‘My dear, are you hurt!’ cried Sabinus, who had leapt to his feet.
‘I did touch it lightly!’ Julia ignored her husband and scowled at the lanista.
The guards withdrew their swords but left them unsheathed.
The lanista swallowed. ‘Then you . . . approve of the sharpness, domina?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Julia flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Go away. Have your wretched fight.’
While the movable steps were being rolled away, Julia slumped back into her father’s chair and sucked the tip of her wounded finger. Sabinus leaned over her and murmured soothing words.
A referee in a long tunic had used his staff to draw a large circle in the sand and now the first pair stepped forward: Mus, the tiny net-girl, and Vulpina the secutrix.
Flavia sat forward, interested despite herself.
Mus and Vulpina had taken up their positions at the centre of the large circle and now they faced each other across the referee’s long stick. Mus had mousy brown hair screwed into a tight topknot. Vulpina wore the smooth helmet of the secutor with its tiny round eyeholes. Her reddish-brown hair curled out from beneath the shiny helmet’s lower rim. The referee tapped his staff smartly on the sand and quickly jumped back. This was the signal for the bout to begin.
The water organ struck up a cheerful tune as the two girl gladiators circled each other.
Suddenly little Mus darted forward, swinging a net in her right hand and trying to keep Vulpina at bay with the trident in her left. The crowd cheered this first move of the bout. Flavia realised that although the trident was only half-sized, it was far too heavy for the little girl. The three points kept dipping. Once, they almost touched the sand.
Vulpina lunged forward and swung out with her sword. It almost struck the tiny gladiatrix and the crowd gasped.
Lupus tugged Flavia’s blanket. She ignored him.
For a while the two girl gladiators circled each other. Occasionally one would make a feint but neither of them had drawn blood yet. The crowd was beginning to get bored and some in the higher levels were chanting, ‘Strike her, strike her, strike her . . .’ The water organ played a suspenseful tune.
Flavia realised that Vulpina was tiring, her movements were slower. But Mus was tiring, too. Abruptly, the little girl tried to cast her net, but it became entangled on the prongs of her trident.
Lupus’s fingers were digging into Flavia’s arm.
‘What?’ said Flavia and tore her gaze away from the battling girls. Lupus was pointing urgently towards the other child gladiators, quietly waiting their turn to fight.
‘What?’
Lupus pointed towards a pair of boys standing with their backs to the Imperial Box.
They held their helmets under their right arms and their shields in their left.
‘The boy holding the yellow shield?’ hissed Flavia.
Lupus shook his head.
‘The one next to him? With the short hair?’
Lupus nodded vigorously then reached across her and tapped Nubia.
‘I can’t really see him,’ said Flavia. ‘What about him?’
Again, Lupus pointed urgently at the pair.
Suddenly Nubia gasped. Lupus nodded wildly.
‘What? What is it?’ asked Flavia, almost angry.
‘Behold!’ said Nubia rising to her feet. ‘It is Jonathan!’
‘Where?’ gasped Flavia, and then, ‘Jonathan? How can Jonathan be a gladiator?’
‘Jonathan?’ cried Sisyphus, almost choking on a mouthful of wine.
‘Who’s Jonathan?’ Julia sat forward in her father’s ivory chair.
‘He’s our friend,’ said Flavia. ‘But I don’t think that’s him . . . If he would just turn so I could see his face . . .’
‘I think it is him,’ said Nubia breathlessly and Lupus nodded vigorously.
Flavia squinted at the pair. ‘No. That boy has short hair. And he’s taller than Jonathan. And much slimmer. Remember how plump Jonathan got last month?’
Suddenly the crowd roared and Julia screamed.
Flavia and the others saw that little Mus was down on the sand, a jet of blood pulsing from a gash on her arm. They were close enough to see that she was crying.
The referee held his staff between the girls to mark a break in the combat, while a man in a blue tunic rushed forward. It must be the medicus, thought Flavia, for he was binding the little girl’s wound. He whispered something to her and as he moved away the little girl raised her uninjured arm – the right one – with her forefinger extended.
