The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  As Maccabeus took Petrus’ shoulders and Flaminius his feet, Petrus vomited again. His face was white, tinged with green. By the smell wafting from his kilt, he had soiled himself. Flaminius and Maccabeus carried him into the cool gloom of the holding pen where they laid him down on a stone bunk. Everyone bustled round until Apuleius Victor shoved them to one side, with the exception of Maccabeus and Flaminius who held the gladiator down as he writhed.

  Petrus vomited again, this time over Apuleius Victor’s sandaled feet. The impresario gritted his teeth. ‘Call the medic,’ he commanded. ‘This man is a valuable investment.’

  A Greek physician appeared, and the impresario spoke with him urgently, voice inaudible. Flaminius was sure he saw money change hands. On the bunk Petrus spasmed violently, then fell back. His feet drummed on the stone, then with a long, drawn-out gargle of breath, he went still.

  The medic knelt beside him and made a cursory check. He looked up, his olive face composed. ‘Dead,’ he said.

  Flaminius shouldered him out of the way and checked Petrus’ pulse. He looked up, eyes focussed on nothing. The medic gave a moue of annoyance.

  ‘I am a fully trained physician, you know,’ he said frostily. ‘I know a dead gladiator when I see one.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Camilla demanded. ‘He’s barely wounded. A few scratches.’

  ‘Disease,’ said the medic. ‘The bloody flux. Have the body taken away and burnt.’

  Amidst a chorus of unease, Flaminius bent over the corpse and sniffed at the wounds. One of them had a distinctive smell. He had met it before. Now where?

  ‘Out of the way, Tiro,’ said Apuleius Victor brusquely. ‘You heard the medic. Petrus’ body must be taken for cremation.’

  Flaminius caught the expression on Syphax’s face and his eyes narrowed.

  Camilla gave a little sob. It had all been so sudden. Flaminius bit his lip and cursed under his breath.

  He had just lost an agent.

  —9—

  Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

  When he heard the noise, Flaminius was lying on his bunk, staring up at the painted frescoes that adorned the ceiling of his cell, mentally comparing them with the wall paintings of a high-class brothel.

  It was late. Everyone had returned long ago, dispirited and bedraggled, and no one had anything to say to anyone else. There would be no feasting tonight now, no singing or music. Petrus was dead, and he had not died the death of a gladiator, but a miserable one—of disease, the medic said.

  There it was again. A distant sound from somewhere else in the building. Flaminius strained his ears. It sounded like the sound a small animal might make. A small animal in pain. He sat up.

  Now he could hear nothing. Had he imagined it? Just as he was lying his head back down on the bunk, it came again.

  This time he rose, strapped on his sandals, ensured his dagger was in its sheath at his side, and went to the door.

  The passageway outside was cold as a crypt, and as silent. He turned his head first one way, then the other, trying to locate the noise. There it was; to his right, a little down the corridor. He followed it.

  It grew louder as he was passing the door to Camilla’s cell. Glancing up and down the passage to make sure no one else was about, he pressed his ear to the door. Thinner than Apuleius Victor’s door, it made a less effective barrier to sound. Flaminius was sure he could hear Camilla crying.

  That couldn’t be right. The tough, hulking, hard-bitten gladiatrix, victor of a thousand fights, sobbing her heart out like a little girl? He must be imagining things. Frowning, he put his ear to the door again.

  Definitely, sobbing. He waited a moment, allowing the noise to subside, then knocked respectfully.

  ‘Go away,’ came the gladiatrix’s muffled voice.

  ‘It’s me, Tiro,’ he said, his voice filled with concern. ‘I…I wanted to talk to you. About Petrus.’

  A pause. Then bolts were drawn back. A tear stained face appeared in the crack that appeared between door and door jamb.

  ‘Well?’ Camilla sniffed.

  Awkwardly, Flaminius said, ‘Can I come in?’

  She stepped back, opening the door as she did so, then led him in. At her invitation, he sat on the bunk and she curled up amongst cushions.

  ‘It’s just…’ she began. ‘It’s just it was such a bad death.’

  ‘Death is never good,’ Flaminius observed.

