symbols of victory: carvings of champions, victorious athletes, gladiators with raised swords, laurel crowns and palms of victory. The corners were draped in purple and silver cloths. Along the sides stood a range of tables from which slaves served tasty morsels of fish, spiced meats, honey cakes, iced fruits, as well as cups of chilled wine and crushed fruit juice. Despite the fan-bearers with their pink ostrich flabella drenched in perfume, the air was hot and close.
Claudia, sitting at the far end near the door, where Burrus could keep an eye on her, fanned herself and sipped at a cup of juice. She was drenched in sweat and just wished the tension would break. She felt as if she'd been listening for ever to the blare of the trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the eerie tunes of the pipes, all the rites, ceremonies and music surrounding the games: the procession across the arena, the display of weapons, the mock fights, the drollery of the tumblers, clowns and dwarves. Every so often she would rise, stand on the top step and peer down at that oval of golden sand, then stare longingly at the great yawning gateways which led into the pitch-black tunnels lit by flickering torches. Murranus would be standing there. She stepped down and glanced at where Urbana sat close to Lady Cassia, with Leartus standing behind them. All three still displayed the signs of mourning, though Urbana had eagerly accepted the Emperor's invitation to see divine justice, as well as his own, carried out. Claudia was about to approach them when Constantine abruptly gestured to the trumpeters; the Emperor had waited long enough. Claudia sat transfixed. A long, piercing blast silenced the clamour of the mob packing the narrow tiers of the amphitheatre. Above them flapped the great woollen awning the engineers had managed to extend so that its billowing folds, soaked in perfumed water, would afford some protection against the fly-infested dust and the fierce glare of the sun.
The trumpet blare was repeated. The games were about to begin. The white-robed patricians in the lower tiers forgot about their hampers, their chilled wine, honey cakes and sugared plums and figs. They bellowed at the slaves to bring their parasols closer. Men, women and children dabbed the sweat on their necks and faces with cold scented cloths, all eyes on that cavernous gateway leading into the arena. Above these, the wealthy ones of Rome, swarmed the plebeians in multicoloured tunics. These grasped their tickets, carved shards of bone, and fought to regain their seats, no longer caring for the traders selling hot spiced sausages, balls of meat, slices of fruit and pannikins of allegedly fresh water. Even the whores and pimps, ready to take advantage of the frenetic excitement, stopped touting for custom. The killing was about to begin!
The Gate to the Underworld, as it was called, opened, and figures from Hades, grotesque in their horrid masks, entered the arena to the roar of the crowd. Charon, Lord of Hell, and all his associates, garbed in black, paraded to a cacophony of trumpets and cymbals around the arena, brandishing their instruments of torture: spikes and mallets, fire-hot blades and iron-tipped whips, implements they would use to spur on laggards who didn't want to fight, as well as to test whether a fallen man could stand to fight again.
Once they had processed out of the arena, the combatants entered. The Egyptians were led by a standard- bearer, the green banner he carried displaying the likeness of the Lady Hathor. Lean, muscled and oiled, the five men were all dressed in leather kilts and stiffened leg wrappings under embossed greaves, — on their heads were broad-brimmed helmets sporting horsehair plumes with visors covering their faces, — their sword arms were sheathed in thick quilted coverings whilst their shields were small squares of dark blue with a shiny metal boss in the centre, their swords rather long and slightly curved. They paraded insolently, lifting their visors, and paused in front of the imperial box. Claudia stared down at them. She could not really understand why they had accepted the challenge. True, it would have been foolish to refuse, but it was an insolent response to a challenge from a champion gladiator. Did they put their trust in their own training, background and numbers? Or was it something else? They acted confidently, yet Murranus too was so certain of victory. What other mischief had Helena plotted?
Another blast of trumpets and Murranus came out of the gateway to be greeted by acclamations which suddenly faded as the gladiator stumbled and limped forward. Claudia stared horrified. Murranus was garbed in his usual arena armour, a thick loincloth, knotted at the front, with a broad gold braided belt, quilted leg and arm paddings but no metal greaves to protect either leg or arm. What, Claudia wondered, did he intend? Surely he'd left himself exposed? Moreover, he carried the old-fashioned short stabbing sword and an oblong shield with a silver boss in the middle. Would this be protection enough? Murranus' head and face were hidden by a rimmed, visored helmet with a pouncing panther on top displaying a blueish-black horsehair crest. He too stopped before the imperial box and stared up. Claudia was sure he had glimpsed her; she could only stand frozen with fear.
