by Jack Ludlow
The beast swung its trunk, desperately trying to dislodge the lion that, snarling and ripping, was intent on tearing it off, finally showing it had a brain. The elephant suddenly charged the barrier, swinging so that the animal was forced against the wooden palisade, and then it just leant sideways. The crushing of the bones was audible above the screaming din of crowd approval, and was accompanied by a great fount of blood as the lion was flattened. The elephant’s final opponent was still on its back, great fangs tearing chunks out of the thick grey folds, exposing the flesh and bone underneath. Primitive instinct told the starving lion that survival lay at the point where the elephant’s head was joined to its body; break the slender bone that held them conjoined, and the great beast would collapse to the ground, easy prey to further assault.
Suddenly the elephant went over, like a falling tree, and the whole structure of the arena shook as it hit the ground. The lion flew twenty feet before it hit the sand and rolled a further ten before it regained its feet. The elephant was seriously wounded, that was certain; the slow way it tried to stand was evidence of that. The lion did not wait; it went for its opponent as soon it could, racing forward to resume the assault on the lacerated neck. As it leapt the last ten feet, the elephant raised and turned its great head, an act done in slow motion, and in anticipation the crowd suddenly went silent. The lion, committed, could do nothing. It tried to twist away but the metal-tipped tusk could not be avoided. It speared itself, the body moving forward with such force that the end of the tusk came shooting out of its back. The elephant, clearly exhausted, did nothing more, merely laying its head on the ground, content to wait until the death throes of its last adversary ceased. Then it struggled to its feet, and with the body of the lion still impaled on its tusk, it stumbled out of the arena to tumultuous applause.
The hastarii were on next, to fight all manner of creatures. Lions again, panthers, bears and wolves. For all their expertise, some of these trained animal fighters died, but more of their quarry suffered that fate than they did. This was followed by some light relief as first gazelles, then zebras and finally giraffes were set, pitifully, against various big cats. By the time the Parthian ambassadors’ escort entered the arena, raking the sand did little to remove the deep coating of blood with which it was caked. The line of a hundred men took their places at one end of the arena, lined up, shields and weapons at the ready, to await their opponents.
A hush fell over the crowd as they strained forward to observe the arrival of the Roman contingent. Then the horns blew, and the tribune of the corpus urbanis, the city’s own cohorts, led his men into the arena. Fingers pointed eagerly at various members of the unit. Those who knew the faces could see clearly, even under their helmets, that neither Quintus Cornelius, nor Rome, was prepared to commit inexperienced troops against the Parthians. Men who had stood down from the colours, loaded with decorations, were part of the troop. Many of the city’s centurions, wearing rankers’ uniforms, had been brought in to fight. Not one of the men was anything less than a principi, the senior, most heavily armed and experienced group of legionaries. The tribune marched forward, and raising his short sword, saluted Lucius Falerius.
‘I come to receive your instructions, Excellency.’
Lucius had already discussed this with Quintus, adding his own opinion that a fight to the death was unwelcome. He did not doubt that the Romans would win but feared the effect such a result would have on peaceful relations with the eastern empire. He also pointed out how undesirable it would be to have to provide an escort to get these gorgeously attired creatures safely home. Quintus had not demurred at this, saving his opinion until the games were in progress; if they had not gone so well, he would have insisted on a fight to the death to round off the event. After all, he had his reputation to consider.
‘Groups of ten, tribune. Kill if you must, spare life if you can. As long as all fight nobly, then your fellow Romans will be satisfied.’
The tribune favoured him with another salute, before turning back to his men. At a shouted command, the first ten stepped forward, to be matched by a similar number of Parthians. Lucius raised his hand, and, allowing the silence that followed to raise the tension, held it there for what seemed an age. Then he dropped it abruptly, gratified to observe that the first Roman javelins were on their way to their targets before his hand was back in his lap. The Parthians returned fire, then rushed forward, but the legionaries stood their ground, locking shields to break the attack. Two men died on their protruding swords.
