Raven (26 page)

‘Don’t cry, Floki,’ Svein said, ‘I will buy you a wineskin with the money I win.’

‘It feels good being one of those watching this time,’ Sigurd said, a half smile in his beard. For the heavy sweat stench of the crowd was cut now with the tang of violence, and the fight had begun.

Neither fighter risked throwing his spear. Instead, they closed on each other, making quick thrusts with the weapons, searching for weaknesses and testing each other’s speed. As
was expected, the smaller man was the faster, his spear blade whipping out and back out of harm’s way in fast neat moves. But his opponent was fast for his size and his thrusts came with the power to break a shield and so the smaller man was using much of his speed to avoid his enemy’s blade. He was moving his feet well, trying to keep the other man off balance because a man cannot put his weight behind a thrust if his feet are dancing. A spear blade thudded against a shield, glanced off a helmet, deflected off mail. Boots scuffed dust into the air, teeth flashed and the crowd roared. The darker man’s blade sliced into his opponent’s right arm, gouging out a piece of flesh that flapped against the man’s biceps, hanging by a scrap of skin. I saw the roar of pain but could not hear it for the baying crowd. A moment later the man’s whole arm was sheeted in bright blood that dripped on to the earth.

‘That big bastard is getting angry now,’ Penda said, as the injured warrior lunged at the cause of his pain, missing again because the other man was already moving to his right, his quick feet taking his torso out of harm’s way. In and out of range he moved, his own spear jabbing here, cutting there.

Then, because he needed to wipe the blood off his hand or risk the spear slipping from it, the big man shook the shield from his left arm and flung it behind him. It was a brave thing to do against a fast opponent, but he knew he could now get more control over the spear and both arms behind his thrusts.

‘I think this fight doesn’t end with the first blood, either,’ Sigurd said, brows raised as the other man discarded his own shield. The crowd clamoured because a fight without shields cannot last too long. I remembered the hólmgang between Sigurd and Mauger, which had ended with the Wessexman’s mutilation and death and Sigurd leaking blood from a dozen wounds. I had never seen a fight like it. If Sigurd or Mauger were in that arena now fighting either of those two warriors it would have been long over. I said as much to Sigurd.

The jarl shook his head. ‘The dark-haired fighter is good. He
is dragging this thing out to please the crowd. He could have killed that ox five times over and the ox knows it, too.’

‘Why would he take such a risk by keeping the fight going?’ I asked. ‘If the ox lands that spear it will likely be a killing blow.’

‘Because he is Red-Cloak’s man,’ Sigurd said, nodding down towards the rich man who waited at the arena’s edge. ‘So are they,’ he said, gesturing at the warriors with the spears and long shields that formed the enclosure of iron and flesh around the two fighters. ‘More than once the fighter has glanced at Red-Cloak for approval. Men have silver riding on the back of this fight,’ he said with half a smile, his eyes flicking across to Svein who was cheering for his man. ‘And those men will feel better about losing that silver if it has at least bought them some excitement and a tale to tell.’ I shook my head at my own callowness. Now that Sigurd had said it it seemed obvious. All the smaller man’s movement, all his feints and parries and dust-whipping footwork – even the pride-stinging arm wound: all of it had been to keep the fight going for the sake of those who had come to see a real contest.

The two warriors circled, each knowing that a single mistake now could mean his death. They probed and their spear staves clacked time and again. Then the big man swung his spear from far right, round his head, as if to sweep aside his enemy’s spear before thrusting, but the other man was ready and stepped back, dropping his spear, so that the big man’s stave hit nothing. Then the small man stepped inside, bringing his right arm up and smashing the butt end of his own spear into his enemy’s chin. The blond man staggered backwards from the blow, which would have felled a horse, then he thrust again for the other’s lead arm and this time the small man used the oar block, rotating his spear down and deflecting his opponent’s blade wide. Then he whipped his own blade up, gashing open the big man’s throat in a spray of gore. The blond warrior took three steps forward then fell to his knees, still jabbing his spear
towards his enemy. Around me folk were yelling in languages I could not understand, though it was clear some were happier than others. The small warrior glanced at Red-Cloak, who looked up at the raucous crowd before nodding sharply at his man. The fighter nodded back and, thrusting his spear into the ground, strode forward, drawing his sword. Then he stopped, because the big man, whose neck wound was spilling blood like a waterfall, had dropped his spear and was fumbling for the sword at his waist. Not because he still thought he could fight, but because he was a Norseman and wanted to drink with his ancestors in Óðin’s hall. The small man waited until his blood-drenched enemy had drawn his sword and then he moved closer and the big man gave an almost imperceptible nod. The blade plunged into the gaping wound, down into the chest where it ripped into the big man’s heart. He shuddered and died and the last sound he heard in this life was the cheering of the thousands who had won money by his death.

