The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  The centurion grimaced. ‘Three of them got away,’ he said. ‘My men pursued them as far as the canal, but there the fugitives took to the water in a craft they either stole or had waiting for them. River patrols will be notified, but by now they’ll be halfway across Lake Mareotis.’

  Apuleius Victor cursed.

  —26—

  Nile Delta, Egypt, 30th August 124 AD

  A kick in the ribs woke Flaminius.

  ‘Up!’ shouted an Egyptian voice. ‘Much walking today. Up!’

  He was seized by his arms, which had gone numb in the night, and forced into a sitting position. One of the Bucolics thrust some raw fish into his mouth. He almost choked, then swallowed it.

  ‘Can you not free my arms?’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not going anywhere… but my arms are about to drop off!’

  Ignoring him, the Egyptian splashed away as his fellow Bucolics readied themselves for the journey on all sides. Camilla was watching him. She stretched.

  He stared in shock. Quickly, she put her hands behind her back. ‘Yes,’ she said in a murmur. ‘While you were contemplating joining these Bucolics, I was working hard at making my escape. I’ve broken my bonds.’ She held the snapped fragments together to give their captors the impression that she was still bound. Uncomfortably, he shuffled over to her side.

  ‘Quick,’ he said urgently, ‘untie me.’

  She grinned maliciously. ‘I thought you wanted to meet the leader of these Bucolics.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I want to locate Arctos. If you’ve got any idea where we can find him, I’m coming with y…’

  Rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet. Camilla received the same treatment. Someone shoved Flaminius in the back.

  ‘Get moving,’ came a voice. ‘We want to get a long way from here before the sun gets too high.’

  They splashed off along the pathway through the reeds. Camilla lumbered at his side. From time to time, Flaminius shot her agonised glances. If only they’d had enough time for her to free him. Maybe they’d get a chance when they paused for a siesta. But Camilla ignored his mute appeals.

  Suddenly she halted. Flexing her arms, she wheeled round and punched an unsuspecting Bucolic in the face, snatched his spear, then turned to fend off an attack from the other side. Bucolics were shouting, running towards her. Flaminius struggled desperately with his bonds.

  ‘Help me!’ he implored her, but she gave him a cold look and vanished into the reeds.

  ‘After her!’ barked the chief rebel, pointing towards the swaying reeds that showed her path to liberty. ‘Hold him!’ he added, pointing in turn at Flaminius. The Roman jerked as two men grabbed his arms. He grimaced.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  The pursuers returned dolefully shortly afterwards. ‘Where is she?’ shouted the chief rebel. They shook their heads in dismay.

  ‘She’s gone,’ said one. ‘She must know these marshes better than we do.’

  The chief rebel cursed, then struck Flaminius for no good reason. ‘Get moving!’ he snarled.

  They set off again down the muddy path.

  The chief Bucolic began walking alongside Flaminius. He had regained his self-control, even seemed quite friendly.

  ‘Why didn’t you join your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Escaping?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I can’t. My hands are tied.’

  The chief Bucolic laughed. ‘She broke free, though,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaminius bitterly. ‘She must have spent half the night working at her bonds.’

  ‘And you didn’t.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me,’ said Flaminius, ‘that it would be quite so easy. Your men didn’t make much of an effort to catch her.’

  ‘She doesn’t matter,’ said the Bucolic airily. ‘It was you we were told to get, not her. She won’t get far, anyway. Like your other friend. None of you know the marshes as we do.’

  ‘That’s not what your man said,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘He said Camilla knew them better.’

  The Bucolic spat. ‘He was making excuses,’ he said. ‘A crocodile will get her. She would have been safer staying with us. Why didn’t she free you?’

  Flaminius shook his head wordlessly.

  ‘She could have helped you and yet she did not,’ the Bucolic added. ‘Fine friends you have. Where did she think she was going? Was she just running blind?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Flaminius said. ‘But she was hoping to find the encampment of Arctos.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Bucolic wisely. They splashed on in silence. The Bucolic spoke with some of his men then returned to Flaminius’ side.

