Blood & Honour

by Richard Foreman

  Varro clamped his jaw together, suppressing the urge to whimper or scream. He didn’t want to give his antagonist the satisfaction. He remained silent, albeit he cursed his torturer with aplomb beneath his breath.

  Scaurus handed his weapon to the lanista, who wiped the blood off the blade with his tunic before returning it. The senator seethed for a few moments but then smoothed down his oiled hair, adjusted his toga and forced a polite smile. He wished to give the impression he was still fully in control.

  “For as much as you think you may be aware of my plans, you still know very little. I can assure you that I will have the last laugh. Berenice and Sharek told me that you were eager to know how our play ends. The tragedy of Anthony and Cleopatra will end with the revelation that Caesarion escaped his captors. And made his way to Rome. Our “Revered One” will be ensconced in Spain when I make the pronouncement. I will give tickets away for free to the play. Come the night and morning after of the proclamation graffiti artists and posters will have spread the news like wild fire. My men will enter taverns, from the Subura to the Capitoline, to buy drinks and toast the return of the true Caesar. Rumours will abound that Caesarion will offer a donative to every citizen and soldier who swears an oath of loyalty to him. Offerings will be made in temples and people will rejoice at the news that Julius Caesar’s son - his true heir - lives. Guarded by his own personal retinue of gladiators, he will stand up and tell his story in every market square and public forum in the city. Prominent statesmen will support his claim. The narrative will be that he has only revealed himself now because he feels it safe enough to do so, with Octavius absent from Rome. Women will want to mother him or offer their daughters to him. He will promise lower taxes (except for the Jews of course) and ban foreigners from leeching off the state. Our slogan will be “For the many, not the few.” We will be for the people - and the army - but behind closed doors I will ensure that the nobility will be rewarded. Supporters will be promised favours and given their seats back in the Senate. And at the same time as Rome welcomes its new favourite son I will form a grand alliance, of all Octavius’ enemies. Loyal supporters of Antony, Brutus and Sextus Pompey will flock to my banner. Soldiers can be bought like whores, as when Octavius purchased their loyal support from Antony. When he returns from Spain it will be too late. I will win the propaganda war - and any other war. I will tear his statues down, grind them into dust or re-cast them into monuments to Cicero and Cato. Caesar’s defence, that Caesarion is an imposter, will involve him confessing to the crime that he murdered an innocent boy. Such villainy will not engender him to the people. His crown will slip somewhat. But by then I would have circulated evidence, timelines and testimony that Caesarion is who he says he is. If the gods are willing I would have Octavius stand - or kneel - before me. I will remind him of my father, who died fighting for the Republic at Pharsalus - and my son who fell at Phillipi. And then, clasping the same dagger Brutus used to slay Julius Caesar, I will look my enemy in the eye and plunge it into the would-be king’s breast. Rome and history will remember my name.”

  Lucius Scaurus puffed out his chest as he finished speaking, perhaps envisioning the sight of a defeated Augustus beneath him, or the Senate House granting him an ovation. He was a little breathless, as if sexually excited by his machinations.

  Varro was silenced from disbelief, or dread. The old, embittered senator was either mad or a genius. He imagined rioting in the streets or another civil war. The new dawn of peace and prosperity in Rome could prove a false dawn. It was possible that he had failed in his assignment. His father’s shade would still not witness him doing something for the good of Rome. The asset had proved a liability. The truth had even been staring him in the face at one point, as he realised that the adolescent accompanying Berenice had been the pretend Caesarion. He had even reminded Varro of busts of the young Caesar, but he had been distracted, blinded, by the actress’ beauty. What was between his legs had addled what should have been in his head yet again. Only now, when it was too late, did the virgin spy conclude that the map he discovered in Scaurus’ study traced the timeline and journey of Caesarion’s route from Alexandria to Rome. Only now did he realise that the interviews Scarus conducted with Antony’s attendants had been an intelligence gathering exercise, so as to make his actor’s performance all the more convincing. If he could have only put all the pieces together earlier. He could have prevented a catastrophe. Agrippa could have strangled the coup before it had a chance to draw breath. Octavius would have murdered Caesarion behind closed doors, again. Augustus had intimated on more than one occasion how he wanted a Caesar to succeed him. How right he could be, but not in the way he imagined.

