Caligula r-1 Read online

  The slaughter had begun.

  In the wild, antelope use their speed, agility and numbers to outwit their hunters. In the arena their instincts counted for nothing. The big cats killed at leisure, each attack drawing louder cheers from the crowd as claws sank into flesh and then teeth closed on windpipes, bringing death by slow suffocation.

  The smell of blood drove the antelope and deer into an ever greater frenzy. Some now ran awkwardly, having smashed their legs as they tried to climb and even leap the amphitheatre walls in their desperation to survive. The audience bayed for more.

  But Fronto knew it would not last. He had seen it before. The lions and the leopard would become bored with killing and would settle down to feast on the carcasses of their victims. The antelope would reach a point where they could run no further, lungs bursting and hearts close to exploding in their chests. So the promoters of the arena had found an answer.

  The hunters would become the hunted.

  Rufus had watched with pride as Circe had killed first one and then a second antelope. He had become so engrossed in the entertainment that he was surprised when the double doors opened in front of him and the three gladiators marched past him into the centre of the arena, raising the noise of the crowd to an even greater pitch.

  The two lions raised their heads from their prey and roared defiance at the threat. The leopard flattened herself down behind her last victim and waited. Only now, as each gladiator lined himself up with one of the big cats, did Rufus fully understand what was about to happen.

  'Lesson number two, Rufus,' Fronto whispered into his ear. 'Never get too close to your work. The leopard could have made me a lot of money, but you ruined it. You turned it into a pet. Pets don't fight well in the ring. Look at it. It's confused and fearful. It doesn't know what's happening. But the lions have learned that man is a danger to them. Watch them. They will fight. The leopard will only die.'

  But Fronto was wrong. The two lions did fight, but so did Circe.

  The first move was made by the huge gladiator in the cockscomb helmet.

  'He is known as Sabatis,' explained Fronto. 'And he is a veteran of the arena. He will be the first of the venatores, the hunters.'

  Sabatis raised his trident to acknowledge the crowd's acclaim before he approached his lion, the big spear held steadily in front of him. At first, his chosen victim only snarled her defiance and tried to protect her feast. She had learned to fear humans, but hoped this one would go away and leave her in peace. As the armoured figure came closer the lion was forced into a decision. She charged.

  'Watch how quick he is,' Fronto said.

  Sabatis waited until the lion was within three paces before he stooped low, one knee on the ground. The cat's leap should have taken him full in the body, but its hooked claws went inches over his head as he speared upward with the trident, the three barbed points sinking deep into the female's unprotected belly. The lion squealed in agony as her momentum took her above and past the gladiator, threatening to tear the trident from his grasp. But Sabatis tightened his grip on the triple-headed spear and twisted, ripping it clear of the animal's flesh in a spray of blood and leaving her trailing feet of intestine from the terrible gash in her stomach.

  The lioness landed in a cloud of dust and rolled over half a dozen times before slowly regaining her feet. Her whole body shook as the pain coursed through her and she licked pathetically at the huge wound in her belly. Her strength was ebbing from her along with the great gouts of arterial blood that stained the earth. She was mortally wounded, but she was also angry and at her most dangerous.

  This time there was no precipitous attack. She painstakingly manoeuvred into position for the leap that would take her great fangs to the gladiator's throat. But her movements were difficult and every breath drove the pain deeper into her body. What she thought was a deadly leap was nothing more than a lurch which bared her chest to Sabatis, who thrust forward with the trident, forcing two of the prongs deep into her heart. Blood poured from her mouth as she died with a shudder and toppled to the ground the spear still in her.

  The crowd screamed in adulation and roared the second gladiator to his task.

  'This fellow hasn't quite got Sabatis's style,' Fronto murmured.

  The axe man had been impressed by the speed of the lioness's initial attack on Sabatis. He had intended to show his skill with the razor-edged hatchet, but now the crowd could sense his uncertainty.

  He walked back to the edge of the ring and returned with a long spear in each hand. The tips of the spears were wide-bladed, narrowing to a needle point, with a crosspiece set a foot from the blade so that the charging lion could not fight its way down the shaft and tear at its attacker even in its death throes.

  The mood in the tiered wooden stands changed as the crowd saw the spears. They had anticipated a more equal, more dangerous contest and they registered their displeasure with boos and hisses.

  Already nervous, the gladiator misjudged his initial thrust at the dark-maned male lion and only succeeded in ripping the muscles of its shoulder, hurting it but leaving its movements unaffected. His second attempt was equally clumsy. The spear bit deep into the lion's belly cavity, but failed to find any of its vital organs. Worse, the axe man lost his grip on the weapon and in his panic dropped the second spear as well.

  If the gladiator had stood his ground, the lion might have been content to lick its wounds. But, armed only with a dagger, he decided to put as much distance between himself and his nemesis as possible. Its hunting instinct aroused, the lion charged.

  Now the roars of the crowd were roars of laughter. In his fear, the gladiator lost all sense of direction and ran in circles, scattering antelope as he went, with the lion gaining on him at every stride. The laughter grew hysterical when he looked over his shoulder, tore off his bronze mask and soiled his loincloth all in the same instant. Then the lion was on him, pinning the screaming man face down, shaking its head and working its great jaws at his shoulder. The screams grew louder as the lion bit through leather and into skin, but the thick shoulder strap saved the gladiator from greater damage for a few vital seconds.

