‘No!’
A single voice in the otherwise silent crowd denied what was so clearly happening before them. The veteran gladiator threw his head back in a scream of agony that was clearly audible despite the helmet’s face mask, the muscles of his chest tensing like whips as the agony of the cold metal’s punching intrusion through the bones of his foot hit him. After a moment’s disbelieving pause, the crowd found their voices, screaming a single word again and again.
‘Habet! Habet! Habet!’
‘Yes, he’s had it alright.’ Marcus looked across at Velox as the champion spat out his disgust at the crowd’s exultant reaction. ‘It didn’t take you lot long to decide which side you’d rather be on, did it?’
Stepping back from the reeling chaser, the retarius cast his net at the stricken veteran with such confidence that he barely even looked at his target. Released by a practised twist of his hand, that opened the net out from a tight ball into a six-foot-wide spinning snare, it wrapped around the older man to seal his doom. Crippled and ensnared, Glaucus toppled over with the inevitability of a falling tree, not even bothering to struggle against the net’s bonds.
‘Poor bastard.’
Velox looked over at Horatius, his eyes hard with anger.
‘Poor betrayed bastard, you mean. They’re both from the same school, and yet he clearly had no idea what was about to hit him. That net man is the cream, and the ludus have clearly put him in without giving Glaucus any warning. Either it was a bet set up to let them place some very hefty money on a result that only they could predict, or he’s upset someone important and rich enough to pressure the school into setting the whole thing up. I don’t suppose his fee was ever a problem, whatever was at the root of the matter, given that a few well-placed wagers will have more than paid that back …’
He fell silent as the referee walked out to look down at Glaucus, who had wearily raised a finger in surrender. The official paused for a moment, as if he were unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes, then turned to look up at the imperial box.
‘He’s already dead. There’s no way that Commodus will let him live after that poor a display, and even if he were minded to show some respect to the man’s long and distinguished record, this crowd are baying for blood.’ The champion fighter shook his head sadly. ‘And who can blame them? Many of them probably put more than they could afford to lose on Glaucus, given what a safe bet he’s been for so long, and now the professional gamblers are walking away smiling while the average man is already down on the day. See, Charun knows …’
The arena slave dressed as the spirit guide of the underworld, whose task it was to finish off dying gladiators with a heavy double-headed hammer, was walking slowly forward as Commodus rose to his feet and looked about the arena for a moment. He was clearly taking stock of the number of cries of ‘Mitte’ he was hearing, entreaties for the defeated man to be spared death. Velox smiled sadly.
‘Listen. I told you so.’
The number of people shouting for the killing stroke echoed around the arena in a ceaseless, vindictive chorus of ‘Igula! Igula! Igula!’, utterly overwhelming those few sentimentalists who had been swayed by Glaucus’s glorious record. The emperor paused for a moment to bask in the waves of sound and the power that they gave him, making a show of considering the fallen secutor’s fate. His hand rose, the thumb pointing upwards for a second before he jerked it towards his own throat, and the crowd’s roar descended into a wordless, frenzied cacophony of screams as the retarius stepped forward, taking a sword from an arena slave and raising it in readiness for the delivery of the killing stoke.
Snared in the net’s deadly embrace and unable to stand, his opponent managed to lever himself up onto his knees, fiddling with the fastenings of his helmet and pulling away the face mask to stare up at his opponent with unveiled hatred. His words were inaudible over the crowd’s continuous roar, but the effect was immediate, as the referee waved the brazier minders forward to free the condemned fighter from the net’s folds. Unable to put his weight on the shattered and torn remnant of his foot, he reached forward and took a firm grip of the retarius’s thigh, staring up at the imperial box for a long moment before releasing his hold and opening his arms wide, his lips moving again as he spat whatever defiance he had left at the man who would be his killer.
The retarius struck with the same mercurial speed that he had used to defeat his opponent, sinking the sword’s blade deep into Glaucus’s throat, and the dying veteran sank to the sand in a fresh gout of blood. Bowing to the referee, and then to the emperor, who was still graciously applauding his victory, the retarius dropped the sword and turned away without a second glance at Glaucus’s corpse, walking away towards the Gate of Life with the hysterical shouts and screams of the crowd still echoing around the arena.
‘And a new hero is born.’ Velox shook his head in disgust. ‘But whoever came up with the idea of sacrificing a man to make it happen, that man should be praying that I never find out his name. Come on, I’ll take you to the armourers. After that disgusting charade, we’d probably be best making sure that they haven’t been instructed to kit you three out as dancing girls.’
‘I presume that rather hapless chaser had done something to offend, or is that just the way the Great School does business these days?’
While the arena slaves scattered fresh white sand over the blood spilled by Glaucus, and the next pair of fighters entered to yet more thunderous applause, Cleander had strolled across the imperial box to direct an apparently casual question at the Ludus Magnus’s procurator. Much as the man clearly wanted to take umbrage, the chamberlain’s reputation for making and breaking both careers and men went before him.
‘In truth, Aurelius Cleander, the man’s demands for money had become rather tiresome. He knew only too well that he was expected to be on the bill, and in consequence he was asking for a hundred thousand just to put his feet on the sand.’
The chamberlain nodded.
‘I’m familiar with the mind set. Men decide that they are indispensable, and in doing so make it essential that they are dispensed with.’
The procurator dipped his head to acknowledge the point.
‘Not only that, but he was clearly past it. My lanista was having to hand-pick his opponents, and it was only a matter of time before he became a laughing stock when people realised that we were putting no-hopers in front of him.’
Cleander inclined his head in recognition of the point.
‘Which would never have stood. Especially given that our beloved Caesar is such an attentive follower of the games. And besides …’ He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. ‘I presume that you managed to find a way to turn the whole sorry situation to some small advantage?’
The procurator had the good grace to colour slightly.
‘I … made sure that the ludus wouldn’t be financially disadvantaged in the matter, as is my responsibility.’
Cleander’s smile hardened.
‘I’m sure you did. After all, most of the men here have probably lost a few sestertii on the match, and I doubt the professional gamblers will have scooped all of that rather splendid sum. Shall we say ten per cent? Not from the Great School’s profit of course, that would be unfair to the throne, just from whatever small wager you might have placed yourself?’