by H. B. Ashman
“It will be fine. Trust me,” she said. Trust me? She was terrified, her stomach upside down, and her face cold from panic. And yet this was the only way.
“I will wait outside,” Arminius said, throwing the pig man a terrifying look as he nodded toward the door. The man nearly ran out as Arminius followed him into the hallway. The room had no curtain or door, so this was all the privacy possible.
Amalia took off her dirty dress to put on the leather pants and shirt included in her little welcome package. She picked up the wolf helmet and stared into its dead eyes. Maybe they’d make her into a helmet after today.
“You know how to ride chariots?” the tall woman with the tattoo asked her. Amalia looked up at her. She was already in her leather skirt and armor, cheetah helmet in hand—even her shins and arms were protected with leather straps.
Amalia shook her head, embarrassed. She hated feeling like a burden.
“The man, he is your lover?” the woman asked, placing the helmet on her head. It made her look like a wild warrior. Terrifying, actually.
“No,” Amalia said.
The woman grinned. “Then I shall make him my lover.”
Amalia had to smile at that. Arminius wasn’t lying when he told her that the women of Rome fell for him.
“You should.” Amalia picked up the round Germanic wooden shield and the axe that came with it. She was surprised how heavy the shield was. She had to strain her back to hold it aloft. How the hell was she supposed to use this thing? At least the axe was light enough and fit well in her hand, but she had no clue how to use it. But how hard could it be? It was an axe, not a Rubik’s Cube. She turned it in her hand and tried to picture swinging or throwing it at Flamma.
“You know how to fight?” the woman asked her, her eyes following Amalia’s every move.
Amalia frowned. “Not with this,” she answered truthfully. Surprisingly, the woman only nodded. She picked up her own weapons, an oval shield and spear that looked like some Shaolin monk weapon.
“Then bring only what you need to fight. Everything else will slow down your chariot.”
Amalia threw her a thankful nod.
“Paint your face!” they heard the man holler into the room from the dark corridor. The Amazon with the bald head strode over to one of the wooden benches and picked up a little mug. She stuck her fingers in and pulled them out to run the white paint over her forehead and around her eyes. The others followed her example, painting their faces and arms in different patterns. One of the Amazon women, the shortest but most muscular one, found another jar and used it to paint her face blood red.
Amalia chose a little terracotta mug with black paint in it. She ran two stripes under both of her eyes—football style. It was ridiculous, but it was all she could think to do. The tall women looked at her face curiously.
Suddenly, a loud horn blasted through the walls of the arena. The sound shook Amalia to her core. The masses answered with manic whistles and chants.
“Flamma is greeting Augustus and the people,” the tall woman explained.
Amalia rushed over to the little window to peek out, and she saw, for the first time, the full extent of the Circus Maximus from the inside. It was unbelievable. Hundreds of thousands of people were squeezed tightly onto rows of benches, hollering and swinging their fists in excitement. The cheers hurt her ears. Goose bumps started to spread over her arms and legs as she scanned the wide middle aisle of the arena, which was filled with colossal white marble statues of gods. An enormous red Egyptian obelisk stood proud and tall in the center. There was also a system of bronze dolphin-shaped lap counters that were mounted on a metal rod high above the central aisle, for all to see. The dolphin figures were the size of large dogs and lined up next to one another. Amalia assumed that they were used to mark each lap by tipping the dolphins from a vertical to a horizontal position. At both ends of the middle aisle were three enormous conical stone pillars.
A second horn blast sounded.
“It’s time!” the pig man yelled.
Amalia followed the Amazons out the room and all the way down the long, dim hallway. Tearing open the door leading to the circus grounds, the short man shouted to hurry once more. He was right beside Amalia, spitting in her face as he barked like a dog. Arminius appeared behind her as she stepped out and into the bright sun.
“Where are the chariots?” Amalia asked, searching the grounds.
