Claudia did not return to the imperial box. She stood at the Gate of Life. Murranus and Meleager were now striding across the sand to stand in front of the box. They took off their helmets, raising sword and shield in salutation, and gave the usual cry: ‘We who are about to die salute thee.’
Constantine raised his hand in acknowledgement. The gladiators separated. Murranus put his shield and sword on the sand and took off his helmet, the agreed signal that he wished to talk. He wasn’t aware of how silent the arena had become; he just wanted to see Meleager’s face, to tell him directly that he was about to die.
‘What is it?’ Meleager took off his helmet and shook the sweat drops from his face. ‘Are you willing to concede? The crowd will understand that, especially after your luck with the bull.’
Murranus smiled lazily back. He wanted to study this face, remember how Meleager looked. The crowd was now shouting, but Murranus didn’t care. He picked up his helmet and brushed the sand from its plume.
‘Your friend Dacius.’ He could tell by Meleager’s expression that his opponent knew only too well what had happened. ‘He’s fled Rome.’ Murranus winked. ‘He won’t be here to see you die.’
The fixed smile faded from Meleager’s face.
‘And you are going to die,’ Murranus continued. ‘In a tunnel behind you stands a young woman, Claudia, the love of my life. Eighteen months ago she and her brother were down at a lonely spot on the banks of the Tiber. A stranger attacked them. He killed the boy and raped that young woman. Her assailant was strong and muscular, and on his wrist he had the tattoo of a purple chalice, the same insignia Dacius wears. You’ve had yours washed off.’ Murranus noticed how his opponent was breathing more quickly, blinking in astonishment. ‘You’ve had it washed off,’ Murranus repeated, ‘but you can’t wash away the crime, and you’ll pay for that now.’
Murranus put his helmet on, fastening the buckle, only now becoming aware of the shouts and cat-calls interspersed with a few boos from the increasingly restless crowd. He had chosen his time well. Meleager was disconcerted. Murranus was the first to re-arm, and walked away so that he stood with his back to the imperial podium. The crowd’s curiosity was now whetted. They wondered what had happened and were taken aback by the fury of Murranus’s attack. Usually professional gladiators danced and skirmished, testing their opponent’s agility, assessing his strength. Murranus would have none of this. Shield up, he rushed straight at Meleager, sword flickering like a serpent’s tongue, seeking the soft lower neck. Meleager, taken by surprise, retreated quickly, turning slightly so that the death-bearing cut merely sliced a piece of leather off his shoulder guard. Again Murranus charged, using both shield and sword like a battering ram, kicking the sand, forcing his opponent back. Meleager fell, rolling in the sand, losing his sword. Murranus drew back and kicked the weapon towards his opponent; a casual gesture, full of contempt, as if he had already decided he was the victor and it was only a matter of time. The crowd was now roaring its approval.
Murranus turned, eyes searching for that lithe, small figure standing just within the Gate of Life. He lifted his sword in salute, then continued his onslaught, fighting like a man possessed. He no longer thought of tactics. He was only aware of his opponent: his grunts, his smell, the face behind that visor, his body protected by armour, sword and shield. He was not conscious of any ache or any fear; he was determined to destroy his opponent, take away both life and honour.
The end came swiftly. Meleager, taken completely by surprise by the swift ferocity of Murranus’s attack, tried to curb his opponent’s onslaught by making a cut at his leg. For a few seconds he left his shoulder exposed, and Murranus brought down his sword. Meleager moved, avoiding the full force of the blow, yet the sharp edge of Murranus’s sword dug deep. Meleager dropped his own weapon and staggered away, Murranus following in pursuit, using the boss of his shield to knock his opponent over. Meleager tried to roll away, but Murranus followed, finally putting his foot on his fallen opponent’s chest. Then he leaned down, took off Meleager’s helmet and tossed it across the arena. The entire amphitheatre was now standing, cloths being waved, hands extended to indicate Meleager’s fate. There were shouts of ‘Kill him!’ and ‘Let him have it!’
Meleager lay still, staring up at Murranus through half-closed eyes. He didn’t ask for mercy, whilst Murranus didn’t even look at his face, but turned to the imperial box, sword raised, waiting for the Emperor’s wish. Constantine was now leaning over the purple balustrade, right hand extended, thumb out. If he turned his thumb upwards, Meleager would die; down, and Murranus must show mercy. The gladiator waited. Someone was talking to Constantine; the hand fell away, then came back, a swift thrusting movement, thumb downwards. Meleager was to live. Murranus leaned over, pressing the tip of his sword against his opponent’s neck.
‘You fight like an ape,’ he hissed, ‘and you will die like an old dog.’
He stepped away, kicking his opponent’s sword towards him.
‘Use it,’ he taunted, ‘to get up and hobble back to your degenerate friends.’
Murranus walked away. Claudia, standing in the entrance of the Gate of Life, watched as if it was a scene from a play. Murranus had now dropped his shield, but was still holding his sword, striding towards her, his booted sandals kicking away the sand. People were standing in the imperial box; the crowd still shouted their approval, saluting the hero of the games. Claudia saw Meleager move. He grasped his fallen sword and got to his feet, scrambling towards Murranus at a half-crouch, sword out. She opened her mouth to scream but she couldn’t. Murranus turned abruptly, his sword coming up. He knocked his opponent’s arm away before thrusting his own sword deep into Meleager’s belly, turning it to the left and right, dragging Meleager close so he could watch the life light die in his eyes. Only then, using his foot, did he free his sword and allow the corpse to collapse on to the sand, a pool of blood gushing out from the jagged cut which had sliced his stomach.
The crowd was stamping and screaming, coins and flowers were thrown, trumpets blared. Murranus took off his helmet, threw it on the sand and turned, sword raised, Meleager’s blood coursing down it, to receive the applause of the Emperor and people of Rome.
Claudia could only stand, body taut, thrilled with excitement, watching this man turn round and round, screaming back his own song of victory. The Emperor had allowed Meleager to live and the fallen gladiator had breached both imperial wishes and the only rule of the arena: a man could live for his courage but had to die for cowardice. Meleager’s attack had been treacherous. If Murranus hadn’t killed him, Constantine would have sent troops to finish the task. Very few spectators realised how Murranus had provoked his opponent before walking slowly away. Claudia had seen him turn his left hand, using Spicerius’s arm guard to watch what was happening behind him. Meleager had been a dead man as soon as he grasped his sword and decided on that last cowardly attack.
Any hopes Claudia had that she and Murranus would be left alone were quickly dashed. As soon as Murranus entered the Gate of Life, court officials came hurrying down with the Emperor’s demands that he appear in the imperial box to receive the victor’s laurels. Constantine was apparently delighted, eager to be associated with this new champion of Rome, even though the mob’s memory was fickle and Murranus’s exploits would soon take second place to anything which occurred during the games over the next few days. Murranus hugged and kissed Claudia. The officials collected his weapons and he was escorted back up through the tunnels, along the passageways, to where Constantine was waiting for him. Claudia watched him go. She couldn’t stop her trembling, and she felt the little food she’d eaten curdle in her stomach. She sighed with relief as she walked back to the tunnel and Narcissus stepped out of the gloom.