  ‘You know of Arctos?’ Flaminius asked him. The Bucolic nodded tersely.

  Flaminius was excited. ‘You do? You know where his encampment is?

  The Bucolic nodded. ‘I do. It is known to all we of the wetlands.’

  Flaminius halted. ‘Take me there!’

  The river pirate behind him prodded him in the back with his spear. ‘Keep moving,’ barked the chief Bucolic. Grudgingly Flaminius did as he was told.

  ‘I can’t pay you here and now,’ he told his captor, ‘but if you set me free and take me to Arctos’ encampment, I will make sure you become richer than you could ever imagine.’

  ‘I have all I could ever need here in the marshes,’ said the chief Bucolic. ‘Here we have freedom, food, shelter. The tax gatherers can never find us here, nor can the soldiers. Even during the inundation, the waters are too shallow for their boats, too deep for them to wade without fear of their armour rusting. So it has been since my people first settled here in this land. The old people say we once ruled Egypt. You will have seen the ruins of our forgotten city. But that was long ago.’ He looked away. ‘I was told to take you to the village.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to your village.’ Flaminius sounded petulant in his own ears, ‘I want to find Arctos’ encampment.’ He studied the impassive river pirate. ‘Who told you to take me to your village? Why?’

  ‘I do not know why you are wanted,’ the river pirate said. ‘He is a well-respected man among our people. I was given your description and told to bring you to the village. Your name is Flaminius?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flaminius automatically. ‘No!’ he said at once. ‘No, I’m called Tiro. I’m a gladiator.’

  The river pirate cursed. ‘You’re not Flaminius?’

  Angry, he halted, and motioned for the others to stop. He took off his wig and looked Flaminius up and down. To the Roman’s surprise his hair was as red as any Caledonian’s. ‘You answer his description,’ the river pirate went on doubtfully. ‘We’ve been following you for days, and now you turn out to be an imposter.’

  Despite the increasing heat of the day Flaminius felt coldness prickling across his bare skin. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘My name is Gaius Flaminius Drusus. You were told to take me to your village. But again, I have to ask you: why? And who told you?’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ said the river pirate. ‘If you’re truly who we want, we need to get you to the village before noon. Stop asking idle questions and get moving!’

  Two of his men hustled the bound Roman onwards down the path.

  Sometime later, the reeds began to thin out, the ground underfoot grew firmer. At last they reached an area of palm trees, an island amid the reeds. Goats cropped the sparse grass. In the middle huddled a village of flat roofed white huts. The waters surrounded the island on two sides, flooded marsh lay on the other.

  The Bucolics led Flaminius out of the reeds and on into the village. A man sat outside a hut, looking up lazily. A mangy dog scavenged in a nearby midden. Women and children appeared. Chattering, they rushed to surround the men, many of them hugging them or scolding them. Some gathered round Flaminius, peering at him curiously, some as bold as to poke him or pull his hair. He endured it all stoically, waiting to be introduced to the man who had been so keen to meet him he had sent these Buc
olics miles across marsh and river.

  He was taken towards the bigger hut, and thrust through the reed curtain that covered its doorway. In the shadows on the far side a man sat cross-legged on a reed mat.

  ‘Here he is, sir,’ said the chief Bucolic, who had accompanied Flaminius inside. ‘Him who our friend the centurion spoke about.’ Flaminius frowned. The centurion on the patrol vessel?

  The man in the shadows looked up. Unlike the Bucolics, he wore the usual linen kilt and skullcap of an Egyptian man. ‘Bring him over here, Kalasiris. Let’s see him; the cause of all our trouble.’

  Hastily Kalasiris led Flaminius across the hut. A stray ray of sunlight shone in through the reed curtain, lighting up the sitting man’s dark face.

  ‘What in the name of Jove are you doing here?’ the Roman demanded incredulously.

  It was Ozymandias.

  —27—

  Slowly Camilla sloshed and waded through the marsh waters.