‘That means she wants to be spared,’ Sisyphus told them. ‘She’s asking for mercy . . . but where is Titus to grant it?’
All over the amphitheatre people were waving white handkerchiefs and giving the ‘thumbs up’ sign.
The herald stepped forward.
‘The prize and penalty will be determined by Caesar!’ He peered up into the box and then frowned at Julia’s exaggerated shrug. ‘At a time which is . . . should prove . . . convenient to him. Next combat will be between Prometheus the Thracian and Hostis the Murmillo.’
‘Pollux!’ cursed Flavia, looking back at the short-haired boy. ‘He just put his helmet on.’ She stood up. ‘JONATHAN?’ she yelled. ‘Is that you?’
Everyone in the box turned to look at her but down on the sand the Thracian did not react. He had brought his left leg forward, his shield up and his head down. Flavia sat back weakly, feeling slightly sick.
‘Classic Thracian attack position,’ whispered Sisyphus. ‘Whoever that boy is, he knows what he’s doing.’
The water organ struck a chord a moment after the referee tapped the sand. The bout was on.
The two armed boys circled each other.
‘He doesn’t move like Jonathan,’ observed Flavia after a while.
‘That leg padding and those tall greaves would make anyone move stiffly,’ said Sisyphus.
Lupus nodded his agreement.
‘Helmets have bug eyes,’ said Nubia. ‘And feathers are like . . .’
‘Antennae,’ murmured Flavia, without taking her eyes from the pair. ‘Backwards antennae . . .’
Suddenly Lupus grunted, urgently tapped his left shoulder, then pointed towards the boy gladiator.
‘Yes!’ cried Nubia. ‘He has branding like Jonathan!’
‘Is it a brand?’ Flavia squinted. ‘Or just a wound? What’s he called again?’
Lupus had been studying his libellus – the gladiator form sheet – and now he excitedly pointed to a name on the sheet.
Under the heading NOVELTY GLADIATORS was a list of names. Flavia gasped when she saw the last name on the list.
It was Prometheus.
Prometheus.
Flavia sat back heavily and stared out at the fighting gladiators.
‘When Prometheus opens Pandora’s box, Rome will be devastated . . .’ she whispered to herself, and repeated what she had said at Jonathan’s tomb: ‘I should have known it would be about a fire.’
She thought back to the moment Lupus had brought Jonathan’s charred rings. He had been accompanied by Titus’s astrologer, Ascletario. The Egyptian had said – what were his words exactly? There is a rumour that a boy set the fire at the Temple of Jupiter – a boy with dark curly hair and a bruised face.
Flavia had assumed that Jonathan had tried to stop Prometheus, and died in the attempt. But if this boy gladiator was Jonathan, and if he called himself Prometheus . . .
She shivered and stared straight ahead, searching for more clues in the past.
‘Jonathan,’ she whispered at last, ‘was it you? Were you the one who started the fire?’
Nubia was tapping her arm. Flavia looked at her friend.
‘When the Titus returns shall we tell him that one is maybe Jonathan?’ Nubia asked.
‘No! Whatever you do,’ she hissed, ‘don’t tell Titus. If that boy is Jonathan, then I think . . . I think he may have started the fire after all.’
Nubia, Lupus and Sisyphus all
turned to stare at her.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said hastily. ‘It might have been an accident and . . . I don’t know! We have to talk to him.’
‘If he is still alive,’ said Nubia, and pointed towards the arena.
Ira was trembling.
The instant after he put on his helmet he had heard someone shout out his old name.
The voice had sounded just like a friend’s. Had his old life finally caught up with him? Or had he imagined it? Or was it some strange premonition of his death?
Until a moment ago he had been calm and prepared. Even for death.
But the girl’s voice calling his name had brought back memories. A crowd of feelings and images which pushed against a door in his mind. He had to keep that mental door shut. He could not allow feelings in. Emotions made him weak.
All except for one. Anger.
Anger gave him strength. Anger loosened his chest and stopped him wheezing. He had chosen the name Ira, which meant anger, to complement his arena name. He needed that anger now.
And if he didn’t find the anger soon, his opponent would win.
