The Eternal Banquet

by Jennifer Macaire

  Axiom sat beside me, nodding silently. He too looked tired and worried, but he smiled bravely and touched my cheek. ‘Don’t worry,’ he mouthed, ‘he’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I whispered. Then we were quiet as Rome woke up.

  On the docks, the first sounds were the screeching of the gulls. They flew overhead, on their way towards the open sea, and they called to each other with shrill cries. Afterwards, the breeze picked up and the waves began to slap against the sides of the boats. Voices rose above the sound of the water as the crews awoke. Some prayed in singsong voices, welcoming the sun and the morning. Others greeted the day with gestures, filling chalices with water or wine and scattering the droplets to the four winds before offering the contents to the gods. Axiom knelt and said a heartfelt prayer to his one god, while Vix led Titte and Kell in a prayer to Lug, Celtic god of the sun. Yovanix prayed to Lug as well, and so did Phaleria. Demos prayed to Mazda, and Plexis, when he awoke, offered a cup of water to Zeus and Apollo. Paul, who had been educated by Axiom at my request, knelt and prayed next to him. I was the only godless person aboard, probably the only atheist in Rome. It only bothered me a little. I had been raised in a world that had no gods. Man had killed god, science had killed religion, and knowledge had killed the supernatural. Here though, I was free to believe what I liked. Everyone’s beliefs were respected, even my unbelieving.

  Chapter Nine

  Plexis woke up, rubbing his hands over his face and wincing. His whiskers were prickly. He didn’t usually go so long without shaving. He gave me a quick, hard kiss, then went to the back of the boat where a tub was hidden behind a curtain. I drew my knees up to my chest and hugged them. The air was getting hotter. Voices rose from all sides now, I heard the salt merchants singing as they marched to the salt flats. I stood up. I would go to the public baths; I needed to wash and wanted to change my clothes. When I went to the Circus Maximus, I wanted to look my best.

  Phaleria went with me. We took our finest robes from the cedar chest in the hold. I told Paul to look for his blue tunic and silver circlet. Plexis escorted us through the crowded streets. I never would have been able to find my way. I felt light, insubstantial. My hand and feet were icy cold. We walked, yet I hardly noticed where we went.

  The baths were lovely, but I can hardly remember them. I recall a large room with a tiled floor, then there was a swimming pool filled with hot water where we bathed. The Roman baths covered several blocks, with pools full of cold, warm, and hot water. There were gymnasiums, massage rooms, dressing rooms, exercise rooms, saunas, and gardens.

  When I was in Rome, the baths were halfway finished. Three pools were built, as were the saunas and the exercise room. There was a changing room for women, and we were given towels made of soft linen to wrap around ourselves as we walked around the extensive grounds. Augustus had guest passes for us to use in the baths, otherwise, since we weren’t Roman citizens, we wouldn’t have been able to go. The baths were impressive, and to get to them, we had to walk through the Forum. When I was there, the forum contained just five temples, the senate building, and an open-air amphitheatre. There was also a stream running through it that would be diverted to create the future sewer system. In another hundred years or so, the Forum would be completed. It was already beautiful, and although I had no wish to sightsee, I couldn’t help the amazed prick of interest as I passed the magnificent temples. The Romans were proficient with cement, and some of the buildings were incredibly complex. They also loved grandeur, and raised their roofs to seemingly impossible heights.

  We bathed, and a slave braided my hair for me. Now and then, I would recall the dream I had about the huge dog and Alexander, and a tremor would shake my body. I couldn’t eat anything; my stomach would have just given it back again. After we finished dressing, we walked slowly back to the boat. Phaleria tried to cheer me up by pointing out the sights, but I was miserable company. Finally she just put her arm around my waist, and we finished the stroll in silence. Programmes had been posted throughout the city. On the programme was the parade, fighting with professional gladiators, and the Game of Phersu, as Augustus had expected.

  Once back at the boat, I sat at the bow waiting for the trumpets to blow, calling us, one and all, to the Circus Maximus and to the great games.

