by Scott Baker
I pulled on one of the segments, and it came away from the rest of the unit, a long, imperceptibly thin cord trailing it. I squeezed the segment in the way I had practised and it flattened out. I pressed it to my head just above my ear. I pulled another identical segment and ran it up to just above my other ear. My fingers followed the routine of their own accord. I pulled two more parts of the tube and long, flat cords came out. I wrapped them about my torso as I had been taught, and clipped them in place back on the unit, which was now securely fastened to my hip. Then I tapped the unit twice on one end, and the opposite end sprang up, revealing a small black shape. I took it and placed it in my mouth. The tiny hooked clip attached firmly to the back of my molar, perfectly fitted for me.
Then I stood. That was it. I was now wearing the unit as it had been designed. I turned in the cell, looked at the door and flicked the clip in my mouth with the back of my tongue, a movement that would go unnoticed from the outside. There it was, the slight tingling in my mouth to let me know the camera was recording. I could barely believe it worked.
I closed my eyes and clung to the feeling, the tingling that told me I was not insane, that the world in my head did exist. Even as I stood there, I knew that the sound and vision cameras on either side of my head were capturing images of ancient Rome that had never been experienced by modern man. True depth, multi-sensory images were being sent to the tiny spindle of optical button-sized discs inside the recording unit at my hip. Silently, unnoticeably.
The next morning Malbool came back, dragged between two guards, his feet hanging limply and creating trails in the dirt of the stable’s corridor. They threw him roughly onto his bed and left.
I rushed to his side. Bloodied and broken, he smiled up at me, the bruising around his black face looking oddly purple.
‘My God, what happened to you?’ I knew that he wasn’t supposed to fight for another week.
‘This, it seems, is what happens when I try to stand in for you, my friend,’ he replied, the effort clearly causing him pain.
‘Stand in for me? What do you mean? I fought yesterday.’ Malbool’s eyebrows lifted at this.
‘Yes, you did. But not long after you left, Tiberius’s guards came down to collect you. When I told them that you had already been taken, the stable master was furious and beat me, accusing me of lying.’
I looked hard into Malbool’s eyes. ‘These injuries are not from the stable master.’
He smiled again at this. ‘No. I fought for you. I was taken in your place, although I was not up to the challenge. Tiberius managed to get a pardon for my life because I was not the true opponent.’
‘You fought in place of me? But I was taken to the Coliseum and I fought! After I had defeated my opponent, they locked me in the arena and released a lion. They wanted me to die.’
‘You did not fight for Tiberius,’ Malbool stated.
‘What? Of course I did, who else would I—’
Then I stopped. Tiberius hadn’t actually been there. I remembered the hooded man.
‘They did say that I was a last-minute replacement,’ I said, thinking out loud.
‘You were taken to the Coliseum? That is where Augustus was holding his games yesterday.’
‘Augustus the Emperor?’ I asked.
Malbool paused a moment before answering. ‘No, not Augustus Octavian, he died fifteen years ago.’ He caught his breath before continuing. ‘Augustus Titus. He is the Governor of a province south of Rome. Tiberius and he are not what you would call the best of friends. No one from our troupe would have competed there.’ Malbool’s deep voice was raspy. He reached across to a broken rib. His breathing was shallow and came in sharp gasps.
‘Take it easy. Don’t talk. There’s time to talk later. You need your rest. Where is the caretaker? Why haven’t you been treated?’
‘My friend. I am a loser. I have been defeated. I am lucky to escape with my life.’
I shook my head and thought hard. Who would take me out to fight in another contest? Who would have the ability, and access to our stables? I had to escape. It was challenge enough to survive in this game when the game was fair. Now someone was plotting and rigging matches to have me killed. I looked down once more at my battered stablemate. His eyes were closed and his breathing had grown steady. He was asleep.
