Colosseum (17 page)

One has to start somewhere.

So he contacted Ezius, miraculously still alive after having contracted a mild form of the disease. It was he who told Decius that his most faithful sons had stayed to the end, while the cowards had fled immediately. When the lanista confessed his dream of putting the school back on its feet, Ezius looked at him as though he were crazy. But after a few hours and a few cups of the good stuff, slowly sipped to give Bacchus the chance to do his work and clarify the doctor's thoughts, he too was convinced: Ircius always gets what he wants in the end.

“What will you do for money?” asked Ezius, seduced by the inebriating flavor of the honey wine.

“Thank Mercury I was not such a fool as to keep it all in one place. We must rise again, my friend. From the ashes, like the damned phoenix.”

“And the
ludus
? Who will clear it out? It's full of wastrels, the place looks like a leper colony.”

“Money can work miracles, my old friend. Arms for the dirty work and beatings for the stubborn ones. And if hirelings are not enough, Titus will send his dogs to finish the job. I offer a public service, after all. The Eagle cares more about her citizens' entertainment than she does their safety.”

Ezius was forced to nod. The city may have suffered a damaging blow, but in the final analysis not so much had changed since the last time Ircius was here. Certain things are permanent. Dishonor slakes its thirst at the fount of eternal youth.

“You'll need an instructor,” the physician pointed out, unable to keep up with the lanista
.

He smiled. “And why do you think I came to see you first? Come on, old friend, give me some names…”

And so Ezius let out a deep sigh. Despite the noble profession he practices, dealing with the lives—and more of then deaths—of the sick, Ezius Tortonus has remained attracted to the worst side of human nature. He has always had a soft spot for
thugs
, ever since he was a boy.

In the early days it was a question of emulation, pure and simple. It entailed slipping away from the watchful eyes of his wet nurses and sneaking into the rough neighborhoods near his home, back when he was a little daredevil with grubby unshod feet and nimble fingers. Growing up, he realized his infatuation with bad boys had changed into something else. He did not want to
be
like them, he wanted to
have
them—from sunrise to sunset. So Ezius started visiting certain locales where boys like himself from good families could, in exchange for a reasonable sum, spend a few hours of passion in the arms of some ruffian. He soon understood the risks involved: he ended up falling in love with a different man every month and his pockets were emptier by the day.

One sunny afternoon his father caught him in the oldest brothel in the Eternal City, the Three Fountains. He let him taste first the lash and then starvation. He cut off his funds after giving him the beating of a lifetime. He told him to find a job. Ezius became a bone-chopper out of desperation, but soon found he had a talent where it came to flesh and blood. And he could once again afford the favors of the worst delinquents in the city. He made himself a single promise, which has kept him going despite the wildness of a lifestyle that has gone on for too many decades: no more love.

Love, when it smacks of the knife, is always a bad idea.

Ezius shook off the torpor, his only lover since the disease took without keeping him, and gave his friend a name.

Ircius made a mental note and got going.

Two hours later he finds himself face to face with the man in question, an Egyptian with an unpronounceable name who everyone calls Aton, like the sun god in those parts. Who knows why, because there is nothing sunny about him, except for the bright red glaze covering his broken teeth.

When the lanistaarrived he was keen to make a deal and offer the position to Aton. But the Egyptian has not believed a word of it and has turned up with a team of young, blood-thirsty henchmen.

“Drop the pouch or I'll gut you, little lord,” Aton says again without emotion.

Things are going badly for the king of the Ludus Argentum.

Very badly indeed.

Verus and Priscus walk as free men through the belly of a city that has left them alone. Rome smells of ash and stinging nettles. The remains of pyres are everywhere, whitened by quicklime to smother the corpses' last spasms. Women walk the streets, heads covered, cautious, and stripped of everything but their determination. They pick through the trash, gathering scraps of food left on the ground and placating the cries of their surviving children by offering their breasts, long since dry.

