Colosseum (27 page)

The titans punish and Priscus takes it, totally helpless as the leather lashes mark his back.

At a nod from Daimon however, the assault stops.

There is silence, now. Only the steps of the
andabata
echo as he throws one easily avoidable thrust after another.

Priscus stands up and returns to stand in front of his master, who passes him a sword and a blinded helmet. He wishes to turn him into an eyeless adversary for the dark warrior.

“Fight,” he says, throwing the equipment into the sand. After which he leads the
andabata
to the center of the sand circle and waits for Priscus to get suited up.

Madness.

Priscus has plunged into the dark abyss of a nightmare. He thought he could escape his suffering by running away from it.

But you never run from yourself. You should have learnt that by now.

Now, as ever, it is life or death.

You win or you die, Priscus.

The Gaul pulls the Corinthian helmet over his head, trying to ignore the agony of the gashes on his back. He feels a fever at his throat, faster than the poison of an Egyptian serpent. But there is no time for compassion, nor for a hasty diagnosis. It is time to get serious.

“Fight, scum!” repeats Daimon.

And the party begins.

Priscus wavers in the darkness. He sees nothing and even hears less, his senses numbed by the beating, the guttural voices seeping beneath the blinded helmet. The first blow hits him right in the head. The world vibrates with pain.

Metal against bone.

An infernal rumbling.

His adversary has gotten the better of him and now he must run. Priscus takes a few tentative steps, but apparently in the wrong direction because he ends up right on top of his enemy, who stumbles over like a newborn foal.

They both topple into the sand. The fight descends into a question of elbows and blows to the balls. Nails buried in flesh, punches, the kiss of a blade on a muscular calf. Finally, someone comes to pull them apart. They are pulled back on their feet.

One in front of the other, again. Now or never: Priscus paints a mental image of his opponent's frame. He imagines the stance, the uncertain wobble of a blind man. He grasps the
gladius
in his right hand and thinks of the solar plexus. Then he lunges without warning, blade held low and gripped in both hands. From low to high, as though he did not need eyes to see.

His adversary's belly is right where he thought it would be, his weapon sliding through skin and soft flesh as if they were butter. The point moves smoothly through his blood, tears across the diaphragm and penetrates his heart, stopping it forever.

The deflated scream of his opponent is a frightful sound and it reaches Priscus, even with his ears encased in iron. When he hears a thud on the ground he knows it is over. He lifts off his helmet and falls to his knees.

He realizes he is in trouble for what he has just done, but at least he is alive.

Priscus is too shrewd a professional not to know that killing a gladiator in training is very bad news, especially when you have just arrived in a school that welcomes its new acquisitions with the sting of a whip. Perhaps he would have been better off if the
andabata
had killed him instead, at least that way he would have died fighting.

But what is done is done, and the Gaul has so little energy left that he awaits the lanista's wrath patiently, his head bowed.

But Daimon confounds him yet again. He whistles in the same strange way as before, fingers in his mouth like a bird fancier, to summon a couple of
untores
and the house doctor. He tells them to take care of Priscus and patch him up where necessary.

When the servants ask him whether he wants them to take the body away, Daimon looks at them as though they have just inquired whether he fancies a cup of cold piss. The masseurs get his message loud and clear, leaving the poor
andabata
with the torn heart in the middle of the arena.

Priscus has barely the strength to wonder what sort of future awaits him in this madhouse. He lets the doctor get on with his dirty work, closing the gashes in his hide with a bone needle and catgut, soothing his muscles and revitalizing his skin with ointments. After half an hour of treatment and a quick wash, together with a restorative ration of chicken broth, the veteran is brought back before Daimon.

The lanista is where he left him, at the center of the arena, a circle of sand and dark wood. A cloud of flies fat enough to put the Pontus marshes to shame has already gathered around the
andabata
's lifeless body. Priscus asks himself whether his master wants to serve him some sort of punishment, to set an example. It would not surprise him—he has known him less than an hour, but has already understood that the man is insane.

