The other gladiators had given them a wide berth after Thad had screamed out his farewell to Greg. None of them understood the words but they had the sentiment. Septimus caught their eye and nodded, a wavering smile on his lips. He was heading to the baths. Dean felt sorry for the poor bastard that Septimus took on. He sighed heavily and was trying to wrap his head around the loss of his friend. When sorrow bubbled up, he tamped it down. The men of this era and especially gladiators were pragmatic and stolid. He had seen friendships among them, as he witnessed small clusters and groups hanging out and laughing and gaming together.
Making friends here was a fleeting endeavor, because you or your friend could die at any time. But to not have friends and comrades was perhaps worse. To be alone and to never laugh? Dean thought you might as well just slit your own throat and get it over with. He looked over at Felix, the man’s face was blotched and his eyes swollen. As hard as he and his friends had taken the loss of Greg, Felix had taken it just as hard. He and Greg had become close and Dean thought that it was just now hitting Felix that his own life could be in jeopardy. Mortality was a bitch.
He would be fighting next week and he’d been thinking about how to make himself more attractive to the crowd. Because of his high school cheerleading experience, he thought that perhaps he might incorporate that into his fight somehow. He remembered the good-natured teasing and he smiled when he remembered Greg’s face after enlightening him to all the girls he’d slept with. Greg was still a virgin or had been and Dean lost the soft smile. His friend would always remain so. His heart squeezed again.
Three days later, Marco stood on the sand in the Colosseum. Beside him was Philo. Marco was glad to see that the emperor was not in attendance. A short rotund man stood before them; he was the arbitrator. It was hard to tell what kind of man held their lives in his pudgy hand, but he looked amiable enough. Jovial in fact and Marco wasn’t sure if that were a good thing or a bad thing. Everyone was still smarting after the loss of Greg and it was uppermost in Marco’s mind.
“We fight for the glory of Rome!” they shouted in unison and turned to walk out to the middle of the large arena. Marco had been stunned once more at the vastness of it. There was blood all over, splotches that were quickly coagulating. He turned on Philo and the man came at him quickly. Their swords clashed loudly and rang in his ears. Today, Marco had the advantage. His helmet had the bigger eye holes and Philo had the face shield that had numerous tiny holes. Part of Marco’s mind was cognizant of the time. They could not finish the fight quickly, otherwise the crowd would feel cheated.
He heard his name, Atrox, being chanted over and over and he had to laugh at that. He’d not yet heard Philo’s name even chanted and Marco knew that was a thorn in the man’s foot. Philo’s respect for Greg’s death had only lasted a day and then he was back to his old habits and his mouth spewing bullshit. Marco ignored him and he thought that made Philo even angrier.
Both men moved back and forth and at one point, the edge of Marco’s blade hissed down Philo’s arm, leaving a thin line of blood. The crowd was on their feet. Marco was careful not to injure Philo too badly. Cato and doctore wouldn’t like it and they were not happy with Septimus the other day. Septimus had hacked off a palus secundus’ arm.
Septimus was a Hoplomachus and had gone after a Murmillo gladiator. The Hoplomachus and the Murmillo were relatively evenly matched. However, in his rage over Greg’s death, Septimus had opened up a shitstorm on the hapless gladiator. Septimus wouldn’t say, but Marco suspected that he’d witnessed the death. Philo was hammering away at Marco and trying to get around the shield. Philo was a good fighter, but he let his emotions take over after the first few minutes. Not always, but usually when he fought Marco, he seemed to lose it.
Marco charged Philo and struck in rapid succession. The blade of his sword hammering at the man’s shield. The crowd was going crazy up in the stands, chanting and screaming. He paid them no attention. He could hear Philo cursing him, though it was muffled.
“You putrid whore’s pimp. You dog fucking shit eater,” Philo nearly screamed as he was forced backward by Marco’s assault.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Marco shouted and laughed when Philo screamed, enraged. He tried coming back at Marco and shoved him with his shield. Marco was pushed back a few steps. Then he went back at him, hammering hard with his sword. When he saw his chance, he slipped his foot under Philo’s and lifted. The man teetered back, his arms windmilling, which left his belly open. If Marco had wanted to gut him at that point, it would have been easy. Instead, Macro gave a front kick
