Arminius

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Which is the risk that’ll make this seriously good fun.’

  I remember being unable to stop myself from smiling as I caught the desire for danger and adventure in his eyes. ‘And what about all the others who may not be as lucky as us?’

  ‘What difference does it make to them whether they end up dead in a fire or dead on the sand of the arena?’

  ‘But they might be destined to live into old age.’

  ‘Then that’s what they’ll do. Only the ones who are destined to die in the fire will do so; and that fire is destined to happen because I can see it.’

  And, of course, that fire did happen; but what resulted from it was not quite as we had planned.

  It had been easy for Lucius to get us into the school; the lanista, Cassianus Crispus, had been honoured that an adoptive son of the Emperor should take such an interest in his gladiators and so he allowed us to come and watch the training any time that we pleased. This had two obvious benefits: firstly, we were able to explore the complex. Secondly, I was able to see Vulferam and although I did not have the chance to speak to him I was able, by means of a bribed slave, to find out which cell was his and to get a message to him. He knew that I was coming for him.

  It was some ten so nights after we had first looked at the buildings that we approached them in the dead of night in a covered wagon. Even at that time the Campus Martius was not deserted – there are very few areas of Rome that ever manage to achieve calm, even on the coldest of nights, because of the daytime injunction on wheeled transport within the city walls – but this suited our purpose as we could pass unremarked as if we were just returning from a nighttime delivery. We pulled the wagon up next to the wall at the back of the complex, furthest away from the gates, shrouded in shadow thrown by a quarter moon, then unharnessed the horse and shooed it away.

  ‘You hold it steady, Arminius,’ Lucius whispered as we raised up a ladder that reached to within a couple of feet of the top of the wall. Within moments he was up on the roof and had lowered a rope, smelling of the oil in which it had been soaked for two days, to which I attached the first of four sacks containing our gear. As the last one was hauled up I followed up the ladder.

  The complex was built around a central, rectangular courtyard in which the gladiators trained. The ground and first floors of the two long sides contained their cells whilst either side of the gate was devoted to smithies, armouries and other workshops and storerooms. The side that we had chosen had the kitchens, eating area, infirmary and the slaves’ accommodation; in short: the most combustible.

  I threw the rope back down, taking care that it landed on the wagon’s cover, which had also benefitted from a good dousing in oil, and then joined Lucius at the far edge of the gently rising roof above what we had worked out was the medical supply storeroom. Here Lucius had removed a dozen tiles and was now feeding a second rope into the gap and attaching it to the exposed rafter.

  Lucius disappeared down through the hole. ‘Perfect,’ he muttered as he touched the ground. ‘It’s full of bandaging, blankets and rags just begging for a flame.’

  I passed the sacks down after him, keeping only an unlit pitch-soaked torch and the wherewithal to ignite it, and waited, listening to the sound of Lucius dousing the storeroom with an amphora of oil.

  ‘I’ll whistle three rising notes once I’ve done the walkway outside,’ he whispered as he pulled another couple of amphorae out of a bag. The room brightened a fraction as Lucius opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden walkway that ran around the entire length of the first floor, giving access to all the gladiators’ cells.

  My heart thumped in my chest and, despite the chill, my hands felt clammy as I waited for what seemed to be an interminable while but was probably, in reality, no more than the time it takes to empty one’s bladder after a good night out. The signal came and, scratching flint against iron, I soon had sparks in my tinder, which I coaxed into a flame. As the torch flared up, I slid back down the roof and touched it to the oil-soaked rope. It caught immediately with a blue-red flame that rippled down its length at a leisurely speed, which increased the pace of my heart, until eventually it touched the covering of the wagon, igniting it with a sudden flash. I peered down, watching the fire grow until the wood had caught and the covering had burnt away exposing the stacks of amphorae within, each plugged with oiled rags; they too began to burn.

  I sprinted back up the roof and slipped down the rope into the storeroom, holding the torch aloft.

  Lucius stood silhouetted in the doorway. ‘It’s burning?’

