Atilus the Gladiator. E. C. Tubb
then to be taken to her new home, there to be carried over the threshold.
‘A happy day,’ said Sentonius as they departed. ‘Well, friends, wine and food is waiting. A toast first to bless the couple.’
We drank, first spilling a few drops on the floor of the atrium with its decorative mosaics as a libation to the gods. It was good wine. Sentonius hadn’t stinted on the provisions for the feast, and he came to thank me for the gift I had given to the young couple.
‘A lamp of silver chased with gold. You were generous, Atilus. It will be useful.’
‘To light their way to bed?’
‘Who wants light for that?’ His seamed face split into a grin. ‘This day in nine months’ time I’ll be a grandfather, or I don’t know my daughter. May the gods grant them a son.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
Delia joined us as we lowered our goblets. No longer young, she was still a handsome woman, her face bearing the traces of the beauty which had drawn Sentonius to make her his wife.
‘What’s wrong with girls?’ she demanded. ‘Always you men wish for sons yet, unless there are girls, who will mother them? Would you want nothing but sons, Atilus?’
Remembering the recent weight on my shoulder I said, ‘One son would be nice, Domina.’
‘And would you expect it to be hatched from an egg?’
‘Hardly.’ I returned her smile. ‘I would like it to be born from a woman as lovely as yourself.’
‘Flatterer!’ Her eyes examined me. ‘You talk as well as you fight. Husband, it is time for you to circulate among our guests.’
‘Must I?’ Sentonius scowled. ‘You know how I hate empty chatter, and I should be at the amphitheatre. There are things waiting my attention.’
‘They can wait. This is your daughter’s wedding day and courtesy is expected of you. Hurry now and tend your guests. At least receive their congratulations—and don’t forget to smile.’ She sighed as he moved reluctantly through the crowd. ‘Why are men such cowards, Atilus? I’ve seen Sentonius face a crazed slave with naked hands, and yet he flinches from social encounters such as this. If your daughter had been married, would you act the same?’
‘I have no daughter.’
‘No daughter, no son, no wife, no home.’ Her hand fell to rest lightly on my arm. ‘Doesn’t the lack of these things trouble you at times? A man should be married, Atilus. It is the natural order of things.’
My goblet was empty and I gestured to a passing slave to replenish it, sipping at the strong, ruby wine. It was an excuse for not answering the question and one the woman recognised.
‘I have known many gladiators since marrying Sentonius,’ she said quietly, ‘but there are few I would welcome in my house. You are one of those few. And there was something in your eyes when you watched the ceremony, an ache, a yearning, something of which you were perhaps unaware, but it was there. Have you never, ever thought of settling down?’
Again I remembered the weight on my shoulder, the warm comfort of the small, sturdy shape. It would be good to have a son, to teach, to watch grow, to become an extension of myself. But I was a gladiator, and how could such a thing be?
I had seen them too often, the women who had joined their lives to those who fought in the arena. The women and the children they had borne to their men. Standing, waiting, watching with haunted eyes, never knowing if this time he would fail to return. Never being sure that, even if he did, he wouldn’t be maimed and crippled, blinded and helpless, forced to drag out his life as a beggar in the streets.
What future was that to offer any woman?
What kind of father to offer to a son?
The wine was rich and sweet, but suddenly it held a bitter sourness so that I put aside the goblet. In the arena a man had no friends. In the world he could have no dependents. A gladiator lived from one fight to another, and only the gods knew how long he could continue. Delia must know that, but weddings made some women a little mad and turned them into determined match-makers. And yet, from her, I had expected better.
‘Atilus, I’m sorry.’ With swift intuition she had guessed my thoughts. ‘You must forgive me. It’s just that I—well, I hate to see waste. And, if you go down, what a waste that would be.’
Her hand closed on my arm. ‘Please, friend, you will forgive me?’
‘For what, Domina?’ I smiled, staring into her eyes. ‘For being kind?’
‘For being thoughtless. You fight tomorrow and must have nothing on your mind.’
Nothing but the determination to kill the man I would face.
CHAPTER TWO
Aricia was a small town set on the Appian Way, a place with few of the comforts and distractions of Rome. A farming community, the town was ringed with the villas and estates of the wealthy, absentee landlords leaving the management of their property to trusted agents. The amphitheatre itself, built in a natural hollow, was constructed of wood and stone. Like the town, it was small, the actual arena little more than a hundred feet long by eighty wide, the tiered stands now filled with those who had come to witness the games.
It was past noon and the preliminaries were over. The beasts which had been hauled from the port at Tarracina were dead, together with those already installed, and the crowd, blood-lust wetted, tore the air with strident yells.
‘Atilus! Atilus Cindras! Get him, man! Kill! Kill!’
I ignored the shouts, not looking at the packed maeniana; the avid spectators. With a man like Leacus it would be suicide to give him such an opportunity.
He was a Cappadocian with all the sly cunning of his breed, a retiarius, arrogant and confident of victory. Now, edging towards me, he purred the traditional chant.
‘I do not hunt you. I seek a fish. Why do you swim away, Atilus?’
The net in his hand twitched as he spoke, the mesh weighted with gilded pellets of lead. Held in his other hand, the barbs of the fascina caught and reflected the sunlight from points and edges. The trident with its long shaft, which he used with the skill of long familiarity.
Naked aside from a leather belt and apron, his skin held an oiled sheen. A thin, metal fillet confined his hair and the only armour he wore, the galerus strapped to his left shoulder, was ornamented with embossed designs of fish and crabs.
A lithe man, he was fast and dangerous, filled with the determination to kill. A determination matched by my own.
Today either he or I would spill our lives on the sand.
‘Are you afraid of me, Atilus?’ he purred. ‘Listen to the crowd shouting for you. How will they shout, I wonder, when you are down and begging for mercy? Down and dying with my barbs buried in your guts.’
Talk to distract the attention as was the turn of the trident he held, the sunlight blazing from the polished tines. The net hissed towards my feet over the sand, a simple move and one easy to avoid, yet had I not anticipated it, the mesh would have wound itself around my ankle and a sharp tug could have brought me down.
Springing over it I backed, wary, the shield held close to my left side, my left leg with its protective greave thrust forward. The helmet, wide-brimmed, visored with a perforated plate which covered my face, was heavy, and sweat ran down into my eyes despite the wad of padding. Like the retiarius I wore a belt and leather apron, but had no dagger. My only weapon was the gladius which I held as an extension of my armoured right arm.
Too much armour and yet not enough. It slowed movement, yet failed to give complete protection. My thighs, torso, and right leg were bare. My left arm, my throat, my back from neck to ankles. Only by facing Leacus could I hope to defend myself from the thrust of his trident. Only by dodging could I escape from the cast of his net.