Читать книгу Atilus the Gladiator - E. C. Tubb - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

Heraculis came running to meet me as I walked through the Gate of Life. The wine he carried was welcome and I drank it after throwing him my helmet. On the way to the preparation room he babbled, ‘A good fight, master, but twice I thought the gods had summoned you for their own. Yet my prayers were answered and you survived.’

I made no answer, sitting on a bench as he removed the greave. The man was a mongrel, with the traces of mixed parentage blended in his face and eyes. A small, wizened man who at times looked like an ancient monkey. His name was a joke, one he had adopted, I guessed, as a compensation for his diminutive size. A slave who had been offered for sale after taking one too many liberties with his master. I had bought him cheap and at times regretted it.

Now, as he swabbed the dust and sweat from my body with a sponge, I heard the sudden sharp intake of his breath.

‘A near thing, master.’ I felt a twinge of pain as his fingers pressed at a point to the side of my neck. ‘A cut,’ he explained. ‘Nothing serious, but had it been an inch to one side, you and not Leacus would have been dragged from the sand.’

A near miss: one of the barbs glancing from my armoured shoulder had torn the flesh. A minor wound which would probably heal without leaving a scar, for which I was grateful. Most gladiators were proud of their wounds, displaying their scars as a legionary showed his medallions, but I was not one of them. Scars I had, no fighter could escape them, but the one on my left cheek, the others on side and shoulder, the cicatrices on my thighs, were enough.

As Heraculis reached for gum to plug the gash I said, ‘Leave it. It will heal faster left exposed.’

‘As you wish, master.’ His shrug was expressive. ‘But don’t blame me if it festers.’

‘It won’t.’

‘I shall burn incense to the gods of healing to make sure of that, master. Another sacrifice to add to the others I have made on your behalf.’ Slyly he added, ‘It hasn’t been easy. Even a few sesterces is a large sum to a poor slave.’

‘You can afford it.’

‘But how, master?’ His hands spread in a gesture born in the east. ‘Am I a freedman to be paid a wage? Where would I get money to call my own?’

‘From me,’ I said bluntly. ‘From the extra you add to the bills, and from the bribes you take from those asking questions as to my prospect of victory. Do you take me for an idiot?’

‘Master, you are wisdom personified! How could any mortal man hope to delude you? Perhaps a few coins have come my way from those interested in your progress, but they have been well spent, master. And all I have is yours.’

The matter wasn’t worth pursuing. All slaves cheated as a matter of course, and Heraculis was an expert at the art. Now, as he fastened my sandals, he said, ‘The baths, master?’

‘The baths.’

Always after a fight I liked to wash, to remove the dirt and grime and to ease the tension of nerve and muscle. The sponging had helped, but hadn’t been enough, and the amphitheatre, poorly equipped, offered nothing better than a tub of sun-warmed water, oil, and pumice. And, if Aricia had nothing else to commend it, the baths were superb.

They were of stone faced with marble, the gift of a rich merchant who had dedicated them to the god Augustus almost a century earlier. The attendants were mostly Greeks, young slaves deft and amiable. The unctores were skilled in their trade, supple fingers massaging aches from bone and sinew.

Heraculis had accompanied me as was his duty. Now he scowled at the attendants as he draped my discarded clothing over his arm.

‘Greeks,’ he muttered. ‘Have a care, master, such will sap your strength given half a chance.’

‘So?’

‘You’re prime bait for what they offer—but if you want to indulge, why waste your time on such as these? There are three men I could name who would pay well for your company. Two knights and—’

‘Watch your tongue, Heraculis!’

‘—a senator,’ he continued blandly. ‘Once, when the tines almost speared you, I saw one wince. Of them all, he would be the most generous.’

‘As I will be,’ I snapped, ‘with a whip unless you learn to mind your manners.’

‘Master, I apologise.’ His bow was a mockery. ‘Beat my old bones if it pleases you—but will my blood wash away the truth? A fighter like yourself, as handsome as Apollo and with a body to match: are men stone that they do not appreciate what they see? One night with the senator and you could gain as much as you won in the arena today.’

With a fat commission for himself, no doubt. I stared at him where he stood, then broke into a smile. The man was incorrigible, and it was proof of his cunning that he had managed to live so long. Old, without physical strength, he had used his brains and shrewdness to survive. A trait I could appreciate.

‘You’d sell me like a hunk of meat, Heraculis. You should have been a pander.’

‘Once, in Syria, master, I was. There I learned how to gain from the vices of men. Of women too,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘But the gods did not see fit to give me natural advantages and, well, luck was against me.’

