The Song of the Gladiator Read Online Free

large, lustrous eyes with their calm, unblinking gaze. She wore no paint or jewellery; just a round-necked tunic which fell beneath her knees, and on her feet stout boot sandals like those of a soldier.
    Helena mouthed the words ‘little mouse’, which was acknowledged by a quick twisted smile and a bob of the head. Helena returned to her reflections. Claudia would be helpful in the problems the Emperor faced; that shrewd little mouse, that most perfect of agents, with her nose for mischief! She was a child of the slums, a former actress; she could act the lady if she wanted to but she rarely did. She did not like to be noticed, and that made her both valuable and dangerous. People chattered as if she wasn’t there, and she had a sharp eye for observing little incongruities and idiosyncrasies. Was Claudia a Christian? Helena wondered. There was certainly some link between her and the priest Sylvester, as there was with Rufinus. Perhaps the banker had promised to help Claudia find the man with the purple chalice tattooed on his wrist who had raped her two years ago after murdering her simple-minded brother Felix. Strange, Helena reflected, that Claudia had accepted her invitation to the games; the girl had declared she did not like such occasions, but wasn’t she sweet on one of the gladiators?
    ‘Augusta, may I join you?’ Fulvia Julia, Rufinus’s wife, was standing next to her; beside her hovered a household slave carrying a stool.
    ‘Of course.’ Helena’s smile was as false as Fulvia Julia’s.
    ‘Very good.’ Fulvia Julia sat down. ‘Augusta,’ she cooed, tapping the arm of Helena’s chair, ‘you’re so brave, refusing to wear jewellery or paint. It’s so . . .’ the bitch shrilled with laughter, ‘so basic!’
    ‘Haven’t you read Ovid’s Remedies of Love ?’ Helena smiled. ‘He says all is concealed by gems, gold and paint.’ She leaned closer. ‘A false woman is the least part of herself.’
    ‘Oh! Augusta, you’re so knowledgeable. Now,’ Fulvia Julia clapped her hands and pointed at the arena, ‘who do you think is going to be killed?’
    Murranus the Gladiator, standing in the darkness of the tunnel entrance beneath the amphitheatre, was asking himself the same question. He’d prayed before a statue of Mars, and sprinkled some incense over the flame, mixing in a tuft of red hair from his close-cropped head. He had bathed his eyes against the dust and dabbed on a little black kohl, which emphasised their blueness. He was ready for the contest. He and his opponent were free men, so they could carry their own weapons; they would not have to wait until they entered the arena. They were here by choice. Murranus shook his head. He was here because he had to be; this was the only thing he could do – fight.
    Murranus squinted out at the sunlight. He was Frisian by stock, but really nothing more than another fighting man from the slums with no kith or kin. Fortunata, his sister, was dead, and his only friends were his companions at the She-Asses tavern. He had bounced the tavern wench, Januaria, but as for his heart . . . Well, he grimaced, little Claudia would know all about that.
    He gazed round the tunnel. Its walls, painted a macabre yellow and black, were covered by graffiti, the last words and signs of other gladiators who’d waited here before the Gate of Life, the blinding light of the arena beckoning them on. Would this be the day he died? Murranus was the victor of at least a dozen fights. He had lost only two, being judged ‘Amissus’, defeated but allowed to live.
    ‘Are you ready, Murranus?’ Polybius, Claudia’s uncle, and keeper of the She-Asses tavern, gestured at the table where his armour was piled. Polybius was full-faced, with mischievous eyes. He now tried to look sad, rubbing the end of his fat nose and pulling down his laughing mouth as if Murranus had already lost the contest.
    ‘I’m the one who’s fighting,’ Murranus joked.
    Polybius patted the