Ira the Thracian was finding it hard to breathe. All his carefully stored up anger had drained away with one word: his old name.
His opponent knocked him back with a heavy murmillo’s shield and Ira only just managed to bring up his small parma in time to block a jabbing sword thrust. Hostis crashed into Ira again and he almost fell back onto the sand. Even through his padded helmet, he heard the crowd jeer.
Now that, THAT made him angry.
The tightness in his chest began to ease and the breath came. As Hostis charged again Ira darted the curved blade of his sica out from the protection of his shield. Hostis flinched as the sharp point bit into the soft skin beneath his left arm.
‘Habet!’ Ira heard the crowd roar even over the amplified sound of his own breathing.
His opponent retaliated by jabbing low with his sword, but the padding on Ira’s upper leg protected him and he thrust again. Hostis swung his shield round to protect himself and sparks flew as Ira’s curved sword glanced off the metal boss of the murmillo’s big shield. Ira felt the vibration of metal on metal through his entire body.
Rotundus had warned them that in the heat of a combat you sometimes didn’t notice wounds. But Ira felt a searing pain as his opponent’s sword sliced into the tender part of his left shoulder. ‘Habet!’ came the cry of the crowd. The pain fuelled his anger.
Now the anger was building and Ira imagined Hostis was his great enemy, the man he hated most in the world. The Emperor Titus.
‘What’s happening?’ said Titus, coming heavily up the stairs into the Imperial Box.
Lupus glanced round quickly then turned back to the fight.
‘Caesar!’ exclaimed Calvus, moving forward. ‘You’re just in time. The first combat is over and it looks as if the second is nearing its end, too. Quickly! Come sit!’ Julia sighed and vacated her father’s chair and as Titus resumed his throne Lupus heard Calvus say under his breath: ‘Vulpina the secutrix bested Mus – the retiaria – but the little one fought bravely. The crowd wants her spared.’
‘Of course we’ll spare her,’ said Titus from between gritted teeth. ‘This is monstrous: having children fight. Monstrous. What’s happening there?’
‘Ah, Prometheus is the Thracian and the murmillo is Hostis. They’ve both been struck.’
Ira charged forward, uttering a bellow that resounded in the metal world of his helmet and deafened him for a moment. Hostis took a defensive position, his shield up, braced for the blow. But it never came. At the last moment Ira stopped, feinted right, then sidestepped left and brought the lower edge of his small shield down hard on the murmillo’s right wrist.
Hostis cried out as the sword flew from his hand. Momentarily defenceless, Hostis tried to use his shield as a weapon. But it was big and heavy and as he jabbed its lower edge forward, Ira easily avoided it.
Failing to connect and momentarily off-balance, Hostis staggered.
In that instant, Ira swung his left leg round so that the heavy greave struck Hostis behind the knee. The murmillo’s legs went and he was down.
Ira heard the crowd’s cheer as he kicked his opponent’s shield aside and pressed his foot hard on the boy’s chest.
The referee’s stick was there immediately but Ira was in control. He waited until the referee announced ‘Prometheus has won the bout!’
Then Ira stepped back and removed his helmet with trembling hands.
Without his helmet on, the world seemed suddenly immense and bright and cool. He could hear the roaring of the crowd and he almost smiled. His anger was gone, replaced by relief. It was over. He had won.
The referee had removed Hostis’s helmet, and Jonathan saw his mess-mate lying on the sand: no longer an opponent, but just a frightened boy.
Suddenly his relief faded and his stomach clutched.
What if the Emperor asked him to execute Hostis? Could he take his own friend’s life?
Lupus had to use every iota of self-control not to shout with joy as the young Thracian removed his helmet.
It was Jonathan.
He was sure of it. He looked at his friends and saw his certainty reflected in their faces. Flavia and Nubia were hugging each other and Sisyphus was clapping loudly.
Almost immediately, Flavia put her forefinger to her lips and gave them a quick warning frown. As soon as they nodded, to show they had understood, Flavia’s face relaxed into a delighted smile again.
