One criminal cries out for mercy.
‘Maybe that’s true. But what then? You’ll just let us do what we want?’
I nod. ‘Manlius is to be left alive.’
He cackles. ‘You’ve grown fond of your centurion. It happens, I suppose.’
‘And,’ I say, ‘keep Sinnaces out of it. It’s in your interests as well. He’d only screw up whatever you would ask him to do.’
I pull my eyes away from the carnage in the arena. ‘Well?’
He nods. ‘If Manlius survives, we will leave him be.’
‘And Sinnaces?’
‘We will stay away from Sinnaces. But, if you betray us, the centurion and Sinnaces are as good as dead.’
‘When will it happen?’
The one who now calls himself Atropates stands. ‘Do not attend the wedding. Say you are ill.’
He walks away as another convict screams out in pain.
Domitilla
21 August
Outside the amphitheatre, Puteoli
‘You have nothing further to offer?’ Ulpius asks.
Slaves mill about with platters of food. Those who had the honour of being invited to Caesar’s box are seated around a table, under a purple awning.
We are conversing in Greek.
‘There is little to tell,’ Arshad says. He is prying open a clam with his knife. He pauses to suck out its juices.
‘A man falsely claiming to be the deposed emperor, Nero,’ Ulipus says, ‘enters your country with an army, joins forces with your king’s enemy, and you’ve no other information to offer?’
‘Artabanus is in Hyrcania, on the other side of the desert,’ Arshad says. ‘We know as much as you.’
‘Earlier this year,’ Ulpius says, ‘Roman forces captured a man serving the False Nero. In Thrace, before he crossed the Euphrates. He said the False Nero’s true name is Terentius. He said the man is an ex-Roman soldier.’
‘I have heard no such thing,’ Arshad says. ‘How do you know the man’s claims are not true?’
‘Wait,’ Pliny interjects. ‘You aren’t suggesting the man is Nero?’
Arshad’s silence is non-committal.
‘Preposterous!’ Pliny says. ‘The man who cut Caesar’s throat is right there.’ He points across the square to Epaphroditus, the Imperial Exchequer and one of Nero’s former-freedman. Epaphroditus is said to have helped Nero kill himself, after the Praetorian Guard and the Senate had declared him an enemy of the state.
One of the Parthian brothers says something in a Parthian dialect.
‘What was that?’ Pliny asks.
Ulpius says, ‘He said, “Romans lie.”’
Pliny is about to say something, but, before he can, Titus interrupts. ‘I have a surprise for you, Arshad.’ Titus is peeling a pistachio. He is looking to change the subject – there is nothing to be gained from convincing the Parthian emissaries that Nero is dead. ‘The last fight today,’ Titus says, ‘will be the Batavian.’
Arshad smiles. ‘Excellent. And he will fight our champion, the Sogdian Spear?’
‘Yes,’ Titus says, ‘so long as you will agree to have your man adopt a correct role.’
‘Oh,’ Arshad says, ‘I see. He must be a Mir-mill-oh?’
‘A Myrmillo, or any other heavily armed fighter. The Batavian will enter the fights as a lightly armed fighter. A Thracian.’
Arshad says something to the Parthian brothers in their own language. It sounds different to the language Ulpius deciphered a moment ago. They laugh. Then, to Titus, in Greek, he says, ‘Very well. He will be a Mir-mill-oh.’
‘And shall we bet,’ Titus says.
‘A bet?’ Arshad asks. ‘You Romans cannot go an hour without gambling, can you?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a friendly bet. It is nothing. If the Batavian wins,’ Titus says, ‘when you leave, to head back to Parthia, your Nisean horse stays here.’
‘You like my horse, do you?’ Arshad says. ‘You’ve a good eye. And if I win?’
‘What do you want?’ Titus asks.
Arshad thinks about the question. His eyes linger on Ptolemy, Titus’s secretary, who is standing at Titus’s side. ‘The boy.’
