Free The Song of the Gladiator by Paul Doherty Page A

nose and scurrying feet. She will help resolve these mysteries . . .
    Murranus brought Claudia back to the garden. He grasped her hand and whispered to her not to be foolish. Claudia already felt embarrassed; after all, there were many men in Rome who wore that tattoo on their wrist. She had already met a few, so why such a violent reaction to Spicerius?
    ‘It’s because of Sylvester,’ she whispered.
    ‘Who?’ Murranus asked.
    ‘Nothing.’ Claudia remembered herself quickly. ‘Just a friend I talk to about my problems.’
    ‘I thought you had no friends except me.’
    Claudia, in an attempt to distract him, smiled up at him. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’
    Spicerius and Valens were still sitting in the shade. The gladiator rose as Claudia came back.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Murranus did tell me what happened. I tried to hide my tattoo beneath the wrist guard.’ He squatted down as she did. ‘I know something of your background,’ he continued, ‘but this tattoo,’ he undid the wrist guard and displayed the design, ‘has only been done in the last six months.’
    ‘Do many gladiators wear it?’
    ‘Ask Murranus.’ Spicerius shrugged. ‘It’s common enough. It’s linked to the worship of Dionysius, the God of Wine.’ Claudia noticed how his eye teeth were sharpened like those of a wolf. ‘Dionysius and Eros,’ he continued. ‘What more can a gladiator expect from life?’
    ‘You’re not the only one!’ Valens, who had been studying her closely, spoke up. ‘I know of at least three girls from the slums, one as young as twelve, who were attacked and raped by a man with that tattoo. One of them claimed it was a gladiator, but there again,’ he patted Spicerius on the shoulder, ‘these men get blamed for everything. If a woman is raped or a man killed . . .’ He paused. ‘Yet I have found more honour amongst them than I have a group of priests.’
    ‘Is there a temple devoted to Dionysius?’ Claudia asked. ‘I mean, one where the sign is the purple chalice?’
    Spicerius shook his head.
    ‘Many temples are dedicated to Dionysius or Bacchus, they are as common as fleas on a dog. No, it’s more of a sign that you are a wine worshipper, which can earn you comradeship at a drinking club.’ Spicerius paused and clutched his stomach. ‘Just a cramp.’ He winked. ‘I’ll be well enough to fight your man. This time, let the mob spare him.’
    ‘Last time,’ Claudia, embarrassed, was eager to change the subject, ‘when you drank the poisoned wine, you saw nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary?’
    ‘I was in the tunnel,’ Spicerius replied, ‘near the Gate of Life. I wanted the contest to begin. I drank the wine.’ He tapped the tattoo on his wrist. ‘I know my wine, it cleanses my mouth and wets the back of my throat.’
    ‘Did you feel strange?’ Claudia asked.
    Spicerius screwed his eyes up. ‘Ask your boyfriend here. Of course you feel strange before a fight. Your stomach pitches like a boat in a storm. Strange sounds echo in your ears. A drumming begins in your head. You want to run and shout and scream, but at the same time there is this icy coldness. You become aware of the smallest thing.’
    ‘And in the arena?’ Claudia asked.
    ‘I went out,’ Spicerius’s face grew smooth; he had lost that mask of cynical arrogance, ‘I really believed I had a chance. Suddenly I saw double, like you do when you have a knock on the head.’ He patted his stomach. ‘A fire was lit in my belly, I thought it would pass, but then my legs lost their strength. One thing I realised was that I had to vomit; if I didn’t, I would die.’ He turned and embraced Valens, drawing the old man close and kissing him on his head. ‘If it wasn’t for my good friend here, the great Spicerius would have died like some slave fainting with fear before a lion or panther.’
    ‘Somebody drugged you,’ Claudia insisted. ‘Why?’
    ‘Three reasons,’ Murranus