raised his brows in surprise. "I defer to the expert opinion of a man who's probably dealt such a blow. What to do with the victor then?"
"Congratulate him. It'd be a waste to discipline him for that, and the crowd are behind him."
Pompey nodded. "Expedient. I agree."
Standing, the editor raised and lowered his arms several times in a motion for silence. At the third gesture, the horns blared and quietened the crowd.
"Victory to the Thracian. A noble end for the vanquished. See how he dies even now!"
The crowd surged their appreciation while the prone form of the retiarius shuddered several times. As the thraex inclined his head to the editor and then spun and issued theatrical bows to the rest of the crowd, two attendants rushed into the orchestra from the small wooden shed that protected them in the corner, a third man behind them in a long black cloak and with a huge fake beard, hefting a giant-sized mallet over his shoulder. The victorious gladiator was lifted from the arena onto the stage, where he went to stand with his fellow survivors, blood and sweat spattering the floor beneath them all. In the arena, the figure of Dis Pater, lord of the underworld, raised his hammer over the head of the fallen retiarius. He paused. He was supposed to make sure the fallen were not faking their death, but he was no executioner and he could still see the choking man's legs kicking spasmodically. He looked across at Pompey, who nodded.
Fronto watched with distaste as the enormous hammer smashed open the dying man's skull, smearing his life's essence across the sandy boards. It was no way to go, but at least it was fast. Faster than choking to death with a crushed throat.
"You have an interesting sense of morality Marcus Falerius Fronto" Pompey noted, watching his companion's sour look with interest. "Unconventional, to say the least. I think I would appreciate your opinion on a personal matter. Perhaps, instead of visiting me tomorrow, your dear wife could spare you for an hour when the day's events have ended?"
Fronto shrugged. "I expect she'll be happy to stay in the company of your wife and my sister. The three of them are as tight as the Vestal sisterhood now." He glanced across to the three women who were talking in conspiratorial tones and occasionally issuing a burst of laughter. As far as he was aware not one of the women had even looked at the arena in an hour of bouts. Such a waste of good entertainment. Galronus had managed somehow, after an initial exchange of pleasantries, to slip away to find Galba, leaving Fronto with the statesman.
"Ah," Pompey said with a self-satisfied smile, gesturing at the temporary arena on the theatre floor. "This should be a good one. I do like to watch a dark-skin in action. They seem so much more lithe and energetic than the rest of us."
Fronto turned his attention to the stage once more to see two more gladiators being lowered down to the orchestra on the wooden platform suspended by ropes.
On the right, an unusual sight: a scisor gladiator. His pale skin spoke of a Gallic or Germanic origin, though little of it could be seen. His torso was encased in a mail shirt, his head in an egg-shaped bronze helm, undecorated apart from two circular eye-holes. His arms were covered with padded leather sheathes and his legs protected by bronze greaves. But the speciality of the scisor lay in his weapons. A short, straight blade in his right hand was paired with a fearsome engine on his left. His forearm was encased in a steel tube, at the end of which, instead of a hand, was a wide, fan-like semi-circular blade, glinting evilly in the sun.
On the left, paying him no attention, stood a dark-skinned Numidian equipped as a Murmillo. Along with a heavy, ridged and decorated crested helm that bore a grilled face-guard, his only defences were a ridged leather protector on the arm that bore his short sword, and a rectangular shield on the other. His chest was bare, as were his legs. It appeared a
"Congratulate him. It'd be a waste to discipline him for that, and the crowd are behind him."
Pompey nodded. "Expedient. I agree."
Standing, the editor raised and lowered his arms several times in a motion for silence. At the third gesture, the horns blared and quietened the crowd.
"Victory to the Thracian. A noble end for the vanquished. See how he dies even now!"
The crowd surged their appreciation while the prone form of the retiarius shuddered several times. As the thraex inclined his head to the editor and then spun and issued theatrical bows to the rest of the crowd, two attendants rushed into the orchestra from the small wooden shed that protected them in the corner, a third man behind them in a long black cloak and with a huge fake beard, hefting a giant-sized mallet over his shoulder. The victorious gladiator was lifted from the arena onto the stage, where he went to stand with his fellow survivors, blood and sweat spattering the floor beneath them all. In the arena, the figure of Dis Pater, lord of the underworld, raised his hammer over the head of the fallen retiarius. He paused. He was supposed to make sure the fallen were not faking their death, but he was no executioner and he could still see the choking man's legs kicking spasmodically. He looked across at Pompey, who nodded.
Fronto watched with distaste as the enormous hammer smashed open the dying man's skull, smearing his life's essence across the sandy boards. It was no way to go, but at least it was fast. Faster than choking to death with a crushed throat.
"You have an interesting sense of morality Marcus Falerius Fronto" Pompey noted, watching his companion's sour look with interest. "Unconventional, to say the least. I think I would appreciate your opinion on a personal matter. Perhaps, instead of visiting me tomorrow, your dear wife could spare you for an hour when the day's events have ended?"
Fronto shrugged. "I expect she'll be happy to stay in the company of your wife and my sister. The three of them are as tight as the Vestal sisterhood now." He glanced across to the three women who were talking in conspiratorial tones and occasionally issuing a burst of laughter. As far as he was aware not one of the women had even looked at the arena in an hour of bouts. Such a waste of good entertainment. Galronus had managed somehow, after an initial exchange of pleasantries, to slip away to find Galba, leaving Fronto with the statesman.
"Ah," Pompey said with a self-satisfied smile, gesturing at the temporary arena on the theatre floor. "This should be a good one. I do like to watch a dark-skin in action. They seem so much more lithe and energetic than the rest of us."
Fronto turned his attention to the stage once more to see two more gladiators being lowered down to the orchestra on the wooden platform suspended by ropes.
On the right, an unusual sight: a scisor gladiator. His pale skin spoke of a Gallic or Germanic origin, though little of it could be seen. His torso was encased in a mail shirt, his head in an egg-shaped bronze helm, undecorated apart from two circular eye-holes. His arms were covered with padded leather sheathes and his legs protected by bronze greaves. But the speciality of the scisor lay in his weapons. A short, straight blade in his right hand was paired with a fearsome engine on his left. His forearm was encased in a steel tube, at the end of which, instead of a hand, was a wide, fan-like semi-circular blade, glinting evilly in the sun.
On the left, paying him no attention, stood a dark-skinned Numidian equipped as a Murmillo. Along with a heavy, ridged and decorated crested helm that bore a grilled face-guard, his only defences were a ridged leather protector on the arm that bore his short sword, and a rectangular shield on the other. His chest was bare, as were his legs. It appeared a
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