He heard the guests arriving in the atrium, their chattering Roman and Greek voices overcut by Apuleius Victor’s eager greetings. Flaminius wondered quite how many drachmas the impresario was raking in for this little get together. Apuleius Victor never did anything unless money was involved.
With a guilty start, Flaminius remembered his mission. Was Apuleius Victor implicated? Camilla—or Dido—said that men had been lost, had gone missing. Left to join the rebels in the Thebaid? That would explain the gladiatorial arms and armour he had found. Was some latter-day Spartacus amassing an army?
The slave scratched at the door to tell him that his presence was requested in the dining chamber. Passing through the atrium he encountered Camilla and Syphax, and together they strode into the room wearing laurel wreaths provided by the slave. Petrus was already there, his wreath askew on his broad skull, his massive oiled body standing out amidst toga- and chiton-wearing Romans and Greeks. Musicians played in one corner, a family of dancing girls writhed sinuously in the middle of the room. But Petrus and his fellow gladiators were the centre of attention for the guests. Men and women of the richer class, these provincials would have been thought too gauche in Rome. But they had money, which must be what interested Apuleius Victor.
‘Take your places, please,’ the impresario said in his best master of ceremonies voice.
Flaminius found himself occupying the other side of a couch from a heavy-set woman in her early forties. Her folds of fat reminded Flaminius of a sculpture of wax left out too long in the sun. ‘My apologies, ma’am,’ he said affably, about to rise. ‘Your husband will wish to recline with you.’
She laid a hand on his arm and pressed him back, then helped him to a dish of soft boiled eggs in pine nut sauce. ‘My husband,’ she told him, ‘is over there, talking with one of your colleagues.’
Camilla was laughing with a burly, bearded Roman who looked as if he might be a senior official of the prefect. ‘They seem happy enough,’ Flaminius observed.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘She’s a good girl, that Camilla. Very polite, for a gladiatrix. Of course, my husband is boring her rigid, but she doesn’t show it. The excuse is, he thinks they’re distant relatives. Distant enough, but apparently kissing cousins,’ she added as Camilla brushed the man’s lips with her own. Flaminius surprised himself by feeling a stab of jealousy.
She kneaded his arm. ‘But you’re the new boy in the Family of Apuleius Victor,’ she said, her eyes shining admiringly, hungrily.
Swallowing, he looked away. Petrus was surrounded by several women, all younger than his current companion, one teasing him with a grape. He looked petulant and bored by their attentions.
‘Tell me a little about yourself, Tiro,’ the woman added. ‘What possessed you to become a gladiator?’
Was she a spy? Had someone set her on him, to find out his real identity? At Flaminius’ evident confusion, she smiled and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Have I strayed onto a sensitive topic?’ she breathed warmly. Flaminius helped himself to more wine. ‘Don’t worry, I’m the soul of discretion.’
‘My life before I became a gladiator is nothing for me to be proud of,’ he said. ‘Nothing a high-born lady such as yourself would want to hear.’
She moved closer. Now her right breast was resting on his forearm. ‘Don’t be coy,’ she murmured. ‘You’re not the first gladiator of my acquaintance.’
Flaminius looked away again. Syphax was now the centre of the feminine attention, Camilla was openly caressing a younger man. The lad had a family likeness to this woman’s husband, and the husband himself was sitting very close to Petrus. He took another swig of wine, starting to get a good idea of how Apuleius Victor made a bit on the side with his Family. Or would “stud” be a more appropriate word?
The woman moved closer. ‘I hope we haven’t offended you,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want to offend a gladiator. You could turn quite savage, I’m sure. A lusty satyr!’
That sounded like wishful thinking. If not an invitation. Was this banquet to degenerate into an orgy? And the sun god not yet in the underworld?
Apuleius Victor rose to his feet, swaying slightly, a full winecup in his right hand. ‘He’s drunk!’ laughed a Greek dignitary. From his flushed face and wine stained clothes he was in no position to criticise.
‘Let me…’ Apuleius Victor slurred, ‘let me propose a toast. To the great men—and the great woman—who made this banquet what it is: to the gladiators!’
‘The gladiators!’ cried the guests, winecups lifted high. Flaminius’ companion—he still didn’t know her name, but her husband was Gabinius Camillus—lifted her winecup to his own lips and encouraged him to drink deep. He hadn’t drunk such rich vintages since he was in the Praetorians, and his head was beginning to spin.
