‘Rutilius Scaurus! It was good of you to make the effort. I wasn’t sure that you’d take me up on the invitation, given the fact that your young colleague’s mentor will die on that sand very shortly.’
Marcus returned his smile with an impassivity that he was far from feeling, allowing the tribune to answer on his behalf.
‘My officer recognises the inevitability of the situation, Chamberlain, and has sworn to Mithras to witness Flamma’s last bout with the dignity and reserve expected of a Roman officer. It’s not as if we’re barbarians, after all.’
Cleander nodded, raising his eyebrows at the younger man.
‘Impressive discipline, Centurion. Accept my sympathy, if you will, and my respect for your stoicism. You’re an example to some other members of the imperial establishment.’ He looked pointedly across the box to where Julianus stood wringing his hands. ‘If a certain procurator isn’t careful, he’ll find another man occupying his office. You’d think he’d be happy, given the fact that I gave him permission to place a few thousand on his own man, but apparently his lanista is convinced that Flamma will rip Velox apart in short order, agreement to take the final dive or no. What do you think, Centurion? After all, you know him best of anyone here?’
Marcus stared at him bleakly for a moment before finding his voice, the words numb in his mouth.
‘The Flamma who taught me to fight was a man of the greatest honour, and I see no change in him despite the brevity of our reunion. If he says that he’ll lose the bout, then you can be assured that he’ll die here this afternoon.’
Cleander nodded.
‘As I thought. Certainly the man gave me no indication of anything but the strongest of intentions to go through with his offer. It’ll be over soon enough and we’ll all be able to get on with our business, me to running the empire and you two gentlemen to defending its frontiers. I have something in mind for-’
A blare of trumpets interrupted him, and the three men turned to stare down at the arena’s sand as the referee led out a pair of lightly armoured figures. Both men were wearing a manica on their right arms with the mail-sleeve-secured straps running to a heavy leather pauldron on their left shoulders. Velox had chosen to fight bare chested, while Flamma had donned a light mail shirt to provide some protection against the edges of his opponent’s swords. Both men had eschewed a helmet, their heads left bare to grant them the breadth of vision necessary for the fluid fighting style of the dimachaerus, and each had a pair of swords strapped to their waists on wide leather belts. Flanked by an honour guard of a dozen spearmen with brightly plumed helmets and shining breastplates, they strode out towards the arena’s centre, gazes fixed forward as if neither was willing to recognise the other’s presence. The announcer was struggling to be heard over the crowd’s sudden deafening roar of appreciation, and after two futile attempts at introducing the bout, he fell silent, waiting as the two men strode out across the clean white sand. At some prearranged signal they stopped, both turning to acknowledge the crowd’s fevered applause with raised arms. After several moments of shouting and clapping, the crowd gradually fell silent in the face of their heroes’ patient inactivity, allowing the announcer to make another attempt. Raising his voice to a hoarse bellow, he shouted his scripted introduction to the fight over the audience’s continuing hubbub.
‘Beloved Caesar! Noble senators! Roman gentlemen! Citizens! People of Rome! The Flavian Arena bids you welcome to this, the third day of the Roman Games! Today we are doubly blessed by the presence of the two greatest fighters of our age!’
The hysteria erupted again, and the two gladiators once more raised their arms to acknowledge their respective supporters.
‘Fighting for the Dacian Ludus, the current champion gladiator, a man with the proud record of never having been wounded in all his career!’ The announcer paused portentously, allowing the fact of Velox’s apparent invincibility to sink in. ‘The master of carnage! The fastest man with two swords in the city of Rome and with nineteen victorious fights to his record and no draws or defeats! Citizens, I give you … Velox!’
The crowd went wild, and looking around the arena Marcus realised that a good three-quarters of them were on their feet and waving their fists in support of the champion. Velox stepped forward and raised his hands for a third time, turning a circle to salute every side of the packed stadium before stepping back and lowering them to his sides, close to the hilts of his swords.
‘The Champion’s opponent this afternoon needs little introduction! A hero of the recent past, the greatest gladiator of our time, with the record of thirty-eight victories and one draw …’
‘And that was a fix!’
The anonymous shout from the crowd drew a gale of laughter, and Flamma bowed to the side of the arena from which the interjection had been thrown, his face clearly fixed in a broad grin.
‘He looks rather more happy than I’d expect from a man facing his end.’
Scaurus turned to look at the chamberlain, seeing the calculation in his expression.
‘You’d be surprised, Chamberlain. Sometimes it’s easier for a man to accept certain death than to strive for life in the face of overwhelming odds.’
If Cleander had been minded to reply, the announcer beat him to it.
‘Citizens, welcome back to the Flavian Arena, an old favourite … Flamma the Great!’
The eruption of noise was little less violent than that which had echoed from the arena’s high walls a moment before, the crowd clearly expressing a genuine fondness for the veteran gladiator, who turned a swift circle with one hand in the air to acknowledge their sentiment. Waiting until the applause had died down to a gentle roar, the referee stepped forward, waving away the customary escort of his hulking bodyguard and the slaves who usually flanked him with hot iron to encourage the fighters to commence their brutal entertainment, as Velox and Flamma unsheathed their weapons.
‘Quite right too!’ The Tungrians and Cleander looked over to where the emperor had been lounging on his couch to find him up on his feet and leaning over the balcony, clearly brimming with enthusiasm. ‘These two men don’t need to be driven to fight!’ The two gladiators bowed to the emperor, each of them spontaneously raising his swords in salute, and Commodus turned to address his court. ‘The two most talented dimachieri in living history are about to fight to the death for my entertainment! How thrilling!’
Cleander shared a wry smile with Scaurus.
‘As I said, he’s rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.’
They watched as the referee spoke to the two fighters briefly, Velox bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he stared at Flamma with a deadly intent that was evident even at fifty paces. With an exaggerated gesture for the fight to begin, the official stepped backwards, and with a lunge the younger man went for his opponent, his swords flashing in the sunlight as he set about his assault. For a moment it seemed that not even the Flamma of Marcus’s memory could resist the terrible speed and purpose in the younger man’s attack. That Flamma would have danced away from his opponent’s swords so lightly that he would have appeared to float across the sand, ready to turn his fleeting retreat into a vicious scything counter-attack, but the intervening years had evidently gnawed hard on his body. Marcus winced in anticipation as Velox slapped aside the sword that the older man had raised to parry his strike, stabbing forward with an audacity born of his apparent supreme confidence. The crowd held its collective breath for a moment, then gasped in amazement.