  The Circus Maximus was an amazing place and, if I hadn’t been so upset, I would have admired its architecture. It was built just beneath a hill, using the slope to its advantage, and the best seats were carved into the hill on the narrow end. Beneath the hill, large arches had been cut into the bedrock, leading to the underground passages that in turn led to the rooms where the gladiators stayed before the games. There were also pens for wild animals, and corridors large enough to drive the chariots through, two or three abreast.

  Above the Circus, on the top of the hill, were temples and the beginnings of a splendid palace where, in three hundred years, the emperors of Rome would live.

  I knew from my ancient history lessons, that the stadium was six hundred metres long and one hundred and ninety metres wide on the outside. Inside it was smaller, owing to the number of seats it contained. Two hundred thousand people could be crammed into the great Circus.

  It was long and narrow, and the ground was sand with a long stone wall down the centre called the spina, around which the chariots raced. They galloped seven times around it, and the winner received a crown of laurel and a gold coin worth about ten talents.

  There were twenty-four races on a normal day, but this was not a normal day. Today, Iskander, the great conqueror, was to play the Game of Phersu – although it was not a game at all. Perhaps no one believed he really was Alexander the Great. I don’t think anyone truly thought he’d come back from the dead, but it made good publicity, as Demos had foreseen. The crowd was immense. The proletariat sat on wooden bleachers, while underneath, slaves packed into the section reserved for them. Nobles and dignitaries sat upon stone seats nearer the centre and close to the action. The highest notables had a special section all to themselves. We had somehow obtained seats in that sector, thanks to Augustus and his influence. Actually, he’d only managed five places. Plexis, Demos, Phaleria, and I went, and the three boys huddled together in one seat. Axiom took Yovanix to the Roman’s villa, to wait for us, and Phaleria’s crew stayed with the boat.

  Augustus was seated near us. Elaina had made the trip from their villa, and she was perched next to him. She wore a red shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders to shield her face from the sun. She saw us and gave a wave, her expressive face reflecting our distress.

  We were about fifteen feet above the sandy ground, in the second row. Our seats were carved of stone, but we rented cushions so sat comfortably enough, although my heart was pounding painfully.

  We had been asked to leave any weapons at the entrance. Plexis and Demos had to give up their swords. Paul and Hirkan had reluctantly handed over their daggers, and even Phaleria had been obliged to give her ornamental knife to the man standing behind reception. Everything was carefully marked to show to whom it belonged, and we were each given receipts. We stared at them bleakly. Any hopes of leaping into the ring and defending Alexander were rapidly evaporating.

  Scipio had drawn his brows in a fierce scowl and refused to acknowledge Elaina’s entreaties that he sit with her. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and sat next to Paul.

  Paul was wedged between Hirkan and Scipio. The three boys had become fast friends. Paul was the youngest, but as Alexander – proudly – pointed out, the tallest. Scipio had the bearing of a prince though, and his uncanny, golden eyes shot sparks at the slightest provocation. Today they were simply blazing under his glowering brows.

  Hirkan was a slightly built lad, with straight, dark hair and brown eyes too big for his face. He was an easy child to like, being kind and good-humoured. He could usually lift Scipio out of his dark moods, and was wise beyond his years. Born the youngest son of a wealthy family, he’d been given to the temple at an early a
ge to become a priest. That was common; the family would benefit from the prestige of having a priest in their ranks.

  He had been happy to go to the temple and study. Quick to learn and eager to please, he’d not counted on jealousy. Hirkan was an easy-going youth, but his clever wits had made him a favourite with the low priests and the acolytes. Soon there had been rumours of training Hirkan to become a high priest. That was too much for the High Priest to accept; power was carefully hoarded in Carthage where the High Priest had the King’s ear. For a year, the priest pretended to help train Hirkan. Then the city of Carthage captured Tartessos, and a ceremony was necessary to thank the gods. The gods were fond of blood in Carthage. They were even more elated if a youth was sacrificed to them, so the Snake God was invoked and the grass mats were carefully laid upon the sand, just in front of the sacred cobra’s lair.