The Emperor raised his hand, the trumpets brayed again. The gladiators lifted their swords and shouted their salutations, — once more the trumpets shrilled to the clash of cymbals. Constantine lifted a piece of white cloth and let it flutter to the sand. The crowd cheered as the fighters separated. Claudia stared round the box. Everyone was absorbed. Urbana, Cassia, Leartus, Carinus, the slaves, the standard-bearers sweating under their animal pelts, the guests and their families, all stared down at the macabre dance about to begin in the arena below.
Claudia hated such spectacles. She recalled the lines of the poet Juvenal: Today our rulers stage shows and win applause by the turn of a thumb against those whom the mob order them to kill. Murranus, her beloved, was down there, his life at the whim of the mob, not to mention the savagery and skill of his opponents. She watched as the gladiators drew slowly apart. Murranus called it the ritual of recognition, as adversaries assessed each other's strength and weaknesses. Sesothenes and his companions formed an arc, closing in on Murranus, who stood in an attitude almost of defeat, shield down, sword half raised. He seemed to be uncertain, fumbling with the straps of his shield. The Egyptians edged closer. Murranus faced forward, only to hastily retreat. The crowd hissed. Murranus kept backing away. The Egyptians edged forward. Murranus broke into a run, fleeing towards the far end of the arena. The mob rose, yelling and booing. The Egyptians, caught off guard, hesitated, then two of them broke into furious pursuit, running close together like hunting wolves. The mocking cheering turned into an ominous chant.
Abruptly Murranus stopped and turned. He'd loosed his shield and now hurled it directly into the path of his two pursuers. Both stumbled, one went down. Murranus, famous for his speed and being lightly armed, closed in swiftly, leaping between them, dealing a savage blow to the face and neck of the Egyptian on his left. The other, about to pick himself up, found his own shield had become tangled with the fallen one. He hesitated too long. Murranus danced behind him, delivered a swift slash to the side of his neck and the man collapsed. The silence in the amphitheatre was almost tangible. Murranus' speed and sudden ambush had astonished everyone, — his flight, the abrupt stop, the thrown shield, using the impetus of his opponents against themselves. The other three Egyptians were confused by this ferocious surprise. They stopped, one hanging well back. Claudia couldn't distinguish which was Sesothenes; she only had eyes for Murranus.
By now the mob had recovered, and fickle as ever broke into thunderous cheering and applause, but Murranus was already moving. He swiftly dispatched one of the fallen Egyptians who was still moving, dragging his body closer to the shield and the other corpse, then picked up one of his opponent's shields and danced to the right and left, using the tangle of corpses and fallen weaponry as a line of defence. Claudia swayed unsteadily on her feet. Her throat was so dry she could not speak; all she could see was that black-crested figure dancing to the left and right as his three opponents closed in. They were indecisive, confused. If they broke up and tried to outflank the makeshift defence, it left them exposed. If they advanced in a line they would have to clear that tangled obstacle where one slip could be fatal. They paused and drew together. Claudia realised that Sesothenes must be the one in the centre, his head turning to the left and right as he whispered to his companions.
The crowd grew impatient. Murranus seemed to be mocking his opponents. He put aside his shield, drove his sword into the sand and crouched as if resting, hands hanging downwards. The three Egyptians moved forward. They decided to separate, one going to Murranus' left, the other two to his right. They advanced cautiously. Claudia wondered if Murranus would leap forward over the corpses and drive a wedge between them. However, still crouching, he turned as if to face the threat from his right, only to spring to his feet, holding the dagger taken stealthily from one of his dead adversaries. He hurled this at the man approaching from his left. The dagger missed its intended mark — the right side of the man's stomach — but caught the Egyptian's thigh a glancing blow, — he stumbled, pulling back his shield even more. Murranus, picking up his weapons, streaked forward like a hunting dog, using his shield as a battering ram, and forced his enemy back. The Egyptian, wounded and confused, panicked; more concerned at the shield constantly ramming him, he left himself exposed and fell onto Murranus' sword. Murranus held him skewered, then twisted him round and, withdrawing the sword, pushed the dying man towards his remaining two opponents. The mob bayed with pleasure. The hum of excited conversation in the imperial box rose like the song of a beehive.
Claudia wasn't paying attention. She only had eyes for that figure dancing away from his defeated opponent