  The pursuit of the Bucolics had died away long ago, but she was still on her guard. That band of robbers and river pirates owed loyalties to none, and Rome had no control in this region. That was why Arctos had chosen the vicinity for his encampment. It was a wilderness right enough, forsaken by all right-thinking gods. Coming as she did from drier climes, she felt little but loathing for these watery acres. They stank, they seethed with dangerous life—she had already seen snakes swimming past, and small islands where crocodiles slept—but if they held the key to riches and power, she would just have to put up with it.

  All her life Camilla had been subordinate to others, whether a slave or a gladiatrix. Rome had done nothing for her, nor for her people. These rebels offered her the opportunity to triumph over her oppressors.

  She waded on. A pity that Maccabeus had been killed, even more that she had had to leave Tiro behind. Alone in the marshes, she was risking her life with every step. But the whole journey had been risky, and self-preservation was her current priority.

  She wondered what Apuleius Victor was doing now, now that his whole family had run away. Had he bought new gladiators, or had he given up and joined the mob, watching the other gladiators fight and die in the amphitheatre?

  She guessed the first; Apuleius Victor was not the kind of man to give up. She admired him for his tenacity. But she couldn’t have stayed with him much longer. Just as she risked her life wading through the waters of the Delta marshes, her existence had been in the balance every time she entered the arena, wherever she had fought, from Carthage to Alexandria. But now she was risking it in the cause of liberty.

  On the horizon stood a line of palm trees. The island on which they grew must be the only dry land for miles around. She tried to speed up her wading, but the current tugged at her legs as if reluctant to let her go, as if wanting to drag her down into a watery grave instead. She waded onwards, her bare feet sinking into the mud every time. As she rounded a bank of reeds a broad, shallow lagoon opened up between her and the wooded island.

  Eagerly, she began to run, sending up great splashes with her feet. The water sprayed. To her horror a huge pair of dark green jaws appeared. She ran, heart pounding in her breast, the crocodile pursuing her through the waters.

  She should have been more cautious. Now she was going to die.

  As she ran, she fixed her gaze on the far-off trees. A hasty glance backwards showed dark shapes speeding through the water towards her. Kicking up a wall of spray she ran on. She knew that it was exactly this that drew the crocodiles towards her, but she was unable to do anything else.

  A crocodile leapt from the water and snapped at her with its jaws, which almost closed on her leg. Terrified, she floundered on. This was not her element; the crocodiles were as adept in water as on earth, but she was a cripple in their domain.

  At last she reached the bank that marked the edge of the wooded island and flung herself up it. She glanced back to see a huge crocodile, the grandfather of them all it seemed, rising from the waters.

  She had fought beasts before, but only in the arena, where they had been declawed; besides, she had been on horseback. The life of the venatrix was not for her… She searched the ground for some means to defend herself as the crocodile raced up the bank towards her, jaws hinging open in anger. She snatched up a fallen branch and brandished it like a sword. The crocodile was not deterred. Realising the futility of her actions, she dropped the branch and turned to run.

  The air hummed. The crocodile leapt up in the air to land with a wet thump on the packed earth. Camilla was flung against a palm tree by the impact. She hugged the trunk as she peered at the creature; it seemed to be in its death throes. By Celestial Juno, what miracle of the gods was this?

  A hunting arrow jutted from between the creature’s eyes. Someone had shot it. She let go of the trunk but used it as cover as she peered through the trees. Where was the archer?

  A dark figure leapt down from a tree and strode towards her.

  ‘Syphax!’ she said in relief. Realisation washed over her. ‘Then you’re one of us!’

  ‘Camilla.’ The Nubian gladiator acknowledged her coolly. ‘Joining us at last?’

  ‘I never guessed you were with the rebellion,’ she said dazedly. ‘We all thought you were Apuleius Victor’s faithful hound.’

  He grimaced. ’Until I came here, I didn’t know you were with us either. But that’s the way it needs to be. The less we know, the less we can betray.’

  ‘I’ll never betray the rebellion.’

  ‘Every man,’ he said, ‘or woman, is a traitor under torture.’

  Producing another arrow, he fitted it to the bow he held and trained it on the dying crocodile. He waited his moment then loosed; the arrow sank into the creature’s pale belly and the crocodile stiffened into immobility.