Bad fortune in the shape of the legions, the uprising they quelled, his being taken among the captives sold as slaves. A thing we had in common.

‘Master?’

‘No.’ Greek love had never appealed to me. ‘I’ll be at least an hour. Go to the house of Senontius Papirus and collect our things. Find a lodging in some tavern.’

‘We are leaving, master?’

‘The house, yes.’ I’d already made my farewells and sensed that, perhaps, I’d stayed too long. Too long in the sense that I had begun to feel a stranger, and the wedding had firmed my decision. Delia, understanding, had been gentle. Sentonius, gruff, had agreed that it was time for me to move on. And he had dropped a hint which had confirmed a growing suspicion.

‘Be careful, Atilus,’ he’d said. ‘Some lanistae aren’t to be wholly trusted, but I don’t have to tell you that. I’ve nothing against Arrius Clemens, but, well, maybe you’ve been with him too long.’

A warning which I intended to take.

Naked, my body coated with scented olive oil, I went into the caladarium where Arrius sat relaxing in the heat. The lanista was a big, bulky man now running to fat, his body seamed with ancient scars. Once a gladiator, he had almost died from a wound which had forced him to limp for the rest of his life. Unable to fight, he had gathered a troupe of gladiators and now moved around the provinces with his familia. I had joined him almost a year ago.

‘Atilus!’ He gestured at me through a cloud of steam. ‘Sit beside me and take some of the ache from your bones. I know how it is.’

I sat beside him, breathing deeply, letting the heated vapour enter my lungs. Sweat mingled with the oil on my body, smarting a little as it stung the shallow wound.

‘You fought well,’ said Arrius. ‘Leacus was a good man and deserved better than he got. But what do you expect in places like this? Skill means nothing, all they want is blood.’

‘Couldn’t something have been arranged?’

‘I tried, but you know how Leacus was. Overconfident and his lanista wouldn’t co-operate. The man is a fool.’

And the loser because of it. The prize could have been shared, the charonian whose task it was to check the fallen and make certain they were dead could have been bribed to restrain the hammer with which he crushed the skulls of the wounded. A surface cut which provided plenty of blood, but which would have done no real harm, would have deluded the crowd. Leacus would have lived to fight again.

Perhaps he had expected to live. I remembered his dying gasp, the expression in his eyes as my sword had plunged home. But if an arrangement had been made, I’d known nothing of it.

Arrius rubbed an old scar. It writhed over the upper part of his right thigh and up halfway across his stomach. The wound which had crippled him for life.

‘Did I ever tell you how I got this?’ He pressed on without waiting for my answer. ‘A mistake I made at Pompeii during the time of Emperor Claudius. The god Claudius, I should say, since he was deified by the Senate. It was about the time he invaded Britain, which would make it,’ he paused, ‘thirteen years ago now.’

‘Sixteen,’ I corrected.

‘As long ago as that?’ Arrius shrugged. ‘Well, time flies as they say, but are you sure?’

I had reason to remember.

When the Romans had invaded Britain under the personal command of Claudius, I had been a boy of ten. A child of the Iceni who had stood with his mother in the stronghold at Brentwood with the assembled forces under Caractacus. The legions had beaten us and made Britain with its treasures a province of Rome. My mother had been raped and murdered. I had been taken captive and sold into slavery. A servitude which had lasted eleven years. Which had ended only when, as a gladiator-slave, I had won the rudis, Nero himself handing me the symbolical wooden sword, together with my freedom.

‘A mistake,’ said Arrius, determined to tell his story. ‘The worst I ever made. Take my advice, Atilus and never forget to sacrifice to the gods before entering the arena. I didn’t and, each time I take a step now, I’m reminded of my negligence by the gods I ignored. The gods and Malcenus.’

Again he rubbed at his scar and I wondered why he was telling me this. Talk, to some men, is a mask, a means to hide their thoughts. To others it is a weapon, a way to lull and to delude. We had never been close and I was suspicious of his sudden friendliness.

‘Malcenus,’ said Arrius. ‘He was one of a pair of postulati fighting in full armour, armed with a sword and lead mace and willing to take on all-comers with the weapons of their choice. I was a retiarius then, though you wouldn’t think it to see me now, and I was confident I could take him. Well, Malcenus was clever and built like a stone tower. Heavy but fast with it, and he used a curved sword like a sica, but longer. Something he’d had made for him in Damascus, and he certainly knew how to use it. I tried to wear him down, then finally had to go in. I managed to get the net over his head and, when he started to move, I thought it was all over. But he fooled me. Instead of falling, he followed the pull of the net and used that sword of his to slash the mesh. I did my best with the trident, but it was like poking a crab with a needle. Then he cut the shaft and I was left with nothing but a shred of net, a stick, and a dagger.’

