Caligula

animals, and the man was pleased to have his help.

When he reported for duty the following morning he was surprised to find many of the cages filled with a ragged assortment of half-starved and terrified prisoners.

'They are the noxii, condemned criminals. The Emperor has decreed that they must be executed in the arena so that their deaths can be witnessed by the populace,' the animal handler explained. 'They are mostly low-bred scum, but I've heard that some of them are knights who plotted against the Emperor. He is coming here to see them die.'

The spectacle would not start for some time, and Rufus sought out Cupido before he began his preparations. The fair-haired young gladiator was sitting with other members of his school, but when he saw Rufus he rose and the pair walked together to the main entrance, where they watched the stands fill.

'Look at them,' Cupido said, his voice thick with scorn. 'They are like sheep. They won't move all day, even to get up for a piss, in case someone steals their precious seat or they miss one bit of bloodletting.'

Rufus studied his friend as they stood in the shade of the doorway. The light streaming from the arena created shadows and hollows in his handsome face that made him seem much older than his years. A dark tinge round his eyes hinted at nights spent staring into the darkness waiting for sleep that never came.

'Fronto tells me you are more famous than ever,' he said lightly, trying to break the mood. 'But he says you are so fat on good living they will soon have to wheel you in on a cart.'

Cupido looked at Rufus and raised one blond eyebrow. 'And he tells me that you are even more famous than I am — but only in those places where they bathe but twice a year and have never been privileged to see a proper performance.'

Rufus laughed. 'Yes, Fronto is as big a liar as he always was.'

Rufus told the gladiator of his travels and the places he had seen, the great triumphs in small arenas and the way the troupe had been honed into a spectacle worthy of Rome's finest amphitheatres.

'But now it appears we are not wanted. The Emperor, it seems, is interested in blood, but not in entertainment.'

'Did Fronto say that?'

'Yes. He wanted us to stay in Pompeii. He fears the trained beasts will be forced to fight to the death again.'

'I think he is wrong. It is true there will never be enough blood spilled to satisfy the Emperor, but Caligula devours art and spectacle of every form. He surrounds himself with actors and singers, as well as the gladiators who please him, and he spends as much time at the theatre as he does at the arena. To give a performance in front of him would be a risk, but the Emperor's favour can be a very valuable commodity.'

'And you, Cupido, have you won the Emperor's favour?'

Cupido shrugged. 'He can find someone else to kill the greybeards and the boys barely ready for the toga. There are plenty of people willing to do it for him.'

'Fronto says you are a fool to play games with this Emperor.'

'What does a fat swindler who stinks like a buffalo know of the arena?' Cupido replied evenly. 'I, and every one of my kind, face death each time we go through these doors. Those of us who survive do so on our own merit. Does he think anyone but the gods can make the arena a more dangerous place than it is now?'

'Perhaps you are right and he is wrong, Cupido,' Rufus admitted. 'But have you not always told me the best way to survive is to keep risk to a minimum wherever you can control that risk? Pleasing the Emperor is within your power, so at least consider it.'

The gladiator shook his head. 'Sometimes a man's pride, even a slave's pride, must decide between what he should do and what he must do. In the past, I had to fight to survive, because the men I faced were all capable of killing me. Since the passing of Tiberius I have become less a fighter and more an executioner. When I enter the arena today I will have a choice, and I will only make that choice when I see my opponents. I will live with that decision and so must the Emperor.'

As he checked the ramps and gateways later, Rufus became aware of movement in the pens holding the captive criminals. Guards separated five or six prisoners at a time and sent them in batches towards the arena floor. The shackled men prayed or pleaded for mercy. Rufus watched an overseer lash out with a spiked club, drawing a howl of agony from his wounded charge. Many of the prisoners were already injured, with blood flowing from open wounds. As the first batch of men were marched away, the order came to release the lions.

The screams were unbearable, even deep in the bowels of the arena.

Rufus had seen and heard men die, but the sound that reached him now was like nothing that had ever emerged from a human throat. It was not just the volume, which spoke of unbearable pain and unimaginable horror, but the duration of that agony which clutched like an iron fist at his heart. It seemed impossible that anyone could maintain such a sound for so long.

An hour later, his senses stunned, the piercing shrieks of men dying in unspeakable agony still rang in his ears. The selection from the cages continued, but now there was no more weeping. No more pleading. These were men without hope. They knew what awaited them, but they made no move to escape. It was as if their numbed minds could not come to terms with what lay ahead and had shut them off from the world.

But there was no sanctuary for Rufus. His mind would not shut out the screams and he truly believed he would go mad if he did not get out of the darkness. He could take no more of it. He stumbled up the stairs and the passageways to the doorway where he had earlier stood with Cupido. The sight that met his eyes was one he would never forget.

The arena resembled an abattoir.

A dozen lions, leopards and cheetah feasted on the carcasses of their prey, but Rufus could see that they were close to being sated by their human banquet. Their movements were lethargic and they chewed at the flesh and bones mechanically, as if more by habit than desire.

He turned away while the last of the terrified prisoners were led towards their fate, but his eyes were drawn to the purple-clad figure lounging on a throne surrounded by his guards in the stands. Even from the opposite side of the arena Rufus recognized that Caligula was an imposing figure, taller by half a head than anyone in the throng surrounding him. He also sensed something that astonished him: this man, who had watched a hundred condemned captives being torn apart by wild animals at his whim, was bored. There was no mistaking it. The young Emperor yawned. He looked at his manicured fingers. He made small talk to the senator seated to his left. Even when the screams resumed he barely glanced up to see what was happening.

But the entertainment had the opposite effect on the crowds surrounding him. They gasped as bones cracked. Howled in delight as flesh tore. Laughed as screams reached a greater pitch than before. In Tiberius's time these enthusiasts had seen dozens die in the arena, in single combat, or even in great battles. But this Emperor had given them something even they had never witnessed: human sacrifice on a grand scale.

Finally, the screaming stopped. The beasts were herded from the arena and, white-faced, Rufus joined the other workers in the gruesome task of clearing the arena of its human carrion. He breathed through his mouth in an attempt to avoid the sewer stink of a hundred eviscerated bowels, but his throat filled with burning liquid as he imagined he could taste the foulness that filled the air around him. He averted his eyes from the scattered remains, but his unwilling mind identified every piece of inanimate flesh that defiled his fingers.

When the job was completed, fresh sand was thrown across the blood pooled in the dirt, not to disguise what had taken place, but to ensure that the next actors in the gory drama which had been devised for the Emperor had firm footing to show all their deadly skills.

The gladiators.

Rufus listed the men of Cupido's school as they trotted into the arena. Buffalo-shouldered Sabatis with his distinctive mesh body guard, face hidden behind a murmillo 's fishtail-crested helmet; Flamma, the Syrian spearman, veteran of a score of contests, who fought in an unvisored bronze helmet of a style which had gone out of fashion a decade before; little Niger, the retiarius, net in one hand and trident in the other; and finally the golden one himself.

Cupido was magnificent. If he felt the weight of expectation, it was hidden behind the golden mask and no trace of weariness showed as he loped across the heavily sanded floor. He fought without armour, but the harsh sunlight reflecting from his oiled muscles gave him a more martial appearance than any of the others in their brightly polished metalwork. He halted in the centre of the arena, head held erect behind the golden mask, the long sword steady in his left hand. He looked what he was. A killing machine.