‘And of course,’ Apuleius Victor went on, ‘none of this would happen today if it was not for He in whose name we hold these ten days of celebration: to his imperial majesty, the Emperor Hadrian!’
‘Hadrian! Hadrian! Hadrian!’ everyone chorused loyally.
Flaminius struggled to keep a clear head. He peered round him at his feasting companions. They all seemed sincere enough. No one scowling or refusing to join the toast. Apuleius Victor had proposed it, so that was a point in his favour. But it could all be a bluff. Camilla was too busy kissing a flabby Greek youth to join the toast. His eyes narrowed. And where was Petrus, all of a sudden? Not to mention Gabinius Camillus.
The woman said, ‘You don’t look well.’
He glanced up, and brushed sweat off his brow. It was hot in here, hotter than inside gladiatorial armour, he told her. She laughed.
‘We should find somewhere cooler,’ she said. ‘To... talk.’
He thought he knew exactly what she was angling for, but a breath of air would be refreshing. ‘Won’t they think it rude, though?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Us slipping away like that?’
She laughed again. ‘You’re so witty, Tiro,’ she told him, her eyes starry as she caressed his upper arm. ‘No one will care, except those who don’t have a virile young gladiator to themselves.’
‘But your husband,’ Flaminius protested.
‘Oh, him!’ She rose, pulling him after her, and they slipped out of the heat and noise of the dining chamber—Syphax was jigging now with the dancing girls and several respectable Roman maidens—and out into the cool air of the peristyle. Apuleius Victor gave him a grin as they left.
They walked for a time along a colonnade. The moon had risen, but otherwise it was quite dark. Cicadas chirped monotonously. Flaminius had no idea which of the watches of the night it might be. Box hedges lined a gravel path leading to a small laurel grove in the centre, where a fountain played and the air was scented. Here they sat on a curved marble bench. Such luxury in a gladiators’ school. Flaminius had chosen the wrong career when he joined the legions.
Out there he could see the small arena where they trained daily, lined with marble, its wall topped with statues of gods and emperors.
‘My husband doesn’t understand me,’ the woman confessed after a spell of companionable silence. She nestled her head against his brawny chest. He’d heard that line too many times before; it always led to trouble.
She looked up at him, lips slightly parted. Crow’s-feet etched the skin beside her eyes, too deep for even gum Arabic to soften. Her nipples were poking through the fabric of her dress. Well, it was a cold night for Alexandria in August.
‘I know I’m older than you,’ she added with a sigh. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m too old for you. That’s what it is.’ She wept. The Nile crocodiles wept like that as they devoured their prey, Flaminius understood. Did she intend to eat him?
‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘You’re a very handsome woman. It’s just…’
‘My husband?’ The tears on her cheeks glinted in the moonlight. Either she was a consummate actress or she really meant what she said. ‘He doesn’t care. He’s got his own pleasures. Leaving me lonely a
nd… aching.’ She laid her head on his chest again.
Flaminius swallowed uncomfortably, remembering his earlier suspicions. No, she wasn’t a spy. Just a lonely woman. Her children had grown up and she had nothing to do except run the household and get under the slaves’ feet. He was surprised to realise he was feeling sympathy for her. Surely he had hardened his heart to such blandishments long ago.
He remembered Nitocris. Then Medea. He pushed that thought away as too painful. He remembered Drustica…
He had been hoping to be in Britain by this point, living with her in her hut. Or had she finished building her villa by now? He remembered her cry, “I’m a Roman citizen!” as her eyes flashed with such barbarous fire. Nothing like this bored and lonely Roman matron, with nothing to live for except affairs with strapping young gladiators. ‘It’s cold,’ he said at last. ‘Too cold. Let’s go to my cell and warm ourselves.’
She raised her head, trying to hide a victorious grin. Rising, he led her from the peristyle.
By the time they reached the passage to his cell, the mood had lifted. They giggled like two children when he fumbled for his key only to find that the door was still ajar. He lit a lantern that sat on a shelf by the door, gripped her firmly by the wrists while holding it in his other hand, and led her inside.
