Free Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Page A

across the plains of Tuscia. On the prow, the waterline drops and the miracle is complete: flight without wings and without sweat, the magic of movement. Marcius climbs the mainmast, plants his behind on the mainstay and sits astride it, enjoying the spectacle. The triremes
Apollo
and
Castor
make believe they are something they are not, and never will be: enemies.
    The ships are loaded with fierce barbarians, albeit make-believe ones; Judeans or Dacians, in reality does not matter who they are supposed to be. They square up to the Romans with pure muscle power, since savages have no idea of how to harness the wind. The flagship veers hard to starboard, one-eyed Cresus is now at the helm, and it is clear even to Verus why everyone holds him in such high esteem: the man knows his stuff. The impact is enough to shake the men’s teeth and scramble their insides.
    Verus, tossed to the middle of the deck, is again overcome by the urge to throw up.
    In the same moment the troops, crammed into the center of the ship in attack formation, raise the war cry that echoes around half the world: “Rome or die!”
    Boarding hooks, planks anchored with curved nails. And then the impact. Deafening, resonant, virile.
    It is only an exercise, but the
classiarii
pull no punches. They are careful not to stab anyone, but if a couple of noses get broken or a few ribs end up snapped, it is no big deal.
    War is not a girls’ game.
    Heads are butted, faces are punched, knees and elbows push the enemy overboard in the heat of battle.
    A fair few end up tumbling over the parapet and into the crystal-clear water—breastplate, shield, sandals and all. The auxiliaries are careful not to let anybody drown: they toss ropes with the precision of Diana planting an arrow between the eyes of an unruly fawn. And indeed nobody does drown. Those who panic are reeled in with an ounce or two of water in their lungs. The fight is over in the blink of an eye.
    Rome wins without breaking a sweat.
    Rome always wins.
    The rest of the day is spent putting the ships back in order, feeding the arms that will take everyone home, furling the white, and bidding farewell to the blue.
    When they reach port, Verus feels a little better.
    He had thought the sea was like a plaything, and instead he has discovered it is more like life: bitter and unpredictable.
    His stomach has improved, thanks to the mug of grappa and honey he downed on Marcius’s insistence.
    â€œGoing to sea sober is the worst way to piss off Neptune! Never forget it, boy.”
    Verus is filled with curiosity and fear. He is a little drunk. He thinks only of the journey to come, even if he is a little sorry to leave the sea so soon. He is grateful to Marcius, Pliny, and even to Demetrius, who obligingly left a vacancy by getting roasted to death at Vesuvius.
    â€œYou are the lord of the wind!” says Verus to the officer, pronouncing the words carefully.
    â€œThat’s exactly why Emperor Titus wants me in Rome…”
    Just hearing that name, Verus feels a jolt run through his body. For a moment his dreams merge with reality, images of muscles, mud and sand quench the longing within him.
    The unsayable word,
freedom
, begins to rhyme with
glory
, and his imagination knows no limit. But the Briton’s head is so filled with doubts that it could burst from one moment to the next: “Do you want to tell me now what we are going to do in the Eternal City?”
    Marcius passes a hand across his rugged chin. He will need to shave as soon as the sun rises: they are going to see the master of the universe, and one does not turn up at his court looking like a brown bear after a night on the town.
    A slap on the boy’s shoulders and a smile to seduce the Queen of Sheba: “What a question, boy! To unfurl the greatest velarium in the world, what else?”
    â€œVelarium? What on Earth’s a velarium?” Verus’s voice is as measured as his gait.
    The caravan