  I grinned by way of reply.

  ‘Come on then.’ He disappeared to the right. I threw the torch into a pile of bandages; they burst into bright golden flame that quickly spread to the left and right as well as down into the puddle of oil on the floor. As that too caught fire I ran out, following Lucius with a tongue of flame chasing me along the oil-drenched wooden walkway.

  Within a few moments the first shouts had started and, as we ran to the steps leading down to the training area, a flash lit up the sky above us; the wagon-load of amphorae had exploded, spreading burning oil all over the outside wall, lighting up the darkness with a fierce orange glow.

  We took the steps two at a time, Lucius with the three remaining sacks slung over his shoulder and me with flames licking my ankles. Hitting the sand, we darted to the right, into the deep shadow below the walkway, as dark figures began to run towards us from the gate on the other side of the courtyard. Skidding to a halt outside of a locked door, Lucius pulled a crowbar from one of the sacks and wedged it into the doorjamb. ‘Three, two, one!’ We both threw the weight of our bodies against the bar and, with a crack of splintering wood, the door burst open and we tumbled into the kitchens.

  ‘Get the buckets!’ Lucius shouted, pointing to the storeroom to the left of the great central cooking area, where we knew, from our exploration of the complex, the kitchen equipment was kept.

  Grabbing as many buckets as I could, I ran back through the kitchen as Lucius lay two of the last sacks on the grill above the still glowing charcoal; they immediately began to smoulder.

  ‘Over here!’ I shouted, dashing out into the courtyard waving the buckets at the men sprinting towards the fire from the gates.

  The closest one swerved over to me; throwing him a bucket, I ran to the nearest of the drinking water butts, placed around the courtyard to slake the gladiators’ thirst during training, shouting at the rest of the men to follow me, and within a few moments I had a bucket-chain fighting the fire now spreading down the steps.

  Lucius sprinted out with another half-dozen buckets as more men appeared to help fight the fire; we set up another chain before rushing back to collect yet more buckets for the ever-growing effort. In the kitchens the sacks were now flaming, heating the amphorae contained within; Lucius retrieved the final sack from next to the door as we ran out of the kitchen for the last time.

  No one questioned us because, ostensibly, we were helping tackle the mutual threat: the fire. No one noticed that we did not belong there because, for the same reason, we fitted in. No one even paid us the slightest heed because we were striving for the common good. We were the enemy within and yet we were invisible; inside I was laughing fit to burst.

  All around now the gladiators had started to beat on their locked doors, shouting to be let out as the flames spread despite the efforts of our fire-fighting teams; their noise rose over the shouts of the bucket-chains and of the inmates of the infirmary on the first floor as those who could walk helped those who could not to safety before the walkway was completely engulfed in flame. Rising above everything were the screams from the slaves’ quarters as the conflagration threatened their bolted doors.

  Lucius and I scurried around, shouting encouragement but not doing anything constructive, taking care to keep well away from the door to the kitchen. The din grew with the fire as did the desperation of the gladiators and the screams of the slaves as their quarters began to burn.
Then, with a whoosh of heated air, a flare shot through the kitchen door as the remaining amphorae exploded; the hair of a couple of the men closest to the door ignited, sending them pelting, screaming, to the nearest butt to douse themselves. Flames raged in the kitchen and, above, the roof burnt freely.

  ‘Release the gladiators! Release the gladiators!’ a voice bellowed over the pandemonium – Lucius.

  I joined in the cry, pushing men towards the cell doors to begin unbolting them.

  ‘And the ones on the first floor!’ Lucius shouted, pointing to the stairways, as yet untouched by flame, halfway down the courtyard on either side. Hauling a couple of men with me, I sprinted towards the left-hand one, following Lucius; we took the stairs two by two.

  As I reached the top I pointed to the left and shouted at the two men: ‘Take that end! We’ll go right.’ To the right was Vulferam’s cell. As we went we pulled back the bolts on the outside of the doors, releasing the gladiators – many of whom had women for company. They streamed down the walkway, clad only in loincloths or completely naked, as we worked our way along until I pulled back a door to reveal Vulferam. He had a woman with him; she had her tunic on but he was just in his loincloth. I pulled her out of the cell and propelled her down the walkway.