There was a startled grunt from the bunk. The lantern light exposed two naked forms. One crouched down while the other gripped from behind. The latter halted mid thrust, lifting a hairy arm to cover his eyes.
‘Get your own room, Pluto curse you,’ said a refined Roman voice. His bed companion looked up and Flaminius’ eyes met his with a flash of recognition.
The woman shrieked. Gabinius Camillus lowered his arm. And Flaminius almost dropped the lantern when he recognised the other occupant of the bunk, bent over like the most servile of catamites, muscular body slick with sweat, a blush of shame mantling his handsome features. Gabinius Camillus’ lover for the night was not the gladiatrix Camilla, as Flaminius had expected, but Petrus the Thracian.
—4—
‘So sorry!’ said Flaminius heartily. He reached out to shut the door, then paused. ‘This is my cell, you realise.’
There was a thump from the floor beside him. The woman had fainted. Grumbling, her husband got up from the bed and went to revive her. Flaminius and Petrus exchanged embarrassed expressions. On reviving, the woman began screaming. Gabinius Camillus struck her. Petrus leapt up and hit him. Flaminius grabbed the muscular Thracian by his arms to restrain him, finding his oiled and sweaty flesh difficult to keep hold of.
‘In the words of the poet,’ he said to Gabinius Camillus, ‘I think you’d better hop it, chum.’
Holding her cheek, Gabinius’ wife wailed, ‘What were you doing with that gladiator?’
Her husband gave a hunted look. ‘What was I doing? What were you doing with this youth?’ He gestured at Flaminius.
‘We were looking for you, sir,’ said Flaminius glibly. ‘Your wife was concerned about your absence and asked me to accompany her while she searched the building.’
Gabinius looked incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
His wife gaped at him, then collected herself. With a glance at Flaminius, she said, ‘Yes! Yes, that’s right. This fine young gentleman kindly agreed to help me look for you. And we certainly found you!’
‘Gentleman!’ Gabinius sneered. ‘Gladiators aren’t gentlemen, they’re the sweepings of the gutter!’
‘Excuse me!’ Petrus had seized his tunic and pulled it on hastily. Clothed, he seemed to recall something of his manhood and squared up to Gabinius. ‘Would you like to repeat that?’ he said unpleasantly, flexing his muscles so they rippled.
‘I’m a Roman citizen!’ Gabinius exclaimed. ‘You’d dare lay your hands on me? The magistrate will hear of this! Call the civic guard…!’
‘What exactly is going on here?’
Apuleius Victor had appeared in the doorway. Seeing him, Gabinius recollected his nudity and snatched up his clothes and his precious Roman dignity. ‘Nothing is happening here!’ Fussily his wife helped him wrap himself in the folds of his toga and then he took her arm. ‘We were just leaving.’ He looked Petrus up and down, then Flaminius. ‘Gladiators!’ he said with a sniff, and snapped his fingers. ‘Come along, my dear. The stink in this sty is altogether too much.’
‘I agree, husband!’ His wife put her head back. ‘Let us be gone. Bid the slaves call us a litter and we shall return to our villa. What a night this has been…’ Grumbling to each other, they departed.
Apuleius Victor stared after them until they were out of sight. Then he looked quizzically at first Flaminius then Petrus.
‘Gabinius Camillus is on the prefect’s staff,’ he said reprovingly. ‘An influential man.’
‘I’m sure you were well paid in advance,’ said Petrus bitterly.
‘Enough of that!’ Apuleius Victor said. ‘Or you’ll be sent back to the quarries! As for you, Tiro’—he looked at Flaminius— ‘I don’t know what your background is yet, but no one becomes a professional gladiator without some kind of past.’ He pointed at Flaminius’ forehead. ‘Brand of Mithras, eh? A military man. Desertion, was it? Or dereliction of duty?’
Flaminius didn’t reply, but examined the floor as if ashamed. What conclusions the impresario had drawn from the British horse tattoo on his chest? Neither brand nor tattoo were ideal for a career in Hadrian’s secret service. He looked up sullenly, noticing as he did that the impresario had a similar scar in his brow. Flaminius wondered what his own story was.
Apuleius Victor wagged his finger. ‘I’ll expect better from both of you in future.’ He turned to go. ‘You’ve got the best cells and the best food and the best conditions of any gladiatorial family in Alexandria. Don’t throw it away with your foolishness.’