  ‘A bad death for a gladiator,’ she told him. ‘If Petrus had to die, he should have died fighting. Not of a disease that struck him out of nowhere! Was it the stars? Was he born under a bad sign?’ Flaminius shrugged. She added, ‘Do you believe in an afterlife? Do you believe the gods judge us for our sins?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘Democritus and other sophists say that the gods shun this fallen world,’ he said. ‘What happens here is due to nature alone.’

  ‘It all seems so meaningless,’ she murmured.

  ‘Nature is chaotic by its own… nature,’ Flaminius finished lamely. ‘Everything and everyone is made up of atoms, high and low, slave and emperor, man and beast. There is no meaning to anything.’

  She shot a glare at him. ‘Who told you all that?’

  ‘Philosophers,’ he said.

  She growled. ‘I never listen to philosophers,’ she told him. ‘In Cyrene when I was a little girl I once heard some such marketplace sophistry. They said the only purpose in life was having a good time, and I liked that. But then they said the gods are elsewhere, and that death is the end.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t want everything to just stop.’

  Remembering her manners, she leaned over to the table, and poured Flaminius some wine, and another cup for herself.

  Flaminius sipped at the wine. ‘Would you rather that the gods did judge you?’ he said. ‘From what I’ve heard, all the things that make life bearable will have you consigned for eternity to the worst reaches of the underworld.’

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ she said with a scornful laugh.

  ‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘I believe that life just ends.’

  And so did the conversation. Flaminius wondered if he had been a little insensitive. It was always the way with women; speak the truth and they hated it. Lie, and they hated that too. She was crying silently.

  He reached out to embrace her. She fought like a wild cat, but he persisted. At last she sank into his arms and sobbed against his chest.

  She lifted her head. ‘I’m being disgusting,’ she told him. ‘Why are you letting me behave like this?’

  ‘Did Petrus mean very much to you?’ he asked.

  She put her hand on his chest, looked downwards. ‘No,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘We worked together for a long time. A long time for gladiators. We knew that sooner or later we would both die. Professional gladiators don’t fight to the death as a rule, but they can die for various reasons. Accidents; very frequent, and not surprising considering the nature of our trade. Old age: not white haired and in your bed, just when you get too old to fight. Few gladiators die in their bed. But sometimes they die for other reasons. They’ve crossed someone—the impresario, for example. So the impresario gives orders, and in the next fight they die. That’s what the rumour is, anyway. I don’t know it for a fact. But I do believe it. Just like I believe that death is not the end.’

  Privately, Flaminius thought that the former had a lot more to be said in its favour. ‘You think he was killed because he crossed someone?’ He licked his lips. His mouth was dry.

  She looked up and peered into his eyes. ‘But that makes no sense,’ she said. ‘He died of a disease. Very suddenly. How did he get that disease?’

  Flaminius returned her gaze. ‘I don’t think it was a disease,’ he said darkly.

  ‘You don’t?’ She examined him searchingly. ‘What was it, then?’

  ‘I smelt something,’ he said, ‘a smell from his wounds.’

  ‘His wounds were no more than scratches,’
she protested. ‘He didn’t die of them.’

  ‘I think he did,’ said Flaminius quietly.

  She stared at him. ‘This smell…’ she said, ‘what was it?’

  ‘I was trying to identify it,’ Flaminius said, gazing into the distance, ‘but I was hustled away by the impresario. Still, I caught enough of it for it to trigger off some memories. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. And now I’ve got it.

  ‘What was it?’ she said urgently.

  ‘Asp venom.’

  She went pale. ‘Asp venom?’

  He nodded. ‘Concentrated asp venom can kill in no time,’ he said. ‘I knew a woman of the Marsi once…’ he went on.

  ‘The Marsi?’ Camilla looked puzzled. ‘Who are they? Some barbarian tribe?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘There is a Germanic people of the same name,’ he admitted. ‘But the Marsi of Italy live in the hills. They are experts in pharmacology. Good healers. They know about herbs and potions. They also have a reputation as witches. And as poisoners, if there’s any difference. She told me a thing or two.’

  ‘And she mentioned asp venom?’ Camilla asked. ‘You think Petrus was poisoned? That’s horrible; worse than death from disease.’ She shook her head. ‘But no, no, no. The medic identified it as the bloody flux.’

