of whose duties was to provide gladiatorial displays, and who intended to get full value from this particular munera. And yet it had fallen short of the expectations of the crowd. The trinqui had been few; only a handful of sacrificial victims were thrown to the beasts, and the bestiarii had not been of the best. Leacus and I had been the prime entertainment but, according to the crowd, he had put up a bad show.
‘Lugula!’ They screamed. ‘Kill!’
The editor had the final say. If the crowd had demanded mercy by a display of fluttering handkerchiefs and uplifted thumbs, he would have gone against their wishes to his later, political cost. Now, to grant mercy would earn the same reward. For a moment he hesitated, then, lifting his arm, he let it fall to extend before him, the thumb downturned in the signal for death.
Leacus saw it. Gasping he said, ‘Atilus—’
He died as my sword plunged into his heart.
CHAPTER THREE
Heraculis came running to meet me as I walked through the Gate of Life. The wine he carried was welcome and I drank it after throwing him my helmet. On the way to the preparation room he babbled, ‘A good fight, master, but twice I thought the gods had summoned you for their own. Yet my prayers were answered and you survived.’
I made no answer, sitting on a bench as he removed the greave. The man was a mongrel, with the traces of mixed parentage blended in his face and eyes. A small, wizened man who at times looked like an ancient monkey. His name was a joke, one he had adopted, I guessed, as a compensation for his diminutive size. A slave who had been offered for sale after taking one too many liberties with his master. I had bought him cheap and at times regretted it.
Now, as he swabbed the dust and sweat from my body with a sponge, I heard the sudden sharp intake of his breath.
‘A near thing, master.’ I felt a twinge of pain as his fingers pressed at a point to the side of my neck. ‘A cut,’ he explained. ‘Nothing serious, but had it been an inch to one side, you and not Leacus would have been dragged from the sand.’
A near miss: one of the barbs glancing from my armoured shoulder had torn the flesh. A minor wound which would probably heal without leaving a scar, for which I was grateful. Most gladiators were proud of their wounds, displaying their scars as a legionary showed his medallions, but I was not one of them. Scars I had, no fighter could escape them, but the one on my left cheek, the others on side and shoulder, the cicatrices on my thighs, were enough.
As Heraculis reached for gum to plug the gash I said, ‘Leave it. It will heal faster left exposed.’
‘As you wish, master.’ His shrug was expressive. ‘But don’t blame me if it festers.’
‘It won’t.’
‘I shall burn incense to the gods of healing to make sure of that, master. Another sacrifice to add to the others I have made on your behalf.’ Slyly he added, ‘It hasn’t been easy. Even a few sesterces is a large sum to a poor slave.’
‘You can afford it.’
‘But how, master?’ His hands spread in a gesture born in the east. ‘Am I a freedman to be paid a wage? Where would I get money to call my own?’
‘From me,’ I said bluntly. ‘From the extra you add to the bills, and from the bribes you take from those asking questions as to my prospect of victory. Do you take me for an idiot?’
‘Master, you are wisdom personified! How could any mortal man hope to delude you? Perhaps a few coins have come my way from those interested in your progress, but they have been well spent, master. And all I have is yours.’
The matter wasn’t worth pursuing. All slaves cheated as a matter of course, and Heraculis was an expert at the art. Now, as he fastened my sandals, he said, ‘The baths, master?’
‘The baths.’
Always after a fight I liked to wash, to remove the dirt and grime and to ease the tension of nerve and muscle. The sponging had helped, but hadn’t been enough, and the amphitheatre, poorly equipped, offered nothing better than a tub of sun-warmed water, oil, and pumice. And, if Aricia had nothing else to commend it, the baths were superb.
They were of stone faced with marble, the gift of a rich merchant who had dedicated them to the god Augustus almost a century earlier. The attendants were mostly Greeks, young slaves deft and amiable. The unctores were skilled in their trade, supple fingers massaging aches from bone and sinew.
Heraculis had accompanied me as was his duty. Now he scowled at the attendants as he draped my discarded clothing over his arm.
‘Greeks,’ he muttered. ‘Have a care, master, such will sap your strength given half a chance.’
‘So?’
‘You’re prime bait for what they offer—but if you want to indulge, why waste your time on such as these? There are three men I could name who would pay well for your company. Two knights and—’
‘Watch your tongue, Heraculis!’
‘—a senator,’ he continued blandly. ‘Once, when the tines almost speared you, I saw one wince. Of them all, he would be the most generous.’
‘As I will be,’ I snapped, ‘with a whip unless you learn to mind your manners.’
‘Master, I apologise.’ His bow was a mockery. ‘Beat my old bones if it pleases you—but will my blood wash away the truth? A fighter like yourself, as handsome as Apollo and with a body to match: are men stone that they do not appreciate what they see? One night with the senator and you could gain as much as you won in the arena today.’
With a fat commission for himself, no doubt. I stared at him where he stood, then broke into a smile. The man was incorrigible, and it was proof of his cunning that he had managed to live so long. Old, without physical strength, he had used his brains and shrewdness to survive. A trait I could appreciate.
‘You’d sell me like a hunk of meat, Heraculis. You should have been a pander.’
‘Once, in Syria, master, I was. There I learned how to gain from the vices of men. Of women too,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘But the gods did not see fit to give me natural advantages and, well, luck was against me.’
Bad fortune in the shape of the legions, the uprising they quelled, his being taken among the captives sold as slaves. A thing we had in common.
‘Master?’
‘No.’ Greek love had never appealed to me. ‘I’ll be at least an hour. Go to the house of Senontius Papirus and collect our things. Find a lodging in some tavern.’
‘We are leaving, master?’
‘The house, yes.’ I’d already made my farewells and sensed that, perhaps, I’d stayed too long. Too long in the sense that I had begun to feel a stranger, and the wedding had firmed my decision. Delia, understanding, had been gentle. Sentonius, gruff, had agreed that it was time for me to move on. And he had dropped a hint which had confirmed a growing suspicion.
‘Be careful, Atilus,’ he’d said. ‘Some lanistae aren’t to be wholly trusted, but I don’t have to tell you that. I’ve nothing against Arrius Clemens, but, well, maybe you’ve been with him too long.’
A warning which I intended to take.
Naked, my body coated with scented olive oil, I went into the caladarium where Arrius sat relaxing in the heat. The lanista was a big, bulky man now running to fat, his body seamed with ancient scars. Once a gladiator, he had almost died from a wound which had forced him to limp for the rest of his life. Unable to fight, he had gathered a troupe of gladiators and now moved around the provinces with his familia. I had joined him almost a year ago.
‘Atilus!’ He gestured at me through a cloud of steam. ‘Sit beside me and take some of the ache from your bones. I know how it is.’
I sat beside him, breathing deeply, letting the heated vapour