‘No matter,’ he says. ‘We will have more opportunities.’
‘Did you watch them?’ I ask.
‘When I could. Barlaas was agitated. He knows these emissaries. I’m certain of it.’
‘What do we do now?’ I ask.
‘We keep our eyes open. And we watch these men like hawks.’
Domitilla
20 August
The subterranean tunnels beneath the amphitheatre, Puteoli
‘Apart from the elephant,’ admiral Pliny says, his voice rising above the crackle of torches, ‘the lion is the noblest of creatures. Indeed, the lion is the only wild beast to show mercy to its victims.’
His demeanour is that of a philosopher, lecturing for his audience – not just the Parthian emissaries, but also the half-dozen Romans who have come to see the beasts in advance of tomorrow’s games, caged beneath the amphitheatre in Puteoli. Behind him, an impatient lion stalks the corners of its cage. Its half-hearted growl echoes along the cavernous web of subterranean tunnels.
Terracotta bricks, stacked like pancakes, pulse in the flickering torchlight. Beyond the nearest arches, to our left and right, the tunnel is a bottomless black.
‘Indeed,’ Pliny continues, ‘the lion will rarely attack women or children.’
Ulpius is bent over his walking staff. ‘What do you say, Augusta?’ he asks, smiling. ‘Do you care to test the admiral’s theories? Can we put you in the cage for the night and fetch you in the morning?’
The crowd laughs.
If Pliny is frustrated by Ulpius’s joke, he doesn’t show it. He waits for me to answer.
‘I’m sorry, admiral,’ I say, with a smile, ‘I would not agree to spend the night with this beast, noble or not.’
‘I understand,’ Pliny says amiably, ‘a reasonable response.’ He turns to Ulpius and his tone becomes more combative. ‘You doubt the lion’s nobility, Senator Ulpius? You deny the unique nature of it’s character?’
From further down the black tunnel comes the blare of an elephant’s trumpet. The sound is magnified by the narrow tunnels. The noise pushes its way past us, like a heavy wind.
‘I doubt everything,’ Ulpius says. ‘It’s a good way to avoid being bitten.’
Pliny remains sanguine. The man could talk of lions the entire evening, with or without Ulpius’s heckling. ‘When the lion is dying,’ Pliny continues, as though Ulpius hadn’t interrupted, ‘should it have time for reflection, it will often bite the earth and shed a tear at the misery of her fate.’
‘No creature likes to die,’ Ulpius says. ‘We can agree on that at least.’
*
The Roman world can be divided into those who love the games and those who do not; those who see drama, courage and physical feats, and those who only see a riot of blood, torn flesh and death.
I count myself in the latter group. I cannot stand the games. Tonight, when all we talk of is the gladiatorial fights and beast hunts, and tomorrow, during the games itself, I will bite my tongue and stomach it. Because that is what is expected of me. Because I am Caesar’s sister. But it will be a chore.
Tomorrow will begin with the butchering of beautiful, often exotic animals, dragged from the far corners of the empire, to die as entertainment; at midday, convicted criminals will be torn apart by starved animals; and the day will conclude with armoured gladiators fighting – cutting, stabbing, beating, and sometimes murdering each other. All three events are tied together by suffering: a torrent of blood that will flood the sand of the arena floor. The audience will drink until they can barely see the violence they are cheering on.
Those that appreciate the games have a certain giddiness to them the night before. Titus is a good example. The tour of the animal cages is complete and he is engaged in conversation with Arshad, the head Parthian emissary. Titus is smiling. Not a half-smile, or even the hint of a smile, which is normally all he’s capable of. But a full grin, ear-to-ear. He is explaining to his Parthian guest the fights, though his audience cannot quite follow its intricacies.
‘I don’t understand,’ Arshad says in Greek. ‘The man you cheer for is from Thrace?’
Titus waves his finger. ‘No, no. He is a Thracian fighter. It is a class of fighter.’
We are staring at one of the gladiators that Senator Sulpicius has brought to the banquet. The gladiators are dressed as they would be for the fights: armour, manacles, swords and shields. The heavily armed fighters are wearing crested helmets made of bronze, with metal grates covering their faces.
Senator Sulpicius looks at his doctore, an older man, with long grey hair, carrying a whip. The doctore calls over a Myrmillo to stand beside the Thracian.