The city is stirring, with difficulty but with patience too. Never giving up. The faces of the survivors show that the disease has run its course.

The Gaul and the Briton walk beside one another, close as brothers. Verus is more melancholy than usual; Priscus is enjoying the sunset. The son of the Island is the first to talk.

“How can you say we're lucky?”

“We're alive. Isn't that enough?”

“No it isn't! Damn it, we had it all! We were about to skyrocket—and now look at us. We fight like dogs for a few
sestertii
to please that bunch of idiots at the site.”

Priscus shakes his head, places a hand on his friend's shoulder and forces him to stop. To think about it calmly.

“What exactly do you mean when you say: ‘We had it all'. Are you talking about the
primi pali
or having the same rations day in, day out? The humiliation? The grueling training? The chance we might die in every damn match? At least in the Cage we can watch each other's backs…”

Verus indulges him and stops, but then begins shaking that big head of his and gesturing. This is what he does when he has to explain something but words are not enough: he uses his hands.

“We had the chance to be somebody. To become gods.”

Priscus does not agree. “We weren't free!”

“Technically, nor are we now. Our master has gone, but he's not dead…at least I don't think he is. And he didn't sell us either, as far as I know.”

The Gaul is tempted to give in and tell him he is right, but it is important the damned Briton understands, at least this once. So he insists: “My friend… even the finest racehorse has to wear a bit and saddle.”

“But when he is first past the post, he's the winner—and the crowd worships him, Priscus. Do you really not get it, ice man? They gave us the chance to be important. And the plague, the damned bitch, has taken it away forever.”

The Gaul looks his companion in the eyes. Dark wells down to the bottom of his soul.

“You are important. To me.”

Verus blushes. He curses himself when he feels his cheeks flush, but it happens and there is nothing he can do about it. He does not like it when Priscus starts talking this way. Friendship is a great thing and it is normal that two men feel bound by adversity, but the more time passes, the more Verus gets the impression that Priscus feels the bond between them is something else. Something special. The kind of union that takes root between soldiers in battle for whom every sunrise might be their last, or the bond that develops between student and teacher, so strong that they intoxicate one another, that they become one. Literature is full of male love, beginning with Achilles' passion for Patroclus, or Jupiter's for the handsome Ganymede. It is a well known fact that men can cultivate a greater understanding with their own sex than they can with women. After all, women are only good for churning out little brats and breaking your balls. At least, that is what they say.

In any case, this thing between men is either something you feel or it is not. You have it or you do not. And Verus does not.

He does not really know how to explain it to Priscus, in fact he is not even sure his friend feels that way or thinks of him like that, but when he starts talking about certain things Verus reddens and feels uneasy. And now he is left staring dumbly at his companion, without knowing what to say.

Luckily a shout and a great commotion attract their attention, saving the Briton from embarrassment.

“Did you hear that?” asks Verus, feeling the flush pass.

Priscus's guard is up in a flash: “It's coming from the alleyway.”

And the two of them dive headlong into big trouble.

When they reach the top of the dark, filthy street, surprise hits them like a bucket of ice water in the early morning: Decius Ircius is being roughed up by a gang of ragged youths, while a sort of toothless giant lords over the scene, counting coins.

Verus shouts: “Master!” and launches into an attack.

Aton the Egyptian sneers. The new arrival fights like a lion and has brought reinforcements with him. The moment the first blood is spilt, Priscus enters the brawl as well.

The street brats cannot compete with two expert fighters, and Verus and Priscus do not hold back: they disarm the ones carrying knives and let fly with a barrage of head-butts and fists, while the slower ones get a resounding knee in the balls.

But our warriors are nonetheless outnumbered, two against twelve, so they take a few punches too. A rusty blade slashes Priscus's face of stone, and his fury rises. He grabs two of the young goons by the neck and smacks their heads together like a pair of cymbals. The sound their facial bones make on impact is nauseating.

