‘I think we’ve found our missing library books,’ he remarked. ‘Archimedes, Sostratus…’
The centurion was impatient. ‘Never mind books,’ he said, ‘where’s the squirter?
The Greek pointed out a large bronze tank with a pump handle on one side and a hose pointing out from the top. ‘That’s it,’ he said, his enthusiasm returning. ‘We’ll have to fill it at the water’s edge, but…’
The centurion seized one side, Flaminius the other. Ozymandias lent a shoulder and even the Greek did his best to help. As they rushed back, the gathered scholars raised a ragged cheer. Black smoke was boiling up into the blue sky from the burning vessel. Two more were now ablaze. Under the young Greek’s instructions, Flaminius, the centurion, and the harbour guards filled the tank with water and started working the pump.
A jet of water sprayed from the nozzle, drenching the gathered scholars as Flaminius and the centurion struggled to aim the pump. The jet described a wide parabola across the harbour, sending more water fountaining upwards. They got the range, and for one glorious moment the jet hit the first ship, almost quenching the fire. Then the tank ran dry.
‘Fill her up again,’ the centurion barked.
It took three refills before they put out the fire aboard the first vessel. The crew had jumped ship long since, and most of the superstructure was charred beyond repair and the hold with its cargo had also been burnt out. A blackened hull bobbed there, half sunk. But the nearest ships had been saved, and what was most important, as the chief librarian said himself when he gave a little speech from the Library steps, centuries of learning had been saved.
Flaminius shook hands with the centurion, then with Ozymandias and the young Greek. ‘It’s been fun,’ he said drily, ‘but now I really must be getting back to my boring old job. Farewell.’
As he walked off to the cheers of the assembled scholars, he overheard the centurion ask Ozymandias, ‘What does that feller do for work? I could do with a lad like that in my century.’
‘Oh,’ said Ozymandias airily, ‘he’s only a gladiator.’
—6—
Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD
Rubbing his eyes blearily, Petrus shambled from his cell. It had been a bad night. When he remembered exactly what had happened, a chill gripped his heart. The Roman official lusting after him—the new boy, Tiro—scandal, intrigue. What was he to do? Things were desperate.
For want of anything better, he went to get something to eat.
In the dining chamber, he found Syphax spooning up a breakfast of beans, wheat, and barley. The slave appeared and silently handed Petrus a similar meal, and the Thracian went to sit down with the murmillo.
‘Looking rough!’ Syphax commented. ‘Good night, was it? Thought I heard a ruckus in the wee hours.’
‘You get to bed early, I suppose,’ said Petrus, poking unenthusiastically at the contents of his bowl.
‘Healthy mind, healthy body,’ said Syphax, patting his flat belly as Petrus started eating. ‘It’s going to be another busy afternoon for us,’ the Nubian added. ‘We’d better get training right away.’
‘Where are the others?’ Petrus inquired. ‘And where’s the impresario? Are we getting a replacement for Felix?’
Syphax gave him a cold look. ‘No one could ever replace Felix,’ he said. ‘As for the others, who knows? Camilla sleeps like the dead. And Tiro, well, maybe you’d know better than me.’
Petrus wondered what exactly the murmillo meant. He pushed the bowl away, half eaten. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Time to get training. The others can join us when they get up. If Apuleius Victor finds out, though, they’ll be in trouble.’
‘That’s their problem,’ said Syphax callously.
They both went outside, through the peristyle and to the small ring beyond it. This was where they trained, an arena the size of a smallish townhouse, surrounded by a single row of seating, where training arms and armour were kept. Syphax handed Petrus his armour, and the Thracian strapped on his greaves, armguard and gauntlet, donned his visored helmet, then picked up his buckler and a specially blunted training sword. Syphax equipped himself with his own helmet, armguard, and shield. He ritualistically clanged his training sword on his shield rim and went to stand in the middle of the small arena.
‘They might have gone missing, of course,’ Petrus said thoughtfully, as he came to join the Nubian.
Syphax aimed a sudden blow at him and Petrus deflected it with his buckler. ‘Who’s gone missing?’
