Colosseum (34 page)

A murderer's trade is a strange profession, made to measure for those who have lost their minds. And the gladiators are hardened murderers, the worst kind of killers, with no rights and no free will. Some of them, among the ranks of both Ircius and Daimon, get excited at the sight of blood. Others have managed to hang on to some glimmer of light at the bottom of the black well called the human soul, and pray it is over quickly.

But whatever way you slice it, this is how it is, and the time for thinking has just ended.

The Emperor himself stands to give the order. His hand makes the slightest of movements, but the cruel smile painted across his features speaks plainly enough: “Kill these bastards.”

Next to him, his daughter Julia does not take her eyes off Verus and Priscus. She sees them shaking in their iron cases. The young girl has a strange mixture of emotions in her chest. Because that is what Julia is: just a young girl, broken hearted over two men who are sworn to die.

Next to her is another spoilt lover, her uncle Domitian. The blond Roman officer tries to take her hand for the umpteenth time, but she pulls away, tears in her eyes.

She knows what is about to happen.

And there is not a damned thing she can do about it.

Domitian is irritated by his niece's reaction, sick and tired of her mood swings. He decides to enjoy the spectacle with his arms folded across his chest, and he has an idea for
afterwards.
The sort of idea that could change the outcome of the match.

Of an entire life.

Down there in the arena, the silence is dried resin. Hard as ancient rock.

The numbers have been whittled down to thirty against thirty, a fair fight, were it not for the fact that the gladiators serving the Eagle are decked out for battle and armed to kill, while their naked opponents can barely stand after forty hours of abuse.

One of Daimon's brutes charges, skewering a poor man with ashen blond hair.

It is the signal.

The crowd awakens from the stupor of the long drawn-out massacres, rubbing their eyes and rousing themselves for the coming bloodbath. The women chant the names of their favorite champions, men gulp down hot wine, drunken with death but never sated.

The real fighting begins and the condemned react as best they can. At first some try to flee, but there is decidedly more honor in fighting, and then, you never know…Perhaps, if they fight well, the pure heart of the Emperor might be moved to pardon them: that is the last thought of a man in his forties, a well-built fisherman, used to the bite of salt against his skin.

He barely has time to formulate it before Priscus's blade slices cleanly through his skull, entering through one ear and exiting through the other.

Verus stares at him, appalled.

Priscus's eyes do not allow for a riposte.

Do what you have to do and stop thinking. This is your life, now.

Verus shakes himself out of his stupor and sets about hammering into the face of a tall, thick-set African.

Around him there is nothing but blood and easy victory. The blades that serve the Empire do their duty silently and with infinite skill. The crowd relishes the spectacle and begins to loosen up, worshipping the gladiators and allowing themselves to be swept up by the hysteria, until their applause begins to filter down to the sand, inundating the standard-bearers of oblivion with their lusty gratitude.

Before they know it, only five are left standing; they huddle bravely together to face the final assault.

Verus and Priscus square up to them, trying to use their shields to push them against the spears of the
hoplomachi
, who jab their weapons unhesitatingly into the prisoners' kidneys. But the last convict left, driven to desperation, manages to land a kick against a
retiarius
, grab his trident away from him and thrust it into his belly. The gladiator cannot believe his eyes and looks down at his mangled guts before floating away down the Styx in the company of Charon.

The survivor slips away from the press of the fight, dodges to one side and runs free. He gives another slap in the face, this time to one of the Thracians from Daimon's school, slicing one of the gladiator's fingers clean off with his own
sica
. At this point, wielding weapons in both hands, he throws himself onto Verus, knocking him to the ground. Ircius's
murmillo
is taken by surprise—the survivor is a hundred-handed fury. He scratches the gladiator's chest with the trident, while the
sica
strikes his helmet with a spray of sparks. Verus is struggling. He wants to break away, but his heart is pounding faster and faster and his concentration is slipping.

The condemned man is fast, giving it all he has got. He tries to stab Verus with both weapons at once.

The Briton has reached the end of the line, but destiny decides to step in.

The convict is coughing up blood before he has a chance to push the iron into his opponent's belly. The point of a flattened blade darts out of the man's open mouth.

Verus backs up a couple of paces before getting to his feet and pulling his helmet off.

Saved.

A moment from the end.

Behind the body of his unlikely enemy glint the eyes of a friend from the past, as cold as Pluto.

Priscus has just saved his ass.

The ice man is back.

Verus runs up to him and embraces him.

“I owe you my life, brother.”

The misunderstandings, the unease, the distance—all that is gone. In moments like this it is the heart that really counts. And Verus's does not calm itself.