But Lupus suddenly had a terrible thought. What if Titus recognised Jonathan? Even if Jonathan hadn’t set the fire, the Emperor knew the rumour like everyone else. And if he put together the pieces . . .
The Emperor had risen to his feet and was glaring down into the arena.
Lupus held his breath.
‘Send them off!’ Titus commanded.
‘But Caesar!’ said Calvus, ‘you haven’t awarded the palm branches or the crowns. And three of the pairs haven’t fought yet!’
‘Get them out of the arena!’ repeated Titus from between clenched teeth. ‘I refuse to take part in this travesty.’
As the child gladiators marched back out of the arena the crowd uttered mixed cries of protest and approval.
But Lupus sat back and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The bright blast of trumpets and the surge of the water organ made Nubia’s spirit soar. The sound perfectly expressed the joy in her heart.
Jonathan was alive. Alive!
She sat very still within herself, staring out at the vast arena, her vision blurred by tears of happiness. The child gladiators had left the arena – all of them fit enough to walk – and slaves had raked the sand clean.
Suddenly Nubia gasped as a rainbow shimmered in the vast space before her. A fine perfumed mist was being sprayed on the crowd from high above. Nubia inhaled, it was wonderful.
‘Saffron,’ whispered Flavia beside her and stretched her hand out from under the protection of the box so that she could feel it.
Abruptly a pink light covered her arms and tunic and those at the front of the Imperial Box. Nubia looked up. The red canvas vela were unfurling high above them.
‘Ooh! Isn’t it glorious!’ Sisyphus perched beside her on the velvet-covered couch, a silver cup in his hand. ‘Ruby light, exotic perfume, chilled wine . . .’ he lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘and Jonathan resurrected! Life is good!’
A moment later, the arena was filled with shouts and shrieks as a swarm of red lottery balls scattered over the middle levels.
In that instant, Nubia knew what she could do. Her hand reached for her leather coin purse.
Was the lottery ball still there? Yes! With trembling fingers she undid the leather thong and pulled out the red ball.
‘Oh!’ gasped Julia. ‘You won a lottery ball!’
‘Nubia!’ cried Sisyphus in an injured voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I forgot,’ said Nubia, unscrewing the ball
and taking out the square of parchment. ‘Caesar, yesterday I have won a gladiator.’
‘A gladiator?’ Titus turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Yes, Caesar.’
Titus leaned over, stretched out his muscular arm and took the token. For a moment he examined it, both front and back.
Nubia took a deep breath. ‘May I be taking any gladiator right now?’ She could barely hear her own voice above the violent pounding of her heart.
‘I don’t see why not.’ He gave Nubia an amused glance. ‘Does one of them take your fancy?’
‘Yes. I would like one to be free.’
‘A strange request. Usually people rent them back to the lanista or employ them as bodyguards. You merely want to set one free?’
‘Yes, Caesar. May I choose now?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Titus. ‘Could you –’
Nubia saw his lips moving but couldn’t hear his words.
A roar so enormous it even drowned out the trumpets was sweeping the amphitheatre. The main event of the day was beginning.
The real gladiators were entering the arena.
There were about thirty of them, preceded by officials and musicians, and followed by slaves and attendants carrying their weapons. Last of all marched a man with a banner that read: LVDVS IVLIANVS.
‘Nubia!’ gasped Sisyphus, his dark eyes wide. ‘It’s the Ludus Julianus!’
Nubia looked blank.
Titus glanced over at them. ‘The Ludus Julianus is the school founded by Julius Caesar, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘That’s right, Caesar,’ said Sisyphus and looked pointedly at Nubia. ‘It’s the gladiator school based in Capua!’
Nubia felt dizzy and her hand went automatically to her throat. Capua. The gladiators marching into the arena were from Capua. The place where her brother Taharqo was training to be a gladiator.
Nubia rose unsteadily to her feet and scanned the muscular men as they began their warm-up bout on the sand tinted pink by the awnings.
She saw him almost at once. Slim and muscular with a neat head and woolly black hair. And skin the same dark brown as hers.
‘Behold,’ whispered Nubia, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘It is my brother Taharqo.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 107