The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  Maccabeus’ hand seized his wrist. The big man shook his head. ‘You’ll never find them,’ he said. ‘You won’t know what to look for.’

  ‘It’s an encampment,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ll know an encampment when I see it. If I explain the situation, they should help you.’

  ‘He’s told you they don’t accept cripples,’ said Camilla. Flaminius glanced at her. Why was she so calm? She had less to lose. But as a fugitive, unless she joined the rebels, her life expectancy was low. Why was she so sanguine? He looked back at Maccabeus. The gladiator’s eyes had closed again. Flaminius reached out and shook his shoulder gently.

  ‘You’ll have to guide us,’ he said apologetically. ‘We can’t just stay here.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Camilla. ‘We’ve been safe so far.’

  ‘We can’t stay here.’ Flaminius did not meet her eyes. ‘We can’t live on lotus fruit, even when it’s ripe, and besides, this whole area is crawling with river pirates and crocodiles.’

  ‘And asps,’ said Maccabeus sleepily. ‘Snakes are to be found all over this area. It’s a backwater. The Pelusiac Branch is too shallow north of here, so boats take a canal to the Tanitic Branch and the sea. This dead city, I don’t know its name, but it was abandoned long ago, after the channel silted up. No one really lives round here.’

  ‘Except Bucolics,’ Flaminius reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Maccabeus. ‘Bucolics. Help me up.’

  Flaminius assisted the big man to his feet. Camilla looked up at them. ‘You’re going to make a sick man guide us? You really do want to join the rebels.’

  Flaminius nodded. ‘If he won’t give us directions, Maccabeus can at least guide us.’

  Leaning on him, Maccabeus allowed Flaminius to take him out of the temple and into the clearing. Camilla trailed after them.

  They passed through the trees, coming out into a clearing. The rubble was visible through moss and reeds. No one was around. Far to the south, drowned fields were visible, but the papyrus reeds swayed in the breeze as far north as the eye could see. Maccabeus directed them to follow a narrow, elevated path through the flooded reeds. Mist hung in the air as the sun’s heat grew.

  Water pooled on either side, visible through the reeds. At times, Flaminius heard movement from within, animal sounds. Crocodiles, perhaps. The air whirred as water fowl flew overhead. He wished he had a sling to bring some of them down with. At one point they all had to halt while a huge snake slithered across the wet track ahead of them. On they travelled, on across the bleak marsh, the wind soughing in the reeds, until Maccabeus could go no further. On a tussock of drier ground they halted.

  Camilla had brought more of the green lotus fruit. Flaminius chewed on his share unenthusiastically. He was suffering from indigestion from breakfast.

  ‘We should try hunting.’ He picked up a branch from beside the path.

  ‘With that?’ Camilla asked in surprise. He nodded, and brandished it.

  ‘Throwing stick,’ he said. ‘That’s what the Egyptians use for hunting. You saw the murals in that temple. I’m not going to live on unripe lotus fruit for the rest of my life.’ Maccabeus had fallen asleep. ‘Stay with him,’ he instructed Camilla.

  ‘Shouldn’t we all stick together?’ she was calling as he waded away through the reeds, but he ignored her. Soon her voice was inaudible.

  Half an hour later and he was plastered with mud, had lost the throwing stick, and had nothing to show for his exertions except for flocks of angry ibis circling in the sky above him. He was wet and hungry, and the sun was reaching its zenith.

  He surveyed the reeds. His blundering progress should have left a clear trail, but to his dismay, he could see no sign of his passing. With the sun so high, he had no way to work out which way was north or south. He had been travelling north as far as he knew. But in this endless marsh it was impossible to be sure.

  ‘Camilla?’ he shouted, then listened. All he could hear was the squawk of indignant birds. ‘Camilla!’ he cried again, then when there was no answer he started wading in what he hoped was the right direction.

  He noticed a trail of broken reeds, and followed them, hoping they represented his path. Maybe he was right, because after a quarter of an hour, he staggered out into a muddy track between banks of reeds. Was it where he had started? He looked up and down. No sign of Camilla or Maccabeus.

  He followed it southwards. At least he hoped it was southwards.