‘Generally,’ Titus continues, ‘the rule is that one combatant is heavily armed, like this Myrmillo and the other is not, like this Thracian. You’ll note that the Thracian has a small shield, a short curved sword, or scimitar, greaves and manacles that cover his hands and forearms. In comparison, the Myrmillo has a much larger shield and sword, and a large bronze helmet. Thracians and Myrmillos are often pitted against each other in the arena. The contrast makes for excellent fights.’
Three young elephants, connected by tail and trunk, are led through the party by a boy. Their trainer, an Alexandrian brandishing a stick, brings up the rear. The smiling crowd parts to let them pass.
‘The Thracian class requires the greatest skill as a fighter,’ Titus continues. ‘Thugs are chosen to be the heavily armed fighters. Myrmillos, Gallic and the like. Lanistas pick giant men to hide behind their armour. But to be a Thracian, one must have skill and cunning; he must be strategic. To see a Thracian outlast and out-think a heavily armed and armoured opponent – it is to see humanity at its finest.’
‘Wrong, wrong, wrong. Don’t listen to him, Arshad.’ Domitian is drunk and pronounces the Parthian’s name incorrectly. It sounds like Ar-shit. He says, ‘Myrmillo is the finest class there is.’
‘This is who you like,’ Arshad asks Domitian, pointing at the heavily armoured gladiator. We are speaking in Greek, but he pronounces the class of gladiator in Latin, as Domitian did, but carefully. ‘The Mir-mill-oh.’
Domitian nods vigorously. He fails to mention that, in his constant quest to escape his older brother’s shadow, he chooses to cheer against whatever class Titus cheers for.
‘And how do they see anything with those helmets?’ Arshad asks.
‘They make due,’ Sulpicius says dismissively. ‘Some better than others.’
‘Perhaps we can let Arshad try on a Myrmillo’s helmet?’ Titus asks. ‘So he can see the world through the eyes of a fighter.’ This is the most carefree I have seen Titus since taking the purple. He is enjoying himself.
‘Of course, Caesar.’ Sulpicius claps his hands together and the Myrmillo removes his helmet. He has a thick brown beard and his long hair is tied into a knot at the back of his head.
‘What is your name, gladiator?’ Titus asks.
‘They call me Minnow,’ the gladiator says.
Titus smiles. ‘Oh, and how did a large man like you get such a name?’
‘Because I’m fast.’
Titus laughs. I can tell he likes the gladiator’s bravado. ‘Good,’ he says, ‘I look forward to seeing it.’
Arshad asks, ‘And how does one end up as a Mir-mill-oh?’
Minnow shrugs. ‘I was taken as a slave when I was young. I don’t remember how.’
‘And do you like being a Mir-mill-oh?’ Arshad asks.
Minnow is taken aback by the question. I wonder if he’s ever even asked himself this before. ‘It’s better than the mines.’
*
Ulpius is escorted over to our conversation by the one-eyed Theseus. Sulpicius’s lip curls in disgust; his eyes dart back and forth, trying to judge how Caesar reacts to Ulpius. I recall Pliny had said Sulpicius does not care for Ulpius. But surely he’s been in Italy long enough to know Ulpius is on the rise.
Sulpicius isn’t the only one to react to Ulpius and Theseus’s appearance. The gladiato
r Minnow does as well. But rather than snarl, he grins and possibly winks – though it’s so subtle and quick that, after it’s done, I’m not sure it even happened.
‘Now Caesar,’ Ulpius says, ‘I must warn you. Don’t grow too attached to Sulpicius’s gladiators. He has a poor record when it comes to the health of his slaves.’
‘Lies,’ Sulpicius says. ‘This man is a born liar, Caesar. Don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.’
Titus ignores the exchange. He has no patience for senators bickering, especially in front of foreign emissaries.
Prefect Virgilius stops the conflict from escalating further. He emerges from the crowd, puts his hand on Sulpicius’s arm, and gives the senator a steely look.
Titus puts his arm around Arshad’s shoulders and steers him away from the arguing senators. ‘The next type of gladiator you need to see is the Retarius. They are villains to a man, but their skill – to use only a net and trident – is spellbinding.’