“You launch onto the tracks from behind those stalls,” Arminius said, pointing toward several big gates at the end of the oval arena. A line of five decorated chariots, all in green, was already set up for them behind each stall. The chariots were a few feet tall and wide and had a wooden floor with a waist-high guard at the front and sides. They had two spoked wheels on each side as well as two large white horses, hitched side by side in front of four of the chariots. Except for the fifth chariot, the farthest left, which had one white horse and another large black stallion. A man in a white tunic tended the black beast’s harness. When the man turned, Amalia’s heart almost skipped a beat. Primus!
Primus nodded at her, his old wrinkly face in total control of his emotions, as always. Amalia couldn’t help but smile at him. Then, as she looked back to the black horse, her heart skipped another beat. It was Marius’s warhorse.
“Aithon!” she shouted, bolting up to the horse and almost running into a servant. She placed a hand on his forehead to feel his warmth underneath her, to make certain this was not a dream. For a brief second, she could still see Marius mounted and proud on this animal he’d loved so much. Although she’d learned to ride a horse during her years in Rome, Amalia had never ridden Aithon. He was a warhorse, strong and trained and huge. Yet, seeing him again, she was struck with the first real joy she’d been able to feel since the tragedy. Arminius approached her, running his hand lovingly over the horse’s muscular neck, a faint smile on his face.
“A gift from Tiberius,” Primus said. “Marius would want it this way.”
“He would,” Arminius agreed.
“I tried to get his bronze shield for you as well, but Marcus Vincius has claimed it, and Tiberius is not in the position to argue with Augustus’s good friend,” Primus said. Amalia nodded at him, noticing his dark-skinned face had become wrinklier. His eyes, which had always seemed so full of wisdom, now looked more sad than fierce. He had loved Marius. His heart was broken just like hers. It was good to see him, to share his grief.
“The shield is a Vincius heirloom,” Amalia said, “and not mine to claim. Marcus Vincius has another son. Marius’s shield should be his.”
Primus remained silent, but his respect for her remark reflected in the little sparkle in his eyes.
Suddenly, Aithon scraped his long, powerful front leg over the dusty ground. Amalia patted his neck again.
“Okay, old friend,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
Tiberius stood at the edge of the imperial box. He watched as Flamma did his greeting rounds, swinging his mace as his white stallions’ manes flickered in the wind like flames. The masses loved it. He was like a god.
“Oh, do sit down, Tiberius. You are making me dizzy,” his mother said, rolling her eyes. She waved over a slave for some wine. Augustus and Marcus were sitting next to her. Lucius, Julia, Gnaeus, Domitia, and Varus were right behind them. Gnaeus had just returned from Illyricum and was shifting in his seat, thirsty for Flamma to kill the “Germanic whore,” as he put it. He had grown into a young man, but he was neither handsome nor sharp.
“You should not have pushed for this fight, Tiberius,” Gnaeus said, chewing on a grilled dormouse. “Flamma is going to crush her.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Lucius scolded his son. Only an idiot would insult Tiberius in front of his mother, especially now that Augustus was warming up to him again, albeit slowly.
“Your mind is as simple as it is dull,” Lucius barked at him. “Tiberius is clearly not doing this to win. He wants to rid Rome of the woman who killed our dear Marius Vincius, is
n’t that right, Tiberius?” Lucius smiled at him. Tiberius wanted very much to punch this man. Of course he was full of joy. If Amalia was killed, as her sponsor, Tiberius would be ridiculed. Augustus would distance himself from him again and praise Germanicus. And Lucius’s despicable son would be one step closer to the throne.
“This Germanic woman did not kill my son,” Marcus Vincius said. “I wonder why she bothers you so, Lucius?” The question sounded like a threat.
“One way or another,” Livia said, “it was wise of you to send her into the arena, Tiberius. Rome has more important things to discuss in the senate. This woman has been nothing but a distraction.”
Augustus turned to Livia. “We will find out what happened to Marius Vincius, no matter what happens today.”
Livia stayed quiet.
Tiberius walked back to his chair next to his mother and slumped into it. He watched as Flamma did his final stop in front of the imperial box to honor Augustus. How would Amalia and Arminius pull this off? He felt cold sweat on his forehead again and took a deep breath to calm his nerves.