For his part Verus is more meticulous, and attacks his adversaries' joints. He has picked up a stick from somewhere and begins lunging, just as the master-at-arms Rubius taught him what now seems a million years ago. Ircius watches his saviors in amazement as a broad smile spreads across his features.

Verus grabs the last opponent from behind and slams him to the ground, where he lies belly-up, in the same moment as Priscus frees himself from the grip of their second-to-last opponent and breaks his face with an elbow jab.

Hastily, the gang takes flight. The two men go over to the lanista, who holds a hand to the wound on his head as he greets them.

“Master, you're bleeding…” says Verus attentively.

“It's nothing, boy.”

As Priscus approaches Ircius he realizes the Egyptian giant is following and swivels round without a second thought. The red-toothed titan does not run off, but places the
sestertii
calmly back into the pouch and ties it to his waist.

He stands before them fearlessly, wearing a huge grin.

And so is Decius Ircius.

Verus and Priscus are confused, but the lanistarests a hand on their powerful shoulders.

“My friends, allow me to introduce Aton, instructorof the Ludus Argentum, your new master-at-arms.”

Aton bares his teeth as he chuckles, his shattered incisors and jagged gums giving him the look of a shark.

“I was watching your technique. Not at all bad. You must be a
murmillo
, right?” he lisps, pointing at the Briton.

Verus nods contentedly.

“And you, hard man, must be a Thracian. I could see from how you used your arms.”

Priscus has no choice but to nod, even though his heart sank to the bottom of his sandals the moment Aton and Ircius opened their mouths.

“Hit me!” Aton challenges them.

Verus and Priscus take a long look at each other. And then burst out laughing.

“What are you waiting for, pussies? Come on, show me what you can do! Hit me, you useless damned slugs!”

Just for a moment, Priscus finds himself longing for Rubius's good manners. Then he launches into a charge like a mad bull, Verus following without a second thought. With a series of lightning-fast bounds, Aton the Egyptian backs up and awaits his two attackers, adopting a strange stance that makes him look like a crane. The two gladiators run into him with malice and resolve, but the moment they are within range Aton pivots on his outstretched leg and hits both of them in the throat simultaneously, perfectly synchronizing fist with foot.

The Gaul and the Briton collapse to the ground fighting for breath.

Aton's laughter, instantly joined by that of Ircius, drowns out everything else. The Egyptian watches as Verus and Priscus suck down air and spit up blood. He truly cannot stop laughing.

“The four of us will have a lot of fun…”

The heavens above the She-wolf, now dark with damp ash, have never been so cruel.

Decius Ircius's vision is no two-bit daydream.

After the initial trauma, the lanistaand his acolytes sit down around a table to talk business. Ircius explains that he left the city to take care of his family, and that now he has returned to put things back in order.

Verus bows his head: “You do not owe us an explanation, master. Rather, it is we who need to beg your forgiveness. We abandoned the Ludus Argentum, the rabble took over your house, they wrecked it…”

Ircius shakes his head. “Nothing a bit of money can't sort out, boy. Don't worry about it.”

Priscus is harder on him, respectful but harder: “But the house has been occupied, master, I doubt whether those wretches will leave in exchange for a few coins.”

Aton swallows down the last sip of the beer that Ircius has bought for them all. The lanistathrows him a knowing look. “The instructor's men will take care of that. As soon as they recover from the going over you two just doled out to them.”

Aton seems pleased. Or perhaps he is just a mindless lunatic.

“I had a different sort of job in mind for you two,” Verus announces.

“Tell us, my lord.”

Priscus wants to let out a deep sigh but he knows his master would not like it. So he stays quiet and listens.

“What happened to all my gladiators?” begins Ircius, enunciating carefully. “The two of you survived, they can't all be dead…”

“They've run off, master,” says Verus, stretching his arms out in a gesture of impotence. “Each went his own way. Swallowed up by the crowds. A few of them abandoned the school as soon as you left, others stayed a few days before being lured away by some woman or a bowlful of hot food…”