that pretty body of yours.’
Had he a plan of his own? If so, what?
I had dropped and cut at his legs, tempting him with a wide-flung shield. He had lunged—was that it?
His net had caught my shield and he had not run as he should have done. A mistake or a calculated feint? I had no time to judge, instinct would decide.
I advanced, watching distance, slowing as I saw the twitch of his hand. Once...twice...the net rose like a web, spreading as it fell, the weights at the edges holding it wide and dragging it down.
A good throw, but I was ready and waiting. Crouching I lifted my shield and ducked under the near edge, felt the weights rap on my helmet and back as, like lightning, the net closed and the trident came darting at my throat
Already I was moving.
Sand gritted beneath my sandals as I lunged forward following the pull of the net. Tines rasped on the metal protecting my right shoulder and glanced from it as I rose to my full height, a swing of my sword knocking it aside. Leacus was fast. I saw his eyes widen with sudden fear and caught the blur of his net hand as he snatched at the dagger in his belt. Caught in the net, my shield was useless. My sword was too far to one side; before I could bring it to bear, he would have the dagger in action, steel driving between my ribs, into my unprotected stomach. Only one thing was left for me to do.
Lifting my left shin, I slammed it upwards between his thighs.
Shin, not foot, we were too close for that. The greave was a hammer catching him in the crotch and crushing his testicles. Before me his face changed, became suffused with agony as he staggered backwards, doubled, retching.
A blow from the flat of my sword sent him to sprawl helpless on the sand.
‘Atilus!’ The crowd rose, shouting. ‘Atilus!’
The moment of victory, always sweet. The gamble won, and I had lived and would fight again. Kicking aside the trident and dagger, I rested my foot on the neck of the fallen man. An elementary precaution; though hurt, it was still possible for him to roll clear, snatch up a weapon and reverse the victory. If he tried, I would kill him, a messy end which would not please the crowd, which liked to deliver the final verdict. Beneath my sandal Leacus groaned as, sweating, he extended one arm and raised his forefinger in a plea for mercy.
He deserved it. He had fought well and had done his best, but the decision was not up to me. Lifting the gladius I looked to where the editor of the games sat in his ornate chair on the podium.
Quinctius Pullvillius was a duumvir of Aricia, a sleekly plump man, part of whose duties was to provide gladiatorial displays, and who intended to get full value from this particular munera. And yet it had fallen short of the expectations of the crowd. The trinqui had been few; only a handful of sacrificial victims were thrown to the beasts, and the bestiarii had not been of the best. Leacus and I had been the prime entertainment but, according to the crowd, he had put up a bad show.
‘Lugula!’ They screamed. ‘Kill!’
The editor had the final say. If the crowd had demanded mercy by a display of fluttering handkerchiefs and uplifted thumbs, he would have gone against their wishes to his later, political cost. Now, to grant mercy would earn the same reward. For a moment he hesitated, then, lifting his arm, he let it fall to extend before him, the thumb downturned in the signal for death.
Leacus saw it. Gasping he said, ‘Atilus—’
He died as my sword plunged into his heart.
CHAPTER THREE
Heraculis came running to meet me as I walked through the Gate of Life. The wine he carried was welcome and I drank it after throwing him my helmet. On the way to the preparation room he babbled, ‘A good fight, master, but twice I thought the gods had summoned you for their own. Yet my prayers were answered and you survived.’
I made no answer, sitting on a bench as he removed the greave. The man was a mongrel, with the traces of mixed parentage blended in his face and eyes. A small, wizened man who at times looked like an ancient monkey. His name was a joke, one he had adopted, I guessed, as a compensation for his diminutive size. A slave who had been offered for sale after taking one too many liberties with his master. I had bought him cheap and at times regretted it.
Now, as he swabbed the dust and sweat from my body with a sponge, I heard the sudden sharp intake of his breath.
‘A near thing, master.’ I felt a twinge of pain as his fingers pressed at a point to the side of my neck. ‘A cut,’ he explained. ‘Nothing serious, but had it been an inch to one side, you and not Leacus would have been dragged from the sand.’
A near miss: one of the barbs glancing from my armoured shoulder had torn the flesh. A minor wound which would probably heal without leaving a scar, for which I was grateful. Most gladiators were proud of their wounds, displaying their scars as a legionary showed his medallions, but I was not one of them. Scars I had, no fighter could escape them, but the one on my left cheek, the others on side and shoulder, the cicatrices on my thighs, were enough.
As Heraculis reached for gum to plug the gash I said, ‘Leave it. It will heal faster left exposed.’
‘As you wish, master.’ His shrug was expressive. ‘But don’t blame me if it festers.’
‘It won’t.’
‘I shall burn incense to the gods of healing to make sure of that, master. Another sacrifice to add to the others I have made on your behalf.’ Slyly he added, ‘It hasn’t been easy. Even a few sesterces is a large sum to a poor slave.’
‘You can afford it.’
‘But how, master?’ His hands spread in a gesture born in the east. ‘Am I a freedman to be paid a wage? Where would I get money to call my own?’
‘From me,’ I said bluntly. ‘From the extra you add to the bills, and from the bribes you take from those asking questions as to my prospect of victory. Do you take me for an idiot?’
‘Master, you are wisdom personified! How could any mortal man hope to delude you? Perhaps a few coins have come my way from those interested in your progress, but they have been well spent, master. And all I have is yours.’
The matter wasn’t worth pursuing. All slaves cheated as a matter of course, and Heraculis was an expert at the art. Now, as he fastened my sandals, he said, ‘The baths, master?’
‘The baths.’
Always after a fight I liked to wash, to remove the dirt and grime and to ease the tension of nerve and muscle. The sponging had helped, but hadn’t been enough, and the amphitheatre, poorly equipped, offered nothing better than a tub of sun-warmed water, oil, and pumice. And, if Aricia had nothing else to commend it, the baths were superb.
They were of stone faced with marble, the gift of a rich merchant who had dedicated them to the god Augustus almost a century earlier. The attendants were mostly Greeks, young slaves deft and amiable. The unctores were skilled in their trade, supple fingers massaging aches from bone and sinew.
Heraculis had accompanied me as was his duty. Now he scowled at the attendants as he draped my discarded clothing over his arm.
‘Greeks,’ he muttered.