Arminius had always believed that the gods had a plan for this woman, that they had sent her to him for a reason. Getting her head chopped off in a chariot race could not be it.
He took another deep breath. “Let us see what the gods have to say,” Tiberius said as loud as he could without yelling.
Amalia was anxiously waiting behind her stall gate on the outside of the arena when the mighty horns of the Circus Maximus blasted a third time. The wooden gate farthest to the right was opened by slaves. Flamma came riding through to take his place at the starting line. A cloud of dust followed him as the stall gate closed behind his red-and-gold chariot, which was pulled by two snow-white stallions. He was incredibly tall and muscular. His chest was bare, revealing a scar that ran from his collarbone all the way down to his abdomen. His arms were wrapped in leather straps, and his face and head were covered by a metal helmet that only had two round holes for his eyes and a few small slats around his mouth. On top of the helmet was the head of a lioness. Amalia didn’t see a shield, just the spear with maces attached on each end.
Suddenly, his head turned toward Amalia. His eyes were two black holes staring at her. He lowered his spear. Amalia felt a shiver run down her spine. Still holding her prisoner with his eyes, Flamma leaned over his chariot and grabbed one of the slaves, who was rubbing dust off his horse with a cloth. Flamma shouted something at the trembling man. The slave looked over to Amalia, his eyes open in terror, then he nodded and came running over as soon as Flamma released him.
“F-Flamma wants you to know that he will take your black horse after he has chopped off your h-head and fed it to the rats.”
“Is that so?” Amalia said, her fear twisting into anger. “Well, you can tell Flamma that I will ride his horses over his dead body in the dirt.”
Arminius laughed, but the slave was shaking uncontrollably. Of course he could not carry this message back. Flamma would have his head for it—literally.
“Never mind,” Amalia said. The slave nodded in gratitude, then ran off.
The horns blasted again, vibrating under her feet. Arminius, Primus, and Amalia exchanged anxious looks. This was it. Her path to pleasing the goddess or, more likely, her miserable death.
“Try to limit your movements in the curves,” Arminius said to Amalia as she stepped onto the chariot. It felt shaky, tilting with her every motion.
She turned to see the Amazons pairing up with one another on their chariots, most likely avoiding her as a chariot partner.
“Where’s my partner?” Amalia asked as the last chariot was filled.
“Right here,” Arminius said as he hopped onto the shaky chariot and took the reins right out of her hands.
“What are out doing?” Amalia stared at Arminius, who ignored her and adjusted the reins in his hands.
“Fighting Flamma with you,” he said, as if he were talking about the weather.
“No, you can’t. He’ll kill you!”
Arminius smiled. “That would be unfortunate.”
Amalia was shaking. This couldn’t happen. She would not let Arminius die for her!
“Arminius, I—”
“Have no other rider, don’t know the first thing about steering a chariot, and can’t make me leave no matter what you say?”
Amalia shut her mouth. Arminius watched her a moment before nodding. “Good. Now,” he said as one of the slaves handed him a helmet with a hyena head strapped on the top, “do you have any other questions before we go and kill Flamma in front of all of Rome?”
For the first time that day, Amalia felt a tingle of relief. Arminius was by her side. Perhaps she stood a chance now.
“Yes, I have a question,” she said, with a grin. “Why in the name of Jupiter do you get to have the hyena helmet?”
Arminius laughed.
Suddenly, the stadium grew quieter. A thick tension lay in the air. The charioteers steered their horses toward the gates.
“All we need to do is get him off the chariot, no matter how.”
“That is your plan?” Arminius said. “All right. Then let us go do it.”
Arminius set the chariot into motion as Primus ran after them. “Let him fly when it’s time!” Primus yelled.
“To your station!” an arena slave yelled from behind the chariots. Arminius drove theirs in front of the wooden gate to the farthest left, next to the tall woman with the tattoo.
Amalia felt nauseous from the adrenaline exploding inside her. The blood in her veins pulsated, the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears.