Petrus made a thrust at Syphax, who evaded it skilfully with a circular parry. ‘Camilla and Tiro. They wouldn’t be the first.’
Syphax swung his blade. Petrus lifted his shield hastily and the sword smashed a scallop out of it. Petrus hacked a slice in Syphax’s own, larger shield and the clang rang out through the whole arena.
‘You think they’ve run off together?’ The Nubian lunged at Petrus’ throat and Petrus leapt aside to land with a thump in the sand, swinging his sword low at Syphax’s legs. Syphax copied his leap, lifting his sword as he did, and as he came down he brought it smashing on Petrus’ helmet.
The noise echoed through the Thracian’s brain and he staggered, temporarily blinded as the helmet slipped forward. With his shield hand he tilted the helmet back, pacing backwards as he did.
Vision returned and he found himself facing the blunted point of Syphax’s training sword.
‘You’re dead,’ the murmillo said darkly. ‘If this had been a real fight, that would have killed you. You eat and drink too much. Apuleius Victor spoils his gladiators.’
Petrus took off his helmet, sheathed his sword, and brushed back his sweat draggled hair with his gauntleted hand. He went to the side of the arena and drank deeply from an amphora of cheap, watered wine.
‘They might have run off,’ he said. ‘They’re both young and fit. They’ve got more life ahead of them than you or I.’
Syphax was stung. He pushed back his helmet. ‘Speak for yourself, Thracian. There’s plenty of life left in me. I don’t think they’ve run off. They’ve just overslept. Good that Apuleius Victor’s not around or he’d have them whipped, slave or free. He’s not that indulgent.’
Petrus replaced his helmet and his voice boomed out. ‘Maybe they’ve overslept. But if they’d vanished, they wouldn’t be the first.’
‘You said it yourself,’ Syphax replied, replacing his own helmet. ‘Gladiators run off. It’s a dangerous business,’ he added with a leaping lunge that would have done Petrus a mischief if the Thracian hadn’t dodged at the last second.
Petrus nodded. ‘We know it’s a dangerous business,’ he said. ‘Or Felix would still be here today.’
Syphax swung a blow at him but Petrus parried it. ‘Felix,’ the Nubian said. ‘He was always a bit of a pretty boy. Showy. The crowd loved him, of course. But he wasn’t a real gladiator; not like you or I.’
‘Don’t speak of the dead with such disrespect!’ Petrus parried Syphax’s attack and dealt him a glancing blow to the shoulder. If he hadn’t been wearing his armguard, Syphax would have a broken collar bone now. ‘The crowd loved him, you’re right. They mourned his passing—and the passing of a few drachmas too.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Syphax hissed sullenly.
‘Good question.’
Camilla was standing in the gateway, clad in kilt and sandals. Yawning, she sashayed across the arena to equip herself. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ she added.
Petrus looked hunted. ‘All I mean is, someone made a lot of money,’ he said.
‘People were laying bets on Felix’s survival?’ Camilla strapped on an armguard and gauntlet and reached down her Amazonian helmet.
Petrus looked from one gladiator to another. Had he said the wrong thing? ‘Everyone knows it happens,’ he said. ‘It may be illegal, but…’
Syphax swung a sudden blow at him and Petrus only caught it by instinct. Fighting back, he drove the murmi
llo across the ring. Camilla joined in the fight and Petrus found himself embattled on both sides.
‘I wouldn’t go around talking like that,’ Camilla warned. ‘Someone might hear.’
Petrus gritted his teeth. It was all the fault of Tiro. Who was he, really? The lad had denied being the agent of the prefect, but he was a spy of some kind, that was clear.
‘Where’s Tiro?’ he asked, and they both paused in their assault.
‘Another good question,’ said Camilla thoughtfully. ‘He must have overslept.’ Somehow her helmet radiated pious shock, as if no one else had ever missed the start of training.
But Flaminius had returned. The drama on the wharf had tired him out, and he went straight to his cell to pour himself a cup of wine. The morning had run away with him. On entering the school he had heard the ring of blade on blade from the training arena. He’d have to join them quickly before they suspected something. But…
He slipped out of his cell. The door to Felix’s old cell stood open. He listened carefully. All he could hear was the far-off sound of combat and the din from the street. The slave must be around, but there was no sign that Apuleius Victor was in the building. Flaminius crossed the marble floor and paused on the threshold.
