Colosseum (10 page)

The building site at the Amphitheater itself is a metaphor for the complexity of life in the city. Four contracting companies keep everything going. Each one is responsible for a specific area of construction—one lays the foundations, another builds a given row of arches, another takes care of drains—and yet every single sodding day brings open war, aimed at expanding the personal dominion of each contractor. Each businessman is fighting on two fronts: on the one hand he must carry out his own work quickly, and if possible, better than his competitors. On the other, he must keep his eyes open and defend himself from his rivals' attacks. It is by no means uncommon to set up night patrols to keep an eye on tools and materials. Last week all of Quintus's chisels disappeared, and the contractor had to invest some of his earnings to buy new ones. The problem is that two hundred new chisels do not simply spring out of a blacksmith's forge from one day to the next. So the work in Quintus's sector ground to a halt for a good while.

It is a safe bet that rumors of the delay have reached the ears of the Emperor's minions. Quintus will have problems and soon—very soon—he will be out looking for revenge.

Verus's new master Lucius Mangalus is a tight-lipped man. He loves his profession and never loses sight of his investment: he is always the first on site and the last to check that the slaves' cages are properly locked before leaving with the free workers. He has a snake's eyes, and resembles some of those engravings that Verus used to polish as a boy in his old master's workshop: merciless beasts that wait patiently, crawling along the floor of the abyss. And attacking ferociously when the time is right, showing their prey no quarter. Not even a last breath.

Lucius is the same, icy blood rolling through his veins one beat at a time. The watchful eyes of one who knows that it is worth biding your time if you really want to hurt someone. His men have a delicate task. The entire Amphitheater has been raised in just nine years, an authentic miracle. Thanks to the booty of the Jewish War, Vespasian was able to simply
imagine
the future without worrying about the cost: the greatest arena in the known world. A stadium that will become the model for every building like it, to the four corners of the Earth, a behemoth of stone, ingenuity, and sweat. But every giant requires solid feet on which to stand tall and challenge the sky. Which was why so much time was spent discussing the foundations before building work began. The architects of the Empire scoured Vespasian's dominions before they found the right man for the job. Lucius Mangalus, known as the Mole for his expertise with subsoil, has been dealing in excavations and pillars since before the Emperor was even been promoted to the rank of officer in the Roman army. Persuading him to leave his Mantua for the Eternal City had been neither easy nor cheap. And, when the Mole had arrived in the city, he had soon found himself surrounded by enemies. The moment word got around regarding his payment, the other contractors—born in Rome and naturally wary of outsiders—initiated a campaign of splenetic, bilious attacks on his operation.

Within a few months of the commencement of works, the first forays against the master builder began. But he was not one to be easily intimidated, and responded to the harassments with an iron fist. On more than one occasion the army had to intervene in order to quell the pitched battles that broke out.

Then, as the years passed, the four sovereigns of the building site learned that war, especially when it is waged in your own backyard, is bad for business. Certain areas of responsibility have therefore been established where no one else trespasses: the Mole gets the foundations, most of the pillars and the metal joints; Quintus takes care of decoration and squaring off the stones; Maximus Zarus does scaffolding, support structures, artificial buttresses, and stabilizing wedges—anything wooden that was needed on site, in other words; and finally there is Lentulus, a wide-ranging entrepreneur who looks on building as merely a good economic return—a lover of diversified investments, he receives a sizable chunk of the earnings made by the city's brothels—who takes care of anything that has to do with water or sand.

With work almost completed, a few small pockets of dissatisfaction remain, opening up opportunities for individual contractors to knock out their competitors during the final sprint towards delivery of the Amphitheater.

It happened to Quintus, and it could happen to the Mole too: that is why the latter has been up half the night thinking about it. He did not sleep much, and shortly before dawn he summoned his men. Specialist workers and slaves sit silently before their master, eyelids still crusted with sleep and a bad feeling at the pit of their empty stomachs.

The Mole does not mince his words: he says that nobody must allow himself to be taken advantage of. Weakness is the worst building material of all.

The Mantuan names Zara as the author of the attack on Quintus, and swears that the bastard is about to try the same thing on him. An old foreman dares to ask permission to speak and, when it is granted, asks his boss submissively what proof he has to back up what he says. The carpenter, named Marius, is a freedman. He works on contract to put food on the table, but at night he sleeps in his own bed, on the sixth floor of a decent
insula
not far from the Forums. He is not a forced worker, a slave or a damned
cliens
. But the Mole has him whipped all the same, for daring to doubt his word.

It is the duty of Verus to thrash the innocent man's back, in front of everyone.

The Mole is not a sadist: he inflicts punishments such as this in order to cement his power in place, just as he pours molten lead onto foundations to render them indestructible.

It is politics, nothing more.

And at times politics is a filthy business, Verus knows all too well.

Waves of nausea rise in his stomach as he flagellates his friend, whispering “Forgive me…” with each blow.

The other grits his teeth, telling him it does not matter, that it his fault for speaking. In the meantime he weeps and bleeds; in truth, there is little else he can do.

Having regained the attention of his audience, the Mole announces his intentions and, less than fifteen hours later, as night once more envelops the just and the less just alike, a handful of armed men march confidently towards Zara's stores of timber. Verus is one of them: as a slave, if he dared refuse, the punishment would be a damned sight worse than a whipping. Verus does not exist, he is little more than an object, a commodity of muscles, blood and a will of iron sustain him, but not even the unconscious hours he spends in sleep belong to him.

The group moves boldly towards the towering pile of timber, as defenseless as a virgin on her wedding night. A carefully hidden torch is brought forth, its head of rags and oil is set aflame. Verus and the others drench the timber with tar, and the last man sets fire to it.