Arshad seems to enjoy the concern that crosses Titus’s face. ‘I also have a good eye.’
The colour drains from Ptolemy’s cheeks, even in the heat.
‘Not the boy,’ Titus says. ‘Name something else.’
Arshad repeats Titus’s words back to him with relish: ‘Don’t tell me you are afraid of a friendly bet. Anyway, the boy is probably a fraction of the value of my horse.’
Outmanoeuvred, unwilling to show weakness – not to Rome’s greatest rival – Titus says, ‘Fine. The boy goes to you if your man wins. If the Batavian wins, your horse is mine.’
They shake hands to seal the bet.
*
On the walk back to the arena after lunch, I ask Ulpius what Arshad said to the Parthian brothers that caused them to laugh, after Titus said their warrior would need to be a heavily armed fighter.
‘Did you understand what was said?’
‘Yes,’ Ulpius says. ‘They had been speaking in Aramaic. But when they saw I knew the language, they switched to a Median dialect. But, of course, I know that language as well. Not well, but enough to understand it.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘He said, “Light or heavily armed, our man can do it all.”’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I think,’ Ulpius says, ‘their man has more experience in gladiatorial fights than they let on. I think it means your brother has been had.’
*
The crowd is uniformly drunk by the time the gladiators take to the sand. They are on their feet, cheering euphorically, booing rancorously. Even Pliny’s timid nephew is on his feet, booing at the top of his lungs.
I notice something odd while staring at Domitian’s section of the arena. Nerva is there, talking with Domitian. He is whispering in his ear. It is difficult to tell from this angle, but it looks like Domitian is smiling. Why would Nerva want to talk with my younger brother? After I refused Nerva’s overtures, has he moved on to Domitian? I’m not sure he’ll have much luck using Domitian to ingratiate himself to Caesar. Domitian dabbled with politics when Father first took the purple, but Father eventually pushed him to the periphery and Domitian’s interests grew more superficial. Now he prefers wine and the games more than the Senate.
The fights are bloody but no one dies. At least not in the arena. One man, a Gallic fighter, is cut in the neck and the wound is terrible. As he was being dragged off, Virgilius said his chances are not good. When he fell, there was a scream from Sulpicius’s section of the stadium and a slave girl, with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, ran down the stadium steps. Virgilius says the fighter was one of Sulpicius’s, so the injured gladiator was probably the girl’s relation.
The fighter Minnow, whom Titus took a liking to, is the last fight before the Batavian. Titus, for the first time, bets on a Myrmillo. Virgilius takes the bet – though he complains bitterly he cannot afford the amount should he lose.
Minnow has moments where he looks beaten, but Theseus, Ulpius’s one-eyed freedman, whispers in my ear, ‘he’s only working the crowd. He’s a good fighter. He has this match.’
‘You know the gladiatorial games well?’ I ask.
‘Theseus is a veteran of the matches,’ Ulpius says. ‘He won his freedom.’
I look at Theseus. He does have the build of a gladiator. Did he lose his eye in the arena? I wonder what kind of blow could make it through the iron screen of a gladiator’s helmet and ruin an eye.
As Theseus predicted, Minnow goes from ostensibly running scared to taking full control of the fight. He knocks his man down with the end of his shield. The defeated fighter’s helmet flies off and skitters across the sandy floor of the arena. The crowd loves the drama of it all. Minnow removes his helmet and basks in the crowd’s adoration.
Virgilius
curses. Titus pats his shoulder. ‘You can work off your debt, old man. I need loyal men in my service.’
The defeated gladiator is helped to his feet. He is alive, but shaken. He and Minnow walk to the tunnel. Slaves run into the arena and dump buckets of sand onto pools of blood.
*
The last fight of the day is the Batavian’s. Despite myself, I am nervous. My knuckles are white from gripping my stola bunched at my knees.
‘Tell me, Theseus,’ I say, ‘what chance do you give the Batavian today?’