But Priscus does not melt. He takes back his blade and cleans it on the motionless corpse of the wretch he has just killed.

All around, there is only death: that is the face of tomorrow.

He speaks with the voice of a ghost. It is the first time he has said anything to his beloved in a long time.

“I told you that morning, Verus, what feels like a century ago: life has nothing to do with it. Our pact is with death, that's what it means to be a gladiator.”

He does not wait for an answer. And in any case Verus would not know how to reply.

In his mouth the bitter taste of time slipping away, the immovable scrape of sand on his soul.

In the Emperor's box, Titus, who has stayed standing throughout the massacre, enjoys the cheering of the crowd for the heroes of the day.

Verus and Priscus lift their arms to accept the resounding excitement of the bovine mob.

Young Julia's eyes are filled with tears. She has lost a piece of her life and then won it back again, all in an instant.

She has eyes only for the two of them, down there: ice and fire, they consume her thoughts. She pays no attention to her uncle, a rattlesnake poised for its venomous strike. Domitian has already decided that his vengeance is ready to be served.

Ice cold, just as it should be.

He approaches his brother the Emperor and leans an arm on his shoulder. At the same time he indicates the arena, pointing at Verus and Priscus.

Titus smiles and nods: “Excellent idea.”

Then he gestures to his cupbearer, who sends for the master of ceremonies. A fat, sweat-soaked man with hair combed neatly as a schoolboy arrives, wheezing noisily. The Emperor says in a loud voice: “I wish to speak with Daimon and Ircius immediately!”

Domitian sneers contentedly.

Even Julia shakes herself out of her daydream and turns to look back at her father, eager for an explanation. But the master of the world's next words seal everyone's lips: “A private audience.” After which he leaves the box to go below, into the belly of the stone behemoth.

Domitian is left alone with his horrible smile.

Julia with her dangerous doubts.

Verus and Priscus, caked in blood, have no idea the wind has just changed direction.

The tempest is at the gates.

The sun burns away any residual hope.

The people of Rome, drunk on nothingness, go on celebrating the glory.

[…] suddenly filled this same theater with water and brought in horses and bulls and some other domesticated animals that had been taught to behave in the liquid element just as on land. He also brought in people on ships […].

C
ASSIUS
D
IO
,
Historia romana
,
66, 25

Rome,
AD
80, August

THE TIME IS RIPE.

After the endless blood, the deaths of the weak, the fierce and the innocent, the magic moment has arrived.

Emperor Titus has just finished speaking to Daimon and Ircius, and the eyes of the two lanistasglint brightly in the gloom. Perhaps Ircius's are a little bit too moist, but who would notice such a detail in the belly of the beast?

Beneath the Amphitheater, every rock casts spiky shadows in the torchlight. A few sunbeams filter through the air vents, but not enough: artificial lighting is needed to illuminate the night of the soul.

Titus smiles placidly: “We are agreed, then?”

“Of course, Caesar. As you command,” respond Ircius and Daimon, almost in unison.

Titus turns suddenly serious and glances up at the sky through one of the grates, pretending to guess what hour it is.

“Then get going. The tunnels have to be emptied.”

A bow is worth a thousand answers. Daimon and Ircius leave through the service tunnel that will take them back outside, where the baying of the mob has reached its usual, staggering roar.

The crowd does not know what is in store: it is the surprise Titus has had up his sleeve for so long, the forbidden dream, his
masterpiece.
The monarch is the first to get outside; he scales the hidden stair to the Emperor's box, where Julia and Domitian are waiting to welcome him back, sunk up to their necks in an embarrassed silence. Titus takes his daughter's hand and settles into his seat.

“You will see,” he whispers to her. “You will see.”

The girl smiles. Domitian grins and bears it.

The stadium basement is cleared slowly and carefully: first the gladiators are brought out, including Verus and Priscus, incredulous at being granted their “freedom” again after such a short rest. They take up their respective positions, far from the games enclosure, now emptier than the stomach of a starving man. Daimon's warriors seat themselves next to their master, high up next to the galleries in a niche out of sight of the horny noblewomen, but with an excellent view of the arena.

Verus and his companions join Ircius on an equally well hidden balcony, on the opposite side of the ellipse, very close by to the quarters used by the
classiarii
of the Misene Fleet. Verus's old, wise friend Marcius runs over to embrace him. The Briton congratulates him on the outstanding job he has done with the velarium. The sailor shrugs, his usual air of wisdom mixed with arrogance.

“That would be all we need, to make asses out of ourselves on inauguration day. After all those months of hard work…”

Verus laughs, and Ircius blesses his good cheer with a benevolent glance: “What happens now? Why have they made us come all the way up here?”