  ‘Quickly,’ Syphax hissed. ‘That carcass will be attracting scavengers.’ A small dot was visible in the blue skies above, a vulture attracted by the fight. ‘Come with me.’

  As they hurried through the trees, he said, ‘What of Maccabeus and Tiro? You were supposed to be bringing them with you.’

  She grimaced. ‘They didn’t make it.’ She didn’t say that she had abandoned Tiro when her own skin was in danger. How she regretted that decision.

  ‘Arctos will be angry,’ he told her. ‘He took a keen interest in that lad.’

  ‘Is Arctos here?’ Camilla grunted.

  Syphax shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s in the city. I don’t know when he’ll be returning. Sometime soon, I think.’

  ‘Good,’ said Camilla. Secretly she dreaded Arctos’ coming. If he was angry with her for abandoning Tiro…! She had heard what he did with people who angered him.

  Huts and shelters became visible through the trees; men too, sitting round them or standing, gladiators and native Egyptians, all armed. Some were sparring, and as Camilla and Syphax approached, the ring of blade on blade drifted through the trees, bringing with it the aroma of cooking fires.

  ‘But here’s someone you know,’ Syphax added as they came out into the encampment. A black bearded Sicilian giant—at least five cubits tall—stepped forward, his burning gaze fixed on Camilla.

  ‘Dido!’ he laughed. With one blow of his gauntleted fist, he knocked her to the ground.

  She lay there, blood pounding in her ears, accompanied by the harsh laughter of the gladiators. Then she rose on one elbow, holding back tears.

  ‘Brutus,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time. I wondered if I would find you here.’

  Brutus seized her forearms and hauled her to her feet. He slapped her playfully across the back of the head. ‘She’s a real woman, this one,’ he announced to the others. ‘She can take any punishment, she’s a glutton for it. She came here looking for me because she knows I know how to treat a woman right.’

  ‘She came because she was told to,’ said Syphax, baring white teeth in a snarl. He spoke in an undertone to two other gladiators. They took long knives and vanished into the trees along the trail Ca
milla and Syphax had followed. ‘Arctos sent her a message telling her to bring the other gladiators.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Brutus dangerously, looming over the Nubian. ‘You want her, do you?’ He grabbed Camilla by the scruff and dragged her forwards. ‘Have her! Take her now, in front of us all!’

  Syphax looked Camilla up and down then turned away. ‘Not my kind of meat,’ he said.

  Camilla pulled herself free of Brutus. The gladiator swung round to knock her down again, but she dodged, flinching. He glared at her, then laughed.

  ‘You’re getting better!’ he said. ‘I told you I’d make a gladiatrix out of you!’ He faced the chorus of grinning rebels; they had downed swords and were watching. ‘When she joined the family,’ he told them, ‘I said a woman could never fight in the arena. She fought me!’ Proudly he showed them deep toothmarks in his upper arm. ‘I trained her up, hardened her. Now she’s a fighter.’

  He knocked her down again. This time she did not attempt to get up.

  Brutus moved off. Syphax sat on his haunches, watching her impassively. She rose, rubbed her bruises, and looked round the encampment.

  ‘He’s not changed,’ she said.

  ‘He’s still a fool,’ Syphax growled. ‘But a good fighter, and that’s what we want.’ He glanced around then leaned closer. ‘The word is, someone big is coming here.’

  ‘Someone big?’ she said. ‘Here? To this encampment? Do you mean Arctos? Do you know when he’s coming?’

  He shook his head angrily. ‘Not here, not to the encampment. Not Arctos either. Someone big is coming to Egypt.’

  ‘We’re going to take the prefect prisoner,’ she said. ‘That’s the plan I was told. I don’t know when or where.’

  Syphax nodded vigorously. ‘But plans can change. Opportunities can change.’

  ‘A better opportunity than taking the prefect hostage and seizing the richest province in the empire?’ She sat down on a fallen log. ‘What can that be?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that much,’ Syphax taunted her. ‘You know I can’t.’