A Gladiator Dies Only Once (18 page)

We also debated the degree and nature of Cleon’s perfidy. When he saw Mulciber’s dead body, was Cleon so stunned by the enormity of what he had done—driven a lovesick man to suicide—that he went about his business in a sort of stupor, attending the games and performing his athletic feats like an automaton? Or was he so cold that he felt nothing? Or, as Eco argued in an extremely convoluted series of gestures, did Mulciber’s fatal demonstration of lovesick devotion actually stimulate Cleon in some perverse way, inflating his ego and inspiring him to excel as never before at the games?

Whatever his private thoughts, instead of grieving, Cleon blithely went off and won his laurel crown, leaving Mulciber to spin in midair and Cleio to plot her vengeance. In a fit of grief she cut off her hair. The sight of her reflection in Mulciber’s atrium pool gave her the idea to pass as a boy; an ill-fitting tunic from the tutor’s wardrobe completed her disguise. She carried a knife with her to the gymnasium, the same one she had used to cut her hair, and was prepared to stab her brother in front of his friends. But it turned out that she didn’t need the knife. By chance—or guided by Eros—she found her way into the courtyard, where the statue presented itself as the perfect murder weapon.

As far as Cleio was concerned, the statue’s role in the crime constituted proof that she acted not only with the god’s approval but as an instrument of his will. This pious argument had so far, at least as of our leaving Neapolis, stayed Sosistrides from punishing her. I did not envy the poor merchant. With his wife and son dead, could he bear to snuff out the life of his only remaining offspring, even for so great a crime? And yet, how could he bear to let her live, knowing she had murdered his beloved son? Such a conundrum would test the wisdom of Athena!

Eco and I debated, too, the merits of Mulciber’s poetry. I had begged of Sosistrides a copy of the tutor’s farewell, so that I could ponder it at my leisure:

Savage, sullen boy, whelp of a lioness,

Stone-hearted and scornful of love,

I give you a lover’s ring—my noose!

No longer be sickened by the sight of me;

I go to the only place that offers solace

To the broken-hearted: oblivion!

But will you not stop and weep for me,

If only for one moment. . .

The poem continued for many more lines, veering between recrimination, self-pity, and surrender to the annihilating power of love.

Hopelessly sentimental! More cloying than honey! The very worst sort of dreck,
pronounced Eco, with a series of gestures so sweeping that he nearly fell from his horse. I merely nodded, and wondered if my son would feel the same in another year or so, after Eros had wounded him with a stray arrow or two and given him a clearer notion, from personal experience, of just how deeply the god of love can pierce the hearts of helpless mortals.

A GLADIATOR DIES
ONLY ONCE

“A beautiful day for it,” I said begrudgingly. Cicero nodded and squinted up at the filtered red sunlight that penetrated the awning above our seats. Below, in the arena, the first pair of gladiators strode across the sand to meet each other in combat.

The month was Junius, at the beginning of what promised to be a long, hot summer. The blue sky and undulating green hills were especially beautiful here in the Etrurian countryside outside the town of Saturnia, where Cicero and I, traveling separately from Rome, had arrived the day before to attend the funeral of a local magistrate. Sextus Thorius had been struck down in the prime of life, thrown from his horse while riding down the Clodian Way to check on the progress of a slave gang doing repair work on the road. The next day, word of his demise reached Rome, where quite a few important persons had felt obligated to attend the funeral.

Earlier that morning, not a few of the senators and bankers who gathered to watch the funeral procession had raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gordianus the Finder among them; feeling the beady gaze of a prune-faced matron on me, I distinctly overheard her whisper to her husband, “What’s
he
doing here? Does someone suspect foul play at work in the death of Sextus Thorius?” But Cicero, when he caught sight of me, smiled grimly and moved to join me, and asked no questions. He knew why I had come. A few years ago, facing the prospect of a ruinous business scandal, Thorius had consulted Cicero for legal advice, and Cicero had sent Thorius to me to get to the bottom of the affair. In the end, both scandal and litigation were averted. Thorius had rewarded me generously, and had subsequently sent quite a bit of business my way. The least I could do on the occasion of his death was to pack my best toga, spend the night at a seedy inn in Saturnia, and show up at his funeral.

We had followed the procession of musicians, hired mourners and family members to the little necropolis outside Saturnia, where, after a few speeches of remembrance, Thorius’s remains had been set alight atop a funeral pyre. At the soonest opportunity to do so without seeming impolite, I had turned to leave, eager to start back to Rome, when Cicero caught my arm.

“Surely you’re not leaving yet, Gordianus. We must stay for the funeral games.”

“Games?” I meant to load the word with irony, but Cicero took the question in my voice literally.

“There’s to be a gladiator show, of course. It’s not as if Thorius was a nobody. His family wasn’t rich, but they’ll have spent whatever they can afford, I’m sure.”

“I hate watching gladiators,” I said bluntly.

“So do I. But they’re a part of the funeral, no less than the procession and the eulogies. One has to stay.”

“I’m not in the mood to see blood spilled.”

“But if you leave now, people will notice,” he said, lowering his voice. “You can’t afford to have them think you’re squeamish, Gordianus. Not in your line of work.”

I glanced at the faces around us, lit by the funeral pyre. The prune-faced matron was among them, along with her husband and numerous others from the same social set back in Rome. Much as I might hate to admit it, I was dependent on the trust and good will of such people, the sort who had occasion to call on my services and means to pay for them. I ferreted out the truth, and in return they put bread on my table.

“But I have to get back to Rome,” I protested. “I can’t afford another night at that seedy inn.”

“Then you’ll stay with me,” said Cicero. “I have accommodations with a local banker. Good food. Comfortable beds.” He raised an eyebrow.