  As he followed the track, he thought he heard something moving towards him through the reeds. He hoped it wasn’t a crocodile. Turning a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  Splashing up the path towards him was a group of spear wielding figures. They wore the long linen dresses of women and had long black hair and collars of faience beads. Their faces were made up like those of Alexandrian courtesans. But no self-respecting courtesan would venture so far into this most unfashionable backwater. They were men. Worse, they were rebels. Bucolics. Anthropophagi.

  They saw Flaminius the moment he saw them. Almost as startled as he was by this mud plastered apparition, their leader pointed his spear, and shouted something in Egyptian.

  Heart pounding, Flaminius ran back the way he had come.

  —25—

  Nile Delta, Egypt, 29th August 124 AD

  Haring round a bend in the track he collided with Camilla, who was on her knees tending to a semi-conscious Maccabeus.

  ‘What are you doing, clumsy oaf?’ the gladiatrix demanded, rising to glare at him. ‘Where have you…? What have you…?’

  ‘Bucolics!’ Flaminius cried, pointing behind him. ‘They’re after me.’

  ‘You’ve brought them down on all of us,’ Camilla cried. Maccabeus got unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘We must fight them,’ he said.

  ‘There’s too many,’ Flaminius said. ‘Besides, we’ve got no weapons.’

  ‘We’d better move,’ Camilla grunted. ‘No—not you!’ she added as Maccabeus staggered away.

  ‘I’m not a cripple yet,’ the gladiator said over his shoulder. ‘I can…’

  He broke off. A splashing of feet heralded the appearance of the Bucolics through the reeds. Flaminius and Camilla ran after him.

  Maccabeus preceded them at a lurching, staggering run. The recent rest had done him good, but it was unlikely that he would be able to get far. As they ran, the Bucolics shouted war cries, ululating screams that might have contained words but none Flaminius understood. A glance over his shoulder showed the pursuers close on his heels. One stopped, and flung a throwing stick. It whizzed between Flaminius and Camilla and vanished without a whisper into the reeds.

  Maccabeus’ figure became indistinct as he ducked in and out of reed thickets. How far did the marsh extend? Would they ever escape it? Would they ever escape the pursuing Bucolics? Flaminius could hear their hunters drawing ever closer, terrifying in their absurdity.

  Camilla panted for breath. Flaminius could feel a stitch developing in his side. He had come a long way in the last few years, from one end of the empire to the other, seen a lot, experienced a lot. The idea that he would end his days in the belly of a cross dressing cannibal revolted him.

  Maccabeus vanished through a gap in the reeds. Flaminius and Camilla splashed after him. Turning a corner, they came to an abrupt halt. The reeds ended and a wide stretch of water opened up, in the middle of which was an overgrown island on which lay some ruins. Maccabeus floundered out into the channel. Flaminius was about to follow him when Camilla seized his arm. She pointed.

  Dark shapes darted through the water. ‘Maccabeus!’ Flaminius shouted. ‘Watch out! Crocodiles…’

  Maccabeus halted, swung round… but too late. Something seized his feet from beneath him and he vanished under the water. Spray thrashed upwards in a great curtain as the big man struggled with his unseen assailant. Then, abruptly, the water was as still as the pool in a public baths. And as red as sunset.

  The Bucolics surrounded them. They were caught between
crocodile infested swamps and anthropophagous river pirates.

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Flaminius, and Camilla nodded.

  ‘Come with us,’ said the leader of the Bucolics, a scrawny Egyptian whose women’s clothes was stained with mud. He directed the two surviving fugitives back the way they had come.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Camilla demanded as two men bound their hands with withes.

  ‘You are going to meet one of our leaders,’ said the chief Bucolic. ‘He has had us searching the marshes for you ever since word came that you had been seen.’

  ‘Me?’ said Camilla. ‘But I’m just a gladiatrix. Don’t tell me my fame has reached these dreary marshes?’ She gave a cracked laugh. Their comrade devoured by crocodiles, now captives of their absurd, sinister pursuers, the strain was beginning to tell on her.

  ‘Not you, woman,’ said the chief Bucolic. He pointed at Flaminius with his sword. ‘Him.’

