‘Are you half-witted, boy? Who are you?’
‘Who is that?’ The dark shape down on the sand was obviously a corpse. For a moment the horrifying thought came that it was Sulpicia Lepidina, but then he dismissed it. She had not set this trap and he was a fool to have walked into it.
‘A man who was no longer of any use. Or just another sacrifice in this temple of blood.’ The echo was even louder down here. ‘But once again I must ask, who are you?’
‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’ His voice broke as he spoke.
‘You do not sound sure.’
Something moved over to his right and behind. Ferox glanced back and saw someone emerge from the stairs over past the next cuneus of seating. The shape seemed odd, until the moon glinted off metal and he recognised the outline of one of the high helmets worn by some gladiators. A noise came from the other side and two more armed men were coming up the stairs over in that direction.
‘Whom do you serve, boy?’
‘The princeps,’ he shouted back. The arena seemed the best option as there was still no sign of anyone there. He wanted the three attackers closer, so that when he jumped down they would either follow as a group or have to spread out before they came down. ‘I have taken the sacramentum,’ he called, playing for time.
Domitius clapped again. ‘Well done. But which princeps? Does that really matter to you? Who is Trajan to you? Another lord could be a good deal more generous?’
‘I am listening.’ The men on his left were twenty paces away, both bearded and shaggy haired, wearing cloaks. One had a gladius and the other a short spear. The one over to his right was more cautious and his face was covered with the mesh mask of the high-topped gladiator’s helmet. He was a Thracian by the look of him, with curved sword and shield.
‘What do you most want?’ The question surprised Ferox and for a moment he hesitated. Then he put his cloak-wrapped left arm on the top of the fence between two of the decorative wooden pommels.
‘Don’t!’ yelled the Thracian, and it was a woman’s voice, but Ferox had already swung up and over. His hand held onto the top of the wall for just a moment, slowing his fall. The landing was harder that he would have liked, and his knees gave and he rolled onto the sand. His cloak had snagged on a pommel and been left behind. He pushed himself up and ran towards the box.
‘Kill him!’ Domitius’ voice boomed around the amphitheatre. With a painful grating of poorly oiled hinges, an iron barred gate opened. Ferox waited, but no rush of armed men appeared. He glanced behind him, but no one had followed him down. In the middle of the arena, he could see the corpse clearly and recognised Kopros, several great wounds to his chest and stomach, although most of the blood had soaked away into the sand.
The growl was low, but rumbled in a way that suggested size and strength. A lion was standing in the open gateway. He could hear it sniffing, no doubt smelling the corpse. It came padding forward, head searching from side to side and shoulders swaying. Steel clashed on steel somewhere up above and there were grunts of effort and pain, but Ferox kept his eyes on the great beast. He stepped back, slowly, wanting the dead Kopros between him and the cat in the hope it might choose the easiest meal.
The lion twisted its head back and growled, louder and even more menacingly this time, and another cat, without a mane appeared beside it. As they came into the arena they spread out, prowling across the sand, one either side.
‘Die, pig!’ The woman’s voice was gruff as she yelled the insult, and for a moment he turned, saw the spear as it flew through the air, going wild and slithering across the sand to stop seven or eight paces short of him. Gladiatrix or not, she could not throw a spear.
Ferox stepped to his right, towards the spear. The lioness roared. She was on that side, closer to the spear than he was, and he had no doubt that she was faster. He was not fond of the games and gladiators, but in his youth he had had a brief passion for the venatores and the beast fights. He had seen animals like this in the Flavian amphitheatre in Rome and elsewhere. The Silures called themselves the wolf people, but he was alone, without a pack around him, and lions were far greater killers than wolves.
The lion reached the corpse, sniffed for a while and then reached down and began to tear at his flesh. Before the games, animals like this were all but starved for days and had weeks or months of training to kill humans. Maybe these were new and the next festival some time away, for the lion seemed happy for the moment with this meal. The lioness showed no interest and simply watched him.
Ferox wished that he could reach the spear. Instead he crouched down on one knee, moving slowly in the hope that this would not provoke the beast.
The attack came without warning, as the lioness bounded forward, and he would never know whether he had provoked it or not. Ferox leaned into it, head bowed and left hand folded protectively in front, gladius held out as firmly as he could, the pommel hard against his stomach.
In an instant the animal leaped, and the sheer force and weight was far greater even than he had feared. He was knocked over and back, breath driven from him as the wooden pommel was slammed into his stomach. There was hot blood everywhere, soaking onto his hands, and a burning pain on his face and one shoulder, but his right hand still grasped his sword and he forced it as hard as he could, feeling it tear through muscle. The lioness hissed and then slumped onto him.
With effort, Ferox rolled the animal’s dead weight off and staggered to his feet. His tunic was badly torn and not all of the blood came from the cat. The gladius was buried up to the hilt in the carcase, stuck too hard to come free.
The lion paused in its meal to glare at him, but otherwise seemed unmoved. Moving slowly, head still reeling, he edged towards the spear. There was a crack, then another and a man in tunic and boots appeared in the arena, wielding a whip. Two more men came behind him, murmillones in big face-covering helmets, and each with a gladius and scutum like a legionary. The whip was swung again, snapping not far from the lion, which turned to roar angrily. Another crack and it grudgingly left its meal. Ferox reached the spear, bent over, almost fainted, and managed to pluck it up and ready it in both hands.
Outside a bell started to ring insistently. The lion remained surly and uncooperative.
‘Finish him!’ The man with the whip shouted, snapping the whip once more, but failing to make the animal attack.
‘Come on then!’ Ferox called back, hoping to hurry the gladiators. They ignored his taunting and came on slowly, one cautious step after another, moving apart to take him from two directions just like the lions. He flicked the spearhead to face each man in turn.
There were shouts now from outside. Ferox went back, guessing he had about twelve or fifteen paces before he would be up against the wall with nowhere left to go. His chest hurt with each breath, and he knew he did not have the strength left to rush one of them and kill the man before his comrade could intervene.
Back, still back, the gladiators following cautiously. Neither was as tall as him, but their shoulders were broad and their arms and legs thick like all professionals’. The ornate bronze helmets shone in the moonlight, their faces covered. Behind them the man with the whip watched, while the lion returned to its feast.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ he yelled, hoping to break their calm. They ignored him.
There was a distant banging followed by a crash. Then there were shouts, which sounded as if they came from another direction although it was hard to be sure down in the arena. Ferox guessed he was a couple of paces from the wall. He sprang forward, pelting at the gladiator on his left. The man stopped, shield up ready, and he skidded and nearly fell as he changed to head for the other man, trying to get on his unshielded right side.