Viridovix chuckled and turned to the other criminal.
‘Boo!’ he shouted, lunging forward.
The man, who had just picked up his sword again, dropped the weapon and turned tail, sprinting across the sands and shrieking as he fled.
Viridovix stuck his sword into the sand and shouted out to the nearest guard.
‘Soldier! Your spear, if you please!’
The man grinned and tossed Viridovix his spear. Viridovix caught it deftly, then quickly calculated the speed and direction of the fleeing target. He took a short run up and then grunted as he flung the projectile. The crowd’s suspense began as a low rumble, which ascended in a rising crescendo and then burst into cheers of savage delight as the spear arced high up into the air, and then accelerated earthwards towards the running criminal.
The man had almost reached the gate at the end of the arena when the spear hit him. It struck him between his shoulders and transfixed his body, the point emerging in a spurt of blood and meat from his abdomen. He fell face forward into the dirt, and the last sounds he heard, while writhing in agony as his life faded from his body, were the mocking jeers of the spectators, revelling so boisterously in the savage brutality of his death.
Viridovix raised his fist to the sky, and thunder erupted from the crowd.
‘I am a god,’ he whispered to himself. ‘A living, breathing god.’
Now only one criminal remained. He had just regained his footing after the indignity of Viridovix’s last assault, and now he turned to face Viridovix with his sword held limply in his trembling hand.
‘Now but one dog remains against The Beast!’ the announcer bellowed, to the delight of the crowd.
‘And the Beast will face the dog unarmed!’ Viridovix shouted.
The crowd pealed out a cannonade of approval.
‘Guard, help me remove my armour,’ Viridovix called out to the nearest guard.
The guard looked up at Batiatus, who was seated at a place of honour near some senior senators in the stands. Batiatus gave the guard a cool nod. Upon receiving this approval, the guard set his weapons down and hurried over to assist Viridovix, while another guard threatened the convict at spear-point to prevent him from trying anything while the gladiator was busy.
After a few minutes of undoing a multitude of straps and buckles, Viridovix stood before the crowd attired in nothing but a loincloth. Despite being close to fifty now, his musculature was as defined that of any marble-carved statue, his physique meticulously sculpted from the daily rigours of his combat training regime and his strictly regulated diet of vegetables, fruit, legumes and nutrient-rich porridge. Long gone was the shaggy mane of hair and bushy beard he had once sported as a Gallic warrior chieftain; not only was his entire body hairless, but his face too was smooth and clean-shaven, with his salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to his skull in the Roman style. The only physical remnant to remind him of his pre-slavery days were the ceremonial tattoos of his tribe, the last vestiges of a dead past still etched indelibly on his tanned skin.
Women screamed with joy at the sight of his Adonis-like physique, and men murmured with both jealousy and approval. He grinned at the crowd and did a standing backflip, which was met with further applause and shouts of encouragement. All of Batiatus’s gladiators underwent an hour or two of rigorous daily gymnastics and acrobatics training under the tutelage of a master Greek instructor, in addition to their combat training; Batiatus understood well the benefits of showmanship.
‘Come cur, your sword against my fists,’ Viridovix growled.
The man advanced on shivering legs, fearful and unsure of himself, even though he had no choice but to fight. He stabbed at Viridovix, but it was laughably easy for the master gladiator to sidestep the clumsy and ineffectual lunge. Viridovix dropped into a lightning-fast forward roll, and as he came up he smashed a rocky fist into his opponent’s midriff, knocking the wind out of the man and sending him crashing to the ground.
The crowd roared again, and Viridovix stood up to drink in the summer rain of their approval. He strode around in a wide circle, his arrogant fist raised to the air as the spectators cheered. As his opponent rose up on shaky knees, Viridovix began to circle him, launching taunts and insults like darts. He dashed in through the man’s weak defences and slapped him across the face before tumbling in an acrobatic roll to dodge a clumsy sword slash. His opponent was still frightened, but seemed to be working up a bit more courage and ferocity now – that was good; it would make for a better show for the crowd.
The man started becoming more aggressive, lunging and hacking and slashing with abandon, but as hard as he tried, each attack was dodged with elegant finesse by the gladiator.
‘Come on dog, you can do better than that! You haven’t even so much as nicked me!’ Viridovix shouted.
At this the man became possessed of a sudden, rash bravado. With a shrill scream he charged Viridovix, but the nimble gladiator sidestepped at the very last moment and gripped his opponent’s sword arm, jerking it with vicious precision up over his shoulder and breaking it at the elbow. Before the man even had time to cry out in pain, Viridovix vaulted over the man’s back, and on his way over he gripped his adversary’s head in the crook of his elbow and brought him down hard, snapping his neck on landing. The sight of the man’s now-lifeless form flopping to the ground brought the spectators to their feet, and they belted out their approval with gusto.
‘Put your hands together for the mighty Beast of the North!’ the announcer boomed. ‘Now, he will
