The Song of the Gladiator Read Online Free Page A

sweat-soaked hair on his own balding head, then rubbed his grubby hands on his dark blue tunic.
    ‘I wish you weren’t!’ Oceanus came out of the shadows. He was a former gladiator, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, with arms and legs as stout as pillars. Claiming it was better to have an empty garden than a few straggling flowers, he shaved his pate every day and rubbed in cheap oil so that, as Polybius said, it gleamed like a fresh pigeon’s egg. He had only one ear, which sported a huge brass ring; the other had been bitten off in a contest. Oceanus had dried it out, pickled it in brine and now it hung on a cord slung round his neck.
    Others from the tavern gathered around. Simon the Stoic, the self-proclaimed philosopher, was garbed in his usual shabby cloak. Today his mournful face was even more lugubrious, his bitter lips ready to recite some tragic line. Murranus wanted to be alone, but they were only trying to help; at least they distracted him from the blood stains on the floor, as well as those two ghouls, Charon and Mercury, standing with their backs to the wall, staring at him as if he was a bullock primed for the slaughter. Outside, the chanting of the crowd thundered ominously, but when it subsided the strident music ruffled Murranus’s nerves and made the sweat break out on the back of his neck. He wished the waiting was over.
    ‘I’m ready,’ he declared. He moved across to the table and stripped. Oceanus washed his body with a sponge soaked in cold water, dried him off and began to rub in oil. Once he had finished, Murranus wrapped a triangular loincloth about his waist, pulling the end up between his legs and pushing it through a knot at the front. Next came the thick belt with its golden stitching. Murranus jogged up and down, bulging out his stomach muscles. Once he had pronounced himself satisfied, he put on a leather guard over his left arm, followed by the embossed bronzed leg guards over their thick linen padding. Oceanus made sure all the straps were tied securely and rubbed more oil on Murranus’s bare feet, thighs, chest and right arm. The gladiator picked up his stout stabbing sword and oblong legionnaire’s shield, weighing them carefully, checking all was well. Finally the visored helmet, with a panther carved on top sporting a blue-black horse-hair crest, was handed to him. Its straps and buckles were sound, and Murranus slipped it over his head, making sure it sat comfortably, peering through the eye holes at his friends standing in a semicircle around him.
    ‘Pray for me, my friends.’ His voice sounded muffled. ‘Let fortune be with me.’
    He took the helmet off and grinned, although his stomach churned and a muscle in his right thigh trembled. Murranus had made his farewells the night before at the Cena Libera, the Free Supper, where gladiators due to appear in the arena the next day celebrated what might be their last night alive. He turned at the sound of voices, and saw a gang of young men, their faces painted, hair dyed, eyelids fluttering, come tripping down the tunnel. Oceanus drove them back.
    ‘Perverts!’ Oceanus jibed. ‘The only way they can get a hard-on is by watching a man getting ready to die.’
    Murranus laughed, eager to lessen the tension. He told them about how such perverts, both male and female, clustered round the Gate of Life to pester and taunt the Noxii, criminals condemned to be thrown to the beasts; how these degenerates would often push their bodies up against the manacled prisoners. On one occasion a former Emperor had issued secret orders that when the Noxii were driven out, these perverts should also be pushed out to face the wild beasts. Murranus’s story provoked merriment, abruptly cut short by loud laughter echoing along the tunnel.
    ‘Spicerius,’ Polybius declared, ‘and all his entourage.’
    The net man came swaggering out of the darkness, tall and lithe, quick on his feet, his bushy black hair kept in place by a red headband. He was