The crowd held its breath.
Abruptly it turned to point at the ground.
The shouts that went up exceeded all those that had gone before. It was time for the loser to die.
'Get up.'
Narcissus managed to kneel with difficulty. The wound on his right shoulder began to bleed heavily.
'Take off your helmet.' Brennus lowered his voice. 'It will give me a clean swing. Send you straight to Elysium.'
The murmillo moaned as the battered metal came off. His nose had been reduced to a bloody pulp, the cheekbones crushed inwards. It was an agonising wound and there was a loud gasp of shock and pleasure from those watching.
'Aesculapius himself could not fix that,' said Brennus.
Narcissus nodded and looked at Caesar. 'Those who are about to die, salute you,' he mumbled. The Greek smacked his chest with a clenched fist and extended the quivering left arm forward.
The editor acknowledged his pledge.
Silence took hold of the Forum.
Quickly Brennus stepped back and gripped the longsword's hilt with both hands. The Gaul's chest and arm muscles stood out as he half turned, swinging from the hip. Narcissus' head was swept clean off his shoulders by the blow. It flew spinning through the air, landing with a wet thump. Blood gushed from the neck; the torso fell twitching to the ground. The sand absorbed the red liquid, leaving a dark stain around the murmillo.
The people went wild.
Caesar gestured. 'Let the victor approach.'
Brennus walked slowly towards the nobles, trying to ignore the delighted roars of the crowd. It was hard to resist the adulation. The Gaul was a warrior and enjoyed combat. Coins, pieces of fruit, even a wineskin showered down. He stooped to pick up the bag and took a large mouthful of wine.
Caesar smiled down generously. 'Another great victory, mighty Brennus.'
The Gaul half bowed, sweat-streaked pigtails falling forward on to his bare chest.
Is this the journey you meant, Ultan? To end up as a performing animal for these bastards?
'A worthy prize!' Caesar raised a heavy leather purse and tossed it through the air.
'Thank you, great one.' Brennus bowed more deeply, sweeping up his reward at the same time. He weighed the bag in his bloodstained hand. There was a lot of money in it, which only made him feel worse.
Behind him, the figure dressed as Charon, the ferryman across the River Styx, had entered the arena, clad from head to toe in black leather, a mask concealing his face. A large hammer dangling from one hand, he paced towards Narcissus' head as screams of mock horror went up from the audience. The hammer, visibly encrusted with blood and matted hair, rose high in the air. Swinging it downwards, the ferryman split Narcissus' skull like an egg, proving the murmillo was truly dead. It was time for the Greek's journey to Hades.
Brennus turned away. He still believed that brave men went to Elysium, the warriors' paradise. He found the Roman ritual with Charon disgusting and had sworn it would not happen to him. And the option of allowing himself to be slain, ending the torture, went totally against his nature. Deep inside, Brennus clung to a tiny strand of hope. It meant continuing to kill men he had no quarrel with, but the pragmatic warrior had come to regard competitions as defending his own life. Kill or be killed, he thought bitterly. Hunting with Brac, lying with his wife and playing with his child were all distant memories now. They seemed almost unreal.
He tried to bring back an image of Ultan's face, the sound of his voice.
The druid had never said anything about journeying to this. After five years, it was hard not to lose faith in the gods. In Belenus, who had guided him since childhood.
Ultan had spoken of the destiny awaiting him as something incredible. This could not be it. Brennus steeled his resolve, ignoring the arena's noise. The Gaul did not know how, but he would escape captivity.
I am the last Allobroge, he thought. I will face death as a free man. With a sword in my hand.
'Put some effort into it!' The trainer knew how to encourage Romulus. 'Imagine it's Gemellus!'
The young man had lived up to the anger and promise shining in his eyes when he'd first been brought in. Cotta had seen many slaves enter the school, wretches whose will broke under the iron discipline. But Romulus held a burning rage inside, fuelled by the guilt about Juba and his family.
Romulus shifted his grip on the hilt and swung hard against the palus. The wooden sword and shield were both far heavier than the real thing. His arm juddered as the weapon connected with the thick stake.
'More like it. Now do it again.' Cotta smiled briefly. 'You can rest tonight.' He moved away to watch two other gladiators.
'Shield up. Forward thrust. Step back.' Romulus repeated the words just as he had with Juba, only a few months before. Thoughts of the Nubian came less and less. The ludus' harsh regime had driven almost everything other than survival from Romulus' mind. Only the most precious memories of his mother and Fabiola appeared readily now. Those and his guilt about that last fateful day. Life might have been so different if he had not asked Juba to train him with a sword.
The image of Gemellus was burnt indelibly into his soul.
'Wait. Watch. Turn. Backhand slash.' Deftly Romulus spun and hacked the palus, imagining the merchant's face crease in agony as the blade struck.
'Good work.'
His trainer was a former mercenary who had been captured by the Romans fifteen years previously. Military training had helped him survive longer than most. Finally granted his freedom, Cotta had stayed on at the Ludus Magnus. Romulus had been awestruck when he heard the story of Cotta's last combat. Overcoming more than six opponents, it had been a trial of extraordinary endurance. The dictator Marius had been so impressed that he had freed the secutor on the spot.
A Libyan of average height, Cotta was still fit and lean, although well over forty. His left arm was half paralysed, a legacy of the day he had won the rudis, a wooden sword symbolising freedom. He was feared and respected by almost all gladiators in the ludus. Even Memor stopped to watch occasionally when the grey-haired veteran was training his men.
'I've liked you ever since the branding,' said Cotta. 'Most scream when the iron hits.'
Romulus looked at the red, puckered marks on his upper right arm, reading 'L M' and marking him as the property of the Ludus Magnus. The pain of the red-hot metal had been almost unbearable, yet somehow he had managed not to cry out, ignoring the agony and the stench of searing flesh. Like his vow of obedience, the process had been a vital test of courage.
'Something told me to pick you,' the old gladiator said approvingly. 'A cut above the usual rabble.'
Romulus was lucky to have Cotta, to be training as a heavily armed secutor. He had a much better chance of surviving than a lowly retiarius, the most likely choice for a thirteen-year-old. When they arrived in the ludus, men were picked for each fighting class by size, strength and skill with weapons. Few would have seen enough potential in Romulus. It took months of hard instruction to produce a trained gladiator, ready for combat. He mouthed a swift prayer of thanks to Jupiter, promising to make an offering later at the shrine in his cell.
'Memor wants you ready in a month. Stand a good chance by practising like that.' Cotta jerked a thumb at the group of retiarii in the far corner of the yard. 'He 'll probably put you up against a fisherman. And not a novice either.' He winked. 'That'd be far too easy. More sport for the crowd watching a rookie secutor fighting a crafty old retiarius.'