The next fight scarcely impressed the legionaries any more, though the crowd was whipped into an even bigger frenzy. Two men, both carrying long swords and rectangular shields, smaller than those carried by Roman soldiers, faced each other. Two minutes into the fight and most of the soldiers had their foreheads resting in their hands in boredom. Decimus had decided to go for a walk and left as soon as the fight began.
“By Thor, who actually taught these men how to fight?” Magnus asked loudly.
A nobleman sitting in the next section over glared at Magnus in irritation. The man looked to be of Gallic ancestry, though he was dressed like a Roman Magistrate. He had a stylus and wax tablet in his hands. A number of scrolls and parchments lay scattered at his feet. He turned back to the fight, making notes onto his tablet as he did so.
Artorius noticed the man’s annoyance at their comments. He leaned over and elbowed Camillus. “Who is that man?”
“That man? That’s Julius Sacrovir. His origins are Gallic, though he is a Roman citizen and a rather prosperous one at that. He makes most of his money sponsoring these events. In fact, I would say that half the fighters here are from his school.”
“So he’s the man whose ass needs to be whipped?” Magnus retorted, purposely loud enough for the man to hear him. “When are we going to get to see a real fight?”
“When one of us steps into the arena.” Statorius boasted. He had been quiet most of the time, yet even he was starting to get irritated and bored.
Suddenly, the man that Camillus had said was named Sacrovir was standing over them.
“I could not help but overhear your observations in regard to the spectacle we have put on,” he said. Though he looked Gallic, he spoke perfect Latin with no trace of an accent.
“All we’re saying is these gladiators are poor fighters who don’t know the first thing about real combat,” Artorius said as he sat back on his elbows.
Sacrovir looked over his shoulder at the fight below. One man was down and the crowd had gone berserk.
“The citizens do not seem to think so,” he observed.
“That’s because these mindless eunuchs have never seen how legionaries fight,” Statorius retorted.
Sacrovir smiled thinly at that. “Really? Then why don’t we place a small wager amongst friends?” The wickedness of his smile betrayed him. He in no way thought of the soldiers as friends.
“What do you have in mind?” Statorius asked, sitting up.
“While I admit that many of the preliminary fights here may seem, well, shall we say, amateurish, I do have a host of gladiators who would be more than a match for any of you legionaries.”
This elicited groans and catcalls from the soldiers.
“There’s no way.” Artorius retorted. “We’ve got a soldier who would cut the nuts off every last one of your gladiators in a matter of seconds.”
“It’s settled then,” Sacrovir remarked. “Your best legionary against my best gladiator. How much will you be betting?”
“Absolutely not!” Macro shouted. “There is no way I can allow one of my soldiers, my optio at that, to fight in a mob-induced spectacle just because some of my men decided to get drunk and volunteer him for it.” He then turned and glared at Camillus.
“We weren’t drunk, at least not at that exact moment,” the signifier replied, his speech slightly slurred.
Macro threw his hands up in the air as Vitruvius sat on a couch smiling broadly.
“You think this is amusing, optio?” Macro snarled.
“A little bit,” Vitruvius replied as he stood up, composing himself. “While I admit, I think our friend Camillus here may have gone a bit far volunteering me to fight in a gladiatorial match without so much as asking me, I think it may be time to show the Roman people just how real Roman soldiers fight.”
Camillus replied with a hiccup and a grin.
“What for?” Flaccus asked, lounging on a couch with a goblet of wine resting precariously on his chest. “I saw the way those gladiators fight. You’ll kill the guy in a matter of seconds, I don’t care who it is. And the crowd won’t want that. They want spectacle, which is something we do not specialize in, at least not in terms of close combat.”
“Besides, if I let you go fight in the arena, every drunken sod in this city is going to get wind of it and try and prove just how masculine he is by making a complete ass out of himself out there,” Macro retorted through clenched teeth. “And the first time one of our soldiers gets killed or wounded, the commanding general is going to have my head. That is, if Flavius doesn’t crucify me first.” He shuddered at the thought. Macro had always counted himself fortunate to have never incurred the master centurion’s wrath.
“Don’t get me wrong, Vitruvius,” he continued. “I know all about this Sacrovir and his scum. And I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you demolish one of his so-called best. Just understand the really bad precedent that would set.”
Camillus suddenly brightened up. “What if we make it a state sponsored event?” he asked, before hiccupping once more.
“What do you mean?” Macro asked, puzzled.
“Simple, this Sacrovir has lots of money and is willing to foot an expensive wager. We simply run it up the chain to Severus. Have him sponsor Vitruvius, and we make a fortune. And to avoid precedent, we make it the last fight on the last day of the games.”
“Think Severus would go for something like that?” Flaccus asked.
Macro stood, rubbing his chin in his hand.
“If put to him like that, probably,” he finally said. “Most senators love to gamble, and I think if he were assured to take home a large portion of Sacrovir’s fortunes, then yes, I would say so.”
“Good thing you came to me when you did,” Proculus said after Macro had given him the details of his proposal to allow Vitruvius to fight in the arena. In order for him to get the wager approved he had to run it through his superiors, and that started with Cohort Commander Proculus. Next, it would have to go to the master centurion, and finally to the legate himself. Macro was surprised to see Master Centurion Flavius in the same room with Proculus.
“What do you mean?” Macro asked in regards to Proculus’ remark.
The cohort commander looked over his shoulder at Flavius whose arms were crossed, an amused look on his face. “Only that Sacrovir has already posted the fight in every betting house in the city,” the master centurion answered. “Thankfully, Severus has not made his way to any of these yet. If he did before we got to him, he’d have you skinned! Or rather, he’d have me skin you.”
Macro swallowed hard at the statement, knowing full well that Flavius meant every word of it. Never mind that Camillus and the others had acted on their own. As a centurion, Macro was, ultimately, responsible for the actions of his men.
After a few seconds, Proculus waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, I’ve got a few talents I can wager,” he said. “Those imbeciles have actually posted five-to-one odds against Vitruvius. I figure with a healthy profit at the expense of the money lenders, I can finally build my wife, Vorena, that villa on top of Esquiline Hill she’s always wanted. She’s tired of living in the little hovel we have now.”
Macro snorted at the remark. Given a centurion pilus prior’s salary, he knew that Proculus and his wife lived in anything but a hovel. Just then they heard footsteps echoing in the corridor. Without a word, and with his arms still crossed, Flavius left the room. The two centurions could just overhear his words as he confronted the legion’s commanding legate in the hallway.
“Sir, how would you like to make a little bit of money while we’re here?”