featuring dwarves and cripples
COMBAT OF GLADIATORS
AWNINGS AND DRINKS WILL BE PROVIDED
PRIZES WILL BE DISTRIBUTED
The Emperor Titus turned to Nubia.
‘Where is Flavia Gemina?’ he asked. ‘And your guardian . . . Tantalus, was it?’
It was a bright fresh morning on the third day of the inaugural games. Nubia and Lupus had just taken their seats on one of the upholstered couches in the Emperor’s Box.
‘Flavia is not well,’ said Nubia. ‘She is still sleeping fastly. Sisyphus stays with her to watch over her.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Titus. ‘I hope she’s recovered by this afternoon. We’re going to make Fabius fight as an andabata. Armour and a sharp sword but a helmet with no eyeholes. He and his opponents slash blindly at each other. I thought that would amuse her.’
Nubia stared at his cheerful face in horror.
His smile faltered. ‘So, Nubia, have you decided which gladiator you would like?’
Nubia nodded.
She was just fishing her lottery ball out of her belt pouch when Fronto appeared at the top of the stairs and clanked to attention.
‘The men you asked for, Caesar,’ he said. ‘They are here as you requested.’
‘Show them in,’ said Titus.
Fronto stood aside, and as two men come forward, Lupus leapt to his feet in alarm.
‘Africanus. Stertinius. Come. Sit.’ Titus gestured towards an empty couch on the other side of his throne. ‘I want everyone to see that I have pardoned you for conspiring against me.’
It was Lupus’s turn to stare at the Emperor in horror. ‘I am pontifex maximus now,’ said Titus in Lupus’s direction, loud enough so that the senators in the seats around could hear, ‘and I intend to show great mercy while I hold that office.’ He smiled at the men. ‘Please sit and take some refreshment. And I hope you will dine with me this evening at the Palatine, as well. By the way, Africanus, I’ve sent word to your mother in Neapolis that you are well and safe.’
‘Caesar!’ Africanus fell to his knees and pressed his lips fervently to Titus’s hand. ‘You are merciful. Forgive us.’
‘I already have.’ Titus turned to Nubia. ‘So, my dear,’ he said. ‘Who is it to be? Which gladiator would you like to take home?’
Nubia held out the wooden ball. ‘Prometheus,’ she said quietly. ‘I would like to take Prometheus home.’
Titus raised his eyebrows. ‘The boy gladiator from yesterday? The Thracian? He fought well . . . but why not your own brother?’
‘Because “Prometheus” is their friend,’ said a female voice, ‘their friend Jonathan.’
They all turned towards Julia, who was using a silver knife to cut slices of melon.
‘What?’ She looked at them, a cube of green melon poised on the tip of her knife. ‘Isn’t that what you said yesterday?’
Titus stared at his daughter, then slowly turned to Nubia.
‘Your friend Jonathan?’ he said. ‘The boy gladiator who calls himself Prometheus is your friend Jonathan ben Mordecai? Susannah’s son?’
Nubia looked at Lupus, then back at Titus, who had just shown mercy to men who had tried to murder him. Surely he would show mercy to Jonathan, too.
‘Yes,’ said Nubia bravely. ‘Jonathan is alive.’
But the instant she said it, Nubia remembered the identity of the black-robed figure from her dream. She had thought it was Mordecai, but she now realised that the figure had been shorter, and stockier.
Titus rose to his feet. His face was very pale. ‘“When a Prometheus opens a Pandora’s Box . . .’ he murmured and then he turned his head and said in a hard voice: ‘Guards! Arrest the boy gladiator called Prometheus. And bring him here immediately.’
Nubia buried her face in her hands.
The realisation had come too late.
In her dream, the figure with the knife had been Titus.
When they brought Jonathan in to the Emperor’s Box, Lupus stood up, struck again at the physical change in his friend. Jonathan’s shaven head and muscular body made him look like a young thug. His shins were battered and the knuckles on both hands were skinned and swollen. And there was a new scar on his chin.
Jonathan glanced at Lupus, and then coldly looked away.
Lupus felt something like a blow to his heart and he sat on the couch again.
