The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  ‘Taharqo,’ said Nubia, and her voice did not seem her own. ‘It is Taharqo!’

  ‘Who?’ said Titus. ‘Pantherus the Nubian?

  ‘It’s Taharqo. Her brother!’ gasped Flavia. ‘I knew he’d be here!’

  ‘Pantherus is your brother?’ The Emperor turned to look at Nubia.

  Nubia’s throat was dry and she felt dizzy but she managed to nod.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ breathed Julia.

  ‘A wonderful specimen,’ agreed her husband.

  ‘Bad news,’ said Titus, looking at his programme. ‘He’s paired with Sextus.’

  ‘The Sextus?’ asked Julia’s husband.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Titus.

  ‘Is that bad?’ asked Flavia.

  ‘Do you know why they call him Sextus?’ asked Titus.

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘They call him Sextus because he’s six feet tall and he has six fingers on each hand!’

  Lupus consulted his libellus and looked up in alarm. He held up nine fingers.

  ‘He has nine fingers on one hand?’ asked Nubia.

  ‘No.’ Titus said grimly. ‘He won each of his last nine bouts.’

  ‘And now, for our last combat of the day,’ announced the herald, ‘Sextus the secutor, winner of nine palms and five wreathes, fights Pantherus the retiarius, a tiro, in his first combat!’

  Lupus saw the referee raise his staff, then bring it down swiftly to strike the sand.

  As the two began to circle one another, the crowd went silent and the water organ began to play. Lupus leaned forward and rested his forearms on the cool marble balustrade. The knowledge that Jonathan was alive had lifted an enormous weight from his spirit. He knew they would find some way to bring him home. Meanwhile, this was the perfect seat. He could see every detail of the fighting men. He would relax and enjoy this bout as he had enjoyed the others.

  Both men were barefoot and Lupus felt a thrill of revulsion as he saw the secutor’s six-toed foot shuffling forward in the sand. Sextus had padding on his right arm and left leg, and he wore the distinctive helmet of the secutor. Lupus had seen crude drawings of secutors scratched on walls but until today he had never seen one in real life. The strange smooth helmet with its tiny round eyeholes made the secutor look inhuman, more like a fish than a bug.

  ‘The helmet is smooth so the net and trident will slip off.’ Titus leaned forward and Lupus saw him glance at Nubia. ‘But if the net-man can get the right angle and amount of force . . . I have seen a trident punch right through such a helmet. But your brother is doing exactly what he should be in the early stages of the bout. He’s holding the trident in his left arm, keeping the secutor at bay. If he’s any good, he’ll tire out his oppon-ent, then bring the net round in a sweeping motion – you can see the little lead weights – and entangle his opponent’s feet. Then a swift tug and he brings his opponent down. By the gods, he’s magnificent . . .’ murmured Titus, almost to himself.

  Lupus nodded slowly. Taharqo was magnificent. He was lithe and muscular and his skin was oiled and polished until it shone like mahogany. He wore a white loincloth and padding on his left arm. His belt and shoulder-guard flashed in a bar of sunlight that had slipped through a gap in the vela. They looked like gold but Lupus guessed they were made of polished bronze. He knew gold was far too heavy and soft to serve as useful armour.

  Taharqo was moving lightly on his feet and as the water organ and trumpets played dramatic music he improvised a little jig. The crowd laughed as Sextus stumped solidly forward, leading with his big, heavy shield.

  Taharqo skipped behind him and Sextus had to swivel his whole body to find his opponent.

  ‘I tried a secutor’s helmet once,’ said Sabinus from his seat beside Julia. ‘The eyeholes are so small that you can only see straight ahead. And after a while your own breath begins to dry out your eyes. I hated wearing it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Titus pointed and laughed and sat back in his chair.

  Taharqo had feinted right and then danced left, swinging the net around his head. The crowd was laughing and applauding. Taharqo was making it a comic routine, and the music was becoming less dramatic and more jaunty as the organist followed his lead.

  Lupus could see the secutor’s muscular chest rising and falling. The man was either angry or tiring. Or both. But he had won nine bouts against retiarii. Taharqo must not let his guard down.

