Sabatis waited until the lion was within three paces before he stooped low, one knee on the ground. The cat's leap should have taken him full in the body, but its hooked claws went inches over his head as he speared upward with the trident, the three barbed points sinking deep into the female's unprotected belly. The lion squealed in agony as her momentum took her above and past the gladiator, threatening to tear the trident from his grasp. But Sabatis tightened his grip on the triple-headed spear and twisted, ripping it clear of the animal's flesh in a spray of blood and leaving her trailing feet of intestine from the terrible gash in her stomach.
The lioness landed in a cloud of dust and rolled over half a dozen times before slowly regaining her feet. Her whole body shook as the pain coursed through her and she licked pathetically at the huge wound in her belly. Her strength was ebbing from her along with the great gouts of arterial blood that stained the earth. She was mortally wounded, but she was also angry and at her most dangerous.
This time there was no precipitous attack. She painstakingly manoeuvred into position for the leap that would take her great fangs to the gladiator's throat. But her movements were difficult and every breath drove the pain deeper into her body. What she thought was a deadly leap was nothing more than a lurch which bared her chest to Sabatis, who thrust forward with the trident, forcing two of the prongs deep into her heart. Blood poured from her mouth as she died with a shudder and toppled to the ground the spear still in her.
The crowd screamed in adulation and roared the second gladiator to his task.
'This fellow hasn't quite got Sabatis's style,' Fronto murmured.
The axe man had been impressed by the speed of the lioness's initial attack on Sabatis. He had intended to show his skill with the razor-edged hatchet, but now the crowd could sense his uncertainty.
He walked back to the edge of the ring and returned with a long spear in each hand. The tips of the spears were wide-bladed, narrowing to a needle point, with a crosspiece set a foot from the blade so that the charging lion could not fight its way down the shaft and tear at its attacker even in its death throes.
The mood in the tiered wooden stands changed as the crowd saw the spears. They had anticipated a more equal, more dangerous contest and they registered their displeasure with boos and hisses.
Already nervous, the gladiator misjudged his initial thrust at the dark-maned male lion and only succeeded in ripping the muscles of its shoulder, hurting it but leaving its movements unaffected. His second attempt was equally clumsy. The spear bit deep into the lion's belly cavity, but failed to find any of its vital organs. Worse, the axe man lost his grip on the weapon and in his panic dropped the second spear as well.
If the gladiator had stood his ground, the lion might have been content to lick its wounds. But, armed only with a dagger, he decided to put as much distance between himself and his nemesis as possible. Its hunting instinct aroused, the lion charged.
Now the roars of the crowd were roars of laughter. In his fear, the gladiator lost all sense of direction and ran in circles, scattering antelope as he went, with the lion gaining on him at every stride. The laughter grew hysterical when he looked over his shoulder, tore off his bronze mask and soiled his loincloth all in the same instant. Then the lion was on him, pinning the screaming man face down, shaking its head and working its great jaws at his shoulder. The screams grew louder as the lion bit through leather and into skin, but the thick shoulder strap saved the gladiator from greater damage for a few vital seconds.
Rufus watched with horrified fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from the doomed fighter. He barely noticed the slim figure who danced lightly across the arena to stand over the lion and its victim.
'This should be good,' Fronto said to him.
The man in the golden mask could have killed the lion with a single thrust, but he gauged the crowd's humour with the same precision he employed to calculate the damage the lion was doing his fellow performer.
Instead of striking instantly, he mimicked indecision with the mischievous confidence of an accomplished actor. The lifeless eyes of the young god mask merely added to the comic appeal. Should he strike? No, perhaps not. Was this his friend lying here on the ground in the process of being devoured? Perhaps yes. But the poor lion had to eat, didn't it? Well then, I'll leave the decision up to you, the audience.
Most would have been happy to see the lion's victim die. But when the young gladiator forced his blade home into the base of the animal's neck, killing it instantly, the blow was received with universal approval.
Now he had his own performance to complete, and it was a piece of theatre that broke Rufus's heart.
Circe fought because the young gladiator left her no other choice. She lay behind the carcass of her final kill, ears flat against her head, and watched suspiciously as he advanced. Even when he was close enough to touch her with his sword, she stayed motionless, unable to decide whether the strange apparition was harmless or something altogether different.
Rufus felt bile rising in his throat. He understood there was only one outcome to the contest, but he could not stop himself from calling out to the leopard.
'Attack, Circe. Kill him, or you're going to die. Please, do something…' His anguished cry tailed into silence as Fronto gripped him by the arm. He turned to bury his head in the folds of the animal trader's cloak, but Fronto's strong hands forced his face upward and turned him to watch the spectacle unfold.
Circe did not die a brave death, or even a dignified one. She was butchered, slowly, one piece at a time, for the entertainment of the crowd.
With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, the golden-masked figure drew the tip of his sword across the tender flesh of the leopard's nose, drawing blood and making the animal scream with pain as she retreated backwards from the protection of the antelope corpse. Still she did not attack, and the gladiator marched relentlessly forward with a measured pace that gave the spotted cat no time to consider her next move.
The sword flicked again, slicing away part of Circe's ear and leaving her half blinded by a flood of red which covered her face mask. Now the pain was unbearable and the cat launched itself at her tormentor, a spring-heeled, snarling, yellow and black harbinger of hell, whose needle-pointed claws raked at the soft, vulnerable skin of his stomach.
But the gladiator had been waiting for just such an attempt.
To the mesmerized crowd in the tiered stands, it was as if his whole being flowed in the same instant from one spot on the arena floor to another a few feet away. To the cat it was as if she was attacking one of the insubstantial white strips of cloud which scarred the azure sky above them. One moment he was there, so close she could almost feel her claws sinking into his flesh, the next he was gone and the rear of her body went rigid with shock and turned into a searing ball of unbelievable agony.
The crowd shrieked with amazement and Fronto shouted with them.
' Di omnes. Will you look at that?'
As he melted away from the cat's attack, the gladiator had positioned himself to deliver a single sweep of the long sword which severed her tail an inch from the root.
Circe spun in circles, almost insane with pain, squealing pathetically and trying without success to lick the stump of her tail. Eventually she came to a shambling halt and turned again to face her torturer.
Rufus watched Circe's suffering in an agony of torment. Even at the risk of his own life, he would have rushed into the centre of the arena to stand between her and her executioner, but Fronto's vice grip on his shoulder held him where he was. Gradually the horror of what he was witnessing became too much, and it was replaced by a great emptiness. He willed the gladiator with the god's face to bring the uneven contest to a merciful end, but knew he would not. Every cut of the fighter's sword drove the crowd to new heights of ecstasy and each blow turned the once-proud animal into a shambling, bleeding mass of raw meat.