‘Jonathan ben Mordecai,’ said Titus. He pushed himself up from his throne and went to Jonathan.
Jonathan was almost as tall as the Emperor and the two of them stared into each other’s eyes for a moment. Lupus saw Jonathan look away first.
‘Tell me, Jonathan – and consider before you reply – it is widely reported that a boy with dark curly hair was seen on the Capitoline Hill the night the fire started. I believe we are holding a boy of that description down in the cells. He is due to be executed at noon today. Have we got the right boy? Or are you the one who started the fire?’
Jonathan did not reply.
‘Does that boy deserve to die?’
‘No,’ said Jonathan at last, and added in a flat voice: ‘It was an accident. I was trying to stop your enemy from –’
‘Did you start the fire? Yes or no.’
‘Yes, Caesar. I started the fire.’
‘I thought as much.’
He turned to Fronto. ‘Release the other boy and execute this one instead.’ And to Jonathan. ‘I’m sorry, Jonathan ben Mordecai, but in this case justice must be done.’
In the Imperial Box, Nubia knelt before Rome’s first citizen and pressed her lips to his soft, freckled hand.
‘Please, Caesar,’ she begged. ‘Please pardon Jonathan. It was being an accident.’
‘Try to understand,’ said Titus gently removing his hand and lifting her to the couch. ‘I can pardon these two men who wanted me dead. That threat was to me personally and I must show the Roman people that I am not a second Nero. But the fire last month claimed thousands of lives. The Roman people demand vengeance. Someone must be seen to be responsible and pay for it. Do you understand?’
Nubia shook her head.
‘Nubia. Lupus. Do you know what a scapegoat is? Jonathan’s mother first told me. She told me that the sins of a community are transferred to a scapegoat and then that creature is killed. When the scapegoat is dead, the people are absolved.’
Lupus wrote on his tablet and held it up.
LIKE NERO BLAMED THE FIRE ON CHRISTIANS?
‘I suppose,’ said Titus with a frown. ‘But isn’t it better that one person dies rather than a whole community? And Jonathan is guilty in this matter. Even he admits that.’
‘Jonathan is always believing things are his fault,’ said Nubia quietly.
Titus passed his hand across his face. ‘Jonathan committed one of the most terrible crimes there is, Nubia. And I promised the Roman people that I would punish the guilty. I can change the rules in the case of two battling gladiators, but in a matter like this . . . How can I go against my own promise? Do you know how hard this is for me? To condemn the only son of someone I . . . who means so much to me?’
‘But Jonathan was dead,’ said Nubia, tears pouring down her face, ‘and now he is alive. How can you kill him again?’
Jonathan hardly noticed where they were taking him.
He felt a strange sense of relief. At least death would end his misery and his guilt. For not only had he killed thousands of Romans in the fire, but he bore the guilt of his mother’s death.
He had given her a potion to make her sleep. Instead it had killed her.
He had wanted to die, too, but had convinced himself that he deserved to suffer. That was why he had given up his freedom to become a gladiator.
And so now, as they prodded him down the dark corridors below the amphitheatre and the guards spat on him, he did not flinch.
He deserved it.
When the other prisoners cursed him, he kept his face blank.
He deserved it.
But when the man with the wart on his eyelid smeared warm blood on Jonathan – to encourage the animal to attack him – Jonathan bent over and was sick on the straw covered floor.
He couldn’t help it.
‘Tigris! What is it?’ murmured Flavia sleepily. ‘Stop barking in my ear. TIGRIS!’
She sat up in bed. ‘You’re barking! Is Jonathan here? Did Nubia buy him with her lottery ball? Oh, Tigris, my mouth feels like the Cloaca Maxima.’
Flavia groped for the copper beaker on her bedside table and took a long drink of cold water.
‘Look how high the sun is! It must be almost noon. Why didn’t anyone wake me? Where’s Sisyphus? Tigris! Stop barking!’
Flavia swung her feet out of bed and her toes groped for her sandals on the rough mosaic floor. Somewhere near the front of the house she heard the door-knocker banging. Tigris heard it, too, and was out of the bedroom like an arrow from a bow.
