‘Now the main event of the day. For six years, this man has fought time and again for his life within these walls. He has shown great courage, skill and ingenuity. He has seen off countless foes: both man and beast. And on this day, he will either die or claim his freedom. Who can doubt that this man — slave though he is — exemplifies the Roman virtues of strength, intelligence and triumph over adversity. I am certain that if he succeeds, he will enjoy — fully — the benefits of victory.’
Maesa gestured to a group of women next to the podium, provoking shrill shrieks and a low rumble of laughter from the men. Women were traditionally banished to the top tiers but the governor’s predecessors had enjoyed observing their interactions with the fighters. Local custom now dictated that a hundred or so of the most voluble were admitted to a small, low-walled enclave.
‘Today, our warrior faces his destiny. Will he die like a dog in the dirt, or leave this arena victorious, head held high, a free man?’
Now the noise really began to build. Some applauded or chanted, others beat home-made drums or took off their sandals and slapped them against the stone flooring.
Once the southern gate was unlocked, the legionaries and the trio of guards moved aside. Vitruvius was one of Capito’s more reasonable and independent employees — a lanky young lad with a mop of brown hair. He nodded and said something, but Indavara couldn’t hear it above the noise.
One of the older guards obviously took exception to what Vitruvius had said and swatted him across the back of the head. The other guard cursed at him too but when they looked away the young man mouthed the words again, and this time Indavara understood.
Good luck.
‘Victor of nineteen contests, conqueror of thirty-six men. Governor Actius Lucius Vanna and our esteemed Organiser of Games, Gaius Salvius Capito bring you. . Indavara!’
Shrill trumpets rang around the arena; twenty thousand people watched the compact, stocky figure amble into the sunlight. Regular observers had noted the developments in his physique since his first appearance as a teenager. The broad shoulders and thick neck had always suggested a propensity for bulk and this had been supplemented by endless hours of training and meals of barley gruel that added a protective fatty layer. Yet even those who had seen Indavara fight only once knew that the impression of immobility was purely that. Though he would never make a great runner, his raw strength and surprising agility were matched with a rare quickness of thought that invariably gave him an advantage even over a lighter, defter foe. Watchers were also always struck by the young man’s near-supernatural air of stillness and composure. Whatever his occupation, from the most perfunctory walk to the most desperate struggle, he projected an unyielding, elemental solidity.
Scarcely an inch of his dark skin had survived unscathed. Aside from the brand upon his shoulder that identified him as Capito’s property, his hands, wrists and forearms were a mass of scars, welts and bruises in differing states of repair.
At various times, he had fractured both wrists and both ankles. His arm had also been broken close to the shoulder, his leg just below the knee; but thanks to Capito’s surgeon he had suffered no long-term effects from either. He had lost count of the broken ribs, knowing only that in cold winter air or when he breathed hard, he felt shards of pain in his chest. His only permanent disability had been sustained in his third fight: an opportunistic slash from a long cavalry sword that had taken off half his left ear. He recalled looking first at the slick stream of blood running down his chest, then the mangled piece of flesh lying close to his foot. His opponent had also been badly wounded and the governor had determined the contest a draw. Both men lived to fight another day.
Since then Indavara had allowed his thick, black hair to grow out and now a low fringe hung just above his wide, pale green eyes. To Capito, and others who knew men of his kind, their washed-out, lifeless quality was familiar. Indavara had seen them recently too, in a metal mirror used by the surgeon. He could hardly believe they were his.
He came to a stop ten yards beyond the gate and bowed in four directions. He had no weapon yet so he simply held a clenched fist high.
Groups of youths yelled and whooped and leapt in the air, punching each other or matching the clenched fist. Others carried flags with supportive slogans or surprisingly well-rendered likenesses. Women screamed at him and blew kisses.
Capito watched the aristocrats gleefully rubbing their hands together and exchanging excited smiles. The depth of support for Indavara never ceased to surprise him, because he had never come across a fighter less disposed to play to the crowd. Initially, his efficient, direct style had not endeared him to the mob. Not for him the ostentatious flourishes that many fighters employed to win the favour of the watching masses. He had been booed for his first seven or eight fights and a certain faction still maintained a stubborn dislike of his brisk, functional method.
But as time had passed, and Indavara survived battle after battle, outwitting and outfighting whatever was thrown at him, he had slowly won over the crowd. His status had been secured through dogged determination and unstinting resilience.
Capito admitted to himself that he would miss days like this.
Indavara examined the scene in front of him. Two thick ropes had been stretched across the sand, dividing the arena in three. Just in front of him was a barrel. There was another in the second section and another in the third.
As he had demonstrated a certain gift for resourcefulness, Capito had decided that — ‘for the sake of entertainment’ — Indavara would not follow the traditional path of specialising in a specific combination of armour, equipment and weaponry. In fact, for the last eight contests, his allotted weapon hadn’t been revealed until he entered the arena. He imagined that inside each barrel he would find a different weapon for each stage of the contest.
In the middle of the first section was a square wooden structure fifteen yards long and ten wide. Mounted above it was a narrow, rickety bridge composed of rope and small timbers that could be accessed by steps at both ends. The ‘box’ was one of Capito’s favourites. Indavara was almost relieved to see it; he’d suspected the vicious old bastard might choose it and had managed to fit in several practice sessions.
The second section of the arena was completely empty. The third — closest to the podium — housed the hatch for the lifting platform. It was powered by a team of twelve slaves and could raise loads of up to a thousand pounds. For now, however, the third section was also empty, except for a small deer carcass by the wall which someone had neglected to remove after one of the hunts from the morning show.
Maesa raised his hand again and waited for silence, then gestured towards the eastern gate.
‘To our first opponents then. Two examples of the type of scum and villainy the city fathers wish to banish from our streets. These fiends were arrested just two days ago. One robbed a respected citizen, leaving him bleeding in the street; the other stole valuables from a temple.’
Maesa shook his head as the crowd vented their disdain.
‘Let us hope that our warrior can ensure justice is done.’
Encouraged by the short swords of the legionaries, the two criminals shuffled into the arena, drawing hisses and boos. Both men were struck by a volley of low-value coins, bottles and foodstuffs. Only a few sharp words from Maesa and the prompt action of some soldiers in the stands restored order. The criminals were escorted to the other side of the box, directly opposite Indavara. One man — the younger and taller of the two — was bearded and well-built. Given his appearance, Capito had chosen to characterise him as a barbarian, equipping him with a heavy double-bladed wood axe. He remained defiant, shaking his fist and cursing at the crowd. The other man already looked beaten. Bony and slight, he could barely raise his eyes from the ground. The iron spear he held in both hands was dragging in the dirt. Indavara named the criminals Axe and Spear.