  Rufus watched with horrified fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from the doomed fighter. He barely noticed the slim figure who danced lightly across the arena to stand over the lion and its victim.

  'This should be good,' Fronto said to him.

  The man in the golden mask could have killed the lion with a single thrust, but he gauged the crowd's humour with the same precision he employed to calculate the damage the lion was doing his fellow performer.

  Instead of striking instantly, he mimicked indecision with the mischievous confidence of an accomplished actor. The lifeless eyes of the young god mask merely added to the comic appeal. Should he strike? No, perhaps not. Was this his friend lying here on the ground in the process of being devoured? Perhaps yes. But the poor lion had to eat, didn't it? Well then, I'll leave the decision up to you, the audience.

  Most would have been happy to see the lion's victim die. But when the young gladiator forced his blade home into the base of the animal's neck, killing it instantly, the blow was received with universal approval.

  Now he had his own performance to complete, and it was a piece of theatre that broke Rufus's heart.

  Circe fought because the young gladiator left her no other choice. She lay behind the carcass of her final kill, ears flat against her head, and watched suspiciously as he advanced. Even when he was close enough to touch her with his sword, she stayed motionless, unable to decide whether the strange apparition was harmless or something altogether different.

  Rufus felt bile rising in his throat. He understood there was only one outcome to the contest, but he could not stop himself from calling out to the leopard.

  'Attack, Circe. Kill him, or you're going to die. Please, do something…' His anguished cry tailed into silence as Fronto gripped him by the arm. He turned to bury his head in the folds of the animal trader's cloak, but F
ronto's strong hands forced his face upward and turned him to watch the spectacle unfold.

  Circe did not die a brave death, or even a dignified one. She was butchered, slowly, one piece at a time, for the entertainment of the crowd.

  With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, the golden-masked figure drew the tip of his sword across the tender flesh of the leopard's nose, drawing blood and making the animal scream with pain as she retreated backwards from the protection of the antelope corpse. Still she did not attack, and the gladiator marched relentlessly forward with a measured pace that gave the spotted cat no time to consider her next move.

  The sword flicked again, slicing away part of Circe's ear and leaving her half blinded by a flood of red which covered her face mask. Now the pain was unbearable and the cat launched itself at her tormentor, a spring-heeled, snarling, yellow and black harbinger of hell, whose needle-pointed claws raked at the soft, vulnerable skin of his stomach.

  But the gladiator had been waiting for just such an attempt.

  To the mesmerized crowd in the tiered stands, it was as if his whole being flowed in the same instant from one spot on the arena floor to another a few feet away. To the cat it was as if she was attacking one of the insubstantial white strips of cloud which scarred the azure sky above them. One moment he was there, so close she could almost feel her claws sinking into his flesh, the next he was gone and the rear of her body went rigid with shock and turned into a searing ball of unbelievable agony.

  The crowd shrieked with amazement and Fronto shouted with them.

  ' Di omnes. Will you look at that?'

  As he melted away from the cat's attack, the gladiator had positioned himself to deliver a single sweep of the long sword which severed her tail an inch from the root.

  Circe spun in circles, almost insane with pain, squealing pathetically and trying without success to lick the stump of her tail. Eventually she came to a shambling halt and turned again to face her torturer.

  Rufus watched Circe's suffering in an agony of torment. Even at the risk of his own life, he would have rushed into the centre of the arena to stand between her and her executioner, but Fronto's vice grip on his shoulder held him where he was. Gradually the horror of what he was witnessing became too much, and it was replaced by a great emptiness. He willed the gladiator with the god's face to bring the uneven contest to a merciful end, but knew he would not. Every cut of the fighter's sword drove the crowd to new heights of ecstasy and each blow turned the once-proud animal into a shambling, bleeding mass of raw meat.

  He removed an eye with a spearing thrust. A casual slash chopped off the other ear. As the tormented animal tried to close with him, he flayed her, expertly replacing the dark rosettes which had made her one of nature's most beautiful animals with obscene patches of scarlet flesh and white bone. Soon, Circe was swaying on her feet, exhausted by her efforts and by the loss of the blood which dripped into the packed earth.

  The gladiator turned to walk away. Somehow Circe found the strength to break into a tired loping trot and then a full-blown charge that carried her towards the fighter's exposed back.

  The crowd screamed a warning, but Rufus knew the gladiator had no need of it. He had choreographed this moment, just as he had choreographed every second of the one-sided contest. He turned in a single graceful movement with the sword already extended in front of him, and sank the long blade into the leaping animal's throat, driving a yard of iron down the length of Circe's body. The blow split her heart, killing her instantly.

  Rufus, sobbing now, but still drawn irresistibly to the dreadful slaughterhouse of the arena, could visualize the grinning, triumphant features behind the mask as the gladiator marched from the arena, acknowledging the tributes of the crowd. But as he traded the harsh glare of the arena for the shade of the corridor, the fighter's confident stride faltered, as if he somehow gained his energy and strength from the sun itself. Hatred welled up inside Rufus like the magma of an erupting volcano and for an instant he was on the point of launching himself at Circe's killer.