Marcius does not know. Nobody knows what is about to happen. It is Titus's damned gift. But it is hard to slip anything past the old sea dog, who must have guessed that he is standing on the edge of a precipice with a yawning chasm before him. He treats that hasty blockhead of a Briton to a little suspense.

“Give your eyes a rub, boy. You will not see anything like this again for many, many a year…” announces Marcius.

Verus returns to his place, alongside his companions. Ircius is calling him back: it is about to begin.

The crowd hushes as the announcer, having reached the center of the arena, pronounces a single word: “NAUMACHIA!”

He shouts it so loudly that even Jupiter himself can hear. It is a miracle the heavenly father does not peep out from behind the clouds to get a better look.

The crowd barely murmurs, ears cocked to pick up the slightest vibration.

The moment the messenger has left the circle of sand, the gates are barred shut. The mechanical sound of turning cogs echoes through the four corners of the Eternal City. The grind of heavy bricks on twisted metal rails, thick doors of wood and lead jolting open like loaded springs.

Sealed compartments.

The belly of the behemoth is transformed; no one can see it but all can hear the rumble that rises from the center of the Earth. Ropes and pulleys come to life, knowingly maneuvered by assistants positioned at strategic points around the structure. The corridors become one, joined by moving walls, while the air grates slide shut like neglected pores.

The rooms where Verus and Priscus waited impatiently to take the field are stained an inky black, denied even the weakest breath of air. The convicts' cells are sealed as well, by now emptied of flesh, leaving only the stink of those who no longer exist, hanging stubbornly in place.

The giant's guts are finally cleared, now crisscrossed by channels the height of a mid-sized man, all of them leading to a circular atrium where other tubes of stone, lead and travertine begin. These lead
upwards
, into the realm of silence and perpetual surprise.

The audience is thrilled, shaking with curiosity as they await the clatter of opening sluices. They prick up their ears to hear the approaching wave, still far off.

It begins very quietly. From elsewhere.

The water wells up from springs with fairy-tale names—Curtius and Ceruleus—a liquid diamond that races across the stone of Claudius's aqueduct, devouring incredible distances as though they were nothing more than pine nuts, thundering down towards Rome from the Aniene Valley. The journey is infinite, unimaginable: forty-six miles atop the high arches. The transparent liquid dashes headlong through the man-made canal. The water enters the city at the quarter known as
ad spem veterem
, even to those who do not speak a word of Latin. It is the place where the ancient Temple of Hope once stood, and which now holds the Porta Maggiore, the great gate built by Claudius to carry his blessed
aqua
. Powerful vaults stand out against the blue sky, watering the Eternal City with the juices of the Aniene. At the end of the aqueduct the water empties into a pool known as the Piscina Limaria, where it is cleansed of the worst of the impurities that have contaminated it during the journey. Then one last plunge into the
castellum
, where it is mixed with the crystal-clear nectar of the
Anio Novus
, at which point it is ready to slake Rome's thirst.

All this happens above ground, but under the earth Titus has made arrangements to appropriate Claudius's freshwater sea for himself. The theft has been perpetrated by patiently digging tunnels, sealed shut by moving walls that can be swung open, sucking the life out of the precious artificial river. The titanic job was planned down the finest detail and then the pickaxes did the rest.

And, as the belly of the Flavian Amphitheater changes its shape to the clang of barred sluices and sealed passageways, the wonder within the wonder takes place, the illusionist's master stroke: the marble and travertine channel connecting the basement of the monster to the aqueduct is thrown open, filled by a frothing mass of pure water.

The rumble brings to mind the noise of the ground when it breaks apart; an earthquake, the fire that burns beneath the mountains.

The crowd on the terraces can hear the wave arriving. They feel it on their skin, on the soles of their feet. The voice of the crashing breakers swells, roaring like a hundred hungry beasts. The crowd waits breathlessly. They sense the mounting thunder, cubit upon cubit, the threat drawing ever closer as the sand of the arena is shaken by the vibrations and all around are gasps, shivers and nervous glances. The women scream from up in the back row, men's foreheads are pearled with sweat.

A single heart is cool and filled with gratitude, during the endless wait: that of the master of the world. With that sense of showmanship that makes him what he is, Titus rises to his feet in the exact moment that fifty square portals, each the size of a couple of shields held side by side, swing open in unison. The crowd no longer knows where to look: some choose not to take their eyes off the smiling face of the Emperor, arm held high, index finger pointed towards the center of the sandy ellipse. Others, captivated by the rumble that has been amplified yet further by the opening of the hatches—positioned all around the circle of the arena—stare down at the dark fissures, shouting continuously. The fury of the waves knows no mercy, their roar swelling along with the excitement of the crowd, until the marvel reaches its inevitable conclusion and the water surges out onto the sand. The effect of the jets is sensational, transforming the arena into a fountain, fifty mouths vomiting forth liquid in unison, spraying onto the sand.

