them with paid servants, or kept on those he'd freed."
"There is no danger of such a thing ever happening again, Fronto. I assure you. The keeping of slaves is only right and proper for a Roman."
"Oh I have a few and I'm not against it. But I agree with my pater in that a trusted man with pay in his pocket is worth ten bound men. And besides, you say it'll never happen again, but that uprising you put down was hardly the first time it's happened. To be honest, I'm happy with the way we have it."
"Things may have to change now that you’re a married Roman gentleman, though, Fronto. You're no soldier now. The senate next, I presume?"
"Can't see myself lasting long in that august body without swatting someone. I'm still sort of finding my feet as a civilian and contemplating what to do about the future."
Pompey smiled and Fronto was worryingly put in mind of a crocodile.
"Then we must have a long and frank conversation about your future, my friend. But another time. Look, the gates are opening."
As Fronto peered into the orchestra and then up onto the stage, he saw the ornate bronze doors in the façade opening. The D-shaped orchestra had been ringed with raised boards and had sharpened stakes pointing inwards to protect the audience from the dangers in the arena, though the view was magnificent over the boards that sat at knee height for Fronto and his companions. Horns were blaring a fanfare as men of all shapes and sizes trooped out of the bronze doors and onto the stage where they stood and posed for the admiration of the crowd. From there they would be sent down into the orchestra for the individual bouts.
Pompey raised his voice to be heard by Fronto over the fanfare and the general hubbub of the excited crowd.
"Time for the man who paid for this to say a few words. But when this is over, you must come to the house for a chat."
Fronto nodded, his mind turning over this strange progression of events. In fact, he was so deeply involved in his own thoughts that he almost jumped as a hand touched his shoulder and he turned, his heart thumping, to see that Faleria and Galronus had arrived.
* * * * *
The thraex gladiator leapt back out of the reach of the raking tines of the retiarius' trident. The idiotic Syrian net-man had overreached as he tried to lunge with the long pole-arm and, as he stumbled forwards into a charge that met only with thin air, the thraex jammed his sword between the tines, twisting the trident and forcing it downwards. The now hopelessly-off balance retiarius, already relieved of his net earlier in the bout, found himself falling forwards with the shaft in his hands and let go reluctantly, aware that unarmed he was as good as lost, but knowing that holding on to the shaft he would end up prone, which was worse.
His life-saving decision turned out to be immaterial. The crowd were going wild and the swordsman, knowing that his success rested as much on the mob's whims as on his own skill, took advantage of the surge of blood-lust and, his sword still entangled with the discarded trident, turned his small, square shield on its edge and swung it at the still approaching, half-falling man, catching him in the neck just beneath the chin.
The crowd's wild cries reached an ear-splitting crescendo as the disarmed net-and-trident fighter was swept from his feet with the force of the blow and collapsed on his back on the sand and temporary boards that covered the elegant, expensive marble floor.
Fronto nodded in approval.
"I think you owe me five."
Pompey leaned across to be heard above the roar.
"I'd say the thraex overstepped the mark there. That looked an awful lot like an intentional killing blow without awaiting approval."
Fronto shrugged. "I'd say that whatever the intention, that was a killing blow. I know the retiarius just looks winded but I'll tell you for nothing that blow crushed his windpipe and his throat apple. The man's a goner in less than a dozen heartbeats."
Pompey
"There is no danger of such a thing ever happening again, Fronto. I assure you. The keeping of slaves is only right and proper for a Roman."
"Oh I have a few and I'm not against it. But I agree with my pater in that a trusted man with pay in his pocket is worth ten bound men. And besides, you say it'll never happen again, but that uprising you put down was hardly the first time it's happened. To be honest, I'm happy with the way we have it."
"Things may have to change now that you’re a married Roman gentleman, though, Fronto. You're no soldier now. The senate next, I presume?"
"Can't see myself lasting long in that august body without swatting someone. I'm still sort of finding my feet as a civilian and contemplating what to do about the future."
Pompey smiled and Fronto was worryingly put in mind of a crocodile.
"Then we must have a long and frank conversation about your future, my friend. But another time. Look, the gates are opening."
As Fronto peered into the orchestra and then up onto the stage, he saw the ornate bronze doors in the façade opening. The D-shaped orchestra had been ringed with raised boards and had sharpened stakes pointing inwards to protect the audience from the dangers in the arena, though the view was magnificent over the boards that sat at knee height for Fronto and his companions. Horns were blaring a fanfare as men of all shapes and sizes trooped out of the bronze doors and onto the stage where they stood and posed for the admiration of the crowd. From there they would be sent down into the orchestra for the individual bouts.
Pompey raised his voice to be heard by Fronto over the fanfare and the general hubbub of the excited crowd.
"Time for the man who paid for this to say a few words. But when this is over, you must come to the house for a chat."
Fronto nodded, his mind turning over this strange progression of events. In fact, he was so deeply involved in his own thoughts that he almost jumped as a hand touched his shoulder and he turned, his heart thumping, to see that Faleria and Galronus had arrived.
* * * * *
The thraex gladiator leapt back out of the reach of the raking tines of the retiarius' trident. The idiotic Syrian net-man had overreached as he tried to lunge with the long pole-arm and, as he stumbled forwards into a charge that met only with thin air, the thraex jammed his sword between the tines, twisting the trident and forcing it downwards. The now hopelessly-off balance retiarius, already relieved of his net earlier in the bout, found himself falling forwards with the shaft in his hands and let go reluctantly, aware that unarmed he was as good as lost, but knowing that holding on to the shaft he would end up prone, which was worse.
His life-saving decision turned out to be immaterial. The crowd were going wild and the swordsman, knowing that his success rested as much on the mob's whims as on his own skill, took advantage of the surge of blood-lust and, his sword still entangled with the discarded trident, turned his small, square shield on its edge and swung it at the still approaching, half-falling man, catching him in the neck just beneath the chin.
The crowd's wild cries reached an ear-splitting crescendo as the disarmed net-and-trident fighter was swept from his feet with the force of the blow and collapsed on his back on the sand and temporary boards that covered the elegant, expensive marble floor.
Fronto nodded in approval.
"I think you owe me five."
Pompey leaned across to be heard above the roar.
"I'd say the thraex overstepped the mark there. That looked an awful lot like an intentional killing blow without awaiting approval."
Fronto shrugged. "I'd say that whatever the intention, that was a killing blow. I know the retiarius just looks winded but I'll tell you for nothing that blow crushed his windpipe and his throat apple. The man's a goner in less than a dozen heartbeats."
Pompey
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