The corpse was dragged away and Red-Cloak’s man drew his spear from the ground and walked between two of the Long Shields, sharing a look with his lord before disappearing back into the tunnel from which he had come, his work done.

‘That was a good fight, hey!’ Bram said, folding his brawny arms and nodding contentedly.

‘My man must have got dust in his eyes,’ Svein grumbled at Black Floki who gave him a wicked grin.

‘I wonder what they were fighting about,’ Bram said.

‘A woman,’ Svein suggested. ‘It is usually over a woman.’

But the bloodshed was not done, for no sooner had men claimed their winnings than two more warriors stepped into the arena. One was a blauman with a curved sword and a small leather shield, and the other was a Frank with no shield but two wicked-looking hand axes.

‘This has nothing to do with women,’ Olaf said, shaking his head. ‘It’s about hard, cold silver.’ The others nodded and ayed and I suddenly remembered what Gregor had said about the
Amphitheatrum Flavium having always been a place of death. ‘Raven, take this,’ Olaf said, handing me five small silver coins, ‘and put it on the Frank.’ He rubbed his hands together like a man who has just traded a threadbare, flea-ridden pelt for a good knife or a pair of soft shoes. ‘Move your arse, lad,’ Uncle called after me as I fought through the press. ‘That Frank has the look of a proper killer and he’s going to make me some money.’

As it turned out the blauman won. He cut off half of the Frank’s foot, which caused much beard-shaking amongst us for we thought that was a low thing to do. The Frank had no balance without his toes and for all his skill with the axes, all the blauman had to do was walk circles around him until he fell over. Then the curved sword sliced off his limbs one by one and even the crowd who had wagered on the blauman groaned to see that.

The next fight made up for it. Two skilled blaumen fought long and hard and both took bad wounds before eventually Red-Cloak stopped the fight because neither had the strength left for a killing blow. The one who looked most likely to live was proclaimed the winner and I made two gold solidi and we all thought it was the best fight of the day.

The crowds poured out of the Amphitheatrum Flavium, buzzing with the strange thrill of having watched men fight to the death, and we made our way back to the ships as dusk’s dark blue blanket draped itself across the ancient city and the air turned cold enough to make me shiver. We found Gregor waiting for us on the quayside.

‘I thought you were supposed to keep your eye on us,’ Wiglaf said, gnawing the flesh from a spiced pork rib and slapping Gregor’s shoulder as he passed.

‘Aye, why did you leave, Gregor?’ I asked, slapping the small scrip at my belt. It clinked satisfyingly. ‘You could have won some money.’

He shook his head, glancing round nervously. ‘What is
happening at the arena is an abomination,’ he said. ‘I could not stay and be a part of it. The worst of man is tainting this city as it did when Rome was young. I am a Christian, Raven.’ He shot an accusing look at Wiglaf, because he must have known that the Wessexman was also in thrall to the White Christ, though sometimes even I forgot that. ‘How can a Christian in good conscience enjoy watching men maim and kill each other? Worse still to profit from it.’ He shook his head again. ‘I told you it was a place of death. Men have killed and been killed in the Amphitheatrum Flavium since it was built. And all for the crowd’s delight.’ There was accusation in that.

‘Those Romans were blood-loving bastards,’ Penda said. ‘Still are, I would say.’

‘Not all of us,’ Gregor said, wrapping his cloak tighter around his shoulders against the chill coming off the river.

‘Enough of you are,’ Penda added. ‘There are going to be more fights in two days.’ He must have seen my surprise and he shrugged. ‘I met a Mercian coming out of the arena. Been here for two years he has and we got talking.’