The flames climb slowly, as though they too hope not to be noticed. Verus feels his heart break in two. He does not understand. What is the damned sense of it? Destroying instead of creating? Razing the foundations to the soil so that the giant is left lying in the sand?

Politics is a filthy business.

It is all filthy: business, toil, riches.

Verus's life.

Sooner or later, you have to let the anger out.

Verus returns to his bunk along with his companions. He does not even pretend to be asleep as the alarm is raised all around him. Troops of
vigiles
—responsible not just for upholding law and order but for putting out fires as well—are running about outside the site. He hears shouts and calls. The cage is opened and the Briton rushes off to lend a hand. To try to atone for the guilt of the fire with the strength of his arms.

An entire cohort commanded by a prefect has already formed up and is unleashing a barrage on the flames with rags and siphons: wet blankets and leather hoses attached to hand pumps, a weak but constant jet, the smoke slowly rising.

The tar has seeped quickly into the wood and the flames grow in intensity.

More fire, damn it.

The damned fire of destiny.

Verus's throat is filled with smoke, but he does not let the hose fall from his grip. Only when they insist does he release it and start passing pails overflowing with water. Sweat and dedication are what is needed, and before dawn the fire has been tamed.

The red death of fire has returned once again.

Once again it tried to take everything with it.

Verus decides, in the moment that the pyre is definitively reduced to ash, that something must change, or it will all be over. On a morning of black wind and pink sky, he promises the boy he ceased to be long ago that the future will be different.

He does not know that, in the space of just a few dawns and a dozen or so sunsets, his life will be ready to change course yet again.

Perhaps it is the place, perhaps the company, or the anticipation that accompanies the last stretch of work, but the only topic of conversation on the site seems to be games and gladiators. Verus can feel the excitement growing within him day after day; he is thrilled by mystical tales of helmets, swords and bracers. It is as though an opening has suddenly appeared in the solid wall that is his life. He feels he can glimpse something beyond it. And that
something
is clothed in iron, sand, and honor.

He exchanges a few words, every now and then, even with the blond man with the eyes of ice, whose name is Priscus. While nobody is quite sure about how he ended up at the Amphitheater, there is no doubt he is a Gaul; his accent gives him away. He is part of Verus's work team, which receives its orders from the Mole. Priscus is likewise a slave, but everyday life seems to leave him indifferent. He does his duty with neither enthusiasm nor any great effort; he can pass hours smoothing down stones, gaze fixed to the ground, and continue working until dusk without opening his mouth or taking a break, except to sip water from a wooden cup. And then loses himself in the deepest sleep Verus has ever seen.

For his part, the Briton is prey to periods of excitement that he is powerless to contain. When one of the foremen downs his club and launches into a rant about the comforts enjoyed by gladiators, Verus cannot help but listen, his pulse speeding unbidden, his eyes filled with hope.

“Even the sons of equestrians and senators fight for the chance to spit blood in the arena, to earn a place of honor in the
familia gladiatoria
, do you believe that?”

Priscus raises his eyes from his work. It seems impossible that he might want to say something: “That lot fight using a
rudius
, a wooden sword. They hardly ever actually fight a match. And, if they do, they always win: it's all staged, they make me sick. I've seen women fight with more courage than that scum…”

The foreman respects him, and perhaps he is also a little afraid of the giant from Gaul. But he does not like to be made to look like an idiot in front of his men.

“And what do you say of the
auctorati
? Free men like me, in search of honor and glory! They decide to dedicate their lives to the noble art of iron in exchange for few certainties and a great deal of pain! ” the foreman chides him.

Priscus shakes his head, this time he does not bother to raise his head from the stone he is flaying, one hammer blow at a time. He answers without even looking him in the eye: “You call it
glory
, Odonus. I call it
poverty
. Or
desperation
, if you like. Better to die trying than die of hunger in some alleyway. As long as you've got the balls for it…But how many of them survive, master? You take a walk around the city and read the names of the heroes on the tavern walls: Tigris, Invictus, Herculino. Where are the names of the ones who were defeated? Underground, along with their worm-eaten corpses, that's where they are…”

Priscus is embittered, he does not stop shaking his head.

The foreman's poetic moment has passed. He had felt like going on—especially because it is as hot as hell and the breaks are never long enough—but there is simply no arguing with the Gaul. May as well get back to work.

Verus, though, will not stand for certain comments. Becoming a gladiator is a dream.
His
dream. The hope of salvation that no god has granted him, but that he is convinced exists anyway. It is out there, just a stone's throw away; in fact, it is in this very place. In the belly of the stone, wood and metal beast. And sooner or later his chance will come to choose between living a sheep's life and going for glory. And so he puffs his chest out and answers without taking a breath: “The history of the arena is full of bravery, Priscus! Take Sisinnus the Scythian, who sold himself to the school of Amastride to win his friend's freedom with iron.”

Verus likes to impress people. He has heard the story of Sisinnus a million times while sitting around the fire. Anyone who grew up in the desert talks about him: the brave warrior who won a hundred fights and got to within a hair's breadth of collecting the ten-thousand drachma needed to free his lover, Targitatus.

“I say if the gods had really marked him out for glory, he wouldn't have ended up gutted by some shitty Sarmatian with a limp. At least that's how I see it…” replies Priscus.

Verus tenses his jaw. He is all fire and boiling blood, and he will allow nobody to address him this way. He especially will not allow
Priscus
to talk to him like that. He has no idea why, but sometimes that damned Gaul makes him feel uneasy, with his pure heart and the bad habit of always saying what he thinks. Other times though, he is enthralled by the sight of him laboring beneath the sun, apparently without ever tiring.

The Briton has a strong urge to go for him, but in that moment everyone at the site turns toward the blast of a horn.