CHAPTER 12

Mansuetus was the first to do it. After twenty minutes of fighting, blood and sweat streaked his body, and sand clung to his wet skin. The smile had long disappeared from his lips. He stepped away from the encounter and gave his adversary a subtle nod. As they kept a wary eye on each other, both men slowly removed their left hands from their shield straps and placed the shields on the ground. The crowd hushed, and those around me stood on their toes, shading their eyes from the sun, trying to get a better look. Even Sejanus and the Vestals stood in curious disbelief.

Mansuetus crouched down, keeping his eyes on the stocky Celadus, and placed his curved sword on the sand as well. This brought a few shouts of displeasure, which quickly crescendoed into whistles and hoots of disapproval. A lanista who had been stationed near the edge of the stadium took a step toward the fighters. Who would have thought that these two gladiators, of all men, would need to be whipped into action?

Celadus crouched and placed his sword on the sand as well, stepping back from the weapon with his eyes still glued to Mansuetus. Flavia inched forward, almost to the edge of the imperial box.

The crowd turned on the fighters with a vengeance. Jeers rained down from the third and fourth tiers and were soon echoed by the patricians below. “Finish the fight!”

“Battle to the death!”

“Cowards!”

The man in front of me shook his head in disgust.

An ironic grin curled Mansuetus’s lips, his white teeth contrasting brilliantly against his grimy face. He circled to his right, as did the Gaul, until they had completed a half circle and stopped in front of the other man’s armor.

Each knelt slowly, deliberately, and picked up the other man’s sword and shield. The crowd, catching on quickly, screamed its approval. The lanista stepped back. Apparently the gladiators had agreed, even before stepping into the arena, that if the fight had not concluded by a designated time, they would switch armor and finish each other off with unfamiliar weapons.

When they reengaged, the crowd was in a frenzy. Romans loved a good surprise. And what could be better than this —gladiators who feigned a truce only to fight more viciously than they had before?

But this time the match was uneven. Mansuetus had a greater reach, a longer and heavier sword, and he was quicker. He was strong enough to adapt to the heavier armor, and even with his wounded leg, he seemed unstoppable. The Gaul, not used to dodging and weaving, continued to plow straight ahead, nullifying any advantage the lighter armor might have afforded. The two men stood within arm’s length of each other, exchanging blows, but the advantage now lay entirely with Mansuetus.

Eventually the Gaul’s wounded left shoulder wore down, and he lowered the shield enough for the taller Mansuetus to strike a hard blow across his neck, slicing into a vein. Blood came gushing out, and Celadus dropped to his knees, tottered for a second, and then dropped his sica and fell on his face.

Mansuetus watched grimly as his adversary fell. He quickly turned to face Sejanus, and I saw a look of relief flash across Flavia’s face as she returned to her seat.

Without waiting for a signal from the crowd, and to nobody’s surprise, Sejanus turned his thumb up, extending mercy to the fallen Celadus. The only question now was whether it even mattered.

According to custom, Mansuetus would now head to the imperial box, where Sejanus would congratulate him, place a wreath of victory on his head, and hang a gold medallion around his neck. Spectators would shower the ring with sestertii, and Mansuetus would scoop them up. Meanwhile, a physician would attend to Celadus to see if he could be saved, stitched up, and repaired in time to fight again in six months.

But just as the crowd was beginning to relax, it was caught off guard again. And this time, so was Mansuetus.

The Gaul —miraculously, it seemed —had rallied enough to grab Mansuetus by the ankle and jerk him back. My breath caught as I watched Mansuetus stumble to the ground. The Gaul rose to one knee and lunged with his sica, narrowly missing Mansuetus, who rolled quickly to his right and then sprang to his feet. He grabbed the sword he had dropped just a moment earlier. As the Gaul struggled to gain his footing, Mansuetus struck, the sword landing against the Gaul’s side and driving the man to the ground face-first.

The crowd roared again —more bloodshed! —and this time Mansuetus, without waiting for a signal from Sejanus, finished the job. He grabbed the sword with both fists and planted it with all his might between the Gaul’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground.

That finish, for the first time all day, seemed to take the wind out of the crowd. The moment held, and there was an unsettling silence throughout the arena. Celadus was motionless, lying in a pool of his own blood. Mansuetus bent over, hands on his knees, exhausted.

“Some men just don’t know when to stay down,” a voice behind me said.

I noticed that Flavia had turned away from the sight. Only Sejanus seemed impressed. It was the first time I had seen him smile all day.

The image that stayed with me occurred a few minutes later, after Mansuetus limped over to the imperial box and Sejanus joined the gladiator on the floor of the arena. Mansuetus knelt before the acting emperor, who crowned him with the victor’s laurels. The crowd applauded politely, but I heard none of the lustful cheers that had filled the place earlier.

My eyes turned to the Gaul, being dragged from the arena with his own sword still planted firmly in his back. A brave man, one who had fought valiantly, hauled away to be burned with the trash.

Greece was the cradle of civilization, I thought, and now Rome will be its grave.