‘Don’t you usually kill Mercians?’ I asked, grinning.

‘This one shared a wineskin with me. If not I would have gutted the whoreson.’ He grinned back. ‘The fights began two weeks ago, he said. At first not many people came to watch. They were afraid that the pope or the emperor would cut off their balls for putting wagers on the fights. It’s not Christian. But neither Pope Leo nor Karolus has made a move to stop it.’

Gregor nodded. ‘I have seen the Holy Father’s soldiers outside the arena. But they never stop the fights.’

‘Of course they don’t stop the fights.’ The voice cut through the river’s ceaseless surge. It was Father Egfrith and I had not even noticed him sitting on the edge of the wharf, his cowled face towards the Tiberis’s west bank. He turned now, so that the glow of the city’s myriad torches touched his weasel face. ‘They don’t stop the fights because they can’t.’ Sigurd and Olaf came over, eager to hear what the monk had learnt whilst we
had been watching men die. ‘Ask Gregororovius about the mood of the people these last months. Blood was being spilled upon the well-worn streets before they reopened the doors of the Amphitheatrum Flavium.’

We looked at Gregor, who made me think of a worm that is trying to burrow into the ground because the birds are about.

‘Men were hungry,’ he said. ‘Their families were hungry. A man expects to be able to buy food, to feed his children. But we could not even get bread. Some blamed His Holiness, others the emperor. Armed bands roamed the city, stealing what they could and killing any that did not give them their food. So the traders who had supplies hid them away and that made it worse. Powerful men fought for control of the city and, as Father Egfrith says, much blood was spilled.’

‘Did Karolus do nothing?’ Sigurd asked. ‘The Romans are his people, yes?’

‘The emperor is far away,’ Gregor said.

‘Lucky for us, hey,’ Olaf put in, half smiling.

‘Maybe His Holiness Pope Leo has enough soldiers to beat the gangs, but …’ Gregor turned his palms to the night sky. ‘Maybe the lords of Rome would join their forces. Maybe they would attack Saint John Lateran.’

‘Attack a saint?’ I said.

‘Saint John Lateran is the basilica – the church in which His Holiness the Pope lives,’ Egfrith explained. I nodded, feeling stupid. ‘Leo has his enemies. The lords of Rome resent his humble beginnings and would rather their pope was of noble stock. He is also accused of adultery and perjury and many other crimes of which I am sure he is wholly guiltless.’

Gregor nodded. ‘Only four years ago His Holiness was attacked by men whose purpose was to root out his tongue and gouge out his eyes.’ He grimaced. ‘We thank God that those evil men failed. We are fortunate that now he enjoys the emperor’s protection, for it was Pope Leo who put the crown
on Karolus’s head. And yet His Holiness still has enemies in Rome who would bring him down.’

I told this again in Norse for Bram and Svein and some of the others who were standing nearby sharing wineskins and bread soaked in butter and garlic and admiring a new flock of whores who had blown in on the breeze.

‘This pope is the lord of all the White Christ followers,’ Bram said, ‘and he lives here in Rome?’

‘Their god whispers in his ear day and night,’ I said, snapping my fingers and thumb together.

‘I’ll wager that sheep-swiving son of a rancid cunny has some treasures worth plundering,’ he said, sharing a vicious grin with Svein, and I wished then that I hadn’t mentioned it, for it would be just like those two to kick down Pope Leo’s door and yank the rings off his fingers regardless of the consequences. I left them with those silver-heavy thoughts and turned back to Gregor.

‘Since the fights began in the arena, peace has returned to Rome,’ he said. ‘Bread is being baked. People are eating.’

‘Men are happy when they are making money,’ Olaf pointed out, tapping his own scrip, which was much heavier than mine by the looks.

‘Word has been sent to the emperor,’ Egfrith warned. ‘Those barbarous fights in the Amphitheatrum Flavium will be stopped. Karolus will not allow Rome to return to its Godless days.’

Gregor made the sign of the cross and looked sheepishly at Egfrith. ‘I pray that you are right, Father Egfrith. And I for one will be nowhere near the arena when the emperor comes.’