Fronto couldn’t help but grin once more. The possibility of putting an end to the Helvetii was like a balm. And Caesar was right. Pomponius should be able to build an arena in over a day.
After a fairly bad start, today was looking up.
Chapter 9
(Temporary Camp in Aedui territory, near the town of Bibracte)
“ Caligae: the standard Roman military boot. A sandal-style of leather strips laced to above the ankle with a hard sole, driven through with hob-nails.”
“ Vexillum (Pl. Vexilli): The standard or flag of a legion.”
The sun shone bright above the makeshift arena. The twittering of birds, the humming of bees and the babbling of the river nearby were drowned out by the collective noise of more than forty thousand eager and expectant observers. To mark the occasion, the troops had been permitted to attend in their tunics and breeches, leaving their hot armour and kit in guarded compounds in the camps. Almost everyone was here, barring the various units that had opted to remain on guard duty on the promise of double pay for their efforts.
The sea of white and red tunics was broken up here and there by small knots of Aedui observers who wore their traditional Gaulish tunics and breeches of patterned wool. The staff officers and higher level commanders sat in prime position just above the arena to one side, lounging in comfortable campaign chairs. The rest sat on the terraced banks of the hollow.
Fronto, staring out through a narrow slit in the wooden door behind which he waited, marvelled at the work of his engineers. Pomponius had really excelled himself. Not only had the engineers levelled out the grassy banks so that they were even all around, they had dug concentric terraces just over a foot apart around the entire oval floor. On the lower of these terraces, they had laid wooden planks to serve as benches. The higher ones retained the cut turf. The effect was staggering. There was actual seating for over forty thousand people. The base of the hollow they had dug down five feet and erected a wooden palisade around the edge to protect viewers and prevent escape from the arena. At each end, a wooden hut had been built into the slope for the two combatants. Fronto stood in one such hut with the Gaul opposite him, some distance away, though just visible through the crack in the wood.
Fronto adjusted the helmet strap. He felt strange in this equipment. He had served in the military for most of his adult life, but had never ranked below tribune, and had never borne the standard kit of a legionary. The helmet padding itched. His own padding had been hand-stitched by some high class tradesman or other in Rome. This was itchy and uncomfortable and, he was convinced, smelled slightly of urine.
The sword and the shield he was used to. The shield was that of Cominius, borne by Fronto partially as a mark of respect for the dead centurion, and partially to claim vengeance for the man. The Tenth would appreciate the gesture. The sword, on the other hand, was his. Since the day he had been given it on a battlefield in Spain, he had never used another, and it had served him well.
He wore the standard tunic and breeches of the legion, but had opted for his own enclosed boots rather than the caligae that normally went with the uniform these days. More protective and definitely more comfortable.
On top of these, he wore a heavy tunic of fur and leather, to protect his skin from the pinch and rub of the armour. The armour itself was of overlapping scales sewn onto leather, a form that was currently very much in fashion among centurions and signifers.
All in all, he was ready. Not decked out like a Myrmidon gladiator in the arenas of the capital, but very much like a soldier of Rome. He would have felt uncomfortable any other way.
Balbus had told him that the organiser of the contest, Sabinus of the general staff, had given the Gaul the option of exactly the same equipment in the spirit of equality. The Gaul had refused, choosing only a bronze breastplate and horned helmet over his Gaulish clothes, along with a mid-sized, round shield and a heavy, long Gaulish sword.
The heat in the small, wooden shed was becoming unbearable, and his breath steamed. Fronto stood and waited, unable even to give his sword a practice swing in the confined space. He listened intently to the sounds of thousands of expectant and excited people.
After a few more uncomfortable and sweaty minutes, a horn rang out clear in the arena. The melody was disjointed and very military, such as a musician for the legions might produce if asked to play something other than a standard call.
The crowd fell silent. Finally, for a few seconds, Fronto could hear the birds and the river.
Then the roar began.
Rising and falling like waves of a tide, the sounds rippled round the arena. Sabinus, standing next to the musician, held up his hands for silence and the roar diminished to a background rumble.
Sabinus, his vine staff held high above his head, cleared his throat.
“The combat this morning, for any of you who are unaware, will be between Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth Legion, representing the interests of Rome, and one Domiticus of the Aedui. Should the legate win, the death blow will be delivered without consultation of the crowd, as his opponent will be proved traitor. Should the Gaul win, he will be returned to the Aedui for trial, alive.”
A series of cheers, boos and hisses accompanied the announcements. Sabinus waited long enough for the enthusiasm to wind down, and then raised his vine staff again.
“Legate Fronto has elected to bear the arms of a legionary for this combat. He will be limited to helm, armour, shield and gladius. Domiticus of the Aedui has chosen his own Gaulish equipment. He will be limited to his helm and armour, a shield, and his sword.”
The cheering began once more. Fronto knew that appearing in the equipment of a common soldier would earn him a great deal of respect from the watching legionaries. He would have to be careful, though. He kept reminding himself not to underestimate the Gaul. It was far too easy to view him as an assassin who could only stab backs in the dark. The defiance in his eyes at the stockade, though, spoke of fatalism and a quiet confidence — a deadly combination in close combat such as this. Fronto would definitely have to watch his step.
Once more the cheering died down, and Sabinus’ voice rang out.
“When the horn is sounded, the bars will be withdrawn from the cages and the two combatants will be free to enter the arena. From that point there will be no further breaks, announcements or interference. After five minutes, if both contestants still live, javelins and daggers will be dropped into the arena, two of each.”
Provosts that stood around the arena, next to the wooden wall, held javelins and daggers aloft for the crowd to see clearly. The cheering began again.
Not waiting this time for the noise to die away, Sabinus waved an arm and the horn sounded out over the crowd. Burly provosts at each end of the arena heaved the great wooden beams to one side and the doors swung open.
The Gaul, Domiticus as he had been named, stepped out of the shadow into the glare of the dirt-floored arena. His eyes were locked on Fronto and he spared not even a glance for the watching thousands. Pieces of half-eaten fruit and salted meat bounced off the Gaul’s helmet and breastplate, as the assembled Romans vented their rage on the assassin.
Fronto stepped out of the other end and into the light. He was aware of Galba’ words a little over an hour ago, as he was ushered into the shed. Galba had been a keen visitor to the arenas in Rome and had become something of a semi-professional gambler on the gladiatorial games. He knew what he called ‘form’ and how the crowd would react. Fronto had listened intently to everything the other man had said, nodding blankly, and had promptly forgotten most of it. Three comments remained with him, though.