Nick Brown
The Imperial Banner
Colonia Pietas Julia, April, AD 271
Indavara was ready when they came for him. He had just finished the last of his exercises and his muscles felt warm, his mind sharp. He had to be prepared; there wouldn’t be much time once they took him up.
A bolt snapped and the door opened towards him, revealing Capito’s full girth. A ridiculous black wig sat atop his large, oval head. Behind him, the latest whore — a plump beauty — looked on curiously, fingering a necklace. Capito winked at Indavara and waited for the guards to enter. Ducking their heads and lowering their knotted wooden clubs, the men took up position either side of the door. The older of the two, Bonosus, was Capito’s chief guard and brother-in-law. Not for the first time, Indavara noticed the blotches of dried blood that stained the top of his club. Capito had to turn sideways to move inside the cell.
‘Ready, my boy?’
Indavara could smell his perfume. He said nothing.
‘Didn’t I tell you I’d be true to my word? “Twenty and out,” I said. And you alone have made it this far. I’m proud of you. Do you believe that?’ Knowing there would be no reply, Capito continued: ‘I shall miss these little chats, one-sided though they’ve been. You know — whatever happens today — we shall probably never see each other again.’
Indavara stared blankly at him.
‘I imagine you’d like to kill me,’ added Capito, before glancing speculatively at Bonosus.
‘Him too, I’m sure.’
Indavara was careful to show no reaction whatsoever.
‘Those eyes of yours. Cold fury. Mars himself made flesh.’ Theatrically, Capito put a hand to his ear. ‘Do you hear them, Indavara? They await you. They have come in their thousands. I have something very special for you this time. Very special indeed. Come!’
Indavara snatched a final look at the celclass="underline" his home for the last six years. Though he hated the place, he knew now he would miss it. Next to the thin straw mattress were the few items he could truly call his own: a wooden mug, a spoon and a bowl; a spare tunic and two blankets. All that was missing was the tiny figurine of the goddess Fortuna a woman had thrown to him after his tenth fight. It was now tucked inside his tunic, where he’d kept it for every fight since. He believed it had brought him luck.
Bonosus, Capito and the girl disappeared up a dank stone staircase. Two more guards joined the other behind Indavara as he strode through the cell-block. He paid little attention to the shouting and singing from above, but was grateful for the encouraging comments from his fellow fighters, all of whom stood by their doors, faces pressed to the bars.
Indavara nodded to each man but he was more interested in seeing who else had been taken up. Capito had purchased four fighters from the northern provinces earlier that month and Indavara’s stomach turned over as he realised all were present except Auctus, a big brute who fought with the classic combination of trident and net. Auctus’s reputation had preceded his arrival in Pietas Julia by several days; it was said he had won more than thirty contests. Indavara was at least grateful for the one mercy it seemed Capito had granted him: he wouldn’t have to fight a man he knew.
One guard moved ahead of him and up the second staircase at the end of the cell-block. As he ascended, Indavara recalled all he’d gleaned from his fellow fighters about Auctus — the five tips he’d memorised.
Patient. Quick off both feet. Uses the net mainly to distract. Never throws it. Goes for the head with the trident.
The four men stepped up into a wide, square tunnel, just five yards behind the southern gate. Two grim-faced legionaries stood there, each armed with a spear.
Indavara flexed his arms and slapped his hands against his chest. Between the legionaries he saw a distinctive figure standing in the spring sunshine. Centurion Maesa was one of a handful of men with sufficient bearing and authority to address the crowd. Recently, he had taken to acting as host and umpire. His booming, sonorous tones were unmistakably martial.
‘Silence!’
Maesa spun on his toes to face the other side of the arena.
‘Silence there!’
Capito settled into a cushion, one hand on the girl’s ample waist. His seat was just above the podium, where assorted luminaries surrounded the governor and his staff.
The arena at Pietas Julia had begun life as a timber construction three centuries earlier but now the impressive dimensions of its limestone walls made it one of the largest amphitheatres outside Rome. Even at four hundred by three hundred feet, however, it was just half the size of the Colosseum. The arena was accessed by four main gates and eleven access tunnels and could hold over twenty thousand spectators.
Capito surveyed the crowd with a satisfied smirk. There was barely an empty seat and those around him were an eclectic mix: young bucks still hung over from pre-fight parties, city bureaucrats relaxing after a long morning’s work, affluent merchants with family, friends and assorted hangers-on. Then there were the lower classes, those with tickets issued free of charge; enjoying rare hours of leisure courtesy of the governor.
Pushing away the cup of wine offered to him by the girl, Capito wondered when the city authorities would finally reach an agreement with the sailors who were supposed to operate the shading system for the arena roof. They were currently on strike. He caught the eye of a nearby slave wafting a palm branch.
‘Put your back into it!’
Wiping sweat from his eyebrows, Capito elected to take the drink after all.
A tall, balding man in an immaculate toga two rows down turned round and waved. He seemed utterly unaffected by the heat.
‘What’ll it be then? Wolves, I expect — a pack perhaps?’
Capito shrugged. He had let slip certain titbits designed to build yet more anticipation for the afternoon’s contest.
‘No, it’s a big cat,’ said another man. ‘Someone saw it being unloaded.’
Capito held up his hands. ‘All will be revealed!’
His jovial expression slipped quickly. Arranging for the purchase and delivery of the beast had cost him a small fortune. It had been captured just a week earlier, fed nothing, offered only a cell-full of clothes from executed prisoners to accustom it to the scent of human blood.
Capito suddenly felt hot breath on his neck.
‘All arranged as instructed.’
He turned and smiled again, allowing any watching eyes to believe he was glad to see the squat figure now sitting behind him.
‘I told you to stay away today,’ he hissed, trying to ignore the chunk of meat lodged in the man’s beard.
‘Just checking that all promises will be kept. I cannot afford for this to go wrong.’
Capito managed to maintain the grin, conscious of the sea of faces behind him. Ideally, he would have used someone more discreet but the slave-trader was in desperate financial straits and had been more than happy to play his part. Their scheme was simple. A colossal amount had been staked by the people of Pietas Julia on Indavara surviving and winning his freedom (‘sentimentalists’ Capito called them) and their bets had kept the odds favourable. Using five proxies, he and the trader had bet a huge sum on Indavara’s death. If successful, they would each net over ten thousand denarii.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ Capito replied. ‘All good things come to an end. And this particular good thing is about to meet his.’
‘He had better, fat man. He had better.’
Capito hadn’t heard such venom in the slave-trader’s voice before, nor had he previously taken much notice of the curved dagger he carried at his belt. Conjuring a final grin, he turned back towards the arena.
Maesa had just finished the formalities: greeting the honoured guests and thanking various gods for blessing the city and its inhabitants. The centurion was clad in full officer’s regalia: white tunic lined with gold braid, crested helmet and scarlet cloak.