‘Tigris! Come back! Where are you going? Tigris wait for me!’
‘Death either destroys us or frees us.’
It had been a saying of Seneca’s which Rotundus was fond of quoting. Sometimes when they ate dinner, the lanista would walk up and down behind them and quote the great Stoic philosopher:
‘Always be prepared. Know that death is only a heartbeat away. To die honourably and splendidly; that is rare. If you fear death, you will never do anything of greatness.’ Then Rotundus would add: ‘When the time comes for you to die, face it bravely. Honour this familia by your death.’
Now, as the cell door opened and the two soldiers stepped forward, Jonathan silently vowed. ‘I will die a good death. One that will make my familia proud. And my friends, if they are watching.’
He tried not to let his knees tremble as the soldiers flanked him and gripped his arms above the elbows and led him out through a dim vaulted corridor and into the sudden vast space of the arena.
Yesterday the jeers of the crowd had given him the anger he needed to win.
Today the jeers were thin and empty as the soldiers prodded him into a lap of shame. Jonathan glanced up to his right. Those senators still in their seats were chatting or eating or studying slips of papyrus. Only a few bothered to curse him or throw rotten fruit. From one of the higher levels a lettuce drifted down and struck his naked shoulder. Other missiles landed harmlessly on the sand, now tinted pink by the high red awnings which filtered the noonday sun.
Jonathan’s quick glance had shown him the looks of hatred on the few faces turned his way, so now he kept his head down as he continued his circuit of the arena. The feel of warm sand under the soles of his bare feet was familiar, but his feet themselves were not. He watched them move forward, first one foot, then the other. The left one was coated with blood, the right one only spattered. He knew they had put the blood on him to encourage some beast to devour him. A masked figure with a mallet stood in the shadows and Jonathan shivered. If the beast didn’t finish him, Pluto would.
Now, all too soon, he had completed his lap of dishonour. As the soldiers shoved Jonathan towards the centre of the arena he saw it for the first time: a cross on a hill.
He wondered if he was dreaming.
It must have been left from the morning beast fights: a sandy hillock with dwarf junipers and palms, and a false cave. On top of it stood a wooden cross and above the cross was a placard with the statement in red letters: I LAID A TORCH TO ROME.
This was no dream.
It was noon on the third day of the inaugural games of the magnificent new amphitheatre. The vela had been extended and in the rosy pink light the levels of the amphitheatre were swarming. Romans were moving about: buying snacks, unwrapping napkin lunches, going to the fountains for long drinks of wine-tinted water. Many seats were empty. Their occupants were placing bets on the upcoming gladiatorial shows, buying souvenir oil-lamps under the arches or even enjoying an hour at the new Baths of Titus, conveniently close to the amphitheatre.
This was the slack part of the day, between the bloody beast fights and the main gladiatorial combats. This was when common criminals were executed.
So only a few thousand people paid attention to the boy being paraded around the arena, its sand raked and fresh after the morning’s hunt of hounds and beasts.
One or two senators – munching cheese and rye bread in the lowest levels – commented on the admirable stoicism of the boy about to be executed.
‘You see,’ said one, gesturing with a piece of bread, ‘these shows can be instructive. They show us that even the lower classes can die with dignity. Look how quietly he stands, allowing the soldiers to tie his wrists to the crossbar.’
The other nodded. ‘But it’s not over yet. Sometimes they don’t really realise what’s happening until the bear starts tearing at their flesh. That’s the real test of bravery.’
‘Vulture,’ said the other. ‘He’s supposed to be re-enacting the death of Prometheus, so it’ll be a vulture.’
‘Can they train a vulture to peck a live person?’
‘They trained that boar, the day before yesterday.’
‘But they’ve smeared him with blood. Surely they only do that with carnivores.’
‘Mmmm,’ said the first one, popping the last bite of cheese in his mouth. ‘I wonder what Pluto is saying to him?’
‘It looks like he’s just checking the ropes, to make sure they’re tight. I’ll wager ten sesterces the boy screams before the leopard touches him.’
‘You’re on,’ said the other.
