Uptown Local and Other Interventions by Diane Duane Read Free Book Online Page A

“You want me to lose? ”
    Lucius gulped. “No, but I— I mean, you’re…”
    “I am a gladiator. I was made for this day.”
    Lucius swallowed. She says, ‘You have a day.’   And the gods could be very difficult if you interfered with their plans….
    “Just,” Lucius said, “just try—”
    Outside, the trumpets blew, and it all started to happen. The gate swung wide, not on unreal morning twilight, but on the real, hot, burning white fury of a Roman afternoon, and on a crowd that roared at the sight of the opening gate. Now Lucius looked across the arena at a doorway less lucky, the Porta Libitina, the Death Gate through which fallen gladiators were removed. For Lucius, as for many others, that gate had held a horrible fascination. Now there was only horror, and the thought that he might see Cestinius dragged through it heels first.
    From off to their left came a flash of white; a Thracian whose helmet-crest was white ostrich plumes: Hilarus. Lucius saw his eyes clearly through the helmet’s grille. He nodded to his opposite number, Hilarus’s manager and acting coach. Velantinus was small, dark, and looked furious. Cestinius put on his helmet and its red-enameled crest gleamed in the fierce light off the sand. There was gold- and jewel-dust in it—the politician sponsoring these games for his election campaign was determined to show off.
    They strode across that sand with their coaches behind them, towards the center of the arena where the noisy three-piece band was playing and the umpire waited. The crowd’s roar scaled up, and the repeater-criers around the arena started work.
    “Continuing his triumphant return to the Flavian Amphitheatre,” they shouted in unison, “in an additional exhibition bout. With fourteen victories in fourteen fights, and thirteen crowns for technical excellence: the Thracian’s Thracian, the Man in White… Hilaaaaaaarus!”
    A roar of approval went up from the thousands of men in the Colosseum, and a vast eager shriek from the women. Hilarus raised his sword and waved.
    “And making his first appearance in the mighty Flavian, and hopefully not his last, the tyro from Pompeii…already famous under the stands as The Man Who Likes A Good Rubbing…” A tremendous girly scream of lust went up, accompanied by some lascivious noises from various men in the lower tiers. “Cest iiiii nius… Ven eeee ris!”
    Cestinius held up both his arms, turning slowly to greet the whole crowd. Lucius’s heart leapt at the sound of the roar that went up. He really had it, that charisma, the spark that made people look at him even though they’d never even seen him fight.
    “Coaches,” said the umpire. “Purse details all sorted out?”
    “Yes,” said Lucius. Velantinus growled something inaudible. The umpire eyed Lucius for a moment. Coaches could sometimes be very young men: sometimes gladiators worked without them at all. “Your master’s happy with you doing this job?”
    “Yes,” Lucius said.
    “Fine. Let’s go.”
    The two fighters squared off, waiting for their signal from the Imperial box. Lucius started sweating. In a fight between established gladiators, who’d recouped their training costs and were steady moneymakers, fights to the death didn’t usually happen. First blood was the rule. But when one man was a tyro, nobody particularly cared. If he died, his owner replaced him and started over . But there’s no replacement for Cestinius! And though he was sure Hilarus meant well, accidents could happen...
    A kerchief waved from the box. Both gladiators dropped into a crouch, then both instantly leapt forward to the attack. There had been no circling, no time spent in assessment: Lucius suspected that each had done all the assessing required down in the trainers’ bay.
    Above and all around him, the crowd roared so that Lucius could hardly think…and the band behind him, blaring away, wasn’t helping either. Lucius tried to ignore it.
    Cestinius feinted at his