The Ludi mob cheered out of habit before tuba blasts from the musicians' tiers saw tumbling paegniarii clowns rush across the sand and steal the attention, allowing the unsettled gladiators to file back to the periphery and prepare. Flamma was the last to take his place, seating himself on a rough wooden bench to watch on alone. No one sat with him; he had not been befriended by the other fighters, and he was unconcerned by it. The arena was no place for friendships, Flamma knew; those who made them found themselves facing their friends in combat. Better loneliness with no feelings at all for his fellow men. Flamma knew that to feel anything was to risk a moment of hesitation, a moment when thought and not instinct might take control of your weapon. Hatred, too, could be as fatal as affection. Fighting required no conscious thought at all for Flamma; when he hacked and killed, his mind was elsewhere. He had reached the top by employing his instincts as a leopard might, or a python. He knew when to conserve his strength and watch and wait for his prey. He knew when to employ his might in sudden, lethal explosions.
The paegniarii clowns played out their barely comical act, attacking each other with sticks and whips, while Flamma stretched his finger joints, pressing his palms together and testing the limits of his flexibility. He bent back each hand as far as it would go. No one looked at him; no one observed what he did. He was old and spent in the eyes of all, and he knew this gave him his one advantage: no one expected him to excel.
The clowns beat each other bloody while the mob laughed half-heartedly. Then the musicians blasted upon tubas again, adding drums and cymbals to the cacophony. The arena choir joined in with a popular theatre song — hymns to the gods being inappropriate for this place — and the beaten paegniarii dragged each other to the gates. Flamma now stood and stretched his limbs, bending forward and back from his hips, placing his fingertips, then his knuckles, and then his palms on the sandy arena floor. A few of the other fighters glanced at him; marking him as an easy kill, should their names be matched with his in the lots, they looked away.
Flamma remained standing and stretching as the next of the warm-up acts commenced. The second-rate lusorii fighters came on, gladiators of lesser experience yet to find their feet in the arena. They were armed with wooden spears and swords; weapons that could injure but not kill. With another blast from the tubas they threw themselves at each other with theatrical intensity, vying for any crumbs of attention that might be theirs from the mob. The choir continued to sing, and some in the mob now sang along with them.
Flamma looked to the tiers to gauge the mood of the Ludi fans. Half the people, at best, were watching the combat with anything approaching concentration; many gossiped to their friends or threw coins to the arena vendors, buying snacks and programs. It was the gladiators of the first rank that they really wanted to see, the banquet stars, the men who inspired the passions of the graffiti-scrawlers of Rome.
Flamma shaded his eyes to peer in the direction of the Imperial box. The Emperor's golden throne remained empty but the seats around it were filled with well-dressed men and women — the Imperial family, Flamma guessed. Somewhere among them she was there, she who now owned him. He looked for the golden hair — the hair that mirrored his own — but all the Imperial women wore veils and flower wreaths and he couldn't tell which of them was Agrippina, or even if she was there at all.
Why had she claimed him, Flamma wondered. Why hadn't she simply killed him, like all the rest? To have died among slaves would have been a fitting end to his lowly life, and Flamma would have embraced it as his due. But Agrippina had been unable to pull her gaze away from him, repeatedly drawn to his eyes, his hair and his body, just as she had been at the slave auction. Then she had spared him, and yet she had never come to see him again in the long months that had led to the Ludi. Flamma believed that she had claimed him only as a means of pleasing her daughter.
It was of no matter, anyway. The golden gladiator had made a plan on the night she had revealed herself to him as a spectacular Fury, an exquisite goddess of vengeance. He had decided what he would do and he was glad of the certainty it brought him; there was a comfort in it. It left him unburdened and so much lighter in his heart. While all the men around him saw only the shadows of their impending deaths, Flamma saw no shadows at all, only brightness.
He took to his bench once more and folded his arms across his chest. The sun was warm on his skin and he closed his eyes, letting himself doze. He followed the events on the arena floor without watching or listening; he knew the program by heart. The lusorii continued their theatrics for another hour or so and were rewarded with growing interest from the mob. People kept to their seats as the main event drew closer; men ceased greeting their friends and doing business.
