CHAPTER 58

The speed of the executions might have been a record. I counted no fewer than fifty men crucified or burned to death in less than an hour. The soldiers were pounding spikes into wrists and feet as fast as they could. They quickly erected crosses and set the prisoners on fire —no small feat in the driving rain —or they broke the prisoners’ legs so they could no longer breathe.

There were two centurions whose only job was to certify the deaths of the crucified prisoners who had not been set on fire. The first rammed a spear into the sides of the men hanging from the crosses. The second followed with a branding iron on a long pole and seared the flesh of the prisoner to see if he had any reaction.

The crowd grew restless as the rain pounded us. A few people left before the gladiator fights even started. Caligula shouted orders at his troops, commanding them to hurry up and get the dead men out of the arena. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed by another peal of thunder. Everybody jumped.

As soon as the soldiers removed the bodies of the dead men, the gladiators marched in front of Caligula. The emperor announced their records, and they saluted him, though their words were lost in the wind and rain.

I noticed that the young gladiator who had lost the pull-up contest to me, the man named Cobius, was scheduled to fight. He carried the armor of the murmillo, a Greek word for a certain type of fish, and his name literally meant “minnow.” One thing I learned at the school where Mansuetus trained was that they gave all of their gladiators absurd names, as if the entire enterprise were a clever joke.

Mansuetus stood before the emperor as well, but he didn’t flash his customary smile when he saluted. He was definitely limping, though he did his best to hide it. Like Cobius, he carried the large, oblong shield and long sword of a murmillo, having traded in his usual Thracian gear. He had armor on his left leg and wore a helmet with a broad brim and single plume that exposed his face. His right arm, the sword-bearing one, was covered with leather and metal. He would be slower today, fighting defensively. I prayed he might win.

The last gladiator introduced was the man known as Flamma —the man Mansuetus had described as his only equal in the arena. He was younger than Mansuetus and every bit as tall but much thicker. He had long black hair and a wild-eyed look. His entire body was covered with hair, and his muscles looked as if someone had carved them from travertine stone.

Flamma saluted the emperor but never acknowledged the cheering crowd. He put on a helmet that covered his entire face with a metal grille. His hair stuck out the back and flowed over his shoulders. I knew Mansuetus wanted to fight Flamma before retiring. I was glad it wouldn’t be today.

The first few fights started slowly, and the lanistae had to whip the men into action. Caligula seemed to be watching the crowd more than the gladiators. He must have sensed that people were losing interest. The rain let up for a few minutes but then started again with more fury than before. Men headed for the exits at every break in the action.

After an hour of fighting, Caligula took charge. He stood and called a halt to the contests. He told the guards that nobody else was allowed to leave. He shouted at the top of his lungs so he could be heard above the rain.

“As host of the games, I have decided to change the format,” he called out, his voice strident. “In the next thirty minutes, you will see more action and bloodshed than any crowd in the history of the games has ever witnessed! I am ordering every gladiator except Flamma into the arena at the same time. The winner will be the last man standing. There will be no mercy extended to the others.”

The crowd responded with a roar. The excitement was now palpable as the gladiators filed into the arena and found spots they could call their own. Many of them put their backs to the waist-high wooden walls that separated the arena from the bottom row of spectators. Others stationed themselves in the middle of the wet sand, their heads on a swivel.

The gladiators were using a variety of weapons, and it looked to me like some of the larger schools would be fighting in teams. Mansuetus and Cobius, the only gladiators from their school who hadn’t already fought, stood back-to-back near the middle of the arena. I counted forty-two gladiators in total. Only one would survive.

The rain continued to pelt the spectators, but now nobody cared. Caligula stood on the Rostra, his arms spread wide —a god posing for his people. “Now who wants to leave?” he bellowed.

The crowd shouted its approval.

“And that’s not all!” Caligula yelled. “In the history of the games, the equites have only fought each other. Today, that changes too!”

Caligula waited for the crowd to cheer itself out, and then he gave the order. “Bring them in!”

At his command, four mounted gladiators entered the arena. Each had the traditional round shield of the Republican Cavalry in his left hand, a lance in his right, and a sword at his waist. The equites, from their saddles, would be able to cut down the other gladiators and then turn on each other. In a few minutes, the whole scene would explode into chaos.

The sky thundered and the crowd thundered back. The spectators were on their feet, stamping on the wooden stands. Mansuetus looked this way and that, calling instructions over his shoulder to Cobius.

Caligula smiled at his deadly creation. “May the best gladiator survive!” he yelled. He raised his scepter and the fighting began.

The men surrounding Flavia were all shouting at once. She stood on her seat so she could get a better view, but others did the same. Her eyes were fixed on Mansuetus, and she mouthed a silent prayer to the gods.

Keep him safe. Give him strength. Allow him to emerge victorious.

She had seen him win so many fights, but she had never seen anything like this. She suspected Caligula had planned this type of spectacle all along. The storms were just an excuse to get back at Mansuetus. If it meant sacrificing the lives of forty-five other gladiators in the process, so be it.

Her heart was in her throat, and she could feel every beat in her ears. In the first few seconds of chaos, three gladiators went down, pierced by the lances of the equites. One gladiator was caught in a net thrown by a retiarius and then speared with a trident. But before the retiarius could exult in his conquest, another gladiator had sliced his neck from behind.

Mansuetus and Cobius were both engaged with a man in front of them when an equites came by and put a sword between the shoulder blades of their opponent.

Men were falling so quickly that it was hard to keep up. Flavia had her fists balled in front of her mouth, stifling her screams, hoping that Mansuetus would somehow be able to survive the bedlam.