Lupus’s teeth were chattering. His whole body had begun to shake as Jonathan was paraded around the vast arena. Now they were binding him to a cross and the water organ pumped a grim dirge. Lupus was about to see his best friend torn limb from limb by a wild beast. Could he watch? Could he not watch?
He glanced at Titus, and tried to hate him. But the Emperor looked so miserable that he couldn’t. Titus sat stiff and pale on his throne, and when Africanus leaned towards him as if to speak, the Emperor waved him away without taking his eyes from the arena.
Lupus looked for Nubia. But she had gone to the latrines nearly half an hour ago and had still not returned to her seat. She was probably hiding. He could not blame her. She hated blood.
Now, for the first time in three days, he also felt sick of it. This was a real person about to pour out his blood. Someone he loved like a brother. For a moment Lupus considered excusing himself and following Nubia’s example. But it was already too late.
Below him an enormous black lion had just trotted into the arena.
‘Dear gods!’ whispered Africanus. ‘A black lion! I thought they were the stuff of myth!’
‘What?’ asked Julia. ‘What’s special about a black lion?’
‘They are fiercer and stronger than any other lion in the world,’ said Africanus. ‘When I was a little boy my nursemaid used to warn me that if I wasn’t good the black lion would get me.’
Lupus felt an icy numbness. There was only one thing left for him to do. So he did it.
He closed his eyes and prayed.
Jonathan was struggling to free his hands from their bonds.
Pluto – the masked executioner – had not tightened them. Rather, he had loosened them and said: ‘Run as fast as you can, out through the Gate of Death. I’ll be waiting.’ Pluto’s voice had been familiar, and so had the small brown eyes gazing at him through the mask. But Jonathan couldn’t place him. Terror had wiped his memory clean. ‘Run as fast as you can.’ Pluto had said.
But Pluto had not loosened them enough and Jonathan was still struggling to free his wrists.
He suddenly knew that he did not want to die. He wanted to live.
But the huge dark creature was almost upon him.
The lion reared up and put heavy paws on Jonathan’s shoulders.
Jonathan closed his eyes and waited for the end. He could smell the lion’s fetid breath and he could hear it growling. And now he felt something hot and wet and rough on his chest. The lion was licking the blood
off him! Any minute it would take a gigantic bite from him.
Jonathan finally wrenched his right hand free and was making a fist to strike the lion when a familiar voice called him from the cave, barely audible above the groaning chords of the water organ.
‘Jonathan! It is the Monobaz. Don’t hurt him and he will not hurt you.’
Nubia!
Jonathan opened his eyes to see the dark lion gazing back at him with blank golden eyes.
‘It’s Monobaz?’ croaked Jonathan without moving his head. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ came her voice. ‘We are disguising him with juice of walnut.’
Sure enough, Jonathan could now see that the golden fur on the lion’s broad nose was streaked with some kind of brown dye.
‘Scratch him behind the ear,’ said an accented man’s voice, barely audible above the dramatic chords of the water organ. ‘He likes that.’
Jonathan obediently scratched the lion behind the ear. The lion’s growls grew louder. Suddenly Jonathan realised the lion wasn’t growling. He was purring.
‘Monobaz!’ croaked Jonathan. ‘Nice kitty.’
The deep ominous chords of the water organ faltered. Some people in the crowd were laughing. Others were cursing him or the lion.
Monobaz still rested heavy paws on Jonathan’s shoulders, and as he continued to scratch Monobaz’s ear, the big cat purred rhythmically.
‘OW!’ gasped Jonathan as Monobaz’s sharp claws began to dig into his shoulders.
‘Tell him “velvet paws!”’ came the man’s accented voice. ‘He’s just like a big kitten.’
‘Velvet paws! Velvet paws!’ cried Jonathan. The big cat obediently retracted his claws and dropped down on all fours. He began to lick the blood from Jonathan’s legs and feet. The water organ was playing jolly music now and Jonathan heard the crowds laughing.
‘Jonathan!’ Nubia’s voice from the cave. ‘Get on his back!’
‘What?’ gasped Jonathan.
‘I’ve been training him to let a person ride his back,’ said Mnason. ‘I’m almost certain he’ll let you do it. Just say the word “Dionysus”.’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 110