He shakes his head. ‘His chances? Not good. He has never fought as a gladiator. Most men train for months before entering their first match. The Batavian is capable, that is obvious, but the gladiator fights are different from the hunts or fighting a war. You are alone in the arena. The weapons are foreign. The crowd is difficult to ignore or use to your advantage. If the arena was as foreign to his opponent as it is to him, then I’d think the Batavian had a chance.’ He shakes his head. ‘But the Parthians’ man is more experienced, I think.’
Trumpets announce the next fight.
The crowd begins to chant: Bat-avian, Bat-avian, Bat-avian.
The Batavian enters the arena as a Thracian. He is carrying a short, curved sword and a small shield. His right arm is hidden, from shoulder to knuckle, under a silver manacle. Although he is wearing a large, crested helmet, the crowd knows it’s the Batavian by the two long strips of green silk from the mask he wore in the beast hunts, which are dangling down his back.
The gates open at the other end of the arena, revealing the Sogdian warrior. He is armoured like a Myrmillo, with a long sword and square shield three-quarters his size. He is not any taller than the Batavian; but where the Batavian is lean, with long muscles, the Parthian champion is thick as a mountain.
The Sogdian doesn’t waste any time. He steps forward quickly and methodically. When he is within range he swipes his sword; the Batavian moves quickly, parrying the attack with his shorter blade. Before the Batavian can recover the Sogdian rams his massive shield into the Batavian’s face and chest, sending the Batavian backward. But he keeps his footing, stepping backward quickly, to put distance between him and the Sogdian’s blade.
The crowd boos.
This engagement is repeated three or four times. The Batavian’s movements get slower each time; he seems to be stumbling.
Ptolemy is on his feet, watching over Caesar’s shoulder.
‘He’s tired,’ Theseus says. ‘And those hits from the shield – he’ll be woozy. It will be difficult to concentrate. He will need to go on the offensive or he will lose.’
As if on cue, the Batavian lunges at the Sogdian. He stabs his sword low, near his enemy’s belly, and then swings his shield high, at the Sogdian’s head. He does this repeatedly and, eventually, lands two solid hits against the Sogdian’s helmet.
For a moment, it seems the Batavian could win the fight. The crowd is roaring its approval, chanting for him to kill the Sogdian. Titus is leaning forward, smiling.
And then the tide turns.
While the Batavian’s sword arm is outstretched, the Sogdian steps to the side and, using the edge of his shield, hammers the Batavian twice in the head.
The Batavian goes down; his helmet jars loose and skips along the sand.
I gasp and jump to my feet.
The Batavian is face down in the dirt. He is still wearing his green mask.
The crowd is nearly silent, save for a few people muttering, ‘No.’
I rush to the balcony’s railing.
The Sogdian kicks the Batavian in the ribs and Titus’s champion cries out in pain. The Batavian rolls over.
‘Mercy,’ someone in the crowd calls out.
Behind me, Arshad is laughing.
The Sogdian – knowing the protocol – looks to Caesar’s box to see whether the Batavian lives or dies.
Before I can give the signal that the Batavian is to live, Titus – who knows what I am about to do – is at my side; he subtly puts his hand on my arm, to stop me.
Titus signals to let the Batavian live. The crowd cheers; the Sogdian shrugs and throws his sword into the dirt.
The Batavian slowly gets to his feet. He is dizzy and nearly topples over. The two warriors walk closer to Caesar’s box and salute. The Sogdian lifts his arm in the air, victorious.
The crowd is quiet.
The Batavian is ashamed; he stares at the arena floor.
I look around Caesar’s box but see no sign of Ptolemy.
Arshad says, ‘and where did my prize run off to?’
Gaius
21 August
The streets of Puteoli
I feel funny, like I’m not myself. My head is swimming, my legs are soggy overcooked leeks, my bladder – despite my best efforts – is painfully full, and I’m swearing like a centurion.
Also, I’m not sure where I am.
The streets of Puteoli, obviously. But other than that, I’ve no idea.
