of the gladiators lunged and recovered too fast for the other. The sword whipped back and into his side, causing a gout of blood to rush. The riposte was viciously fast and sliced through a major leg muscle. A leg buckled and as the man went down, his opponent hacked into his neck, over and over, until he was thumping at a corpse. He lay in the mixing blood, as it was sucked away by the dry sand and his chest heaved with the pain and exertion.
‘Who won?’ Gaius asked frantically. Without the shields it wasn’t clear, and a murmur went around the seats as the question was repeated over and over. Who had won?
‘I think the Greek is dead,’ the betting slave said.
His master thought it was the Roman, but until the victor rose and removed his helmet, no one could be sure.
‘What happens if they both die?’ Marcus asked.
‘All bets are off,’ replied the owner and financier of the betting slave. Presumably he had a lot of money riding on the outcome as well. Certainly he looked as tense as anyone there.
For maybe a minute, the surviving gladiator lay exhausted, his blood spilling. The crowd grew louder, calling on him to rise and take off the helmet. Slowly, in obvious pain, he grasped his sword and pushed himself up on it. Standing, he swayed slightly and reached down to take a handful of sand. He rubbed the sand into his wound, watching as it fell away in soft red clumps. His fingers too were bloody as he raised them to remove the helmet.
Alexandros the Greek stood and smiled, his face pale with loss of blood. The crowd threw abuse at the swaying figure. Coins glittered in the sun as they were thrown, not to reward, but to hurt. With curses, money was exchanged all around the amphitheatre and the gladiator was ignored as he sank to his knees again and had to be helped out by slaves.
Tubruk watched him go, his face unreadable.
‘Is he a man to see about training?’ Julius asked, ebullient as his winnings were counted into a pouch.
‘No – he won’t last out the week, I should think. Anyway, there was little schooling in his technique, just good speed and reflexes.’
‘For a Greek,’ said Marcus, trying to join in.
‘Yes, good reflexes for a Greek,’ Tubruk replied, his mind far away.
While the sand was being raked clean, the crowd continued with their business, although Gaius and Marcus could see one or two spectators re-enacting the gladiators’ blows with shouts and mock cries of pain. As they waited, the boys saw Julius tap Tubruk on his arm, bringing to his attention a pair of men approaching through the rows. Both seemed slightly out of place at the circus, with their togas of rough wool and their skins unadorned by metal jewellery.
Julius stood with Tubruk and the boys copied them. Gaius’ father put out his hand and greeted the first to reach them, who bowed his head slightly on contact.
‘Greetings, my friends. Please take a seat. This is my son and another boy in my care. I’m sure they can spend a few minutes buying food?’
Tubruk handed a coin to both of them and the message was clear. Reluctantly, they moved off between the rows and joined a queue at a food stall. They watched as the four men bent their heads close and talked, their voices lost in the crowd.
After a few minutes, as Marcus was buying oranges, Gaius saw the two newcomers thank his father and take his hand again. Then each moved over to Tubruk, who put coins in their hands as they left.
Marcus had bought an orange for each of them and when they’d returned to their seats he handed them out.
‘Who were those men, Father?’ Gaius asked, intrigued.
‘Clients of mine. I have a few bound to me in the city,’ Julius replied, skinning his orange neatly.
‘But what do they do? I have never seen them before.’
Julius turned to his son, registering the interest. He smiled.
‘They are useful men. They vote for candidates I support, or guard me in dangerous areas. They carry messages for me, or … a thousand other small things. In return, they get six denarii a day, each man.’
Marcus whistled. ‘That must add up to a fortune.’
Julius transferred his attention to Marcus, who dropped his gaze and fiddled with the skin of his orange.
‘Money well spent. In this city, it is good to have men I can call on quickly, for any sudden task. Rich members of the Senate may have hundreds of clients. It is part of our system.’
‘Can you trust these clients of yours?’ Gaius broke in.
Julius grunted. ‘Not with anything worth more than six denarii a day.’
Renius entered without announcement. One moment, the crowd were chatting amongst themselves with the dirty sand ring empty, and the next a small door opened and a man walked out of it. At first, he wasn’t noticed, then people pointed and began to stand.
‘Why are they cheering so loudly?’ Marcus asked, squinting at the lone figure standing in the burning sun.
‘Because he has come back one more time. Now you will be able to say you saw Renius fight when you have children of your own,’ Tubruk replied, smiling.
Everyone around them seemed lit up by the spectacle. A chant began and swelled: ‘Ren-i-us … Ren-i-us.’ The noise drowned out all the shuffling of feet and rustling clothing. The only sound in the world was his name.
He raised his sword in salute. Even from a distance, it was clear that age had not yet taken a good twisting grip on him.
‘Looks good for sixty. Belly’s not flat, though. Look at that wide belt,’ Tubruk muttered almost to himself. ‘You’ve let yourself go a little, you silly old fool.’
As the old man received the plaudits of the crowd, a single file of fighting slaves entered the sandy ring. Each wore a cloth around his loins that allowed free movement and carried a short gladius. No shields or armour could be seen. The Roman crowd fell quiet as the men formed a diamond with Renius at the centre. There was a moment of stillness and then the animal enclosure opened.
Even before the cage was dragged out onto the sand, the short, hacking roars could be heard. The crowd whispered in anticipation. There were three lions pacing the cage as it was dragged out by sweating slaves. Through the bars they were obscene shapes; huge humped shoulders, head and jaws tapering back to hindquarters almost as an afterthought. They were created to crush out life with massive jaws. They swiped with their paws in unfocused rage as the cage was jarred and finally came to rest.
Slaves lifted hammers aloft to knock out the wooden pegs that held the front section of the cage. The crowd licked dry lips. The hammers fell, and the iron lattice dropped onto the sand, an echo clearly heard in the silence. One by one, the great cats moved out of the cage, revealing a speed and sureness of step that was frightening.
The largest roared defiance at the group of men that faced it across the sand. When they made no move, it began to pace up and down outside the cage, watching them all the while. Its companions roared and circled and it settled back onto its haunches.
Without a signal, without a warning, it ran at the men, who shrank back visibly. This was death coming for them.
Renius could be heard barking out commands. The front of the diamond, three brave men, met the charge, swords ready. At the last moment, the lion took off in a rushing leap and smashed two of the slaves from their feet, striking with a paw on each chest. Neither moved, as their chests were shards and daggers of bone. The third man swung and hit the heavy mane, doing little damage. The jaws closed on his arm in a snap like the strike of a snake. He screamed and carried on screaming as he staggered away, one wrist holding the pumping red remains of the other. A sword scraped along the lion’s ribs and another cut a hamstring so that the rear quarters went suddenly limp. This served only to enrage the beast and it snapped at itself in red confusion. Renius growled a command and the others stepped back to allow