Several lusorii had broken their limbs by the end of their combats, and the mob cheered enthusiastically as the bone-setters approached. Then those paegniarii that could still move hobbled on for another round of clowning before the musicians blew the tubas again and the mob hooted wildly in reply, knowing what was to follow. A man of rank from the Imperial box was thrown a sword from the arena floor. Flamma opened his eyes a crack to see who had stepped forward to do the blade test in the absence of the Emperor. He saw that it was Castor, the Emperor's son. Flamma shut his eyes again, not needing to observe the 'tests', such as they were: Castor stabbing melons with the sword, slicing ropes, stabbing the tip into wood — all to the approval of the mob. The blade was officially pronounced 'cut-throat'.
The tubas blew the same long note again and again, like the drip of a water clock. The sound was sombre now, ominous, and a hush began to fall across the arena. When the huge mob became silent, the tubas stopped their noise. His hand high in the air where all could see it, Castor drew the first two tokens — on which were written names — from deep inside a shining silver bowl.
'Hylas and Adonis!'
The mob screamed with delight and Flamma blocked his ears to it. Castor drew more tokens and read out more names, and the mob continued to roar its approval at the exciting combinations of fighters selected by chance. Flamma continued to doze and only vaguely stirred when his own name was read out. He missed the name of his opponent but was unconcerned; he would learn it soon enough.
One by one the combats started, in the order of their selection. Heavy Samnites with their oval shields and plumed, visored helmets fought hard against the nimble, near-naked Gauls. Bare-headed, net-throwing retiarii dodged the relentless pursuit of the 'chasers' — the lance-wielding secutores — hurling their nets at them when they could. The tuba blasts were replaced by trumpets, and harmonic trills from pipes and flutes. The choir sang songs of love and romance, happy songs, comic songs. Trainers shouted from the sidelines, hounding the men on. Slaves wielding nail-barbed whips and irons heated in coals rushed about, lashing and goading any man who lagged. The mob screamed obscenities and encouragements at the fighters, begging them to maim and blind and kill.
Whenever a man fell, the musicians blew their trumpets long and hard so that no one missed the climax. The mob called out 'He's fucked!' and the broken man, if he had any strength, laid down his weapons and raised a single finger of his left hand in a plea for mercy. The decision fell to Castor, in the Emperor's place, but he deferred to the wishes of the mob. The fate was always the same for men who valued their lives too dearly: the mob disapproved and Castor made the gesture of doom with his thumb, pointing it in the air and making the downward motion as if he held a stabbing sword. The fighter was pierced in the neck by his opponent.
One by one the selected fighters fought; one emerged victor and one met his death. Young African slaves raked the bloodstained sand. Bodies were dragged to the Porta Libertinensis, the Gate of the Goddess of Burials, by arena slaves dressed as Mercury. Other men, wielding hammers and dressed as Rhadamanthus, made sure the dead were truly dead.
At last it was Flamma's turn. He stood up slowly, tightening the broad leather greaves he wore around his thighs. Satisfied, he collected his weapons. He had no helmet to wear, being designated a 'Thracian', but he picked up the small, square shield that came with his rank and the long, curved scimitar that was his sword. He walked all the way into the very centre of the arena before he bothered even looking at his opponent. The fighter was younger than Flamma by at least ten years, lithe and quick-footed. Flamma met the man's eyes for only a moment before his opponent lowered his visor, blocking his face from view.
In the final seconds before Castor raised a handkerchief in the Imperial box to signal the commencement of combat, Flamma looked up at the mob. They were baying for his blood like jackals.
Flamma smiled, happy for them. Soon enough, his blood would be theirs.
My domina 's eyes widened in shock as Lygdus and I guided the cloaked Martina into the room. She let her hood fall to her shoulders so that Livia could see her fully.
'You never thought you'd see this old witch again, did you, domina?' I smirked. 'Well, here she is, and now our plans can progress.'
I imagined that Martina would find amusement in Livia's paralysed state. 'I used one of your own potions on
