The Forgotten Legion

The fight had seemed perfect. Gaul against Greek. Muscle against skill. Savagery against civilisation.

Not a seat had been left empty in the stands.

Now Narcissus lay on his back, bare chest exposed, sucking air painfully through a twisted visor. The fish crest of his bronze helmet was bent in two, battered into submission. His sword lay ten feet away, kicked beyond reach.

The contest had not lasted long. Bre

Sure of victory, Bre

But Narcissus had not been defeated. Suddenly he had produced a dagger from under his manicae, lunging at the Gaul. Bre

Bre

The Gaul sighed, determined that Narcissus' death would at least be humane. He nudged the murmillo with his foot.

Opening his eyes, Narcissus found the strength to raise his left arm in the air. Slowly he extended a forefinger upwards.

An appeal for mercy.

The audience roared with disapproval, drowning the confined space with their animal noise.

Caesar stood and surveyed the arena, holding up his arms commandingly. As people noticed, the chanting and whistling stopped. A strange silence fell over the Forum Boarium. Wooden stands erected for the occasion were jammed with the poorest plebeians, merchants, and the patricians that Julius Caesar called friends.

All waited, held in the grip of the finest military mind that Rome had seen in an age. Ignoring the rule that prohibited generals with armies from entering the city, Caesar had returned, fresh from his successful campaigns against the Helvetii and Belgae. While these had gained him huge public favour, Caesar was paying a price for being absent from Rome for months on end. Despite the work of his friends and allies, it was proving hard to maintain his influence in the city. This visit was all about showing his face, pressing flesh with politicians and retaining the people 's affection.

Traditionally, gladiator fights had only taken place as part of celebrations to honour the death of the rich or famous. But in the previous thirty years, their immense popularity had prompted politicians and those seeking office to stage them at every opportunity. As the contests grew in size and magnificence, the need for a permanent arena became ever greater. Desperate to retain the public's affection, Pompey was currently funding the building of a fixed arena on the Campus Martius, news that had immensely pleased Memor and the other lanistae.

'People of Rome! Today a gladiator with more than thirty victories has been vanquished!' Caesar paused with theatrical elegance, and there was a shout of approval. It was clear that his choice of fighter and command over the audience pleased him. 'And Narcissus was beaten by whom?'

'Bren-nus! Bren-nus!' Drums beaten by slaves pounded to the repetitive chant. 'Bren-nus!'

There could only be one outcome.

The murmillo gestured weakly with his right hand. 'Make it quick, brother.'

The words were barely distinguishable above the cries and hypnotic drumming.

'I swear it.'

The unspoken bond between gladiators was strong, just as it had been with warriors of Bre

Caesar held up his arms again. 'Shall I show mercy to the loser?' He stared down at the prone figure on the sand, whose finger was still raised.

Baying sounds of anger joined the clamour. Men in the stands nearest the temple of Fortuna gestured downwards with their thumbs and the signal was quickly copied by the entire audience.

A wave of thumbs pointed south.

Caesar turned to his companions. 'The plebs require a reward.' A smile played on thin lips. 'Do you want Narcissus to die?'

The citizens screamed their pleasure.

Caesar surveyed the arena slowly, increasing the tension. Then he raised his right hand, thumb extended horizontally. For several slow heartbeats it stayed in position.

The crowd held its breath.

Abruptly it turned to point at the ground.

The shouts that went up exceeded all those that had gone before. It was time for the loser to die.

'Get up.'

Narcissus managed to kneel with difficulty. The wound on his right shoulder began to bleed heavily.

'Take off your helmet.' Bre

The murmillo moaned as the battered metal came off. His nose had been reduced to a bloody pulp, the cheekbones crushed inwards. It was an agonising wound and there was a loud gasp of shock and pleasure from those watching.

'Aesculapius himself could not fix that,' said Bre

Narcissus nodded and looked at Caesar. 'Those who are about to die, salute you,' he mumbled. The Greek smacked his chest with a clenched fist and extended the quivering left arm forward.

The editor acknowledged his pledge.

Silence took hold of the Forum.

Quickly Bre

The people went wild.

Caesar gestured. 'Let the victor approach.'

Bre

Caesar smiled down generously. 'Another great victory, mighty Bre

The Gaul half bowed, sweat-streaked pigtails falling forward on to his bare chest.

Is this the journey you meant, Ultan? To end up as a performing animal for these bastards?

'A worthy prize!' Caesar raised a heavy leather purse and tossed it through the air.

'Thank you, great one.' Bre

Behind him, the figure dressed as Charon, the ferryman across the River Styx, had entered the arena, clad from head to toe in black leather, a mask concealing his face. A large hammer dangling from one hand, he paced towards Narcissus' head as screams of mock horror went up from the audience. The hammer, visibly encrusted with blood and matted hair, rose high in the air. Swinging it downwards, the ferryman split Narcissus' skull like an egg, proving the murmillo was truly dead. It was time for the Greek's journey to Hades.