  Flaminius turned away in disgust. ‘Medics,’ he muttered. ‘Poisoners worse than the Marsi! Besides, I saw Apuleius Victor press a drachma into the medic’s hand.’

  She shrugged. ‘What of it? Medics want to be paid, same as everyone else.’

  ‘Before they examine the patient?’ Flaminius asked, and she made no reply. ‘I overheard a conversation at noon while I was looking for the slave,’ he went on.’

  ‘A conversation?’ she said. ‘Who was talking? What were they saying?’

  ‘It was Apuleius Victor,’ he said. ‘Speaking to Syphax. I couldn’t hear much through the impresario’s door, but what I caught was something about some mysterious people Syphax knew, who could “get it”, and something about a blade. Then Apuleius Victor said, “not in the arena”.’

  ‘The wood of that door must be half a cubit thick, Tiro. How could you have heard that? You must have had your ear pressed right up against the wood to hear half of that.’

  ‘I think Petrus was poisoned,’ Flaminius said. ‘I think Petrus was killed because…’ He halted.

  ‘Why?’ Camila said. ‘Why would anyone kill Petrus? And why not in the arena, if they wanted to? How was he killed, anyway?’ She poured herself some more wine, but didn’t offer him any. ‘If you’re so sure about this,’ she went on, ‘why don’t you just take your suspicions to the magistrate?’

  ‘Because I’m not so sure, for one,’ he said. ‘I have no real evidence. Not at the moment.’

  ‘Not at the moment! Do you mean to go eavesdropping at other doors?’ Camilla took a deep swig of her wine. Then her eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know I was upset?’

  ‘I heard you crying.’

  She regarded him long and hard. ‘It wasn’t very loud,’ she said after a while. ‘I admit it, I shed a tear about Petrus. But I did my best to muffle it. I’m a gladiatrix. I don’t want people to hear me crying. Gladiatrices don’t cry. You hear me?’

  He nodded. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Were you listening at my keyhole?’

  He shook his head. ‘I heard you from my own cell,’ he insisted.

  She was silent a while longer. ‘And you think Petrus was poisoned, but you need more evidence before we go to the magistrate?’ Flaminius was cheered by her use of the plural pronoun.

  ‘Nice idea, Tiro,’ Camilla went on, refilling his winecup. ‘But what magistrate will care about the death of a gladiator? I know you’re new to this game, but we’re the lowest of the low. Slaves’ lives are rated more highly than our own.’

  ‘Don’t you want justice for Petrus?’ he asked. ‘If there is proof that he was murdered… well, it might help his case in the afterlife.’

  She bit her lip, then shook her head. ‘I doubt that,’ she said. ‘But yes, I want justice. If someone murdered him, they should be publicly executed. I want to see them fed to the wild beasts in the arena. That would be just, wouldn’t it?’

  Flaminius nodded. ‘All we need is proof.’

  She rose to her feet, eyes flashing. She looked superb, magnificent. ‘We’ll confront them. No more of this snooping and spying and listening at other people’s doors, Tiro. You’ve picked up some bad habits. I’ll teach you how to act like a man. We’ll confront them. Apuleius Victor and Syphax. What will they be able to do then?’

  Flaminius went to her, took her hand, and led her back to the couch. ‘Unless we had proof, we’d be accused of giving false witness. I don’t know how that’s punished in Alexandria, but in Roman law it receives the death penalty; to wit, flung from the Tarpeian Rock!’

  She shuddered. ‘You Romans are such barbarians! Surely you don’t do that anymore?’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘A man was flung from the Tarpeian Rock in my father’s youth. Very messy, he said it was. I’ve never seen it done myself. Maybe because it’s such an effective deterrent.’

  ‘We need more evidence?’ she asked him. ‘But how are we going to get it?’ She drew her hand away from his. ‘Not more snooping?’

  ‘How else can we find evidence?’ he said.

  She gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t like it,’ she complained. ‘But if it’s necessary…’

  ‘I think it may be,’ he said. ‘It would be good if we could find asp venom lying around; in Apuleius Victor’s chamber, for example, or in Syphax’s. I would also like a look at Syphax’s sword, though I should think he got rid of any traces hours ago. Wiped them away in the sand of the arena, I expect. But one thing we could do is speak to the medic.’

