The Forgotten Legion

To the boy's surprise, Gemellus' eyes flickered away and he turned on his heel without another word. But Romulus had no time to savour the minor victory. A vice-like grip took hold of his chin.

'You're mine now.' Crisscrossed with old scars, Memor's face was uncomfortably close. The smell of cheap wine was overpowering. 'In the Ludus Magnus, men learn to be killed. Till the end of your life, the fighters here will be your new familia. You eat. You train. You sleep. You shit with them. Clear?'

'Yes.'

'Do what I say quickly and there 'll be no beating, like that fat bastard suggested.' Memor's jaw hardened. 'Don't do what I say and, by Hercules, you'll regret it. I know ways of hurting most cannot even imagine.'

Romulus did not let his gaze waver.

'Before everyone present, take the oath of the gladiator!'

Memor's bellow had stopped every fighter in the yard. This was a ritual they had all been through.

'Do you swear to endure the whip? The branding iron? And do you swear to endure death by the sword?'

Romulus swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was steady. 'I swear it.'

The circle of hard faces relaxed a little. If nothing else, the new addition was courageous.

'Brand the boy and strike off those chains,' Memor ordered the clerk. 'Find a blanket and a space to sleep. And return him to me swiftly!'

'Come on, lad.' The voice was not unkind. 'The iron won't hurt that badly.'

Carefully, Romulus surveyed the dirt of the training yard and the ludus' thick stone walls. Like it or not, this was now home. His survival would be a decision of the gods alone. He followed the thin clerk, his head held high.

Chapter VI: The Ludus Magnus

Forum Boarium, Rome, 56 BC

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!'

The chanting was deafening.

The Gaul stood over his vanquished opponent, listening to the familiar noise. Over five years, the blond-haired warrior had become one of the mightiest gladiators Rome had ever seen. And the crowd loved him.

Warm afternoon sun lit up the entire circle of sand contained within temporary wooden stands. That morning the grains had been a rich golden colour, raked by slaves into uniform smoothness. But after more than an hour of savage combat, the surface had been kicked into disarray. Bloodstains spread around dead men lying scattered all over the arena. The air was filled with moans and cries of the injured.

It was late spring and the citizens watching were happy. The set piece between two teams had been gripping and all the participants were now dead or maimed — except the prize fighter who had led each side.

The organisers of such fights were lanistae, owners of the gladiator schools in Rome who met on a regular basis to arrange spectacles with real mass appeal. When the rich and powerful wanted to stage a contest, they could offer a range of options from basic single combats to tailor-made arrangements. It depended on the depth of the purse of the editor — the sponsor — and how impressive a display was required.

The clash between Narcissus and Brennus had been something the public — even the lanistae — had craved for a long time. Within months of his arrival in Rome, the huge Gaul had defeated every gladiator of repute. After that, there was no entertainment in watching Brennus cut weaker men to pieces. Fights were supposed to take time, impressing the crowd with skill and endurance. Memor had quickly limited Brennus' appearances even though his popularity demanded ever more exposure.

Today the sponsor wanted real quality and had personally asked for the Gaul. The lanista had had to look far and wide for a worthy opponent. Eventually he 'd found Narcissus the Greek in Sicily, where the formidable murmillo had earned a similar reputation to Brennus.

The fight had seemed perfect. Gaul against Greek. Muscle against skill. Savagery against civilisation.

Not a seat had been left empty in the stands.

Now Narcissus lay on his back, bare chest exposed, sucking air painfully through a twisted visor. The fish crest of his bronze helmet was bent in two, battered into submission. His sword lay ten feet away, kicked beyond reach.

The contest had not lasted long. Brennus had unexpectedly shouldercharged the murmillo, knocking him off balance. A spinning blow from his shield had followed, breaking several ribs and driving Narcissus to his knees, half stunned. Then a savage chop of Brennus' longsword had cut open the Greek's right shoulder above the manicae, the thick leather bands protecting the arm. Narcissus had dropped his weapon, collapsing on to the baking sand, screaming in pain.

Sure of victory, Brennus had paused. He had no desire to kill yet another opponent. Raising both arms, he let the crowd's approval fill the air. Despite the speed with which he had ended the fight, Rome's citizens still loved Brennus.

But Narcissus had not been defeated. Suddenly he had produced a dagger from under his manicae, lunging at the Gaul. Brennus had skipped out of reach, then swept in from the side, using the shield's iron rim to smash his opponent's face through the soft metal helmet. The murmillo's head had slumped as he lost consciousness.

Brennus looked over to the nobles in their white togas. They were shielded from the sun by the velarium, a cloth awning erected by the command of the editor of these games. Julius Caesar sat dressed in a pristine purple-edged toga, surrounded by followers and admirers. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and a great cry of anticipation went up.

The Gaul sighed, determined that Narcissus' death would at least be humane. He nudged the murmillo with his foot.

Opening his eyes, Narcissus found the strength to raise his left arm in the air. Slowly he extended a forefinger upwards.

An appeal for mercy.

The audience roared with disapproval, drowning the confined space with their animal noise.

Caesar stood and surveyed the arena, holding up his arms commandingly. As people noticed, the chanting and whistling stopped. A strange silence fell over the Forum Boarium. Wooden stands erected for the occasion were jammed with the poorest plebeians, merchants, and the patricians that Julius Caesar called friends.

All waited, held in the grip of the finest military mind that Rome had seen in an age. Ignoring the rule that prohibited generals with armies from entering the city, Caesar had returned, fresh from his successful campaigns against the Helvetii and Belgae. While these had gained him huge public favour, Caesar was paying a price for being absent from Rome for months on end. Despite the work of his friends and allies, it was proving hard to maintain his influence in the city. This visit was all about showing his face, pressing flesh with politicians and retaining the people 's affection.

Traditionally, gladiator fights had only taken place as part of celebrations to honour the death of the rich or famous. But in the previous thirty years, their immense popularity had prompted politicians and those seeking office to stage them at every opportunity. As the contests grew in size and magnificence, the need for a permanent arena became ever greater. Desperate to retain the public's affection, Pompey was currently funding the building of a fixed arena on the Campus Martius, news that had immensely pleased Memor and the other lanistae.

'People of Rome! Today a gladiator with more than thirty victories has been vanquished!' Caesar paused with theatrical elegance, and there was a shout of approval. It was clear that his choice of fighter and command over the audience pleased him. 'And Narcissus was beaten by whom?'

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!' Drums beaten by slaves pounded to the repetitive chant. 'Bren-nus!'

There could only be one outcome.

The murmillo gestured weakly with his right hand. 'Make it quick, brother.'