‘You really expect me to believe that you were taken out of my stables without my knowledge?’ said Tiberius incredulously as I stood before him a day later, my arms shackled in front of me. ‘That you went off and fought in the games of Augustus?’
‘All I know is what I have told you and it is the truth.’ I was careful with my choice of words, not wishing to offend my master, nor imply any inability on his part to control his affairs.
‘If it is the truth, it is something I shall have to deal with most seriously,’ he lounged back in his chair with an air of exasperation. ‘Not that it matters. The real issue here is how much money you lost me by not defeating Crixus. Your friend, the retiarius, really wasn’t much of a match for him. Crixus is the champion of fifty-two matches over the past nine years. He is quite simply the most famous, most feared gladiator in the history of the games. I have waited all my life to find an unknown to pit against him. Do you know the odds on a match like that?’
He rose out of his high-backed chair and walked towards me, circling me closely, slowly.
‘Ah, but you … you were the one. You were the one with a real chance. You have something no one has seen before. When Marcus told me about you, described the way you fought off his guards to save the boy, I knew it was worth my gold to get you. And I did,’ he continued circling, looking me up and down.
‘Just to set up this fight cost me more than most gladiators make me in a year. So, the question is, what good to me are you now? I suppose you could fight, I suppose you could earn back the money I’ve spent on you, but now that you’ve fought in the games the odds are dramatically reduced. Now I cannot claim you as an unknown.’
I stared ahead, unmoving, unspeaking. It seemed that Tiberius had not yet reached a decision about my immediate future.
‘If I may speak,’ I began finally, my mind working quickly. ‘What if I could offer you a way to make more money than you would have on my fight with Crixus?’
Tiberius stopped, tilted his head to the side and looked directly into my eyes. His eyes narrowed, sceptical but curious.
‘Short of raiding the royal treasury, how do you propose such a feat? Odds like that are impossible to come by.’
‘Not, entirely,’ I said, returning his gaze, ‘not in the Royåle.’
Tiberius looked at me for a moment, then burst into laughter. ‘Ha! Oh, dear boy, for a moment you had me. I thought you had a real plan. You would have done well in the street theatres if you were a citizen.’
He continued to laugh, the tension of the moment broken. I stared at him, stony-faced.
‘My lord, how much could you earn if you backed a first-time fighter in the Royåle, and that fighter won?’ I asked, my tone and demeanour utterly serious.
His laughter abated and he slowly took in my expression. ‘Well, nothing,’ he said. ‘The Royåle is nothing but a way to get rid of gladiators you don’t want anymore, or can’t afford to feed. It’s a bloodbath.’
‘But you do bet on it?’ I prompted.
‘Of course I do. But only as a parlour game. I usually draw names from a bowl and take my pot luck like everyone else. To actually predict a winner is impossible.’
‘What if you could?’ I persisted. ‘What if you backed a first-time fighter? Surely you wouldn’t have to lay much down to make back double what you would have made on my defeat of Crixus?’
‘My boy, if I backed a winning first-time fighter, let alone one that I owned, to win the Royåle, and he actually did it … well, then I’d make a fortune! Not to mention be paid for every fight anyone ever tried to line up with you again.’
‘No,’ I said simply.
‘No? What do you mea
n by no?’ he asked, his white hair reflecting the lamplight. ‘I mean no. I mean that if I win the Royåle, I win my freedom.’
If I had thought Tiberius had laughed before, it was nothing compared with the boisterous bellow that escaped him now.
‘Your freedom? Really, boy, the only freedom a man who enters the Royåle is guaranteed is the freedom of death. Many champions in the past have thrown their lives away on their quest for freedom.’
‘Then the odds must be good,’ I said.
‘The odds are good, there’s no question of that. The odds for a newcomer to win are astronomical, but it’s a fool’s bet – and besides, you’re not a first-timer anymore.’ He looked me up and down, then spoke to the guards behind me. ‘Take him back to his cell.’