‘But Gabinius Camillus…’ Petrus began, then flushed red, and went silent. Apuleius Victor studied him, then walked away.
‘Silence is golden,’ Flaminius said. ‘Apuleius Victor doesn’t need to know the details.’
Petrus whirled round. ‘You saw…?’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You saw what Gabinius Camillus was…? What I was…?’
‘I saw,’ said Flaminius drily. He went to a low table holding an amphora on a stand and two winecups, and poured them both some watered wine. Elsewhere in the school the sound of the festivities was dying away. He wondered whose arms embraced Camilla tonight. Those of a man or a woman?
Petrus was busying himself making up Flaminius’ bed. Flaminius showed him to a stool and handed him the wine, then sat on another and drank his own. They gazed at each other unspeaking.
‘Silence is golden,’ Petrus mused. ‘Well said, Tiro. Who was it who also said, “It is but a small merit to observe silence, but a grave fault to speak of matters on which we should be silent”?’
Flaminius shrugged. ‘A wise man,’ he said.
Petrus put down his winecup and gripped Flaminius’ hand. The Roman pulled away from him.
‘Don’t be like that,’ Petrus pleaded. ‘You’ve got to keep quiet. It would ruin me if it got out.’
‘I’d have thought it would just add to your reputation with the mob,’ Flaminius said with a roguish wink, ‘as a dangerous man. It gives you an edge. To know that you enjoy… Greek love. That you’re a sphincter artist.’
Petrus winced at the term. ‘But you know it’s not like that,’ the gladiator said awkwardly. ‘You know, and Gabinius Camillus’ wife knows…. that I like to take the woman’s part. If the mob knew, it would bring me nothing but shame.’
‘And Gabinius Camillus knows,’ Flaminius added, ‘but a man on the prefect’s staff wouldn’t want to involve himself in scandal, nor would even the gossipiest of wives want this to get out. You can rely on their silence.’
‘But can I rely on you?’ Petrus was pleading. ‘When you said silence is golden… do you want money? Is that it? I have money!’
‘I’m not going to blackmail you for money,’ Flamin
ius assured him. ‘Who do you think I am? Don’t worry yourself, Petrus. Your secret is safe with me.’
Petrus rose and hugged him to his chest. ‘Thank Bacchus! Tonight I’ve found a true friend.’
Flaminius disengaged himself gently. Petrus sat down again and they both drank for a while in silence.
When he finished his glass, Petrus rose heavily but uncertainly to his feet. ‘It’s late,’ he declared. ‘I’d better be finding my own bed. Unless you want me to share yours…?’
‘No!’ Flaminius waved Petrus to sit down and poured him another glass. ‘It’s not too late yet,’ he said. ‘We can talk.’
‘Talk?’ Petrus repeated the word as if it was a far more unnatural act than passive homosexuality.
‘Yes, talk,’ said Flaminius. ‘You’ve been in the Family of Apuleius Victor much longer than I. I’m the novice. You’ve been with Apuleius Victor for what, two years?’
‘Two years this Saturnalia.’ Petrus nodded. ‘A year and a half. Before that…’ He broke off.
‘You were in the quarries?’ Flaminius probed.
Petrus nodded shamefacedly. ‘Life was hard, up in Thrace. It was easier to become a thief. I was caught and sold into slavery.’
‘You’ll have to meet my old friend Ozymandias…’ said Flaminius. ‘So you ended up in the quarries… Here? In Egypt?’
Petrus shook his head. ‘In Greece. That was where they gave me my new name. Sitalkes is what the Thracians called me. In the quarries I was Petrus—the rock! Because I was as big and strong and unyielding as any of the rocks we hewed. They got me to wrestle, and people came to see me, bet on me—all in secret, of course. But word got out, and it happened that Apuleius Victor was passing through the province. He paid my manumission on the stipulation that I join his family and fight for him.’
He shook his head. ‘I hated it in the quarries. I was treated like a beast. Here, I’m treated like a god. I don’t ever want to go back to that life.’ His eyes glistened, just like the woman’s, but something told Flaminius that these weren’t crocodile tears. ‘He’d send me back to the quarries if word of tonight got out, I’m sure of it.’
The Gladiator Gambit Page 3