  “You underestimate Marcus Agrippa,” Varro muttered, croaked - his voice becoming as broken as his body and spirit.

  “No, Agrippa underestimates me,” Scaurus countered, more forcefully. “Sharek has created his masterpiece. He has schooled our prized actor daily. Groomed him. Cleopatra herself would not be able to tell the difference between her own son and our Caesarion. We have familiarised him with his history, made him read the right books and endowed him with the right customs and clothes. I have spent the past year procuring certain documents and possessions that will further authenticate our narrative. I concede that not all the people will believe or embrace our story. But enough will. The world wants to be deceived, Rufus. So let it. I have faith in my plan.”

  “Man plans. The gods laugh,” Varro asserted, not quite altogether broken yet.

  28.

  Beads of sweat ran down his mulched-up countenance, causing the blood trickling into his mouth to taste even more brackish. He trembled every time Vedius came near him and tried to escape out of his chair. But he was held down by two of the lanista’s cohorts. He writhed in utter agony as Vedius cut open his tunic and rested the red-hot branding iron upon his stomach. His flesh melted like butter. A filthy rag was stuffed in his mouth to muffle the screaming.

  Varro welcomed death. Life had already felt like it had been prolonged for too long. He wanted the torture to be over. Life was cruel. Life was an exhausting act. Nothing is real, except death. Death would be a relief. Death was peace. It would allow him to catch up on all the sleep he’d missed. Varro recalled a quote from Socrates and clung to the words like a rock in a storm.

  “Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”

  “I gave you the opportunity to honour your bloodline and support our cause. But you chose to side with Caesar. You will understand that I will need to know what information you have passed on. Vedius would prefer it if you resisted somewhat, as it means he will get to enjoy himself even more, but I would prefer it if I spilled as little as your noble blood as possible. I also promise I will be merciful, once I am satisfied,” Lucius Scaurus cordially remarked.

  “You’re too kind,” Varro replied. A scab opened-up on his lip as he wryly smiled at his own joke.

  A vexed Scaurus screwed his face up in displeasure. He still hadn’t quite broken the doomed spy. But he would.

  “Take his eye. Turn it to jelly. The traitor won’t see the funny side of things then.”

  Vedius didn’t wait to be asked twice. He removed his knife from the brazier. Varro’s terror seemed to feed the torturer’s sense of amusement. If he was a dog the gladiator would have wagged his tail and panted in response to his master’s command to fetch out the prisoner’s eye. It was at the point where the tip of the blade touched the skin that the spy would confess everything, sell-out his own mother. Everyone talked in the end. But Vedius would finish the job, even if Varro babbled out the truth like a gushing fountain. The lanista gave a nod and the two gladiators, either side of the captive, held Varro down. The poet struggled in vain, wriggling like a worm on a hook. Varro knew that he had no chance of begging for his life. He promised himself that he would kill Scaurus if he somehow got the opportunity. Not for the good of Rome. But for himself. Or for Cassandra.

  The blood-stained blade, glowing at its tip
, loomed large in his vision. Varro could smell the garum on his torturer’s breath and feel the heat of the weapon close to his skin. He turned his head away, clenched his teeth shut his eyes. Courage had gone. Faith gone. Pride gone. Sense of humour gone. He wanted to die rather than live, before the heated blade scooped out his eye like an oyster from its shell. He shuddered, as though a snake made-out of ice was slithering along his spine.

  Vedius’ grin grew wider as the knife slowly but edged towards its target. The torturer was enjoying himself. He would wait until his victim had recovered somewhat - and then squeeze the eyeball between his fingers in front of him. Varro heard a couple of gladiators snigger and mock him in the background. Trauma vice-lie gripped his bones. Varro was now more fear than flesh.