  Lucius threw the sack at Vulferam. ‘Get dressed!’

  My uncle tipped out its contents on the low bed: a tunic, a cloak, a belt and a pair of sandals. I carried on opening the cell doors along the rest of the way and then returned to find my uncle dressed.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he asked in our language.

  ‘Luck; I saw you fight – and lose.’

  ‘We don’t have time for whatever you’re discussing,’ Lucius shouted in Latin, running out of the cell into the chaos on the walkway.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ I hissed at Vulferam as we followed.

  Barging and pushing, we made our way down onto the training area and joined the surge towards the main gates that remained locked. Behind us the fire had spread down both sides of the walkway so that the first few of the gladiators’ cells were now cut off and, no doubt, aflame. Heat seared around the complex and men sweated in the burning glow. All attempts at fighting the fire had now ceased and the only people left close to it were those unfortunate enough to have been trapped in its path; they now lay smouldering, either dead or, had they been very unlucky, rolling in scorched agony as the sand aggravated hideous burns.

  The clamour at the gates grew but still they remained locked, fuelling the gladiators’ indignation at being left to burn.

  ‘I can’t unlock the gate until Cassianus Crispus gives me his permission to release his property,’ the head guard shouted at an angry deputation of incensed inmates.

  ‘And where is the lanista?’ came the heated reply from the group’s leader, a taut-muscled Thracian.

  ‘In his house on the Quirinal; we’ve sent him a message, he’ll be here soon.’

  The Thracian looked over his shoulder as the first sections of the walkway collapsed with a rush of searing wind, intensifying the blaze.

  ‘By which time we’ll all be running around like two-legged torches – you included.’

  ‘I can’t let you go!’

  ‘Bollocks you can’t!’

  The guards were set upon, quickly disarmed and under very extreme duress revealed the whereabouts of the gate key as well as that of the armoury. The guardroom door was broken down, the keys recovered and, once the armoury had been looted, the gates were unlocked as a couple of centuries from one of the newly formed Urban Cohorts formed up on the Flamian Way, directly outside, to try and contain what had now become a mass breakout by over a hundred freshly armed professional killers.

  Lucius and I held back with Vulferam as the gates swung open and the gladiators streamed out, brandishing the tools of their trade, heading directly for the shield wall that stood between them and freedom.

  Lucius grinned at me and Vulferam as the surge gained unstoppable momentum. ‘Straight through the gates and then dart sharp left and leave the fighting to the professionals?’

  ‘Sounds like the sensible option.’

  ‘Where do we head to?’ Vulferam shouted as we joined the stampede to escape the flames.

  ‘The Salus Gate is the nearest,’ Lucius replied as the metallic ringing of clashing blades suddenly broke over the dissonance of bellowed curses and threats.

  As the first screams of pain added to the mayhem we cleared the gate and hugged the wall to our left. Ahead, the Urban Cohort centuries had buckled under the pressure of the explosion through the gates of scores of men at the peak of physical condition both bodily and martially.

  We pushed on towards the extreme right flank of the centuries’ line along with a dozen or so gladiators more intent on a clean escape than on fighting their way out. The buckle at the line’s centre had pulled the edges back but there was still less than two paces between the wall and the last soldiers who had, as yet, not been engaged. Seeing us approach, they brought their shields to bear and stared fixedly over the rims, left feet planted forward and right arms back ready to stab their weapons through the gaps in the wall.

  Lucius pulled back and let a few bodies get between the soldiers and us; Vulferam and I pressed close to him, edging forward cautiously in his wake as all around the efforts of the gladiators, more used to individual combat, failed to break the unified discipline of men trained to fight as a unit. Slowly the escapees were giving ground and I could see that unless we broke out we would be crushed against the wall and butchered – or worse: captured and exposed.