The shouts of the dazed mob fill the air, their spontaneous applause an immeasurable release for the
Primus
, now in radiant mood. He stands in the Emperor's box, arms outstretched.

“It is only the beginning…” he whispers under his breath, but in the meantime he basks in the glory.

And he is absolutely right: the water level is rising before their very eyes, the oval where ferocious beasts, Christians and convicts have been losing their lives all morning transformed in no time at all into a gigantic reservoir. The thirsty sand gulps down every drop until finally, sated, it accepts its fate, placidly allowing itself to be submerged.

The water rises, merciless and powerful, until it is lapping at the first row of seats. Only at that point are the doors closed again, granting the masses the time to gaze upon the spectacle laid out before them.

Up at the top of the Amphitheater, blinking back tears of sincere emotion, Marcius lets out an exclamation, unable to hold it back: “The sea itself!”

Verus hears him and feels the urge to hug his friend, but he stays rooted to the spot, afraid of ruining the magic.

Vestal virgins and senators lean out over the balustrade: the water is close, so close that with a single bound they could dive straight in. The colossal pool would be a man and a half deep, if one were to stand on the shoulders of the other.

The light breeze blowing from the west is like a gift from Aeolus, rippling across the glinting surface where the reflection of Apollo's sun stares back at the crowd.

But the Emperor is right: this is only the beginning.

A gate opens to allow a small boat brimming with flowers to pass beneath it, a couple of plump slaves at the oars. The announcer, standing knee deep in sweet-smelling petunias, reads out the proclamation in his hands: “Titus Caesar Augustus, Lord of Rome, of the land and the seas, is pleased to offer his people the spectacle of naval warfare. Today, in the Amphitheater that confers everlasting glory on his name, the proud Corinthian fleet and the invincible armada of Corcyra will face each other in a fight to the death!”

Fifty thousand gasps of genuine amazement.

Naumachia.

A marvelous word that flies from mouth to mouth.

“But first, O subjects of the Empire, feast your eyes on the triumph of the sea gods!”

Thunderous applause and more anticipation, as the two slaves maneuver the announcer and their petal-stuffed craft back into the gate from whence they emerged.

The entrance to the titanic bathtub stays open and every eye in Rome is locked to it, brimming with expectation. And what emerges next from the aperture is unprecedented in its magnificence. An authentic, floating miracle.

The first noses to appear belong to the sons of Africa. Gray nostrils held just above the surface, kindly yet murderous eyes crowned with bony brows that look to have been freshly chiseled in Phidias's workshop: hippopotamuses. The view from above is really quite something. The pachyderms swim in two neat lines of thirteen, and head in unison for opposite sides of the arena, tracing circles in the water.

They do not lose their cool even when the rapturous crowd showers them with savage shouting, and at a command from one of the trainers up on the terraces, they roll onto their backs.

All together.

The applause drowns out the sound of the splash as the trick is repeated.

Again.

The crowd's attention quivers like the skin of a drum beaten to infinity. All eyes are wide open, now.

A row of alligators crosses the threshold of the enormous pool and shouts of fear and wonder slip through the women's gallery.

Blood will be spilt. Everyone thinks so. But they are wrong. Very wrong.

The green sons of the river number no more than a dozen; even in deep water, it would not be a fair fight. There is no other animal on Earth as dangerous as a hippopotamus. The river horse is a crazed, raging beast that can charge with the power of a hundred bulls and does not stop to think twice. That is why the Romans' hearts are in their mouths at the sight of such placidity.

The way the crocodiles paddle meekly around the pachyderms is testament to the unimaginable work of their trainers. Ancient scales brush against hard, ashen skin in a sinuous, gray-green ballet, a broken promise of death.

The choreography has the feel of a curved blade, run softly over the amber skin of a helpless slave. The prehistoric union of stone bodies, down in there the primordial soup, moves one senator to tears. The vestal virgin at his side tries to comfort him, but the beauty is too much and the warm, saltwater tribute continues to flow down his face.

At a sudden clash of cymbals, some of the hippopotamuses roll onto their backs. At this point the alligators clamber onto their bellies and remain there patiently for a few moments that seem like infinity, before slipping back into the water up to their nostrils.

Rapture. Pure rapture.