  His heart pounded in his chest, as if trying to escape. The pain would break him. Perhaps just the thought of the pain had broken him. The sensation of the blade slicing through the delicate skin. The eyeball being cut or wrenched from its socket. And that would only just be the beginning of the interrogation. What could he do or say to end things? He could no longer picture Fronto or Lucilla in his mind’s eye.

  But the skin beneath his eye remained unbroken. Whether other parts of him remained unbroken was another matter. A feint breeze cooled his cheek, as the heated blade seemed to withdraw. Varro heard a number of the surrounding gladiators murmur and mutter, their weapons and armour clinking as they moved, en masse. He dared to open his eyes.

  It’s always darkest before the dawn.

  Varro was not the only occupant of the theatre who stared, squinted, at the solitary figure entering their midst – his gladius drawn. All eyes were on Manius. The crowd of gladiators had parted so that Scaurus and Vedius could observe and address the Briton. If he thought his voice would have been strong enough Varro would have instructed his friend to save himself, although he would have welcomed a drinking companion to join him in the next life.

  Manius pointed his weapon at Vedius. Challenging him. Goading him.

  “I’m here for our practise bout. If I win then I get to take my friend home. But if I lose then you get to wipe this Briton off the map,” Manius issued in a voice wrought in iron.

  Vedius nostrils flared, like a dragon about to snort fire. He first turned to his employer. Scaurus gave him permission to reply. The rancorous senator gave the warrior the nod, to approach and butcher their unwanted guest. The patrician thought the bodyguard a fool, or drunk. He had complete confidence in Vedius to defeat the Briton but should he somehow best his opponent Scaurus had no intention of honouring his word and letting him - and Varro - leave the theatre alive.

  Vedius drew his sword and purposefully strode towards his adversary. He had no intention of losing face in front of his men and shirking from the challenge. He would brutally dismember his opponent - cleave his arms off his torso - and then finish him off. Perhaps he would force him to witness the torture and demise of his friend first. A few of his men offered him words of encourage but Vedius didn’t need their support to help gut the man in front him. The dead man walking.

  Sharek’s eyes were stapled wide open, as he took in the unfolding drama. Along with the lascivious actress beside him, he duly admired the muscular forms on display. Berenice called for her wine cup from her slave boy again and applauded the spectacle, as though the two combatants were about to fight over her.

  Manius checked his advance, not wanting to wholly enter the belly of the beast and be enveloped by his enemies. He wanted to be out of range of a hoplomachus stabbing him with his spear, or a retiarius entrapping him in his net.

  Manius couldn’t help but notice the sour-faced Bulla within the congregation of gladiators giving him looks like daggers. His eyes bulged in unadulterated malice, as he looked forward to Vedius filleting the man who had unfairly defeated him. It would be revenge by proxy. Which would be satisfying enough.

  Keep your distance. Let him come to you.

  The two guards who had held Varro down had let go of their prisoner. They had shifted their attention towards the imminent contest. Scaurus too had turned his back on his captive. Varro was too weak to try and escape however. All he could do was pray for his companion - and hope that he could defeat as many of the enemy before they could kill him. Manius shouldn’t have come. He was too honourable.

  Vedius sliced his sword through the whistling air and launched a gobbet of phlegm into the sand. He filled his lungs and puffed out his barrelled chest, a picture of confidence. Or arrogance. Yet victory was assured. Even if his opponent somehow got the better of him his men would intervene and cut the Briton down.

  Manius’ sword weighed heavy in his hand. His mobility was limited. His thighs burned and were stiff from the long journey on horseback. The bout earlier, against the formidable Flamma, had taken a lot out of him. Blood and puss still oozed from the wound in his shoulder, which further stifled his movement. But he couldn’t afford to show fear or weakness - and stifle his performance.

  “You know you can’t save your friend,” Vedius raspingly issued, as the two men stood around half a dozen paces from one another.

  “Maybe this is not about saving my friend - but about damning you.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “By taking your advice. You can’t fight honourably in the arena and expect to live,” Manius coolly remarked, and knowingly smiled.