I had to think quickly. ‘I did not fight for you! You said yourself that I was taken without your permission. Who knows what name they entered me under?’
‘Enough. Guards!’ He turned, heard a snapping sound, an impact, and turned back. His two guards lay on the floor at my feet, each holding various parts of their bodies and groaning.
‘I suggest you reconsider,’ I said, knowing that I was playing with fire.
Anger flashed across his face. ‘You insubordinate pig! Samus, Lonicus!’ The doors behind me flew open, and a troop of men filtered into the large room, surrounding me with weapons drawn. I looked around and knew that this was a fight I could not win, at least not without sustaining injuries that would prevent my escape later, although I gave no hint of this acknowledgement to Tiberius.
‘My lord, I do not wish to injure or kill your guards. If I must kill twenty men here in your palace, just to prove that I can kill twenty men in the arena, then I will. If I die now, then you have lost your way of making a fortune; if you let me fight, you will be the richest man in Rome.’ I held the aristocrat’s gaze.
His anger was clear, his ruddy cheeks flushed crimson, but he regained control of himself quickly. I could sense his struggle between the insult of being disobeyed, and his greed at what I was suggesting. Greed won.
‘You want to throw your life away?’ he asked, as if it were a given.
‘I want my freedom,’ I responded. ‘How many years would it take for me to earn you the money I could make you in one day next week?’ I pressed, appealing to that growing lust for gold.
He stared at me, thinking. ‘Very well.’ He nodded. ‘Very well, I shall let you fight. You will either die and I will lose nothing but the expense of keeping you, or I shall become wealthier than Caesar himself. Not even the miracle man of Judea will be able to put your pieces back together!’
With this, he turned and four of the guards moved in to lead me back to the cell. I was limp with shock. They jostled me bodily towards the exit and I gave no resistance. I had heard it. The miracle man of Judea? It was the name the Romans had given the Jewish land of Judah, the land I knew as Israel. If Tiberius spoke of this man, then he must still be alive, and I had discovered it in the most unexpected of places. The countdown had begun.
CHAPTER 27
‘Tell me, Malbool,’ I said three days later, when my stablemate had recovered somewhat, ‘what do you know about the one they call the miracle man from Judea?’
Malbool looked up at me from where he lay on his bunk. I was in the middle of performing a series of exercises, something that had become my ritual since learning the truth about who I was.
‘Miracle man? I have heard little. I heard there was a man in Judea who helped lame people walk, some say he could make the blind see again, but I do not think much of it. These claims are just talk. Men talk always of such things.’
‘When did you hear about this?’
‘Probably more than two years ago. I didn’t pay much attention.’
I dropped from where I was hanging on a cross-bar on the wall and went into the first of several sets of push-ups, trying to sound casual. ‘Two years? Do you know what happened to him?’
A strange expression crossed Malbool’s face.
‘No, no I do not. Why are you so curious?’
‘No reason. I just thought that if you ever have to fight in the arena again with that giant three-pronged toothpick of yours you might need a miracle!’ I said, smiling.
‘Ha! You jest, white man, but it is you who will need a miracle should you fight in the Royåle on Saturday.’ His tone turned serious. ‘Saul, if you fight like the rest of us, one match at a time, you have a good chance to live a long life. And as your reputation grows, Tiberius will give you a better life. You do not need to throw your life away. I tell you, think again.’ I heard genuine concern in the African’s voice. I stopped midway through a push-up, and lifted my head. Malbool was looking back at me. I dropped my head again and continued with my exercises. When I was done, I sat back, the sweat filming my face and body. I did not rush my next words.
‘Malbool, who are you?’ I was breathing heavily, and the black man still stared at me.
‘What do you mean by this? I am Malbool the gladiator, retiarius for Lord Tiberius—’
‘I don’t mean what do you do, I mean who are you, the person? What would you do with yourself if you were a free man?’ I asked.