  Hirkan had been ‘chosen’ by the Snake God after the perfidious priest had sprinkled some oil on the boy’s legs just before the ceremony. Hirkan had not thought too much about it, until the deadly cobra had glided over to him and had touched his shin with his huge, scaly head. Student priests were not supposed to be selected – normally it was a slave’s child or a prisoner of war. Hirkan had not even been standing on the woven grass mat, although the High Priest had made sure the boy was nearest the cobra’s den.

  Hirkan had told us the story, his eyes desolate. He could never return to Carthage or face his family again. His running away was a terrible dishonour to them. He was as good as dead to his parents. It was surely very painful for him, but he tried never to let his sorrow show.

  Now he turned to me and patted my knee. His kindness almost made me weep, but I managed to smile back at him. If he could be strong, so could I.

  We were in the shade of the hill. The narrow end of the Circus, as I’ve said, was embedded in its slope. Today, since there were no races, the circus was sectioned off into two halves. A perfect circle was designed in the sand, using sticks tied with red and white ribbons. New seats were erected enclosing this circle – temporary wooden bleachers braced against the spina. They were in the hot sun, and most of the people sitting there held parasols over their heads. There were awnings as well, made of heavy, white cloth tied to long poles. However, these tended to block the view of those behind and disputes were always breaking out about how high they should be held. Beneath these bleachers of fortune, slaves crowded together peering through the forest of legs and feet. Many of them were gaming, throwing dice onto the sandy ground and arguing shrilly. Bets were being taken, and most people, I noted, were betting against Alexander.

  I shivered. Despite the heat, I was chilled to the bone. Trumpets wailed and my skin prickled. A hush fell over the crowd and, with a clash of cymbals, the parade began.

  It was strange and disquieting to see carnival costumes ushering in deadly games. I wondered if the people of those times feared death so much they had to make fun of it. They dressed their demons in bright colours, painted their faces, and laughed at their antics. But it was laughter tinged with fear, and if a clown came too close to the stands, the people would scream with fright. I saw more than one person screw his eyes shut and make the sign against evil with his hands.

  Clowns have always been the link between the world of men and our nightmares. Dressed in silly clothes, a clown can lunge at another clown with a torch and set him on fire while we laugh as he bursts into flames, shrieks, and leaps towards a barrel of water. In a street, with plain clothes, the same scene would be horrifyingly macabre.

  In the arena, clowns hit each other on the head with mock clubs, stabbed each other with flimsy spears, and shot harmless arrows at each other. The crowd laughed, yet the underlying emotion was fear. Shrill screams mixed in with the laughter, and nerves made some spectators, especially the women, cry.

  I sat still, teeth clenched, as I watched the parade wind itself around the arena. The demons capered in and out of the grim-faced gladiators. They were walking slowly, acting as if the clowns didn’t exist. For them, death was reality. The clowns only distracted from the horror. I searched for Alexander, but he was kept hidden for the grand finale. Strangely enough, the Phersu was nowhere to be seen.

  There was muttering about the fact that the head demon was not in the parade. Normally, Demos told me, he led it. Silent and cold, gliding just ahead of the gladiators, looking neither left nor right, biding his time. Today he was waiting in the wings. It seemed to make the crowd even more tense. It certainly frayed my nerves.

  I was wringing my hands. Well, as much as I could with one real hand and a false one made of antler. A Roman matron was sitting not far from me, and she kept glancing at our group. We did tend to stick out. Paul and I were so fair, Plexis was handsome, and today he wore a golden circlet in his chestnut hair. Demos was enormous, and Phaleria had flame-coloured tresses tied with bright ribbons.

  The matron was staring at me when my false hand lost a finger. It snapped right off while I was nervously tugging on it. I held it up and looked at it dumbly. The matron’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she toppled over in a faint, landing on the back of the man sitting in front of her. It caused a commotion. I was so busy watching the fuss, I missed the beginning of the games. When I turned my head back to the arena, the blessing had been completed, and a sheep was lying in a pool of blood while a priest poured barley from a golden plate onto its carcass. There was frenzied chanting and the ovine was carried to a stack of wood in the centre of the ring. Someone lit the fire, the sheep was immolated, and the gladiators took their places, two by two, around the circus.

