Death Of A Gladiator

Death Of A Gladiator Part 1

DEATH OF A GLADIATOR

CHAPTER 1

"Bravo, Cleomenes! Hail, Ianista!"

The shriek of metal on razor sharp metal, leapt thin and high across the hot, dry air.

"Excellent pairs, Cleomenes! Superb swordplay!"

I twisted and wriggled amongst the damp flesh and crown stench, trying to get to my seat

Another shriek, desperate and human.

"He'll unball him!"

"He'll gut him!"

"Idiot! He'll just wing him!"

I pushed a fat oaf in the face, just as he raised a wine skin to his blubbery lips, smacked another lout across the ear and slid my way across opposite the Emperor's podium.

Augustus looked across, saw me, and scowled. Thin and bitter lips curled upward, and his nose angled higher. His favourite magistrate, Tullius Gaius Crestus, sat behind him.

I sat down next to Livia. Her escort stood up, and with a discreet bow, excused himself and left.

"Damn snob."

"Him?" she laughed. She wore a large shawl around her head and covered her face and shoulders. It was not good form for a woman to be with the male spectators, but I have my privileges.

Her teeth sparkled white as she licked her pretty lips. Dark curls washed across a face that, although approaching middle age, looked much younger.

"No, I mean the Emperor."

Her escort knew our relationship. Her husband didn't.

I was just one of her many others. I preferred it that way. 

 Get lost in the mob when her outraged husband starts asking questions.

"Relax, Cleomenes. The old windbag is jealous of the crowd's attention. That's why he is taking control of the gladiator schools."

"And putting me out of business," I added.

The gladiator schools were soon coming directly under the Emperor's control.

I am 58 years old, a Greek, and a former slave. That, in the eyes of most Romans, puts me beneath contempt, amongst the lowest of the low.

Once a Greek scholar and philosopher, then a slave, then a gladiator, then a trained thug and assassin; I have seen my share of death.

Now a Roman citizen, I train and fight gladiators for a living.

I am a lanista, a gladiator trainer. I also own my own gladiators. In the eyes of most Romans, I am no better than a pimp .... perhaps worse. The lowest freeborn, drunken Roman bum might think himself above my station.

But the crowd loves me when I put on a show. For an afternoon, I and my gladiators are the crowd's delight.

She carefully snuggled in closer beside me; her cleavage brushed my forearm. The day was warming up. Her plump breasts were damp.

Down in the arena, another high shriek rang out as the best of my Thracians, muscled lean and stringy, like a cat, drew more blood from the sword arm of a Samnite.

"A girl! Listen to him squeal!" yelled some idiot.

"A bad match, Cleomenes," Livia laughed again. "Your Samnite would be better hauling a plough than swinging a shield and spear and so much armour."

""I match them for a purpose. What do most of these ruffians know of fine swordplay? Some do, most don't. The Thracian moves so fast; they think the Samnite is already doomed. They just want blood. Brutes and morons.

"So what? You'll make a killing today, so to speak. Everyone here is really here for the next event. To to see Cinxor fight his last match."

I let my arm linger on her breasts.

She was married to a wealthy old nobleman fifteen years her senior. But he was an old fart, not an old goat, like me.

I was her latest old goat. And very happy about it too.

We settled in to watch the rest of it. This is what Romans love. The glory of perfect bodies in combat and conflict. The sacrifice of perfect life for bloody death. Life and death, side by side.

In the Roman soul, one serves the other. One dies so the other may live; death and life, life and death. Each a mirror, each a glorious testament to the beauty, destiny and service of the other.

"Why, Cleomenes," she cooed. "If you weren't my favourite lanista, I declare I'd be half in love with that giant Gaul. Is his weapon as big as him, like they say?"

"Probably," I said. "There are enough cuckolded husbands in Rome to vouch for that."

A yell from the crow. Then bellows and roars. 

More blood had been drawn.......

Continued next week in Chapter Two .............................