  Still dancing around Sextus, Taharqo switched his net to his left and his trident to the right. He was a safe distance away from the secutor, playing to the crowd. He placed the dull end of his trident in the sand and leaned on it like an old man, bending his back and slowly hobbling forward. The crowd laughed as the organist obliged by playing the tune usually reserved for the old father in the theatre.

  But Lupus knew the crowd wouldn’t be amused by Taharqo’s antics for much longer. They wanted to see contact. They wanted to see blood. Lupus knew this because suddenly he wanted to see blood, too. He wanted to see it spurt in a joyful jet of red.

  Taharqo must have sensed the crowd’s mood, because at that moment he jabbed his trident out and then back, quick as a frog’s tongue. At first Lupus thought he had missed. Then he saw the blood flowing from the thigh on Sextus’s unprotected leg.

  At the sight of first blood Lupus yelled. The crowd roared with him and the water organ sang out a triumphant chord.

  Sextus turned heavily but Taharqo simply danced behind him, transferring the trident back to his left hand and the net to his right.

  Suddenly – in one shockingly rapid movement – the secutor bent, turned, swung out his heavy shield in a smooth arc.

  Taharqo raised his trident to parry, but the heavy shield slammed into it with such force that it broke the trident in half. The section with the prongs fell within the circle and rest of the shaft outside. The look of surprise had not fully formed on Taharqo’s handsome face when Sextus lunged forward, and fast as a serpent’s strike jabbed his short sword towards Taharqo’s belly.

  The crowd gasped and Taharqo leapt back but there was a clang of metal on metal.

  The music surged dramatically.

  Beside him, Titus was tutting and shaking his head. ‘Pantherus was very lucky,’ he said. ‘His belt protected him. If that stroke had been an inch higher his entrails would be spilling onto the sand now.’

  ‘And you could see the surprise on his face,’ said Julia’s husband. ‘That’s one of the easiest ways to tell a novice. Experienced gladiators never reveal their feelings.’

  Another dramatic chord from the water organ and a sharp intake of breath from the whole amphitheatre. Sextus had made another lightning thrust with his short sword.

  In a spray of his own blood, Taharqo was down on the sand.

  Nubia didn’t want to look at the blood flowing from her brother’s side but she couldn’t turn away. This was her own brother. She couldn’t hide her face in her hands this time.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Flavia said beside her. ‘I think it’s just a flesh wound.’

  ‘It’s not too grave,’ agreed Titus, without taking his eyes from the arena.

  Now the music was low, soft, urgent. Taharqo was up, wary now, no longer clowning for the crowd. He still had his net and dagger, and had recovered the top half of his trident. But none of these offered proper defence.

  He and Sextus circled one another. Both had drawn blood, both were sweating, both tired. Outside the ring the referee circled, too, every bit as focused as the men within the ring.

  Then Taharqo made his move. He flicked out his right hand and the net flowed over the sand in a smooth, low curve. Sextus staggered back. But Taharqo had taken another step forward and now the net flowed from left to right. Nubia saw the tiny lead weights flick it round both Sextus’s ankles.

  Taharqo gave a swift tug and Sextus fell back, landing hard on the sand. Nubia heard his grunt even above the roar of the crowd.

  ‘Perfect!’ cried Titus and brought his fist lightly down
on the marble balustrade.

  Taharqo had already let go of his net and had run forward to stamp on Sextus’s sword arm with his bare foot. The sword fell onto the sand.

  ‘Kick it away!’ cried Titus.

  But Taharqo did not take the Emperor’s advice. Slipping his own dagger into his belt he bent to grasp the secutor’s sword. Just as he did so, Sextus brought his left arm round and slammed his shield into Taharqo, who fell with such violence that the sword flew right out of his hand, right out of the circle.

  The people cheered, and Titus turned, his face alive. ‘The sword fell outside the circle, so it’s out of play.’

  Now Sextus was up and Taharqo was down, but the net was still around the secutor’s feet. As Sextus raised his heavy shield in order to slam the edge onto his opponent’s neck, Taharqo grasped a corner of the net.

  He tugged.

  Down came Sextus. Up jumped Taharqo. This time the Nubian grabbed the shield and twisted it. Even over the roar of the crowds and the urgent water organ Nubia heard a sickening crack. The secutor’s arm was broken and his heavy shield was no longer a defence but an agonising burden.