Why did Cicero want so badly for me to stay? It occurred to me that he was the squeamish one. To watch the gladiators, he wanted the company of someone who wouldn’t needle him about his squeamishness, as so many of his social equals were likely to do.

Begrudgingly, I acquiesced, and so found myself, that fine afternoon in Junius, seated in a wooden amphitheater constructed especially for the funeral games to honor the passing of Sextus Thorius of Saturnia. Since I was with Cicero, I had been admitted into the more exclusive section of seats beneath the shade of the blood-red awning, along with the bereaved family, various local dignitaries, and important visitors from Rome. The local villagers and farmers sat in the sun-drenched seats across from ours. They wore brimmed hats for shade and waved brightly colored fans. For a brief moment, bemused by the fluttering fans, I had the illusion that the crowd had been covered by a swarm of huge butterflies flapping their wings.

There were to be three matches, all fought to the death. Any less than three would have seemed parsimonious on the part of the family. Any more would have begun to look ostentatious, and added to the cost. As Cicero had said, the family of Sextus Thorius, while eminently respectable, was not rich.

The three pairs of gladiators were paraded before us. Helmets hid their faces, but they were easy to tell apart by their different armor and their contrasting physiques. One stood out from all the rest because of his coloration, a Nubian whose muscular arms and legs shone beneath the hot sun like burnished ebony. As the fighters strode before us, each raised his weapon. The crowd responded with polite cheering, but I overheard two men behind us complaining:

“Pretty obscure outfit. Owned by some freedman from Ravenna, I’m told; fellow called Ahala. Never heard of him!”

“Me neither. How did the family settle on this crew? Probably came cheap. Still, I suppose the Nubian’s something of a novelty . . .”

There followed the ritual inspection of weapons for sharpness and armor for soundness, performed by the local magistrate in charge of the games, then the gladiators departed from the arena. The magistrate invoked the gods and delivered yet another eulogy to Sextus Thorius. A few moments later, to a blare of trumpets, a pair of gladiators reemerged and the first bout commenced. The shorter, stockier fighter was outfitted in the Thracian manner with a small round shield and a short sword. His tall, lumbering opponent wore heavier Samnite armor and carried an oblong shield.

“Samnite versus Thracian—a typical match,” noted Cicero, who often fell to lecturing when he was uneasy or nervous. “Did you know that the very first gladiatorial matches took place right here in Etruria? Oh, yes; we Romans inherited the custom from the Etruscans. They began by sacrificing captive warriors before the funeral pyres of their leaders—” Cicero gave a start as the sword of the Samnite struck one of the iron bosses on the shield of the Thracian with a resounding clang, then he cleared his throat and continued. “Eventually, instead of simply strangling the captives, the Etruscans decided to have them fight each other, allowing the victors to live. We Romans took up the custom, and so developed the tradition of death matches at the funerals of great men. Of course, nowadays, anyone who was anyone must be honored with games at his funeral. I’ve even heard of gladiator matches at the funerals of prominent women! The result is a tremendous demand for fresh gladiators. You still see captive warriors among them, but more and more often they’re simply slaves who’ve been trained to fight, or sometimes convicted criminals—murderers who’d otherwise be executed, or thieves who’d rather take a chance in the arena than have a hand chopped off.”

Below us, the Thracian thrust past the Samnite’s shield and scored a glancing cut across the man’s sword-arm. Blood sprinkled the sand. Cicero shuddered.

“Ultimately, one should remember that it’s a religious occasion,” he noted primly, “and the people must have their religion. And quite candidly, I don’t mind watching a death match if both the combatants are convicted criminals. Then at least there’s something instructive about the bloodletting. Or even if the fighters are captured warriors; that can be instructive as well, to take a good look at our enemies and to see how they fight, and to celebrate the favor of the gods, who’ve put us in the stands and them down there in the arena. But more and more the trend is to have trained slaves do the fighting—”

The tall Samnite, after a staggering retreat under the Thracian’s relentless assault, suddenly rallied and managed to score a solid thrust at the other’s flank. Blood spattered the sand. From behind his helmet the Thracian let out a cry and staggered back.

Behind us, the two men who had earlier complained now both roared with excitement:

“That’s how to turn the tables! You’ve got him now, Samnite!”

“Make the little fellow squeal again!”

Cicero fidgeted in his seat and cast a disapproving glance behind us, then looked sidelong at the young woman seated next to him. She was watching the bout with narrowed eyes, one hand touching her parted lips and the other patting her heaving bosom. Cicero looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “And then there’s the unwhole-some glamour which these gladiators exert on certain women—and on more than a few men, as well, I’m sad to say. The whole culture has gone gladiator-mad! Roman boys play at being gladiators instead of generals, Roman ladies swoon whenever they see one, and do you know, I’ve even heard of Roman citizens who’ve volunteered to fight as gladiators themselves. And not just for the money—although I understand even some slaves are paid handsomely if they can survive and make a name for themselves—but for some sort of perverse thrill. I can’t begin to imagine—”

His objection was abruptly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. The stocky Thracian had rallied and was once again relentlessly pushing the taller Samnite back. Sword clanged against sword, until the Samnite, tripping, fell backwards. The Thracian stepped onto the shield the Samnite had drawn over his chest, pinning the man down. He pressed the tip of his sword against the Samnite’s wind-pipe. The Samnite released his sword and instinctively grasped the blade, then drew back his hand, flinging blood from the cuts across his fingers.

The Samnite had been worsted. From behind the visor of his helmet, the triumphant Thracian scanned the stands, looking to the crowd for judgment. Following the ancient custom, those who thought the Samnite should be spared would produce handkerchiefs and wave them, while those who wanted to see him put to death would raise their fists in the air. Here and there I saw a few fluttering handkerchiefs, all but submerged in a sea of clenched fists.