  Should Vedius have now had an inkling of his opponent’s plan he had no time to prevent the springing of the trap. The arrowhead punched through his back, punctured his heart and protruded out of his chest. Blood flooded his lungs. It was a testament to his strength and will that he remained standing. But not for long. For good measure Manius quickly jabbed his sword into his throat, as if he were back in the ludus again and stabbing the head of a wooden sword post.

  Further arrows - and pilums - swished through the air, scything down the enemy. The diversion worked. Whilst the gladiators concentrated on the scene of Manius challenging Vedius to a fight Agrippa’s small force climbed the walls of the rear of the theatre and stealthily took up their positions. Agrippa was to give the signal to attack by shooting the first arrow.

  The consul briefly thought to himself that Oppius would have been proud of the shot, which had skewered the gladiator closing in on Manius, having first introduced Agrippa to a bow many years ago. The harder you practise, the luckier you get.

  Manius had been impressed by the speed with which Agrippa formed his plan and the proficiency of the way he mobilised the Praetorian Guard. His orders were clear and forceful, albeit Manius had his doubts that he would be able to pull off his ruse.

  “What about if I walk out before them and I am cut down straightaway?”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Agrippa drily replied.

  Every one of the soldiers knew their job, whether he was armed with a bow, gladius or spear. The first volley of missiles decimated the enemy and caused havoc in their ranks, scattering them like a colony of insects under attack. Or they ran around, like cats with torches attached to their tails. Groans and shouts clotted up the air. Not only did Agrippa utilise the advantage of surprise, but he instructed his men to resist engaging the gladiators in close combat. They needed to retain the higher ground, rather than play to their opponents’ strengths. Those with spears and swords were directed to protect the bowmen should the enemy attempt to storm their high positions.

  Arrows and spearheads rained down and thudded into torsos. After the second volley the gladiators no longer outnumbered the Roman soldiers (veteran fighters from the civil war). After the third, the living tripped over the dead. With Vedius gone - their head cut off - the body of gladiators lacked purpose and cohesiveness. No orders were given to form defensive positions or coordinate a counterattack. The battle became a massacre. The first instinct of a gladiator is just to survive and live to fight another day, by any means necessary. Some lay down their weapons and surrendered, some routed and scurried past Manius through the en
trance to the theatre.

  A few of the veteran fighters managed to muster themselves - and launch a spear into the enemy - but not many.

  A cluster of arrows poked out of the pot-bellied Sharek, as if he were a pincushion. A confused, contorted expression shaped his features. One of the last things that had gone through his mind was a sense of outrage, that the soldiers could have mistaken his person for a brutish gladiator. He was a genius. He should be spared, he considered - as the first arrow lodged itself in his sternum.

  Berenice took better possession of herself than her shrill director as she ran towards a group of the enemy occupying the right side of the theatre. She raised her hands and projected her voice as powerfully as she ever had done in the past, on stage.

  “Please help me. I am being held captive.”

  Suffice to say the actress was not short of soldiers who volunteered to break-off the fighting to protect the beautiful woman in distress.

  Scaurus wanted to call to his men to protect him, but he couldn’t remember their names. They were little more than slaves. He felt like running too but he knew his legs would give way if he did. Or perhaps naked fear rooted him to the spot. Scaurus’ world was crumbling around him. Turning to ash. His features - and chest - tightened. He felt the air thin - or choke him with the sand kicked-up from the fighting. The senator could always re-group in the future. Self-preservation was sovereign now. He would surrender. He would be treated honourably. He would survive.

  As Scaurus turned to surrender himself to the closest group of soldiers he found himself face-to-face with his prisoner, having raised himself from the birthing chair. He winced and recoiled from the crimson countenance in front of him. Varro could hear Agrippa calling his name in the background, ordering him to stand down. To run to safety. But another voice called to him. His own. Reminding him of his promise. Varro mustered what strength and speed he could. With one hand he grabbed his enemy by the folds of his toga, with the other he snatched Scaurus’ dagger away from him.