“You must have your head up your ass, boy.” Daimon coughs. This does not look good.

“Sir?” says Priscus, tipping his head slightly.

“What a way to introduce yourself: you turn up here and before you have even had a chance to tell us your name, you have already killed one of my boys. Who do you think you are, you stupid Gaul?”

The lanistapulls a strangely shaped ax from a bag. It looks like a giant trowel, with a serrated edge and an enormous, flat, rectangular blade measuring three palms by two. A horrific tool.

Here we go.

Priscus has no more desire to argue. If Daimon wants to do away with him then he should get a move on—Priscus has had enough for one day. He kneels, bows his head and says quietly: “Your humble servant, master. I followed the order you gave me. I fought, to the best of my ability. I beg you to forgive my excessive zeal. Or to punish me in whatever way you see fit.”

Daimon sits immobile, a serious look on his face that seems to last forever.

An endless river of sand flows through the hourglass of Priscus's mind, until the bearded brute breaks into rough, drunken laughter again: “Get up, good for nothing. Get up and give me a hand.”

Priscus obeys and helps Daimon, ax still in hand, to drag the cadaver into a shed with a straw roof. It has been constructed next to the buildings where the school's warriors presumably sleep. Terrifying roars can be heard coming from another room nearby, barred shut with robust oaken poles and solid doors.

Daimon and Priscus dump the dead man on a rough, dark-stained table, and then the lanistatells Priscus to stand aside and to retrieve a large tub from the corner. While Priscus drags it to the table, Daimon exclaims aloud: “Not a great loss, in the end. This poor bastard had been blind for nearly six months. No use to anyone.” And without a hint of remorse he cuts off one of the arms, which falls into the tub with a repulsive thud.

Priscus does not even feel the vomit rise as he suddenly throws up onto the floor. Meanwhile, Daimon and his horrific ax have already set to work on knees and elbows, feet, head and thighs.

It's a fucking bloodbath.

He is chopping the body to pieces.

And laughing as he does it.

He shows no concern for Priscus's churning stomach, nor for the vomit sprayed across the ground. He is smeared in blood from head to foot.

Priscus is shaking: he was not ready for anything like this. Who could be?

Once the various pieces of the body are all in the tub, Daimon whistles again, his filthy fingers staining his salt and pepper beard. Two heavy-set men come running with buckets of water and sponges. They wash the blood off him, cleaning the skin painted with death, scrubbing vigorously.

In the meantime, Priscus pukes another couple of times. The smell inside the shack is unbearable.

The roar coming from behind the barred doors is getting louder all the time.

When he has finished cleaning himself up, Daimon leads the Gaul to the bolted door. He signals his men to follow with the tub filled with human meat.

“You see, boy, death is not always a bad thing…Not even inside the school.”

The servants throw the doors open and Priscus sees a line of cages that barely hold back a frightening collection of bloodthirsty beasts.

Tigers and lions, above all. But a few sinuous panthers too, and even a damned leopard.

The Ludus Tridens is chock full of surprises.

Still dripping from his sponge-down, Daimon tells the servants to put the tub on the ground. He picks up the hand of what was a gladiator until a few hours ago, and tosses it to the first tiger. The beast is wary, but after a nod from its master it begins to munch on skin and bone, licking at the fresh blood oozing from between the phalanges.

“Everyone thinks these beasts are born to eat men. Nothing is further from the truth.”

He tosses another piece of meat to a lion, which catches it in its mouth, snapping keenly at the morsel.

As the lanista proceeds, Priscus feels his stomach twisting once more.

“These ferocious beasts scorn human flesh. And they avoid man, if they can. They recognize him as a dangerous predator, a damn sight more cunning than the other competitors they share the land with.”

Daimon is serious; he has the air of a science professor. When he is really nothing more than a disgusting man breeding monsters.

Next up is the unfortunate victim's right leg. The panther strips away the flesh without ceremony.