  Then the gladiator removed his golden helmet.

  IV

  The saddest eyes Rufus had ever seen gazed from a face as handsome as the mask which had hidden it, and more so, for this was the face of a living, breathing thing and not some soulless metal facade that killed without compassion or conscience. His hair was the colour of a cornfield in high summer, but his eyes were the dull grey of a winter's morning. The sadness in them had depths that Rufus knew he could never — or hoped never to — fathom.

  The second surprise was that the gladiator, who had looked and acted like a veteran of a hundred combats, was only a few years older than Rufus himself, probably in his early twenties.

  When he spoke, it was in a guttural German-accented Latin that Rufus at first found difficult to understand, and his words were addressed to Fronto.

  'This is the boy?'

  'Yes. This is him.'

  The young gladiator stared at Rufus for a second. 'I am Cupido,' he said, an unspoken question in his voice.

  Rufus hesitated, but Fronto replied for him.

  'This one is Rufus. He is my slave, but one day, if he learns, he will be my partner.'

  'So, Rufus, you hate me now? For what I did to your animal?'

  Rufus blinked away a tear, but said nothing.

  'I was told you must be taught the reality of the arena. The cruelty? It was part of your training, I think.' Cupido fixed Fronto with a long stare, making the big man shiver. 'It was not something I took pleasure in. It was what I was paid to do. So, I tell you now in good faith, so that we will not be enemies, there is another lesson you must learn — do not waste your hatred on someone who does not have the luxury of choice.'

  With a nod, he walked away.

  As time passed, Rufus's feelings swung from one extreme to another whenever he went over in his mind what had happened. At first he hated Fronto for his callous treatment of an animal that had done nothing to deserve the terrible death it suffered. He even considered running away from the trader, but he had no idea where he would go. Finally he realized the lesson of Circe was one he would have had to learn for himself. There could be no room for emotion when animals were destined for the arena. Their hearts might beat and they breathed the same clean air as men, but they were doomed from the moment they were captured on the savannahs or in the jungles of their homelands. From now on he must harden his heart and treat them as tools to be worked with. With that realization came another: Fronto was more than his owner. In the few months they had been together he had become a friend, and when Rufus thought back over a lifetime of often being alone, and occasionally even an outcast, that fact counted enormously.

  That knowledge opened another door, and introduced a wonderful, unfamiliar feeling. A desire to change his life for the better. His time with the animal trader had been a success. He knew that if he worked hard and made progress he had a real opportunity to become Fronto's freedman and share in his business, perhaps even set up a business himself. Fronto had promised to take him with him on one of his trips to Carthage. Was it possible he might see his mother again? Was she even alive?

  The next step of his development came unexpectedly, in October, when the first thunder clouds swept in from the coast, making the animals nervously pace their cages and compounds. Fronto ordered Rufus to pack his few belongings and move them to his villa on the edge of the city. When he had settled in Rufus was summoned before his master. Fronto was not alone. With him was a small, plump man with sparkling, intelligent eyes and unruly tufts of hair growing above each ear, giving him the appearance of a well-fed squirrel.

  'This is Septimus. He's Greek. He will teach you your letters.'

  So began a long and often difficult journey that opened Rufus's eyes to the wonders of a new world and took him to places beyond his imagination. It was a slow process, but beginning with the simplest children's stories, Septimus taught him the magic of the written word. Fronto had compiled a we
ll-stocked library: tight-wrapped scrolls in protective leather cases stacked neatly round the walls of the room. Rufus enjoyed nothing better than to browse through them, even if many of the words and what they described were beyond his understanding.

  After six months he began to accompany Fronto to meetings with the men who organized the great games in the arena. Men who answered to senators and consuls, even to the Emperor himself. At first, he sat silently in the background concentrating on what was being said, and, sometimes more important, not said, trying to understand the intricate detail of the negotiations. Near-invisible signals of hand or eye could mean a difference of thousands of sesterces. They were hard men, all members of the same guild, who survived by their wits and their ability to drive a tougher bargain than their rivals. He grasped very quickly that to underestimate them or to treat them lightly was to court disaster.

  By and by, there was a subtle change in his status. Now Fronto would occasionally bring him into the conversation, asking his opinion on some small matter or his advice on the qualities of one of the animals he knew so intimately. It was never mentioned directly, but everyone on the couches round the negotiating table was aware of it. Slave or not, Fronto had adopted Rufus as his heir.

  As he worked with his animals, Rufus often thought of the young gladiator. He had long since stopped blaming Cupido for Circe's death. The leopard was always destined for the arena. It was his, Rufus's, own stupidity which had hastened her end.

  They met by chance in early spring, at one of the first shows of the new season. By now the name Cupido was spoken with reverence among enthusiasts of the amphitheatre. He was feted by the rich and the powerful. Rufus was surprised and flattered when the gladiator approached him and asked politely how he was.

  'I am well, but I hear you are better. They say you have killed twenty men.'