As soon as the Parthians had lost cohesion, the line broke and several attackers were pushed aside, allowing the Romans to double up on their opponents. They had received and understood their orders; the blades of the short swords stayed unblooded, but the pommels were used unsparingly and clubbed men fell into the dark sand. It was not all one way; a pair of over-confident Romans collapsed, speared by the more alert Parthians, but soon the remainder stood above their foes, eyes turned towards the podium, looking to Lucius for the final decision. He signalled with an upraised thumb and the dead and comatose were dragged out of the arena.
Each subsequent fight followed a similar pattern, with the Parthians only once managing to best the battle-hardened legionaries. Quintus could sense, by the time the last set faced up to each other, that the crowd were getting bored. The level of noise in the arena had diminished at these near-continual Roman victories so he leant forward to whisper in Lucius’s ear. His request was clearly ill-received since the older man shook his head furiously.
‘He’s asking for a fight to the death,’ said Titus softly.
‘It would end his games on a high note,’ replied Marcellus.
‘Trouble is, your father has just, very publicly, said no.’
They could not see Quintus’s face but the set of his hunched shoulders told them how much that refusal had angered him. The tribune had saved his best men till last and he stepped forward himself, at their head, to confront the last group of Parthian infantry. He too must have sensed that the crowd was less enthusiastic now than hitherto. At a sharp command his men, instead of standing still, rushed forward in a disciplined line, casting their javelins with deadly accuracy. This took their opponents completely by surprise, throwing them into confusion and utterly negating their attempts at defence. Four died on the points of spears, three more were wounded. The last trio fought bravely, but were easily forced to the ground by the superior numbers of their foes. The tribune, his face alight with pleasure, turned to the podium and Quintus again leant forward. This time Lucius’s head stayed still as he considered the request. The crowd must have sensed what was afoot, and the noise of their cheering died away. Marcellus was holding his breath too, wondering what his father would do. To deny Quintus, at his own games, might shame him; to accede after his previous public refusal would diminish the older senator.
Lucius turned to the Parthian ambassadors, his hand, outstretched, clearly offering them the decision. This was flattery indeed and the fact that the ambassadors were conscious of this signal honour showed in their delighted expressions. Their leader stood up, bowed to Lucius and raised his hand towards the arena. His thumb stood out sideways from his hand, and being well aware of the drama of the occasion, he held it there for a full minute. Then, to the delight of the crowd, he turned it down. Nothing that had gone before compared with the noise now as the citizens of Rome, hoarse from a long day, raised a last rousing cheer at the sight of their heroes spearing and stabbing the recumbent men they had defeated.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The assassin tried to kill Lucius Falerius Nerva after the sacrifice of the bulls, as the line of senators made their way towards the Forum for the opening session. Servius Caepio, as senior consul, led the procession, with Livius Rutulius one pace behind. Lucius, acknowledged as Princeps Senatus, was so close to Rutulius that none could say who had precedence. Marcellus marched alongside, proud of the position his father, through both age and eminence, now held. He noticed the
man detach himself from the crowd and he alone saw, given the angle of his approach, that he was not reaching into his toga for a petition but for a weapon. The glint of the long thin shaft of steel acted on the young man long before he knew the intended victim.
He shot forward as the blade swung and time assumed a different, almost stationary dimension, each movement taking an age to complete, each one destined to be clearly etched on the boy’s memory. He was too slow by a fraction; his outstretched hand only managed to deflect the blade slightly, yet that saved his father’s life. The knife seared across his chest, causing a deep gash and a fountain of red blood, rather than going straight to the heart as intended. Lucius fell backwards, shocked and silent, yet to feel the pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus saw the other senators back away, registered the bright red stain on his father’s whitened toga, but his main focus was still on the assassin, who had turned to face him, swinging the blade round to gut his belly. The boy hit him right-handed, with all the force he could muster, his left hand pushing forward to parry the knife.
