The Song of the Gladiator Read Free Page A

the speed of his lighter-armed opponent, he had kept shuffling back so that when the net came stretching out he caught it on his rounded shield and tried to pull his opponent on to his pointed sword. The Retiarius quickly dropped his trident, drew the knife from his embroidered belt and cut himself free. Then he picked up the trident in both hands, retreating up against the podium wall. The Thracian followed, feet kicking up the golden sand. The net man was finished; he was now trapped. The crowd roared for the fight to be brought to an end but the Thracian remained cautious. The heat was intense. Neither man had drunk for hours, and the net man was bleeding profusely, losing his strength. The Retiarius panicked. He could feel himself weakening and lunged, aiming his weapon at the Thracian’s chest. The Thracian knocked it aside with such force the trident was sent spinning, then thrust his sword deep into the net man’s neck. The fight was over. The net man slumped to the sand, blood pumping from his wounds. This time the Thracian wanted to make sure. He stood over his opponent whilst the mob roared.
    ‘ Hoc habet! Hoc habet! ’ Let him have it!
    The Thracian knew the rules; he was a gladiator not a butcher. He watched the life-light fade from his opponent’s eyes, his body jerk in the final death throes, before lifting his sword and shield to receive the plaudits of the crowd. Elated, the Thracian did a lap of honour, every so often stopping to raise his weapons, revelling in the coins and flowers being showered upon him.
    The iron-barred gates to the tunnels beneath the podium were opened and a ghastly figure emerged wearing the terracotta mask of Lord Charon, the Ferryman of the Dead. He was escorted by another attendant dressed as Mercury, the Shepherd of Souls. While the Thracian received the acclamation of the mob, these two ghoulish figures approached the dead gladiator. Mercury carried a red-hot iron bar, with which he prodded the fallen man to ensure he was dead, whilst Charon struck the prostrate figure on the head with his mallet to proclaim ownership and confirm death. A group of stretcher-bearers hastened on, and while the victor surrendered his weapons to the Lanista, his manager, his dead opponent was dragged off. His body would be stripped, whatever blood was wiped off would be drained into containers and sold as a cure for epilepsy, and the rest of his mangled remains would either be tossed into some obscure grave or hacked up as food for the wild animals.
    In the imperial box Helena sat back in her throne chair. The crowd, its blood lust now satisfied, was being diverted to other things as they waited for the great game of the day: the contest between Spicerius, the most famous net man in Italy, and Murranus, the Secutor, the darling of the Roman mob. Both gladiators were skilled, with a string of victories to their names. Both had received the rudis , the wooden sword of freedom, and both hoped, by the time the period of these games had finished, to receive the Corona, the crown, as Victor Ludorum, champion of the games.
    In the amphitheatre the sand was being raked, turned over and dusted with sparkling grit. Attendants armed with buckets of water washed the blood stains from the marble-walled podium. In the various tiers above, the crowd moved like murmuring surf. Some hurried away to buy a drink or something to eat. Others, eager not to lose their place, shouted and bawled at the traders selling cheap wine and bitter ale, spiced sausages, honey cakes, smoked fish, sesame biscuits and even sugared figs coated in vine leaves. Musicians with trumpets tried to create music but no one really listened.
    Helena sipped at a goblet of chilled white wine and leaned over in her chair, eavesdropping on her son, who’d drunk so much he was now virtually shouting, sharing his business with all in the imperial box.
    ‘See how these Christians love each other, eh, Rufinus?’ Constantine joked. ‘They are at