  To my right a gladiator went down to an underarm thrust of a honed gladius blade; blood slopped black and glistening, faintly orange in the firelight, to the ground. His sword clattered on the paving; I stooped to retrieve it.

  ‘Give that to me,’ Vulferam demanded, grabbing my wrist. He took the weapon, judging the weight of it in his hand. ‘Go!’ he shouted, pushing me into Lucius’ back.

  Without questioning the order, we sprinted forward, keeping tight to the wall as the line’s flank moved forward to close the gap. Vulferam accelerated beside me, bellowing a war cry of our people that I had not heard in years. The old but familiar sound lent strength to my legs and they powered me on as Vulferam barrelled towards the extreme right soldier, the tip of his blade aimed directly between the man’s eyes. He immediately raised his shield and thrust it forward and up in an attempt to deflect Vulferam’s blow; his distraction was enough for Lucius and me to clear the gap as Vulferam heaved his shoulder into the man’s shield and brought his blade clanging down on his sword flashing out towards my thigh. Without the support of a comrade to his right the soldier crashed to the ground, entangling the feet of the man to his rear as he tried to step into the gap. Lucius and I pelted forward as Vulferam hurdled the downed man and the three of us sprinted for our lives down the tomb-lined Flamian Way into the deepening night away from the inferno and the blood-bath that we had caused to free one man.

  I had been shown the meaning of the grand gesture and I loved it. More than that, I had learnt a crucial lesson: the most important ingredient of leadership is vision.

  After a couple of hundred paces we slowed, seeing as there was no pursuit, and slipped through the tombs to our left, and, crossing Agrippa’s Field, headed for the Salus Gate.

  ‘Once we’re in the city,’ Lucius said, breathing deeply with the exertion and, no doubt, the exhilaration, ‘we’ll head across the Quirinal down into the Forum Romanum and then onto the Palatine. We can smuggle your uncle into the palace; no one would dare to search my apartments even if they did suspect us of having anything to do with such a despicable incident.’

  ‘Why did you have anything to do with it?’ Vulferam asked. ‘I know who you are; I’ve fought in front of you three or four times.’

  Lucius looked at Vulferam as we approached the torch-lit gate. ‘If you know who I am then you will understand when I tell you that I did it because I could.’

&nbs
p; ‘All those lives just to free one man.’

  ‘Yes; just think how valuable that now makes your life, so don’t waste it. Now pull your cloak tight around you and act as our bodyguard whilst we go through the gate.’

  The soldiers on duty at the Salus Gate stepped out of the way as Lucius announced his name and we passed under the arch as another party hurried in the opposite direction. As we passed each other in the torchlight their leader glanced in our direction and suddenly stopped. ‘Lucius Julius Caesar, forgive me for not showing you more respect but I am on urgent business.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Cassianus Crispus; please do not let me detain you.’

  The lanista nodded to me and then glanced at Vulferam who tried to keep his face in shadow. With a hint of a double-take and a frown, Cassianus Crispus hurried off towards his ruined livelihood.

  Lucius watched him go and slapped his hand against the wall. ‘Shit!’

  Two days later found Lucius and me sitting on a stone bench in the garden at the heart of Augustus’ palace. We had been waiting for three hours since dawn when the summons had come to attend the Emperor at his convenience; we were in no doubt what it was about.

  ‘I’ll deny everything, obviously,’ Lucius said for at least the tenth time, ‘as will you.’

  ‘Crispus saw us and he recognised Vulferam; how many times must we go through this? Deny it as much as you like, your adoptive father won’t believe you.’

  ‘Of course he will; he wouldn’t believe anything bad of me because as far as he’s concerned my behaviour has always been impeccable.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure, Lucius,’ a female voice interrupted, surprising us.

  We both looked over our shoulders; Livia, Augustus’ wife, stood, beautiful, severe, remote, half shielded by a column in the covered walkway that surrounded the garden. I had never had any personal dealings with this elegant woman whom, if rumour was to be believed, played much more of a part in Roman politics than just the role of Augustus’ wife.