Whistles and cries of encouragement filled the air as the procession went by. Ahead of the gladiators groups of acrobats tumbled and rolled, delighting the crowds. Men bearing statues of Mars, Nemesis and Nike, the goddess of victory, took up the rear, flanked by musicians clashing cymbals and pounding drums. Women made lewd comments at their favourite fighters. Everyone supported the Ludus Magnus, the local gladiator school.
The onlookers knew nothing of the ongoing feud.
Suddenly Romulus felt keen to get to the arena. Many would die in the forthcoming contest and if their enemies succeeded, he and Brennus would be among them. Romulus had no wish to shed the blood of Magnus fighters, but he would not let someone slip a knife between his ribs either. The sooner it was over, the better. When the vendetta had been settled, normal life in the ludus could resume.
He glanced at the Gaul. Brennus seemed as calm as if he were going to the market.
Romulus took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his face. 'Quite warm already.'
'It will be like Hades by midday.'
'At least we won't be fighting then.'
'Poor bastard venatores,' said Brennus. 'The wild beasts won't be too friendly in these temperatures either.'
Romulus was glad he had never seen an animal hunt before, usually the first performance of the day. Stories were common of hungry lions tearing gladiators limb from limb, and elephants trampling men underfoot like firewood. Venatores did not live for long and he had only escaped such a career because of his bravery on the day Gemellus sold him. That, or the intervention of the gods.
Passing through the city gates, they reached the Campus Martius, the plain of Mars. It was the site of elections to the magistracy and the place where citizens were sworn into the army. Pompey's new complex had transformed the huge open space. The most blatant attempt to win popularity ever seen, it contained an ornate people 's theatre, a chamber for the Senate, a house for Pompey and a majestic temple to Venus. Every few moments, a great roar rose up from the packed auditorium.
Memor led his fighters towards a small doorway to one side of the main entrance. Four heavily armed slaves stood guard outside.
'State your business,' the largest said arrogantly.
'What does it look like?' snapped Memor. 'Here are fifty of the finest gladiators in Rome.'
'The lanista of the Dacicus might disagree.'
Memor whipped up his staff, catching the man off guard.
'I meant no harm, Master,' he stammered, the sharp metal hook pricking the back of his neck.
Memor pulled him closer, drawing blood. 'Like to join the combat today?'
'No, Master.' Beads of sweat sprang out on the guard's brow.
'Then open the fucking door!'
One of his companions swiftly pulled back a heavy iron bolt. Memor released the slave, allowing him to guide them inside. As the fighters passed into the darkness below the stands, the din made by shouts and drumming of spectators' feet filled their ears. It was a sound Romulus had heard before, something that quickened the pulse of even the most hardened gladiator.
Brennus cocked his head and listened. 'The crowd's excited. Something, or someone, is about to die.'
There was a lull in the cacophony. In the momentary silence they heard the distinctive snarl of a large beast.
The hairs on Romulus' neck stood up. 'What's that?'
'A lion. Angry too, by the sound.'
People above reacted with alarm as the big cat roared again. A man started screaming and the audience responded with jeers and boos.
'What happened?'
'He probably missed with his spear or trident.' Brennus grimaced. 'A goner.'
The cries outside intensified, then suddenly fell silent.
'Poor bastard,' said Romulus, even more glad that Cotta had chosen him.
Inured to the suffering, the guard sullenly brought the fighters along a narrow corridor with a dirt floor. Large empty iron cages stood on each side. There was little light apart from what filtered through gaps in the wooden planks around them. Memor stopped by the open door of the cell nearest the arena. It was marginally brighter than those at the back. He gestured at the empty space and laughed. 'Luxury accommodation.'
The gladiators trudged in, followed by the lanista's guards, who struck off the neck chains then beat a hasty retreat.
'We got the best spot!' Memor jerked his head opposite. 'The boys from the Dacicus have been left that one.' The cage across the corridor lay empty, floor covered in bloodstained bandages and damaged armour.
'No one's cleaned it since the last fight,' Brennus said. There was little surprise in his voice. 'Put them on the back foot having to sit in that.'
'When it starts, you know what to do.' Memor's fierce eyes bored into each man. 'Stick together. Fight bravely. Kill every last one of those bastards! And remember – a bag of gold if you survive unhurt!'
'Lu-dus Mag-nus!' A retiarius started the shout. Instantly it was taken up by the rest. 'Ludus Magnus! Ludus Magnus!'
The lanista grinned, clenching a fist and thumping it off his chest in salute.
Even Brennus responded to the gesture.
'He's sending us out there to be killed!' Romulus hissed as Memor turned and left.
The Gaul was confused. 'That's his job.'
'So why acknowledge him?'
'Memor was a gladiator once,' Brennus replied lamely. 'He deserves respect for that.'
'And now he grows rich while men die.'
Unsettled by the comment, Brennus looked away.
Forget Memor, thought Romulus. Focus on the fight instead. Survive.
Most fighters quickly found a spot on the floor to sit and began talking with each other, sharpening weapons or tightening straps on armour. Two Thracians were wrestling, watched idly by a dozen men. A few knelt in one corner, praying to their favourite gods for protection. Anything that whiled away the long hours before combat was a good idea. Figulus and his cronies were deep in conversation and Romulus felt safe enough to wander away from the Gaul.
Beyond the bars were horizontal wooden planks making up the enclosure 's main wall. Above were the seats of the rich and famous. Romulus smiled at the possibility of Gemellus' backside being so close to his sword. The merchant was an enthusiastic supporter of gladiatorial contests.
Romulus stared through a gap in the timbers. The lowest rows of benches were only a man's height from the ground and the spectators could almost reach out to touch the fighters and animals on the hot sand. 'Isn't it dangerous?' he asked.
'Look.' Brennus pointed at regularly placed archers with drawn bows round the perimeter. 'They can usually pick off anything that jumps out.'
'Usually?'