  The amphitheatre erupted into cheers loud enough to drown out the triumphant music as Taharqo retrieved his broken trident and strutted around Sextus, smiling up at the crowds with his dazzling white teeth.

  ‘Pantherus! Pantherus!’ the crowd was chanting.

  ‘Don’t get cocky, my dear boy,’ Nubia heard Sisyphus say. ‘It’s not over yet.’

  At that very instant, Sextus twisted his body to one side and reached out his terrible six-fingered right hand to grasp Taharqo’s ankle and bring him down. But Taharqo must have been waiting for this. Quick as lightning his left hand brought down the trident, pinning the secutor’s wrist to the sand.

  Blood spurted and even from under the tight smooth helmet Nubia could hear the secutor’s bellow of pain. The terrible cry was cut off as Taharqo placed his dark foot on the big man’s pale neck.

  ‘Habet, habet!’ cried the crowds. ‘He’s had it!’

  Now the head referee stepped forward. He touched Taharqo’s foot lightly with his staff and said something under his breath. Taharqo nodded and Nubia saw him ease his foot a fraction from the secutor’s neck.

  ‘I declare Pantherus the victor!’ cried the referee, ‘winner of the palm of victory . . .’ Here the referee looked at Titus, who nodded. ‘And of the wreath!’

  ‘I declare Sextus the loser,’ continued the referee. ‘Does he deserve death or a missio?’

  Nubia saw Titus rise to his feet. He looked at the senators around him and the Vestals opposite him and the crowds above him. A few people were waving handkerchiefs but most had turned their thumbs down and were calling out: ‘Iugula! Stab him in the throat!’

  Titus turned and looked at Calvus.

  She couldn’t hear him clearly, but she thought the Emperor said, ‘Sextus fought well. Must I do as the crowd requests?’

  Calvus nodded and said something with an apologetic look.

  Nubia saw the Emperor’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh. But he stretched out his hand and slowly turned his thumb to the ground.

  There was a thunderous cheer which quickly died to a smattering of applause.

  And now the amphitheatre grew quiet as the people held their breath. This was a sacred moment. The victorious Nubian must cut the throat of his own companion, a man he had trained with, eaten with, laughed with. A man from his own familia.

  The lanista moved forward and gently removed the secutor’s tight helmet. Then he said a few words to Sextus, who nodded. Nubia knew that although the secutor’s arm was broken and he was bleeding from three places, none of the wounds were fatal. He must nevertheless offer his throat bravely.

  The lanista tossed aside Sextus’s shield and helped him kneel on the sand. Then he handed Taharqo a short sword and stepped back. The final act must be between victor and vanquished.

  ‘This is what we Romans come to see,’ murmured Titus in a voice so low Nubia could barely hear him, ‘the example of how a brave man dies.’

  There was no way Sextus could have heard him, but at that moment he slowly lifted his head and looked up at the Emperor. Titus smiled at him and gave a nod so small that Nubia would never have seen it from the highest tier.

  The beaten gladiator turned from the Emperor to Taharqo and Nubia saw no fear in his eyes before he closed them. Swiftly and without hesitation, Taharqo plunged the gladius through the base of Sextus’s throat towards his heart. A fountain of blood sprayed Taharqo and Nubia put her hot face in her cold hands.

  But the crowd’s cheering and jaunty water organ went on for so long that presently she looked up again.

  Her brother and the other winning gladiators were jogging their lap of honour round the arena. Like the others, Taharqo brandished the palm branch in his right hand and a money-pouch in the other. And like the others he wore a look of elated triumph on his face

  ‘So, Nubia,’ said the Emperor Titus, leaning back in his ivory chair with a wide smile. ‘I take it Pantherus is the gladiator you would like me to set free? What a shame for the rest of us. He shows great promise.’

  Nubia stared at Titus. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ said Titus, his smile fading and his eyebrows going up. ‘But I thought all this was about your brother. Surely he’s the one you had in mind when you asked me if you could free any gladiator?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, Caesar.’ stammered Nubia. She felt like crying. She couldn’t set them both free. Only one. Either Taharqo or Jonathan. Her brother or her friend.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to make your decision immediately. Why don’t you go over to the Oppian Hill after the games and have a closer look at them.’