  ‘Me?’ said Flaminius. ‘But I’m a nobody. They call me Tiro. I’ve only been a gladiator for a few weeks.’

  ‘And what were you before?’ said the chief Bucolic. Flaminius went cold. ‘No more talking,’ the Bucolic added. ‘We have some hard walking to do before we get to our village.’

  Camilla leaned closer to Flaminius. ‘Well? What were you doing before you joined us?’ she asked in a whisper, but one of the Bucolics heard, and struck her with a spear butt. She waded onwards in a dispirited silence.

  So did Flaminius. Who were these Bucolics? How did they know him? Had they confused him with someone else, or had his fame spread? Renown was not something an imperial agent wanted to foster. Anonymity was what he needed for his work, although the scars and tattoos he had received during his career militated against that.

  If only, when Maccabeus had led them from the gladiators’ school on this ill-fated expedition, he had thought to bring a weapon. Not that Flaminius could fight off at least fifteen Bucolics. Not alone. Not even armed, not unless he was mounted and with several auxiliaries at his back. He remembered his first encounter with these robbers, or at least their country cousins, in the bad-lands at the back of Isideion. These ones seemed to be natives of the Delta. Had the others been desert bandits, or had they been more wanderers? If the rebels in the Thebaid had been reinforced by Bucolics from the Delta, that might explain the link between the gladiators and the rebels.

  One problem with that theory, he realised as he waded on through the marsh, was Maccabeus’ aversion to these people. The old gladiator had feared these Bucolics so much he had run straight down a crocodile’s gullet. Flaminius shuddered at the memory. So these Bucolics must represent a different, and unknown, faction. They could be the river pirates from Lake Mareotis, who had followed them until the encounter with the Roman patrol vessel. Maybe they had been following them across the Delta—that would explain the trigger-happy patrol they had encountered; the legionaries had been scared out of their wits by the depredations of these Bucolics.

  But why had the Bucolics followed them in the first place?

  Flaminius assumed he would get the answer when they reached the mysterious leader of the Bucolics. How this would affect his mission remained to be seen. The sun was descending over the marshes; it would soon be the end of the fifth Day of Hadrian. And he was getting nowhere.

  They rested on another marsh island where ancient ruins mouldered beneath vines and lianas. The Bucolics had speared a few fish during the march, and that night they ate as well as they had done since the beginning of this wetland odyssey, he and Camilla, fed by their captors. Afterwards, guards were posted and the rest of the Bucolics curled up and went to sleep. Exhausted after the exertions of the day, Flaminius tried to sleep as well, but Camilla seemed restless.

  ‘Will you stop fidgeting?’ he asked her irritably, over his shoulder. She went still, then leaned closer.

  ‘I’m trying to get out of these bonds,’ she hissed.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ She seemed shocked by the question. ‘Do you want to be eaten? We can’t stay with these people!’

  ‘No one’s said anything about eating us,’ whispered Flaminius. ‘In fact, they fed us pretty well. I’m developing quite a taste for raw fish.’

  She gave a snort of disgust. ‘Someone should teach these barbarians how to cook. They don’t seem to have any trouble cooking people. Why can’t they cook fish?’

  ‘Same reason that we couldn’t, under these conditions,’ Flaminius said. ‘No wood, too much water. I agree it’s barbaric, but what else can we do? We’re not going to escape. I want to meet this Bucolic leader.’

  ‘Why?’ Camilla grunted. ‘We’re going to join Arctos and the rebels. That’s what I’m going to do as soon as I get away.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ Flaminius asked. ‘You’re a prisoner. Anyway, only Maccabeus knew the way, and he’s not telling.’

  Camilla was silent for a long time. Just as Flaminius thought he was finally going to get to sleep, he heard her mutter angrily, ‘I’m going to get away from these Bucolics and then I’m going to join Arctos. I’ve had it with you. If you want to stay with these anthropophagi, that’s your business.’

  She rolled over and began to snore. Flaminius, who had been on the edge of a dream, was now fully awake.

