past and present were coming together like curtains being closed around a bed. What was she now? No longer Helena’s agent, her spy, the niece of Polybius, the friend of this person or that. Her mind was now dominated by images of Felix, Murranus and Meleager. She wanted justice for murder and rape, she wanted to be purged of such thoughts, she wanted the ghosts to let go. Only then would she be free. She felt as if she was in one of her plays. People were talking and moving around but they were no longer part of her.

Claudia steadied herself. The trumpeters were moving, Constantine had raised his hand. Narcissus slipped into the box, shaking his head sadly.

‘Are you well?’ Gaius Tullius stood over her, a look of concern on his face. ‘Are you well, Claudia? You look pale. Do you want some wine or fruit?’

He didn’t wait for an answer, but moved to a side table, filled a goblet, came back and thrust it into her hands.

‘Don’t think,’ he whispered, ‘just watch! The fates will decide.’

His words were drowned by the shrill blasts of the trumpets. Claudia heard a hideous creaking, took a sip of wine, stood on tiptoe and peered over. The cochlea, a huge swinging door on a movable stand, was being dragged and pushed into the centre of the arena. At least it had been drenched and washed after the previous massacre. She put her wine down. They were giving Murranus a chance; those who engaged in fighting a wild animal could use the door as a place to distract their opponent, gain a respite, rest for a while.

At last the cochlea was in place. Again the trumpets brayed, and the crowds surged to their feet, a great roar of greeting echoing to the skies as Murranus walked out through the Gate of Life. Claudia felt herself sway even as she heard the gasps and cries from those around her. The gladiator wore no sandals or body armour, no helmet or breast plate, no leg greaves; nothing except a white loincloth tied tightly. In one hand he carried a short stabbing sword and in the other the long oblong shield of a legionnaire.

‘What is he doing?’ Gaius Tullius whispered.

Murranus, moving slowly, walked to stand beneath the imperial box and lifted both shield and sword in salute. Constantine raised his hand in reply. Claudia was crying, her body shaking with sobs. Murranus, head shaved, face oiled, was smiling lovingly up at her as if preparing to go for a swim, or a walk across Polybius’s garden to sit beneath the shade. She would have called out, but the trumpets were shrilling again, the great iron trap door on the far side of the arena was being opened and the fighting bull emerged. It was a magnificent animal, black as night, slim and lean, long-legged with powerful haunches and shoulders. Its glossy hair gleamed in the sun, and it tossed its head, snorting and bellowing, those sharp scythed horns shimmering in the light, their tips razor sharp. For a while the bull was disconcerted, pawing the ground, moving its head against the bright light. The crowds were now chanting at it. The bull pawed the ground, head going down, swinging from side to side as it looked for its prey.

Murranus sauntered across, and stood in front of the cochlea, using the red shield to attract the bull’s attention, moving it from side to side. The bull, however, trotted backwards and forwards, shaking its head, snorting, almost as if planning what to do. Claudia noticed how swiftly it moved, gracefully, like a dancing horse, its sharp hoofs barely touching the ground. She ground her teeth in anger. She knew nothing about animals, but someone, probably Dacius, had chosen well. The bull was a superb specimen, probably the victor of many fights.

Murranus danced forward, trying to entice the bull. The animal moved backwards. The crowd gasped as if in one voice, for, without waiting or the usual pawing of the ground and tossing of the head, the bull burst into a charge, a powerfully fast canter, aiming straight for Murranus. The crowd roared as the gladiator dropped his shield and retreated hastily behind the cochlea. The bull turned slightly and came in, thrusting with its horns at the fallen shield, butting it with his head and trampling it under its feet. It then backed off, pawing and snorting, as if studying the cochlea and wondering what it was.

The mood in the amphitheatre changed. Claudia felt the muscles in her legs and thighs tense. Some of the crowd were jeering, deriding Murranus’s efforts. The bull had now caught sight of him and moved round the cochlea for another confrontation. The game continued, the bull charging in swiftly, Murranus running away, using his shield, which he had now picked up, as well as the cochlea to protect himself. The visitors in the imperial box were discussing tactics heatedly. Some whispered cowardice, others pointed out that Murranus might be tiring the bull.

Claudia couldn’t understand what was happening. It looked as if Murranus was weakening, his body coated in a sheen of sweat, while the bull was as impetuous and aggressive as ever. The only thing she did notice was that the bull no longer withdrew, but circled the cochlea before breaking into a thundering charge, almost crashing into the barrier, or turning to gore the battered shield which Murranus dropped now and again. On occasions Murranus didn’t move swiftly enough; once he stumbled, rolling in the sand to avoid the hoofs and slashing horns.