As Titus escorts Arshad away, Virgilius’s hand stays on Sulpicius’s arm. The senator narrows his wolf-like eyes. ‘Take your hand off me, pleb.’
Virgilius’s free hand goes to the hilt of his sword.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ I say, stepping in between them, ‘how would it look to our Parthian guests if two of Rome’s distinguished citizens drew blood the night before the gladiatorial games? Can’t we wait until tomorrow to see a fight?’
Virgilius smiles. ‘Of course, Augusta.’ His smile fades when he looks at Sulpicius. ‘Senator,’ he says cordially, before turning to leave.
Sulpicius bows slightly. ‘Mistress,’ he says and then storms off.
*
Later in the evening, Titus grabs my arm. ‘Come,’ he says quietly, ‘we both have business to see to before dinner is served.’
For a moment, I had thought Titus meant we were going somewhere alone, discreetly. But Caesar is never wanting for company. Lictors, dressed all in white, Virgilius and a dozen Praetorians follow us out of the party. We walk a short distance to an empty warehouse not far from the docks.
There is a man waiting for us. His face is cloaked in shadow.
‘Cerialis,’ Titus says.
General Cerialis steps out of the shadow and the two veterans embrace. Titus signals for me to come closer.
‘Sister,’ Titus says, ‘you remember general Cerialis.’
Cerialis bows, respectfully.
‘Of course,’ I say.
Staring at my fiancé for the first time in many months, I have to admit: Titus could have done worse. While Cerialis does not make my knees weak, he does not repulse me either. He is in his late forties, with a full head of hair, brown with a streak of grey – not from age, but a mark he has borne since he was a child. His face and neck have the look most men his age cannot fight – puffy jowls like a bullfrog – but he is otherwise handsome.
‘I have spoken with my sister,’ Titus says. ‘She is more than agreeable to marriage.’
Cerialis smiles. ‘Excellent. And has Caesar chosen a date?’
‘Two days from now.’
Cerialis looks like a man about to purchase a slave well below market price.
But maybe that is unfair. There is nothing to be gained by waiting.
We sit and talk about Cerialis’s journey to the Bay. We are interrupted by Ptolemy, Caesar’s secretary. ‘Caesar,’ he says, ‘Senator Nerva requests an audience.’
‘Nerva?’ Titus says. ‘How did he know we were here?’
‘Not much is missed by Nerva,’ I say. ‘He has spies everywhere.’
Cerialis and I begin to stand, but Titus waves his hand. ‘Please stay, Cerialis. I could use your counsel.’
My future husband cannot hide his smile.
Nerva walks into the warehouse with his prow of a nose leading the way. He is accompanied by his secretary and the Batavian.
‘Caesar,’ Nerva says, ‘I trust that I am not disturbing you.’
Nerva’s eyes pass over Cerialis. One can feel him calculating the different reasons Caesar, his sister and Cerialis would be meeting like this. I can’t think of a second.
‘Not at all,’ Titus says. ‘What do you wish to discuss?’
‘I’ve heard of the promise your brother made to the Parthians, that the Batavian will fight their champion tomorrow. I know Caesar would never force one of his senators to put their property at risk against his will. But I also know Caesar wishes to be a man of his word, even if it was his brother who made the promise.’
Titus nods. ‘Go on.’
‘I thought that I could sell the Batavian to the Imperial family. And you would be free to put him into the gladiatorial flights, should you choose.’
‘You don’t mind giving up such a prize?’ Titus asks.
Nerva stares at the Batavian. ‘He is harder to control than you think. In truth, I would be pleased to be rid of the headache.’
The Batavian shows no sign of understanding what is being discussed.
‘And maybe,’ Nerva continues, ‘such a gesture could help bridge the divide between us? Between Caesar and his loyal subject. And, anyway, I expect Caesar will pay his worth?’
Titus stands and walks to the Batavian. He inspects the Batavian’s arms, his chest, his thighs. He slaps the slave’s long calves.
He looks the Batavian in the eye and says, ‘You’ve impressed in the hunts. But can you fight?’
The Batavian stares at him blankly.
To Nerva, Titus says, ‘Who was the man you used to translate?’
‘Calenus,’ I say. ‘Julius Calenus.’
‘That’s right,’ Titus says. ‘Calenus. Where is he?’