Flamma let out a roar like a wild animal.
“At least I won’t die alone,” she muttered to Arminius.
“I will be with you,” Arminius said, his gaze fixed on the gate.
Amalia wanted to say something to him, but it was too late. A final horn blast echoed through the arena as the tall gates in front of them split open. The charioteers launched into the arena as if their lives depended on it—which they did.
The wild screams and cheers of hundreds of thousands of out-of-control people paralyzed Amalia as her chariot charged into the arena. The thundering of hooves shook the ground underneath her. The dust that was stirred up by the chariots and horses invaded her eyes, nose, and mouth without mercy. Amalia almost made the mistake of trying to rub the dirt out of her eyes when she was forced to grab the side of the chariot as the first curve in the track swept them sideways like they were sliding on ice. She would have been tossed out if Arminius hadn’t reached for her. She held onto his arm, realizing how truly over her head she was. He’d saved her life on the very first turn.
Getting her bearings, Amalia tried to analyze the situation. There were three chariots in front of them, and two behind. Ahead of them, Amalia saw Flamma steer his chariot into one of the Amazon’s. The spikes attached to his wheels spun toward the Amazon, but she saw them coming, swirling the chariot to the side just before the blades could land. But Flamma was not the best for no reason. He pushed forward, trapping the Amazons between the wall of the arena and himself. But instead of ramming the chariot, he swung his mace-spear with impossible strength. The Amazon who wasn’t driving the chariot, managed to lean backward, ducking the attack, but her teammate was focused on the track. The mace smashed her head like a melon, blood splashing all over. The audience went wild as the dead Amazon fell from the chariot and was swallowed by the plumes of dust. The remaining charioteer tried desperately to grab both reins, but one had gotten lost, and the chariot was now out of control. Flamma turned his chariot out of harm’s way—just in time. Out of control, the Amazon’s horses turned sharply, tipping the chariot on top of the remaining Amazon in a spray of exploding wood. The crowd’s cheers grew even louder. Flamma lifted his mace in victory.
Amalia saw the pieces of the chariot and corpses approaching fast in their lane, but Aithon was smart and quick enough to maneuver around the wreckage, guiding his partner horse wit
h him. The next curve was approaching fast. Another Amazon chariot shot past them at a dangerous speed. Both Amazons screamed their battle cries at the man who had just killed two of their own.
Tiberius shot to his feet, choked with anxiety, as Amalia’s chariot approached the wreck. But, thank the gods, Marius’s war-trained horse danced his way through. Tiberius fell back in his chair, relieved.
Augustus and Marcus clapped in excitement with most of the senators surrounding them, while Livia and Lucius frowned in disappointment.
“What a horse!” Augustus said in amazement. “Tiberius, will you sell it to me? I have not seen anything like it before.” Augustus watched in anticipation as the chariots approached the next curve. A man pulled a rope on the system of bronze dolphin-shaped lap counters, indicating the first completed lap.
“It was my son’s,” Marcus answered in Tiberius’s stead. “He left it to the woman.”
Tiberius threw him a grateful nod, knowing Augustus would not push for the horse any further.
“I am surprised she is still alive,” one of the senators hollered from the rows behind.
“Maybe Tiberius is right and the gods favor her,” another added.
“Must you distract us with your nonsense?” Lucius snapped at them.
Everybody’s attention was drawn back to the track. One of the Amazon charioteers was taking the next curve too quickly. The imperial box and the crowd were on their toes again.
Rome loved its tragedies.
Amelia held on tight as the curve approached. The chariot ahead of them was going too fast, even Amalia could see that.
“Slow down!” Arminius shouted, but the Amazon steering the chariot only slapped the reins harder, spurring the horses on even more. The animals took the turn faster than the chariot could allow. It flipped instantly, its axis breaking in half, separating the horses from the chariot. One of the Amazons rolled beneath the chariot, while the other was catapulted from it, smashing against the wall like a tomato. Both horses kept galloping down the tracks, unaware of their lost cargo.