He looked up and down the passage. No sign of anyone. Why had the dead man’s door been left open? Was it a trap? But who could be trying to trap him? He’d have to risk it.
The cell was small and Spartan. An amphora stood on a stand beside an unmade bed. Flaminius padded over and lifted the vessel to sniff at the contents. This must be the last thing Felix had drunk before going to the arena. It smelt like normal watered wine, rather vinegary. He tried a sip. Nodding, he placed it back in the stand. A slight aftertaste, but he didn’t recognise it. The wine had been drugged, the gladiator’s reactions had been slow, he had died—entirely against the expectations of the crowd. Who had poisoned such a skilled gladiator as Felix, though, and why? He heard a noise from the doorway and turned.
Camilla stood there. She wore armour and carried her helmet under her arm. How had he not heard her coming?
‘You creep like a cat,’ he said.
Her brows lifted. ‘You’re snooping round the cell of a dead man and you compare me with a cat, Tiro?’
‘They worship cats in this country.’ Flaminius crossed over to her. ‘It’s a compliment. I didn’t hear you’—he reached out and tapped her helmet— ‘and you’re carrying a heavy burden.’
Camilla’s face darkened. ‘What are you doing in Felix’s cell?’ she demanded. ‘Have you no respect for the dead? You’re supposed to be in training. We’ve got a game this afternoon.’
Flaminius looked shamefacedly at the floor. ‘My curiosity got the better of me,’ he told the gladiatrix. He’d have to play the innocent here; he had no hold over her, so he could hardly hope to make her an agent as he had with Petrus. He jerked a thumb at the amphora. ‘I think someone drugged his wine.’
Camilla sniffed at it, but shook her head. ‘Smells like wine to me,’ she said.
‘Taste it,’ said Flaminius.
‘You want me to taste wine that might be drugged? Just who are you, anyway, Tiro? Why are you snooping around all the time?’
Flaminius did his best to look innocent. ‘Hardly all the time,’ he protested. ‘I was curious. Felix was a good gladiator.’
‘By Celestial Juno he was; one of the best,’ Camilla grunted. ‘The mob loved him. I never dreamed he would die like that.’
Flaminius nodded. ‘And from what you say, professionals like us aren’t meant to die.’
‘It happens at times,’ she quibbled. ‘Hard to avoid, in a risky job like this. But I would never have expected Felix to die…’
Flaminius led her from the cell. ‘Don’t mention this to the others, will you? They might not be as sympathetic.’
‘Who says I’m sympathetic?’ she said. ‘I don’t like snoops.’ But he caught her smiling to herself.
‘You’re worried about the gladiators who’ve been lost,’ Flaminius said. ‘So am I. It’s natural, isn’t it? Self-preservation. I just want to know why Felix died so I can avoid going the same way myself.’
Camilla nodded as they went down the passage towards the peristyle. ‘Makes sense,’ she grunted. ‘But in return, you’ll have to do something for me.’
Flaminius smiled insincerely as they came out into the sunlight. ‘Name it,’ he said, inwardly cursing himself for putting himself in this position.
Camilla gave him a smile in return, and at once her grim face was that of a young girl in springtime. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said playfully, ‘when the time comes. Now we’d better go to the training arena. You’re lucky that Apuleius Victor’s not here. Lazing around in bed until all hours.’
As they walked, Flaminius said, ‘Tell me about the missing gladiators.’
She glanced at him. ‘You’re worried about them, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Scared for your own pretty skin? Or is this more snooping?’
Flaminius grimaced. ‘I wonder if this job isn’t more dangerous than I thought at first, that’s all.’
She laughed. ‘You thought being a gladiator was going to be an easy life? Even free gladiators don’t choose this life willingly. It chooses them. Life is short, and love never lasts. Brutus was first to go.’
‘Brutus?’
