December AD 68

There was nothing Taurus liked better than the roar of the crowd when he cut into flesh. The adversary he studied through the grated eyepieces of his Thracian helmet now had a ribbon of blood running down his left arm. And the mob loved it.

The stench of offal from the morning animal hunts, the noxii criminal executions, and the preliminary gladiator bouts hung in the crisp air of the December afternoon. But the smell didn't bother Taurus. It was simply the vestige of another successful day of games in the Pompeii arena. The familiar coolness of the sand beneath his feet gave him comfort, even as he occasionally stepped through the dampness of warm blood. The harenarii — the arena attendants — had been too hasty in their raking between bouts, he thought as he toyed further with his opponent.

He kept the late afternoon sun at his back, forcing his adversary to squint through the glare. There was no need for the amphitheater's vellarium roof on such a beautifully cool day, so the view of Vesuvio and the green hills to the northwest provided a dramatic backdrop to the action in the arena. But Taurus knew the attention of the twenty thousand spectators was not on the landscape. He could feel their eyes pressing upon him. The boisterous crowd showed no sign of tiring on this first day of the Saturnalia festival. Even after a full slate of hunts, executions, and fifteen gladiator bouts, they still called for blood.

The brute facing Taurus was Livius, a massive hoplomachus of top primus palus ranking. Taurus had sparred against him often on the training field of their Pompeii ludus. He knew the man well. He knew how he wiggled his small shield ever so slightly before he lunged high for the shoulder with his spear. He knew how he dug his right heel into the sand just before a low thrust to the thigh. Of course, Livius was not aware of these tells. But Taurus made it his business to know them all. Most heartening, he knew Livius did not have near the speed or agility that he himself was able to muster. Even with the extended reach of Livius's six-foot pike, not a trace of anxiety crossed Taurus's mind.

Although his heart had been pounding hard for more than five minutes, Taurus continued to stalk his prey, waiting patiently for the slightest mistake that would give him the split-second advantage he sought. He saw the hoplomachus's helmet turn ever so slightly to the left. He knew his opponent was glancing at the fresh gash on his arm, worrying about how slippery the blood would be when it reached the handle of his shield. That was all the information Taurus needed. The time had come.

His sica shot forward. The curved sword beat once, twice, three times against the wooden spear handle. Taurus heard the wood start to splinter. Livius backpedaled across the sand. Taurus pursued his adversary, his sica now a blur of silver as it windmilled toward Livius's right, then left shoulder. He augmented the threat of his blade with the bottom rim of his square parmula shield, catching Livius on the thigh, then in the chest. Taurus had mastered the concept of using his shield as much for offense as for defense.

Although wounded, Livius did a good job of blocking the assault with his own small bowl-shaped shield, which would have seemed terribly inadequate to a lesser fighter. He attempted a lunge to back Taurus off and stall the advance. But Taurus had his own shield in place before the metal spear tip came close to his chest. Taurus pressed his advantage and swung his razor-sharp blade in blinding arcs. The speed came from somewhere deep inside; Taurus didn't understand it, but the power was there when he needed it.

As his sica beat against the shield again and again, he sensed the tiny protective disc shift ever so slightly. The blood had reached Livius's hand. He saw panic in the eyes behind the grating of his opponent's face mask. And he knew the match was won.

He sliced sideways at the shield. Livius's bulky arm glistened as the muscles tightened. But he could not hold on. The slickness of the blood, combined with the crushing power of Taurus's blow, forced the gladiator's only protection to sail from his hand and clang against the arena wall. The small dagger he held in place behind the shield as a backup weapon also slipped from his grasp. Before the hoplomachus could recover, Taurus went to work on the spear. Two more blows and the metal tip fell to the sand, leaving Livius waving a splintered pole half its original length. He swung the pitiful remnant in an attempt to parry Taurus's sica. But on the next contact the curved blade sliced through the wood like a loaf of bread and buried deep into Livius's left bicep. The hoplomachus screamed and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his arm to try to stem the torrent of blood, his fingers disappearing inside the gaping wound. Taurus placed the tip of his blade on Livius's chest.

The referee stepped forward and used his five-foot rod to halt the match. Taurus looked at the smile on Julianus's face. As chief trainer at the ludus, it was Julianus's job to also referee his troupe's arena battles, using the rod to beat some sense into the more cowardly tiro gladiators. But there was little need for the pole in these late afternoon matches with only the top fighters and crowd favorites on the sand.

"Another fine fight, Taurus," he said quietly as the crowd roared. "You, too, Livius. I know it's hard to match that speed of his."

Pleasing Julianus and his lanista, Titus Cassius Petra, was a key ingredient in Taurus's passion for arena combat. It ran a close second to the adulation of the mob. Ironically, the only part of arena combat he hated was the killing. The art of the fight was paramount to Taurus, not the taking of a brave man's life — although he had had to do it on occasion.

"I just hope we don't lose Livius," Taurus replied. "He's a good man." The trembling in Livius's body was transmitted to Taurus's arm through the sword touching the man's chest.

"His fate is in the hands of the magistrate," Julianus said.

All three turned and looked across the arena at the old man seated on the podium. The magistrate was studying the reaction of the mob.

Taurus scanned the cavea and was relieved when a sea of white handkerchiefs fluttered in the late afternoon light — the sign of mercy. He glanced back at the podium. The old magistrate reached inside his draped sleeve and pulled out a small white cloth which he waved briskly twice across his chest.

"Missio!" Julianus shouted. He pushed Quintus's sica aside and helped Livius to his feet. Two harenarii arrived quickly to escort the bleeding fighter to the tunnel.

Taurus dropped his shield and touched the tiny terra-cotta figurine that hung from the thin leather strip around his neck. He raised the effigy to his lips and planted a quick kiss on the icon that embodied three beloved spirits: his late mother and father, and his murdered friend and childhood bodyguard, Aulus Libo. He let out a wild victory cry and hurled his sica, blade first, into the sand. The victory ritual was more dramatic with his trident when he fought as a retiarius, but the sword worked almost as well. As it swayed at his feet, he raised his arms and incited the mob of twenty thousand to a deafening crescendo. A chant of "Taurus! Taurus! Taurus!" swept around the oval cavea. He absorbed every second of it, bathing in the...