He seemed slightly taken aback. ‘A free man? I have not been a free man for nearly seven years, so I do not think of such things. In my tribe I was a warrior, but that life is no more.’ The pain in his expression gave light to his feelings.
‘You were a warrior. Why? Is that something you chose?’
‘It was what I did. I did not know anything else. Before the Romans came, all I knew of the world was grass huts and hunting. I knew nothing of iron, nothing of armour, nothing of civilisation and these stone buildings. I was a hunter and a warrior. I defended my people from other tribes, and hunted to provide for—’ He stopped, emotion choking his words. ‘I hunted to provide for my family. But, as I said, that world is no more.’
‘Malbool, what if I told you that the world you know now, this empire of the Romans, is as primitive to me as your grass huts are to the Coliseum? What if I told you that I have to fight in the Royåle because if I do not win my freedom, I cannot complete my mission. The world I come from will be changed forever.’ I looked at him with the most serious expression I could muster. Snoring from the other cells penetrated the silence that had blanketed our room.
‘I do not understand of what you speak,’ he said finally. ‘How will throwing your life away change things for your country?’
I shook my head. ‘Malbool, if I die before I have completed my mission, the impact would be more than I can describe to you, more than you can understand. Therefore, I will not explain the details to you, not yet.’
‘Do not underestimate my ability to understand. I understand much,’ he said, defiance and pride creeping into his voice. ‘I understand that anything is possible. I understand that the lives we come to accept can be changed in an instant. I understand that things happen for a reason, and no reason at all, and that things we do not understand happen with or without our permission. Just because we do not understand them, it does not make us immune.’
I admit that I had not expected the swell of passion from the man who only days before had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Malbool transformed before me as he began to vent his frustration. ‘I understand what it is to come home with a kill on your spear, feeling proud of the hunt and knowing that your family will eat for the next week. Knowing that your daughter will race out to meet you as you near the fire that your wife has kept burning. And I know that when a legion of Romans march over the hill and charge into your village you cannot change that. You can see your daughter screaming as she is run down and trampled in front of you. I understand what it is to hear her bones break and twist and to be powerless to save her. I understand what it is to lose a world in an instant. Do not underestimate me.’ His cheeks were wet with tears.
I sat, quiet, heartbroken for this tribesman. His anguish was still vivid. I did not doubt his sincerity
.
‘I am sorry, Malbool.’
He looked at me with a hint of the fire that I had seen that day in the pit after I had torn away his mask. That burning courage, borne from having nothing to lose.
‘I know there is something about you,’ he said, quite suddenly changing his tone. ‘I sensed something when we met in the pit, and then again after, when I have seen you fight. There has always been something about you, but it seems this past week, that particular something has changed. There is something you have discovered. There is some new secret you carry.’
This surprised me also. I had been careful not to change my behaviour or give any sign of what I had discovered. It seemed my cellmate was more astute than I had given him credit for. I looked at him, and made a decision. This tribesman would either think I was crazy, or he would help me.
I pulled the small unit from around my waist where I kept it hidden under my tunic. I raised it up to his face. Malbool’s expression went from one of accusation to one of puzzlement as his brow furrowed imperceptibly. His eyes widened as the iridescent blue light began to pulsate. Holding a series of points on the outer rim of the small silver bar, I tapped the top in a sequence committed to memory at The Facility. The unit buzzed and sampled my DNA, then sang the song that it would sing only for me.
The wall on the far side of the room sprang to life with an image. It was one I had captured the day I first tested the recording unit. The image was now being projected from the underside of the small unit, bringing the rock of the cell wall to life. Malbool stared, unmoving, unspeaking, as I began to explain.
Saturday came quickly. I had done all I could do to prepare, and I had nothing but my physical skill to rely on. I did not know how long it had been since rumours of the miracle man had started to surface, but my mission research told me that, from the first public display, Jesus’s ministry lasted just three years before he was tortured and nailed to a wooden cross to die. I did not have much time.