It sliced across the fleshy part of his outstretched arm just as Marcellus grasped the wrist that held it. His right hand swung again, a true boxer’s punch, smashing the man’s nose, which sprayed his blood in all directions. His knees buckled and Marcellus hit him again, this time on the ear as the sounds of panic began to impede upon his senses: the senators crying out for protection, the mob shouting and screaming. The assassin had fallen back towards the crowd, too dense to admit him and allow escape. Marcellus, still hanging on to his wrist, hit him again, but, surprisingly, he arched forward, his mouth opening to emit a high-pitched scream. The young Falerii raised his fist to strike again, feeling the wrist, which he had been struggling to hold, go limp; the knife dropped from his opponent’s grasp and stuck upright in the earth. The man’s knees gave way and he fell forward on the boy, eyes and mouth wide open, as if in shock, then, too heavy for Marcellus to hold, he crumpled to the ground. The whole crowd could see the short sword which had been rammed upwards into his back, with such force that only the hilt showed.
Lucius had been lifted onto the rostrum, a platform from which he had spoken many times, and he lay now with his eyes shut tight as the lictors rushed around like disturbed geese, countermanding each other’s orders. Quintus Cornelius, who had been a long way behind, pushed his way through the other senators and jumped up on the platform, shouting for order in a parade ground voice, sending one of the lictors off to fetch a surgeon. Then he organised a guard round Lucius, with his brother Titus, who had been standing on the Forum steps, taking command. They pushed the curious onlookers back so that the wounded man could breathe. Marcellus found himself pushed back too and the feet of many men trampled over the body of the dead assassin before Titus pushed his way through to mount guard over that too.
‘Marcellus,’ he shouted, indicating his whereabouts to the soldiers who had obeyed his instructions. ‘Fetch the senator’s son.’
Swords came out of their sheaths, with that rasping sound familiar to anyone who had ever stood near a soldier, and the crowd seemed to melt away as they pushed through to where Marcellus stood, tears in his eyes.
‘He’s alive!’ Titus called out, praying he was right, because the breath the old senator was drawing looked mighty laboured to him. He took Marcellus by the arm and led him towards the rostrum, helping him up and shouting for those surrounding Lucius to stand aside. Blood soaked the front of his father’s toga, but the eyes were open, brittle, hard and angry.
‘Get me out of here, Marcellus. Am I to be gazed at, in my distress, by the mob?’
Aquila lay on his back, staring at the stars, his fingertips toying with the wings of the eagle charm, as men moved restlessly around him. The fires were low now, merely embers glowing in the dark, but he was too troubled to sleep, going over in his mind the events of the last few weeks and relating them to the dream he had just had, so unusually clear in his mind. He thought back to that day when they had gathered at the base of Mount Etna. He had found Hypolitas’s speech as uplifting as the runaway slaves, been equally stunned by the magic fire he produced from his mouth and that feeling had lasted while they remained south of the volcano, probably because he had been too preoccupied to truly examine that with which he had become engaged. Not that things had eased off after the governor’s men had gone back to their normal lives; the slaves commenced training for action as soon as they returned north, to hills and mountains now clear of the Roman threat.
The young man, so well trained in the profession of arms, had entered into things in good heart, helping Gadoric to sift out those who had soldiered before, so they, in turn, could take small groups to teach, showing them the very basic skills necessary to be a disciplined fighter. He had stayed away from the leaders at night but he knew that as they sat round their fire, Gadoric, Tyrtaeus and Hypolitas had discussed various targets and that was as it should be; too many voices meant confusion. But he had also heard Pentheus’s excited talk of retribution and not thought of the blood that would be spilt, or the mortified flesh that would go to settle these old scores.