  ‘I . . . will they . . . I . . .’

  ‘Say yes!’ hissed Flavia. ‘Then at least we can talk to them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nubia. ‘Thank you, Caesar. Thank you.’

  Titus glanced at one of his guards and the man nodded.

  ‘Fronto will take you to see the gladiators this evening, if you like,’ said Titus, rising to his feet. ‘Then you can tell me in the morning. I hope you and your friends will join us tomorrow as well. I’d like to know the outcome of this little drama!’

  ‘Nubia, what a terrible dilemma!’ Flavia shivered.

  ‘What is die lemon?’ asked Nubia, raising her head from her hands.

  ‘A dilemma is a hard choice,’ said Sisyphus.

  The games were over for the day and the happily chattering crowds were pouring out of the amphitheatre. Titus and his entourage had left by the private entrance a moment earlier. The three friends and Sisyphus lingered in the Imperial Box, trying to decide what to do.

  ‘You can set Jonathan free,’ said Flavia, ‘or you can set your brother free. But you can’t do both. You have to choose.’ She suddenly felt exhausted, and she noticed that Nubia looked as sick as she felt.

  ‘I know,’ whispered Nubia. ‘And I do not know whom I should be choosing.’

  Lupus had been writing on his wax tablet:

  JONATHAN

  ‘Of course you and I want it to be Jonathan,’ Flavia said to him, pulling the blue blanket round her shoulders. ‘But it’s Nubia’s brother. And her lottery ball. So it’s Nubia’s choice.’

  Lupus turned away angrily. Flavia was wondering how to comfort him when the cloying scent of honeysuckle from the garlands above sent a wave of nausea over her.

  ‘Flavia, my dear,’ cried Sisyphus. ‘Are you all right?’

  Flavia nodded. Then shook her head. She felt hot. So hot that she was sweating. She shrugged off the soft blue blanket and rested her head in her hands.

  The sound of jingling footsteps. A soldier’s hobnailed boots and muscular calves moved into her line of sight, framed against the coloured diamonds of the inlaid marble floor. Flavia lifted her head to see the big broken-nosed soldier standing before their couch.

  ‘My name
is Fronto.’ He was speaking to Nubia. ‘I’m to take you wherever you want to go.’

  ‘I . . . I want to see Jonathan and my brother,’ said Nubia looking at Flavia.

  ‘The child gladiators,’ said Flavia to the guard, ‘and the gladiators from Ludus Julianus.’ She stood up. And then sat heavily as her knees gave way beneath her.

  She felt Sisyphus’s cool hand on her forehead. ‘Flavia! You’re burning up! I’ve got to get you home.’

  ‘No, Sisyphus, we have to go with Nubia and Lupus. We have to see Jonathan.’ Suddenly she felt cold. The honeyed scent of the flowers filled her throat again. She put her head between her knees and took some deep breaths.

  Sisyphus said, ‘Will you see them back to the Caelian Hill after you’ve taken them to the gladiators?’

  ‘What?’ Flavia looked up and saw that he was addressing Fronto.

  ‘Of course,’ said the guard. Despite his broken nose he had a big, pleasant face. ‘I’ll bring them safely back to you.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Sisyphus. ‘We live on the Caelian Hill at the foot of the aqueduct. Senator Cornix’s house. Sky-blue door. Bronze knocker.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Flavia asked Sisyphus. He seemed curiously remote.

  Sisyphus ignored her.

  ‘And if you please,’ he said, ‘will you find a litter so I can get this sick girl home?’

  ‘But I have to go and see Jonathan,’ murmured Flavia, stretching out on the imperial couch. ‘I only need a little rest first.’

  ‘We were here!’ Nubia stopped, and looked around in wonder. ‘Last year we were throwing trigon ball.’

  The mellow light of late afternoon flooded the slope of the Oppian Hill.

  Lupus nodded his agreement.

  Without breaking his stride Fronto said over his shoulder, ‘We’re going to the Golden House. That’s where the new School of Gladiators is located.’

  ‘The Golden House!’ exclaimed Nubia. ‘But what about the women of Jerusalem? The ones who weave carpets?’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘They all moved out after the fire last month. Had to make way for the gladiators.’