  ‘The one Apuleius Victor bribed?’ Camilla asked. ‘According to you, anyway. Come on, Tiro, he’s hardly going to admit that he took bribes, now is he? Don’t be naïve. He’s the official medic for the legion’s amphitheatre, and that makes him an imperial official. It would be a real scandal if he was convicted for corruption. He’ll never squeal, Tiro.’

  Flaminius gave her a dark smile. ‘We’ll just have to be persuasive.’

  —10—

  Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

  Flaminius and Camilla found the Greek medic hard at work in his surgery beneath the amphitheatre. When they entered, he was washing blood from his hands in a bowl held by a slave. On the marble slab behind him lay a dead gladiator. A sword slice had cut the corpse open like a pig carcase in a butcher’s shop. A smell of singed flesh filled the air; a brazier lay nearby with hot irons lying upon its coals. Flaminius shuddered. He had seen similar scenes in torture chambers.

  The medic gestured behind him with his thumb. ‘Have that taken for dissection,’ he told the slave. Another slave joined the first and together they lugged the brawny body from the cold, dank room.

  ‘No luck, eh?’ said Flaminius sympathetically.

  The medic drew himself up to his full height, about chest high with the tribune. ‘Surgery, sir, is not a matter of luck,’ he told him severely. ‘It is a matter of science correctly applied.’

  ‘But in this case it wasn’t correctly applied,’ said Camilla, folding her arms, and leaning against the chamber wall.

  The medic bristled. ‘Are you questioning my professional integrity? Every effort was made to save that gladiator’s life. However, I am not a miracle worker. I cannot revive the dead, nor can I preserve the life of a man who has been so savagely wounded.’

  Flaminius inspected the brazier. ‘It looks to me more like you were torturing the poor devil,’ he commented. ‘What were the hot irons for?’

  ‘Do you know nothing of medical matters, young man?’ the medic asked haughtily. ‘The hot irons were used to effect cauterisation. Sadly to no avail.’

  ‘Do you lose all your patients?’ asked Camilla, still leaning a
gainst the wall, arms folded.

  The medic looked her up and down. She towered over him, wearing her best gladiatrix finery: armguard, high sandals, brief leather skirt, and a jewelled belt from which her sword hung.

  ‘Of course not!’ he stammered. ‘Naturally enough, however, considering the nature of my work and that of my patients, fatalities are not uncommon. Less severe wounds are treated efficiently. Mortal wounds… well! By their very nature…!’

  ‘Did I hear you say you were sending the gladiator’s corpse to be dissected?’ Flaminius asked.

  The medic went pale. He looked from one to the other, then began industriously wiping at the stained surface of the marble slab. ‘I’m heartened that gladiators of your calibre take such an interest in my profession,’ he muttered, ‘but I have work to do. I have no time to answer idle questions.’

  Flaminius crossed over to the Greek. ‘Oh, but my questions aren’t idle,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I am Xenocrates of Rhodes,’ the medic replied proudly. ‘I’m sorry, but if you have anything pertinent to ask, I suggest you speak to me after my work is over. I have been toiling all night to save the life of that gladiator and I must seek my bed.’

  ‘You didn’t do a very good job of Petrus, either,’ said Camilla bitterly, ignoring the hint.

  Xenocrates passed a hand over his brow, accidentally leaving a red streak of gore. ‘Petrus?’

  Camilla pushed herself up off the wall and stalked towards him. ‘You don’t remember, do you? He was just another one of your failures, I suppose.’

  Xenocrates looked in fright from one to the other. ‘I’ll be forced to call the guard,’ he warned them, and began rooting clumsily through a case of surgical instruments, ‘if you don’t leave me be.’

  Camilla seized his wrist as he snatched up a slim, wicked knife. ‘What are you hoping to do with that?’ she enquired.

  ‘Defend myself!’ the medic said defiantly. ‘If necessary. You gladiators are all the same!’

  ‘Let the man go,’ Flaminius told her. Unwillingly she removed her hand from his wrist. ‘Now, Xenocrates of Rhodes, I realise you’re tired and you have been working all night,’ he added. ‘But we have questions for you. Answer them, and we’ll let you go.’