Nerva looks at me with his small, dark eyes. ‘Gone,’ he says.
There is something about the way Nerva says this, the absolute certainty in his voice, that I find unnerving. But the moment is short lived. To Titus, in a lighter tone, he says, ‘Missing. He is a troubled veteran. He uses drink to escape that trouble.’
Titus hasn’t taken his eyes off the Batavian. ‘Then how do you communicate with him?’
‘I don’t,’ Nerva says. ‘Not any more. I point in the direction I want him to walk. He knows how the hunts work. The more animals he kills, the more women and drink I give him in return. He is not fluent in Latin or Greek, but he understands more than he lets on.’ Nerva shakes his head. ‘As I said, the man is stubborn. Whipping will not remedy the problem. It’s in his bones.’
‘It isn’t good to whip a prize chariot horse,’ Titus says, still eyeing the Batavian. ‘Their love of the fight is what makes them a prize.’ He turns to his entourage. ‘Is Caesar’s estate so paltry he has no one who speaks . . . whatever language this slave speaks.’
Caesar’s cortege exchange uncertain glances.
After a frustrated shake of his head, Titus says, ‘Where is admiral Secundus? Between the admiral and his secretary, they know nearly every language there is.’
Ptolemy rushes off and returns with Pliny and his secretary. Pliny’s forehead is dappled with sweat; he is out of breath, even from such a short journey from the market. The situation is explained. After he exchanges whispers with his secretary, Pliny says, ‘Say what you need, Caesar. Spartacus and I should be able to translate.’
Now that Caesar’s demands have been met, his frustration ebbs. He says to the Batavian, ‘I may buy you from your master. If I do, I intend to put you in the gladiatorial fights. What do you have to say to that?’
Pliny and his secretary debate how to translate what Titus has said. Once they settle on the right words, Pliny speaks to the Batavian. The Batavian responds in a similar dialect and Pliny laughs. His secretary’s eyes are wide with shock.
‘He says,’ Pliny translates, ‘anyone would be a better master than Big Nose.’
Titus smiles. Nerva looks indifferent, but that is nothing new: Nerva would look indifferent with a knife in his belly.
‘Can you fight?’ Titus asks.
Pliny translates. As the Bat
avian is responding in his own tongue, he nods his head at the Praetorians.
Pliny smiles. ‘He said, “Better than this lot.” This lot, I believe, is in reference to your Praetorians.’
‘See what I mean,’ Nerva says. ‘Stubborn.’
Titus bites his lip, thinking. ‘Virgilius,’ he says to the prefect, ‘who is your best man?’
Virgilius looks at his men. ‘That would be Goose.’
‘Alright,’ Titus says to the Batavian, ‘let’s see if you’re right.’
*
Ptolemy is sent for wooden practice swords and shields. Space is cleared. Titus claps his hands and the men begin to fight. The Praetorian is obviously skilled. He goes on the attack immediately, thrashing at the Batavian’s shield. Eventually the Praetorian’s wooden blade connects with the Batavian’s shoulder. He grimaces.
Despite myself, I emit a sympathetic yelp.
The Batavian glances in my direction. Something crosses his face. Is it embarrassment?
The Batavian changes tactics. He throws his shield to the side. The Praetorian Goose smiles. ‘That won’t help you, barbarian.’
Goose takes two quick steps forward and thrashes his sword. The Batavian takes two steps, one backward, and one to the side. Goose’s wooden blade swipes harmlessly through the air.
The two fighters repeat this sequence again and again. Goose swings his wooden blade and the Batavian dodges them, calmly, elegantly.
Soon – sooner than I’d have thought – Goose is out of breath. He’s exhausted. Each swipe of his sword is slower. The Batavian is unfazed, as quick and precise as when the fight began.
Finally, after dodging a harmless swipe by the Praetorian, the Batavian unleashes a torrent of hits with his wooden sword, bringing the blade down onto the Praetorian’s shoulders and helmet and arms.
The first seven or so hit the soldier’s cuirass and helmet. The final three connect with flesh.
Blood splashes through the air.
The soldier falls backwards. His helmet has fallen off and his head is about to smash against the stone floor, but the Batavian reaches forward and grabs the soldier’s sword belt and slowly lowers him to the floor.
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