“You need to keep these animals hungry, teach them to fear us, stretch their wary stomachs with rage and fasting. And lastly, feed them on fresh meat.”

Priscus vomits again. The situation has become unbearable for him.

Death is everywhere.

Daimon finishes doling out the gruesome meal, observing the atrocious spectacle of jaws moving up and down in unison as dozens of wild eyes stare back at him with gratitude and fear.

“Today is a special day for my creatures. It is not often they get to feast on gladiator meat. That would be a bit too expensive, do you not agree?”

Priscus agrees. Without a doubt.

In the meantime, he doubles over and empties out whatever is left. Dry retches: his stomach is emptier than a beggar's pockets in the middle of the desert.

Daimon keeps talking, like a patient tutor dealing with a stubborn pupil: “Thanks be to the gods, the world is full of poor bastards, condemned men, hungry paupers, abandoned children. Human flesh tastes like chicken, did you know that?”

Nothing, Priscus says nothing.

Horror fills his every last pore of his skin.

Daimon treats him to one of his coarse laughs, and then the lesson is over: “In any case, for these cats the taste is just the first hurdle. Next comes fear. It is one thing to eat an exotic snack in a quiet corner…” He signals his servants to bring the “tools.” The men pick up a metal collar tied to a stick and secure it to the neck of an angry lion. They drag it out and lead it into the arena with whips and canes. It takes four men to do the job, with Daimon lashing his own whip against the ground the whole time. He is showing the king of the savannah who is in charge around here.

Priscus follows the lanistato the middle of the sand circle, where six gladiators are already lined up: fully kitted out to protect their soft flesh, sharpened pikes in hand, they stand waiting to teach the beast some manners.

“…but quite another to fight in the din of an amphitheater. The common folk showering you with hazelnut shells and shouting worse than a Judean in the rutting season.”

Whatever the fucking rutting season it is
.

“If you do not train them right, these tabbies end up ignoring the prey. They hide in a corner and you can kiss goodbye to whatever sum the
munerator
agreed to pay you.”

Daimon turns suddenly, landing a crack of the whip on the lion's face. The leather leaves a deep wound on the flesh of the muzzle. The beast growls and the four servants struggle to hold it in place.

“That is why I like to see them angry. I know how to look after my investments.” He takes a seat on the terraces and invites Priscus to do the same. In the arena built for fighting, the merry-go-round begins.

The gladiators take turns to goad the beast while the servants do what they can to restrain it. With each jab its anger mounts; it swipes out ferociously with its paws, each slash strong enough to take the face off a Cyclops.

The treatment lasts half an hour, the warriors of the Tridens working with skill. When the lion reaches the pinnacle of it fury, another three men appear from nowhere to slide an iron hood over its head. A coat of mail, hand-crafted link by link. Tireless artisans wore away their fingertips from the amount of metal that had to be bent into shape. Hooding a beast that is thirsting for death is no joke, but the servants are well trained. When the monster's fangs have finally been made safe, a gladiator moves towards it. He is smaller than the rest but knows what he is doing. He lands four blows of a heavy whip at the base of the animal's neck, just enough to put it out cold. Once it has lost consciousness, the gang of slaves takes it back to the cage, where it will be left without food for another three days. And then back to the arena again.

“When I take the beasts to the Amphitheater and they get the chance to take it all out on the Christians, they will hardly believe their luck. They will have indigestion.”

The gladiator who knocked the lion out comes up to Daimon. He wears protection over four fifths of his body, a stuffed scarecrow. First he slips off his greaves, and then his
manicae
.

Priscus is surprised to see very skinny arms, albeit well muscled. But it is only when the warrior removes his training cape that Priscus
realizes.

The revelation is a slap in the face, the bare chest telling an unexpected story. The whole head helmet falls to the ground and the fighter reveals her true nature: a blonde girl greets Priscus and her master boldly.

“What do you say, Valeria? Want to show our newcomer that even the women have balls of steel, here at the Ludus Tridens?”