Weapons raised high, they saluted the emperor and their generous patron with a single voice. “Those about to die salute you!”
“There is the Saxon,” Casia said, pointing to the tallest man in the group. “Isn’t he magnificent?”
“How can you possibly tell?” Cailin teased her friend. “That helmet with its visor virtually renders him invisible.”
“True,” Casia agreed, “but you will have to take my word for it. He’s got golden hair, and blue, blue eyes.”
“Many Saxons do,” Cailin replied.
Aspar leaned over and said, “The first matches will be fought with blunt weapons, my love. There will be no blood shed for now, and it will give you an idea of the skills involved.”
“I think I will prefer it to what must come later,” Cailin told him. “Must all these men fight until only one of them survives?”
“No,” he told her. “Six specific matches will be fought to the death. That is the number that Gabras purchased from this particular troupe of gladiators. Two death matches will be fought today, two tomorrow, and two on the last day of the games. The Saxon, who is the unbeaten champion, will fight today and on the last day. His main rival is a man called the Hun, who must fight all three days. If he survives the first two days, they will probably pair him with the Saxon on the last day. That should be quite a match.”
“I think it horrendous that someone must die,” Cailin said. “They are young men. Why, it goes against the very teachings of the church to allow such barbarity, yet there sits the patriarch and all his priests in their box on the other side of the emperor, enjoying this.”
Aspar put a gentle hand on hers. “Hush, my love, lest you be overheard,” he warned her. “Death is a part of life.”
The battle had begun below them. Young men with small shields and blunt weapons fought one another en masse. The crowds loved it, but eventually they began to tire of the mock engagement.
“Bring on the Saxon! Bring on the Hun!” they screamed.
The trumpets sounded a recall, and the fighters ran from the arena. The groundskeepers came forth and raked the ground smooth. Then silence descended upon the Hippodrome for what seemed several long minutes. Suddenly the Gladiators Gate in the wall opened and two men stepped forth. The crowds began to scream with their excitement.
“It is the Hun,” Aspar said. “He will fight with a Thracian.”
“He has no armor,” Cailin said.
“He needs none but the leather shoulder pads he wears, my love. He is a net man. Other than his net, he has but a dagger and a spear to fight with, but I think net men the most dangerous of gladiators.”
The Thracian, who was helmeted and wore greaves on both legs, carried a small shield and a curved sword. It seemed to Cailin a very unfair match, until the two men began to fight. The Hun tossed his net almost immediately, but the Thracian sidestepped it, and leaping behind his opponent, slashed at him. The wily Hun, obviously anticipating the ploy, moved quickly and was but scratched by the tip of the Thracian’s blade. The men fought back and forth for some minutes while the crowds screamed their encouragement to their favorites. Finally, when Cailin had begun to think these combats were vastly overrated for ferocity, the Hun leapt in the air and, with a deft flick of his wrist, swirled his net out gracefully. The Thracian, unable to escape, was enfolded in the web. Desperately, he thrashed at it with his sword, the crowd shrieking with their rising blood lust. The Hun jammed his spear into the ground, drew his dagger out and flung himself down upon the struggling man. It happened so quickly that Cailin wasn’t even certain she had seen it, but the sandy floor of the arena was swiftly stained with blood as the Hun cut his opponent’s throat and then stood victorious, acknowledging the cheers of the howling mob.
He was a man of medium height, powerfully built, and bald but for a horsetail of dark hair sprouting from his skull and tightly wrapped with a leather thong. He strode around the ring, accepting what he obviously considered his rightful due. While he did so, the groundskeepers ran forth, two of them dragging the lifeless body of the Thracian from the arena out through the Death Gate, the other two sprinkling fresh sand atop the blood and raking it vigorously.