He fell silent, thinking, remembering, his hand caressing the scar. To him the heat of the room had become the warmth of the sun, the murmur of conversation from those around us the scrape of sandals against sand, the yells coming from the tepidarium outside, where someone was having the hairs plucked from his body in the cooler room, became the shouting of the crowd.

A moment I respected and then, as he shuddered, said, ‘He got you?’

‘He got me.’ Arrius was grim. ‘He almost cut me in half, and I went down clutching my guts. The crowd was with me, thank the gods, and gave me life.’

The shouts of ie mittendum est! Let him live! I have heard it and knew how it felt. To a fighter down and helpless, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

Then, as Arrius moved, wincing, I wondered at the mercy he had been shown. Crippled, he could no longer fight, and gone forever were the days of complacent women and generous men. And only he could know of the pain he’d suffered as his wound slowly healed. How often during that time had he wished that he had been cleanly dispatched with a second blow?

‘And Malcenus?’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He fought for another three years and then retired to Egypt where he lived like a king until someone poisoned him.’ Arrius rose, stiffly. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go and cool off.’

Before we entered the frigidarium slaves scraped our skins with strigils, removing all the oil, dirt, and grease, then, after the cold plunge, we rested on couches while unctores massaged us with deft hands.

To Arrius I said, ‘What happens now?’

‘Where do we go next?’

‘Yes.’

He tensed a little and I could guess the reason. As a lanista he’d had a bad day, losing two pugiles and a Thracian. None had been of high quality, the boxers had been slow, and the Thracian little better than a tyro, but their loss had diminished his familia and so his potential income.

‘I’ve plans, Atilus,’ he said quickly. ‘We could head south to Puteoli or Misenum. And I’ve word of a big munera to be held at Tarentum.’

It was even further south and well away from Rome. Once it would have suited me, but I’d had enough of second-rate amphitheatres and cheaply run displays. For almost five years I had moved around, fighting where and when I could, risking my life for small fees and trifling prizes. A necessary precaution at first, but now it was time to change my habits.

‘Of course the real money is in Rome,’ mused Arrius. ‘But what chance would I have against the Imperial Schools? They can turn out all the fighters needed. Cheap slaves used as fast as they are trained. I’ve got owners to consider, those who have given me charge of their gladiators, and others, freedmen like yourself. But don’t worry, Atilus. I’ll look after you.’

‘I’m not worried. I’m leaving.’

‘What!’ He reared upright, knocking aside the masseur. ‘Leave? You can’t!’

‘Why not?’ I was cold. ‘I’m not a slave to be bought and sold. You don’t own me.’

‘No, but—Atilus! Why?’

The answer was on his face, a blend of greed and anger, a taut desperation coupled with hate. To him I was nothing but a man to be used. Already, perhaps, he had arranged to gain from my end, agreeing with those who were interested in winning high wagers to feed me some compound which would take the edge off my skill, opium or some other insidious drug.

I had seen it happen to others.

In Ferentis a myrmillo, popular, heavily backed, had been drugged with the juice of henbane given to him in wine sweetened with honey. He had died on the sand, eyes glazed, mouth gaping, unaware even at the end what had happened to him. In Luceria cantharidea had been given to a cruppellarius who, crazed by the overdose of potent aphrodisiac, had fallen easy prey to a Thracian despite his heavy, protective cuirass.

‘Atilus!’ Arrius was pleading. ‘Don’t leave me like this. At least give me a chance to replace you. One more fight, at least. Just one. Atilus, please, you can grant me that.’

‘One fight?’

‘Yes. The last. I promise.’

‘I know.’ I looked at his face, the lines, the greed. ‘That’s why I’m leaving you, Arrius. The next time I fight, I hope to win.’

Heraculis was waiting and deftly he helped me to dress, nose sniffing as if he were a dog examining a bone.

‘No perfume,’ he said. ‘That’s good, master. The rubbish they use in these places is enough to turn a decent man’s stomach. We don’t want to create the wrong impression, do we?’ He squealed as my hand closed around his throat. ‘Master!’

‘What have you been up to, you worm?’

‘Nothing, master, I swear it.’ He coughed as I released him, one hand rubbing his scrawny neck. He wasn’t hurt and I knew it, but it pleased him to act as if he was. ‘I bear a message, that’s all.’

‘From a man?’

‘From a woman, master.’ He leered. ‘An admirer, shall we say? One of your amatores. She waits for you in the domus of Cossus Bassius.’