  Mention of Arctos had reminded him of the importance of his mission. These river pirates who had captured them, these Bucolics, interested him strangely. Where they fitted into the mosaic, he didn’t know. Getting away from them would be difficult, but Camilla was right about one thing. Joining Arctos was what mattered most. If only they had a hope of finding him in these marshes now that Maccabeus was gone. Flaminius had to learn the truth of the conspiracy, and do what he could to defeat it before the whole province was in a state of revolt.

  And it wasn’t simply a case of keeping Avidius Pollio in a job, although that was apparently how the legate saw it. The people of Egypt would suffer, the everyday people, citizens of the cities and villagers in the farmlands. Another revolt, like that of the Judaeans, would cause endless destruction.

  The journey through the Delta had opened his eyes to the life of the normal Egyptian. His friendship with Ozymandias had taught him much; native Egyptians were burdened with endless taxes and duties. The legionaries who had stopped him and his two companions would have robbed them under the guise of fines or taxation, if he hadn’t been able to talk to the centurion as an equal. He remembered the other river patrol, the legionaries who had slaughtered those fishermen.

  And this was what the rebels were fighting against. The Judaeans under Lukuas, the Bucolics in the Delta, the rebels in the Thebaid… all of them had met petty tyranny and taxation from the Romans. And yet… and yet…

  Flaminius got a grip of himself. Any more of that thinking, and he’d be donning a dress and joining the Bucolics! And the country would be plunged into anarchy just in time for the emperor’s visit. It wouldn’t benefit Egypt, it wouldn’t benefit Avidius Pollio’s career. It wouldn’t benefit Flaminius. He still hoped for a posting back to Britain before he got much older. Back to Drustica.

  Smiling to himself at his memories of a climate colder, though no drier, than the Delta, he fell asleep.

  The house was shuttered and dark. As the civic guards moved into position, Apuleius Victor wondered if his informant had not been playing games. He shivered in the chill night air.

  The guard centurion joined him. They stood on the corner of the street, peering round at the house.

  ‘Sure this is the place, sir?’ the centurion asked, voice low. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood!’

  ‘Riches make men respectable,’ Apuleius Victor said cynically, ‘a result that many people think justifies the deeds. There are rich men behind the operation who hope to get richer.’

  The centurion shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder what they need all that money for,’ he mused.

  Apuleius Victor gave him a sharp look. ‘Like I said,’ he whispered, ‘it�
��s the result that justifies their deeds. No, there’s no doubt about it,’ he continued with an assurance that he didn’t feel. ‘The ringleaders of the operation are meeting together in that house. Move your men in, centurion, and we’ll wring the truth from our criminal friends.’

  The centurion went to speak with his subordinates.

  Apuleius Victor shivered again. It was an unexpectedly cold evening for Alexandria in high summer, and the night wind brought with it the stink of the marshes. He wondered where that commissary officer was now, Tribune Flaminius, who had thought that there was a political dimension to the whole business. Now that all Apuleius Victor’s gladiators had absconded, the impresario was able to concentrate on police work. A good thing he had possessed this second string, or he would have been utterly ruined by the machinations of the crime syndicates.

  The centurion reappeared. ‘We’re moving in.’

  Apuleius Victor nodded. The centurion lifted up a hand bell and began ringing it; the clamour echoed from the walls of the surrounding houses. There was the thunder of booted feet, a crash of doors being smashed off their hinges, and the centurion hurried after his men, into the house. Apuleius Victor hung back. His remit did not include fighting, and from what he could hear within, it was quite unpleasant in there: grisly sounds that would have inspired applause in the arena but in a respectable street of the Greek Quarter of Alexandria were off putting, to say the least. It was a long time since he had last been in a fight, back in his gladiator days, before he took the wooden sword. Gladiatorial combat was a different thing entirely.

  Everything went quiet. Apuleius Victor strode down the pavement to peer in through the shattered doors. A vestibule led to an atrium. The place was packed with civic guards restraining struggling Egyptians and gladiators. Seeing the centurion, the impresario pushed his way through the throng.

  ‘These are only robbers from the Delta and a few gladiators,’ he said. ‘I was led to believe there was a Roman citizen mixed up in all this.’