The fight wore on. People were jeering but also mystified. The bull began to show signs of exhaustion and baffled fury. Its charges became shorter but were still as vigorous. Then it happened. Murranus, once again armed with shield and sword, stood in front of the cochlea, baiting the animal to charge him again. Hoofs pawing the ground, the bull tossed its great black head and broke into a charge as fast as an arrow leaving a bow. This time Murranus did not retreat. In fact he dropped his shield and ran to face the bull. The crowd gasped and shrieked. The bull tried to slow. Murranus, like a dancer, like an athlete clearing a gate, leapt in the air, a graceful somersault which took him over the bull. The animal, disconcerted, could not stop, but crashed into the wooden platform supporting the cochlea. The blow seemed to stun it; it staggered, attempted to turn. Murranus moved in fast, at a half-crouch. He brought back his sword and sliced at the animal’s left leg, cutting muscle and sinew. Moving swiftly away, he inflicted a second cut on the other leg, though not as deep or dangerous. The bull, roaring in pain, turned, but now it was slowed, dangerously impaired. It appeared unaware of the injury until it tried to break into a charge, and bellowed as its rear legs buckled. Again Murranus moved in, stabbing and cutting, this time slicing at one of the front legs just above the hoof. The bull, seriously injured, staggered and swayed. The crowd was roaring, praising Murranus’s skill and bravery. The gladiator brought his sword up, pressing the flat of the blade against his face as if saluting his opponent. The bull staggered forward and sank to its knees. Murranus slipped to one side and drove the sword deep into the back of the bull’s neck. Blood sprayed out of the wound. The bull coughed, roared and slumped, even as the crowd rose and gave vent to its approval.

‘I didn’t know you were a bull leaper!’ Claudia hoped she could disguise her trembling as she sat on the bench in the small cell-like tavern off the main tunnel beneath the amphitheatre.

‘Neither did I.’ Murranus grinned and, at Polybius’s request, stretched out his arms so both the tavern keeper and Oceanus could dry his sweat and oil his body. They took off his loincloth. Claudia, embarrassed, glanced towards the entrance, where two burly mercenaries kept away sightseers and well-wishers.

The tunnel was dimly lit; a place of flickering shadow and dancing flame, echoing ghostly with the sound of distant voices, the roars from the animal pens, and the shouting of the crowd now waiting for the high point of the day. The clamour from the tunnel grew abruptly louder. Claudia walked to the doorway. The arena was being cleaned, the bull’s corpse dragged out to the slaughter yard.

Claudia returned to her seat. She felt weak with relief, yet fearful at the imminent confrontation with Meleager, now arming in a chamber further down the tunnel. The crowd had been ecstatic over Murranus’s performance, truly astonished by his cunning tactics and the skill of that leap. Of course, others had seen the bull dancers of Crete, but very rarely had such prowess been shown in the arenas of Rome. Even the Emperor had risen in acclamation. Claudia had jumped up and down and it took some time for Uncle Polybius to calm her and whisper the message that Murranus wanted to see her.

‘There.’ Claudia looked round. Murranus patted the new loincloth. ‘As neat and tidy,’ he winked at Claudia, ‘as a bridegroom on his wedding day.’

Polybius and Oceanus now began to arrange the armour piled on the floor, the silver filigreed breastplate, the leather kilt, the oblong shield, the embroidered sword belt, leg greaves, and a shimmering arm guard.

‘Wasn’t that Spicerius’s?’ Claudia asked.

‘It was,’ Murranus murmured. ‘Today I’ll wear it in his honour.’

He picked the arm guard up. Oceanus hurried to tie the straps.

‘You seem little interested in the gossip.’ Polybius lifted up the ornate Thracian helmet, with its broad brim and heavy face guard. He used his fingers to brush the gorgeous scarlet horsehair plume. ‘I mean, don’t you want to know,’ Polybius thrust the helmet into Oceanus’s hand, ‘what they’re saying about Meleager?’

‘I’m not interested.’ Murranus was staring at Claudia. ‘I don’t give a damn about tittle-tattle. What does it matter, if I’m killed in the next hour?’

‘Don’t say that,’ Polybius urged.

‘I said if.’ Murranus patted him on the shoulder. ‘I have sacrificed the bull. Now I’ll go out and defeat Meleager, but, gentlemen, I thank you for your care and attention.’ He gestured at the entrance. ‘In ancient Greece the heroes of Homer always armed for battle with the help of a beautiful maiden.’

Polybius and Oceanus took the hint, clasped his hand, embraced him, wished him good luck and left. Outside, the tunnel echoed with the sound of voices. The herald shouted that Meleager was ready. Murranus walked over to Claudia, embraced her gently and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Bull leaper,’ she whispered as she leaned against him.

‘I didn’t want to tell you.’ Murranus kissed her again. ‘I was practising. I didn’t know whether such a trick would work. I couldn’t see you beforehand, I didn’t want to alarm you.’

‘You must not die,’ she whispered.

‘Pray to whatever god you desire, Claudia. I’ll call on the ghost of Spicerius and all the dead to be with me. At a time like this you can feel your dead thronging about you.’

‘There are other ghosts.’ Claudia had made a decision. She pushed herself away and walked back to the bench, patting it for Murranus to sit next to her.

‘What is it, Claudia?’

‘There are ghosts here,’ Claudia declared. ‘My father and my mother and, above all, little Felix. Murranus, I’m going to tell you something about which I’m certain I have not made a mistake.’

She grasped his callused hand. At first she spoke haltingly, but eventually the words came hot and fast. She described her meeting with Meleager, his friendship with Dacius and her unshakeable belief that he was the man who had raped her and killed her brother.

Murranus listened intently. Only a muscle twitching high in his cheek and the cold, dead look in his eyes betrayed the anger seething within him. When Claudia had finished he gathered her in his arms, pushing her head against his chest whilst stroking her hair. She wished she could stay there but she had spoken enough.