  The games would continue for as long as the pyre burned, Demos told me. I nodded. At least, I think I nodded. I couldn’t feel my face, my feet, or my hand any more.

  I had never watched men slaughter each other for sport. War was one thing, the gladiator games were another. At this time, the three types of people who generally became gladiators were slaves, condemned criminals, and prisoners of war. They were grim and silent. They knew that their number would probably be halved by the time the sun touched the horizon. They were fighting against men they trained with, ate with, drank with, and slept with. They knew each other. They knew their names and stories. Behind them, in the shadow cast by the hill, the clowns stood like vultures, waiting.

  I had to watch. I had thought that I would shut my eyes to the horror, hide my face behind Plexis’s broad shoulders, and wait until it was over. But I couldn’t. The gladiators were fighting for their lives. Some were fighting to honour their gods. Others were fighting because winning could set them free or grant them a pardon. Most had no choice. The masses were there to watch so that the common mortal could come face-to-face with death, see it as it was, and exorcise some of the horror. Death had less power over those who could confront it. Death had no power over those who laughed at it. In the stands, the people settled back in their seats and some opened bags of food. Others chatted or commented on the moves the fighters were making.

  A gladiator dodged a deadly thrust and parried with his sword and the crowd nearby cheered. The sound raised my hackles. The slither and clang of iron and bronze weapons hitting each other were sharp, amplified by the stone walls.

  Two men were practically at our feet. At equal distances around the circle, the groups of men sought footing in the deep sand and soon their laboured breathing sounded like dogs barking. The two fighters beneath us were evenly matched. One had red hair and the tattoos of a barbarian from the northern woods, like Oppi, and one was an Iberian warrior with hair spiked with chalk and his chest in painted red, black, and white concentric circles. Each wore bronze Phrygian helmets, shin guards with kneecap protection, and arm guards on their left arms. They wore leather skirts with high waistbands for extra protection. However, their chests, backs, necks, thighs, and right shoulders were bare. That made a fair number of targets, and soon the men were bleeding freely, scarlet ribbons of blood running down their legs and arms.

  The redheaded man took a clangin
g blow on the head and he staggered, bracing himself with his sword so as not to fall. I uttered a shocked cry, clutching Plexis on the arm, but the Iberian didn’t press his advantage because he’d received a fist-full of sand in his eyes. There was a lull in the fight as the two men circled each other warily. They had been pressing for an advantage, but neither found a chink in the other’s defences.

  Scorching sun beat mercilessly down on the fighters, and on the other side of the arena a shout went up as one gladiator pinned another to the ground with his trident. There was an expectant pause while the man holding the trident looked up at the public. If they waved their handkerchiefs his adversary was spared, if they held their thumbs down he was doomed.

  The silence lasted a few minutes. It was the first life-or-death choice, and the people weren’t ready. The thirst for blood had not taken its hold. Soon it would grow until it could not be slaked, and that was when the Game of Phersu would start. But for now, the crowd was just getting in the mood. After a slight hesitation, the people in front of the fighters held their thumbs down, but it was more to protest against the poor fighting of the loser than anything else. With a curt nod, the gladiator thrust his trident down and the first combatant died in quick, thrashing silence. For the men, if they could, avoided causing needless suffering. They expected the same courtesy from their adversaries.

  From my seat, I didn’t see the gladiator die, because the action had taken place on the far side of the bonfire. I could only see the head and shoulders of the man still standing. Then the clowns rushed over and took the loser’s body away.

  They propped him up and made it seem as if the dead body walked. With shouts and jeers they took his arms and draped them over their shoulders, making the body appear drunk. With exaggerated gestures, they took off his helmet and armour, then waltzed the body to the funeral pyre, which was burning hotly in the centre of the arena. They made a mockery of the priest’s ceremony, pouring the wine down their own throats instead of onto the body. They tossed the roasted barley into the air and snapped at it with their long teeth, for some wore the masks of dogs and others wore the disguise of pigs with long tusks.