Yet his nightmares had reminded him, possibly for the first time since he had agreed to take part in this venture, that he was a Roman. A younger Fulmina had appeared, her hair black instead of grey, and spoken to him of his glorious destiny and so had Clodius, in his legionary uniform, asking if he had died fighting Rome’s enemies so that the boy he had found in the woods could betray him to Greek slaves and help them spill Roman blood. Worst of all, he dreamt of the old crone Drisia, who had told Fulmina his fortune so many years before. In the dream she had the gold eagle in her hand, telling him to beware of angering the Gods, and repeating, over and over again, what she had intoned years before. ‘Go to Rome, go to Rome.’ Was Drisia dead too?
Aquila had woken suddenly, with his hand round the charm, which provided immediate reassurance, and free of sleep he felt less alarm, as well as a resurgence of the healthy scepticism he had about the Gods and their interventions, having seen how often they misled their worshippers. All Clodius’s singing and Fulmina’s beseeching had not saved them from a painful, penurious end, but dreams were different; that was when the souls of the dead, who could see so much more than the living, spoke to those they had left behind in order to guide them. Aquila believed it, Gadoric the Celt swore it was the key to all life, and even Hypolitas had used the power of his dreams to sway the crowd of runaway slaves. Aquila lifted the eagle and rubbed it against his lips, then he got to his feet and went to find Gadoric. He would explain to him first, then together they could go and talk to Hypolitas.
‘Remember, no killing the overseer or his family,’ said Hypolitas quietly.
It was not the first time he had said this but that did nothing to lessen the angry looks on the faces of the men around him, some of whom had escaped from this very farm and could not grasp the point. Pentheus, naturally, had been the most vociferous in his objections, citing yet again the litany of crimes from which he had personally suffered, his sallow complexion turning white with passion. Yet Hypolitas would prevail; for all his thin frame he was able to dominate these burly fighting men. It was not Aquila’s dreams that had persuaded the Greek to show caution but the source: as the young man recounted his reasons, he had taken hold of the charm, which swung from the boy’s neck, glinting in the light from the fire. Hypolitas closed his eyes for a second, before opening them suddenly, to fix Aquila with a hypnotic stare.
‘You woke holding this?’ he asked.
Aquila nodded slowly but he could not move his eyes, which seemed held by some exterior force. Hypolitas was talking, his free hand weaving slowly just outside Aquila’s line of vision, but the words made little sense, since the only thing which registered was the droning, soporific quality of his voice. He felt Hypolitas tug at the charm slightly, as if he was trying to pull it off his neck, and that snapped whatever spell he was weaving. Aquila shook his head, then reached out to remove the eag
le from the Greek’s grasp. It was impossible to say what he saw in the other man’s eyes, but it looked remarkably like disappointment.
Those eyes were as hypnotic and the hands weaved just as much in the firelight as he explained his reasons to the assembled soldiers, looking like an evil spirit as the rising sun lit his eager face. There was no mention of dreams, nor of the mystical powers of a gold talisman; for once, Hypolitas relied on plain common sense, even if it seemed to emanate from a supernatural source.
‘Nothing will do more to condemn us in the eyes of the Roman Senate than that any of their citizens should be harmed. They will see that as an act of war and respond in kind. Remember our aim, which is freedom.’ He glanced sideways at Aquila, as if to ensure that the younger man would remain silent. ‘I did not see this at first, but I do now. If we spare their people, we can appeal to justice.’
‘Justice!’ snapped Pentheus. ‘From a Roman?’
It was Aquila who replied. ‘If you seek justice it may be forthcoming, if you seek war, Rome will destroy you.’
‘Destroy us,’ he sneered, with a heavy emphasis on the second word. ‘Has the turncoat, Aquila, turned his cloak yet again?’
Gadoric’s hand restrained Aquila’s response but he spoke to Pentheus in the same angry voice the boy would have used. ‘Beware, Greek. If you insult this Roman again, he may kill you.’
‘Are we to leave the Romans to live while we murder each other?’ Hypolitas’s angry words brought them back to the matter at hand: their first attack, which had to be a success. If they failed here, no amount of visions or dreams would keep the hopes of the multitude alive.