Through the slits of his helmet, Murranus watched his opponent move swiftly from side to side. He was trying to disconcert Murranus, striving to manoeuvre him so that he had his back to the sun. The net man had a piece of metal protecting his left arm which he deliberately used as a mirror to dazzle his opponent. Murranus recognised all these tricks; the net man would be watching carefully. If he could clog up the gaps in Murranus’s helmet, cake his mouth and nose with dust, dazzle his eyes, already blinking because of the sweat, he might have a chance to trap him with his net and bring him to the ground. Murranus moved away, cleaning his mouth with his tongue. He held the long shield up and gripped the wooden sword even tighter. He moved his helmet, caught the breeze and felt a little better. He was aware of the tiers of seats in the amphitheatre quickly filling up as the various collegia arrived to watch him fight. Spicerius was there, Meleager had just arrived; so had the Dacians, gathering like a swarm of flies to study his every move. Well, he would educate them.

The net man was moving in, his net ready to sail out like a spider’s web. Murranus darted forward but hastily retreated. Again he went in. Now he was concentrating hard; he no longer heard the moan of the crowd, he’d forgotten about the clammy helmet, the sweat soaking his face, the ache of his leg muscles or the pain in his right arm where he had received a vicious rap from the wooden trident. Indeed, Murranus was beginning to hum a song he had learned as a child. He was enjoying himself, this was his being, his very existence. All of life had come down to staring through that gap at a man who, under different circumstances, would try to kill him.

Murranus now had the measure of the moment. He settled to the fight, aware of the sheer music of this macabre dance. It thrilled his body, and his mind and heart were now set on victory. He’d made his decision. He knew which choice to follow; the die was cast. In the shuffling dance beforehand he had scrutinised the net man carefully, looking for his opponent’s mistakes. A little too quick for his own good, Murranus thought, too impetuous.

Murranus darted in, moving his shield to the left, sword flickering forward like a snake’s tongue. The net man shifted to close with him. Murranus retreated. The gladiator repeated the same manoeuvre until he was ready, then he lunged again, but this time he did not retreat, instead moving swiftly to the right. His opponent, surprised, let his net sail out, missing its target. Murranus darted in, using his shield like a battering ram, sending the trident spinning from the net man’s hand. The net man rolled in the sand, ready to spring up, but it was too late. Murranus was over him, knocking him on the back of the head, sending him face down on to the sand and thrusting the tip of his sword into the nape of his opponent’s neck. The net man lay silent as Murranus lifted his shield to acknowledge the cries and applause from the crowd, then stepped back, dropping shield and sword, and took off the plumed helmet. A slave ran across to remove the heavy leg greaves. Another brought a jar of water. Murranus sipped from this and poured some over his face, then pulled his opponent up and thrust the water jar into his hands.

‘You were too fast,’ the net man gasped, his face grimed with sweat and sand. ‘I never thought you would do that.’

‘You should have expected it.’ Murranus grinned. ‘You can bet a coin to a coin that if your opponent is moving backwards and forwards, especially one with armed with a sword and a heavy shield, sooner or later he’ll attack you in the flank. I used my shield, but there’s variations. I could have entangled your net with my shield and dragged you in on my sword.’ He gently patted his opponent’s face. ‘Remember this,’ he added quietly, ‘and you might live. In the arena the shield is more dangerous than the sword; it can catch your net, blunt your trident, but above all, it can deliver a hammer blow. Now let’s celebrate with some wine.’

They moved across to join their comrades. Murranus was congratulated by Spicerius, who pushed a goblet of wine into his hand, patting him on the back, praising his moves but offering his own criticism. Murranus caught Meleager’s gaze and nodded a greeting.

‘He’s full of himself,’ Spicerius whispered. ‘One of us will have to meet him and teach him a lesson, eh?’

A crowd had formed around Meleager, questioning him. The Dacian leader glared across. Agrippina was also flirting with the newcomer.

‘Oh let her be!’ Spicerius whispered. ‘As long as she visits me at the She-Asses tavern, I don’t really mind. I’ll teach her to moon-gaze at an opponent.’

Murranus collected his weapons and entered the bath house, plunging into the warm water before moving on to the cold. He kept thinking about the recent fight. He hoped his opponents were stupid enough to believe he’d repeat the same tricks in the arena. Spicerius joined him, keeping up a running commentary on Meleager’s skill, what to look for, what to avoid. Murranus crossed to the ointment room and lay on a slab, while the masseur of the school coaxed and smoothed his muscles with his expert touch and soothing oils. Murranus sniffed their fragrance and felt himself relax. Spicerius was now chatting about the party Agrippina had planned. They would spend the early afternoon in the coolness of the garden, and when darkness fell, the real revelry would begin.

Murranus fell lightly asleep and was woken by the masseur slapping his back, pointing to his clothes laid out across a chest near the door. He put on a loincloth and his long white linen tunic, then went across to the Keeper of Valuables to retrieve his collar, bracelet and rings. He put on his sandals and joined Spicerius outside in the cool colonnade.

‘Do you know something?’ Spicerius put his wine cup down and pointed across to the other colonnaded walk, where Meleager was deep in conversation with the Dacians. Agrippina seemed to have disappeared. ‘We gladiators,’ Spicerius continued, ‘are great boasters, but Meleager seems so certain of victory.’ He turned and clutched Murranus’s arm. ‘May Hercules bless me,’ he whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’ Murranus was concerned by Spicerius’s haunted gaze.

‘You know how it is,’ Spicerius continued, tightening his grip. ‘You’ve been there, Murranus, waiting in the cavern to go out into the arena. The music is playing, the crowd are baying for your blood. Now and again I’ve seen gladiators, brave men, suddenly look shocked, frightened, and if you ask them why, they’ll tell you they feel as if they’ve been brushed by the feathers of the Wings of Death.’

‘And?’ Murranus asked, releasing Spicerius’s grip.

‘I feel that now, Murranus.’

Chapter 10

As they left the Ludus Magnus, Murranus stifled his own disquiet as he tried to reassure Spicerius. Once they’d turned off the main via, going down the many side streets and alleyways, conversation proved impossible. Murranus thought of Claudia and wondered when she would return. He’d heard the chatter, the gossip, the tittle-tattle of messengers and servants that all was not well at the Villa Pulchra, though he could make little sense of it. Rumours swirled about killings and fires whilst news had seeped through of some attack upon the villa. Such gossip was now being discussed in the forum, whilst, from acquaintances and friends in the city garrisons, Murranus had learnt that coastal defences were being strengthened and war galleys had put to sea, even though this was during the height of summer and a time of peace.

Murranus reflected on all this as he led Spicerius through the noisy trading areas. Business had begun shortly before dawn, and the lucky wine merchants had taken over the porticoes in the colonnades, tying their flagons and flasks to pillars so as to advertise their stock. The butchers and fish sellers were also busy. Barbers had set up stalls under the trees, waving their cushioned stools and touting for business. The itinerant cooks, with their mobile stoves in one barrow and slabs of bloody meat in another, moved about looking for a suitable place to stand and sell well away from the watchful eye of the Vigiles. The successful ones had already taken over the prime places and were doing a vigorous trade, offering grilled meats sprinkled in spice, ‘hot to the taste’, and wrapped in fig leaves. Water sellers shouted for custom claiming their buckets were full of the purest water drawn from a newly found spring in the countryside outside Rome. Traders, festooned in their cheap blue trinkets to advertise their products, offered to barter two or three items with a packet of sulphur matches thrown in for free.