She nodded seriously. ‘He was the senior gladiator when I joined Apuleius Victor. Petrus was already with us, but he fawned on Brutus like a whipped cur. Brutus became my lover in secret, came to my cell in the middle of the night. I didn’t have much of a say in it. He was like a satyr in heat. Even Apuleius Victor was afraid of him, you could tell, though he hid it. Brutus lorded it over us gladiators until one day he just wasn’t there.’
‘He didn’t die in the arena?’
She shook her head scornfully. ‘Brutus didn’t die, not him. One night he didn’t come to my cell, that was all. I was relieved at first; it meant that I could get a night’s sleep. But when I knew he had gone without telling even me, I was heartbroken. I’d loved him too, in a way. Though he was well named, that brute.’
‘He didn’t tell you he was planning to leave?’ Flaminius asked.
She shook her head. ‘He would have taken me with him, I’m sure. He loved me. Even if he gave me this.’ She prodded her broken nose. ‘He had a temper, sure enough. But he wouldn’t have gone without telling me first. Would he?’
‘Gone where, though?’
She shook her head. ‘All I know is that once, in his sleep, he spoke about someone called Arctos.’
—7—
By now they had reached the gates to the small arena. Before Flaminius could speak with her further Camilla walked away down the little passage. He followed and they came out into the arena where several people awaited them.
Apuleius Victor stood beside a strange gladiator, a retiarius who held his helmet under one broad arm and his trident over his shoulder. Petrus and Syphax were looking him up and down as if he was a prime piece of horse flesh. As Flaminius entered with Camilla, Apuleius Victor turned to greet him.
‘Ah, here he is at last,’ he said, ignoring Camilla. ‘I’ve heard all about your exploits of this morning.’
Petrus looked up from his inspection of the retiarius’ armour. ‘Exploits? Tiro? What’s he been up to now? I thought he was still in bed.’
He met Flaminius’ eyes briefly, and the Roman saw that the gladiator had something to tell him. But it would have to wait. What was Apuleius Victor talking about? This morning?
‘Seems our new gladiator went for an early morning stroll,’ said the impresario. ‘Without permission, may I add. While wandering alongside the wharf, looking out for sailors no doubt, he stopped off to help the harbour guard put out a fire aboard a ship!’
Flaminius wished he had half Apuleius Victor’s intelligence network. ‘I did that,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t realise it was known throughout the city. I didn’t realise anyone would recognise me, e
ither.’ Had he been watched? Who by?
‘Did you do that?’ Petrus asked. Everyone started talking. The mysterious retiarius shook Flaminius by the hand. Even Syphax clapped him on the back.
‘There were fears the fire would spread to the Library,’ Apuleius Victor added.
‘I couldn’t let that monument to the greatness of this city burn a second time,’ Flaminius told them all with a grin. ‘Really, though, I was just recruited by a centurion. I don’t even know the man’s name. He didn’t know me, either. He was in charge of things, I just helped him get hold of a new fire engine, a machine invented by one of the philosophers at the Museum.’
‘Modest as well,’ said Apuleius Victor sardonically. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners.’ He indicated the retiarius. ‘This is Maccabeus, the gladiator. Formerly of Gaius Aurelius’ family. He’s taking the place of the late lamented Felix.’
Maccabeus clapped Flaminius on the back, then knelt and kissed Camilla’s hand. Rising again, he flexed his broad muscles, and said in a voice like rock grating on rock, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You didn’t tell me what you’d been up to this morning,’ Camilla grunted to Flaminius, unconsciously wiping her hand on her short leather skirt. ‘I thought you’d just got up.’
‘I went for a walk early on,’ Flaminius explained as they got kitted up and Petrus and Syphax began to spar with the new retiarius. ‘I just got dragged into things.’
They went to join the others. Apuleius Victor took a seat on the side of the ring and under his watchful eyes they spent much of the following morning in training.
During a lull when only Camilla and Maccabeus were fighting a duel, Petrus approached Flaminius. The latter was drinking from an amphora at the side of the arena. The Thracian hissed urgently, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
Flaminius almost choked on the wine. He wiped his lips clean, and without turning in Petrus’ direction said, ‘Don’t look so conspiratorial, for Jove’s sake.’
The Gladiator Gambit Page 5