We left the arena after the Batavian lost and we were headed . . .
Where again?
Sinnaces and some of the others were ahead of me. Where did they go?
I try calling out, but I’m hoarse from booing all afternoon.
The crowd seethes around me. Shoulders push me one way, then the next.
My head continues to swim.
Did they abandon me on purpose? Are they laughing about it at this very moment, little Gaius having to walk home on his own? I’d thought maybe – just maybe – I’d made friends today. Perhaps not.
I walk down an alleyway and bump into a man who has the look of a soldier, though he is in a civilian’s tunic. He barely moves an inch, whereas I stumble backwards three steps. Yet he acts like the aggrieved party.
‘Watch it, boy,’ he says. He is with two other men. They have the look of off-duty soldiers. Their cheeks are flush from drinking all day.
‘Sorry,’ I say, bowing my head. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘am I not worthy of your attention?’ He steps forward and gives me a push.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I say.
‘Do you hear that, boys?’ one of them says. ‘This little shit doesn’t want to talk to us. Thinks he’s better than us.’
One of them grabs me by the shoulder and delivers a blow to my stomach.
The air flies from my lungs and I’m winded. My knees buckle and I fall to the ground. The pain is immense. I keep gasping, trying to catch my breath. But it feels like I will never breathe again.
‘That will teach you.’
One of them looks around and says, ‘the boy’d be cheaper than the whore house.’
‘He would indeed.’
My heart begins to stroke with fury, like a blacksmith’s hammer. From the ground, I say, ‘my uncle is Plinius Secundus,’ I say, ‘admiral of the Misenum fleet.’
‘Sure he is, boy.’
They grab me by the feet and drag me deeper into the alleyway.
I’m too terrified to scream. I begin to cry.
Then I hear his voice.
‘If all of you run away right now, you might survive today.’
I twist on my back to look behind me. There is someone at the mouth of the alleyway. The sun is behind him so he is cast in shadow.
He steps forward.
I never thought I’d be as happy to see Marcus Ulpius as I am right now.
The three men laugh; their soldierly arrogance heightened by wine.
The two holding me let go and all three men run at Marcus.
I crawl along the ground to the wall of the alleyway and sit up, with my back against the wall. I watch Marcus duck the first soldier’s punch, rise and, with a two-foot-long wooden beam that he’d hidden behind his back, crack it against the soldier’s ear. The man falls to the ground. Before Marcus can do anything more, the second soldier punches him below the eye. Marcus crumples. The second soldier straddles Marcus and begins to tear at Marcus’s tunic.
&
nbsp; ‘You little shit!’ the man screams. ‘You’ll have the same as your friend.’
Marcus flails his arms like a wild animal, trying to protect himself. His tunic rips and is nearly torn off.
I stand and – I can hardly believe it – charge at the man. I land on his back and try to corral his arms.
Once, when I was a boy, a classmate gave me a severe beating at school. Afterwards, as Uncle Pliny held a cold cloth to the various goose eggs on my head, he gave me advice on how to avoid fights and, if it came to it, how to win them. Ever since, I’d excelled at the former, never having to use the latter. Although Uncle Pliny’s advice is ten years old, I can hear his voice clear as day. ‘If the boy is bigger than you, go for the eyes, Gaius. Poke, claw, scratch, rip, stab. You may find yourself up against thick skulls or granite torsos. But every man’s eyes are vulnerable.’
Heeding the admiral’s advice, with both hands, I bunch my fingers into fleshy claws and rip at the man’s eyes.
He screams in agony and momentarily stops his assault on Marcus.
My victory is short-lived. My scalp burns as another man picks me up by my hair.
I holler in pain.
‘Drop the boy.’
The voice doesn’t belong to Marcus. It comes from behind me. I cannot turn to see who has said it.
Chaos ensues.
I fall to the ground. I hear blow after blow, and by the time I look up, the only man standing is Marcus’s one-eyed freedman, Theseus. At his feet are the three off-duty soldiers. One is unconscious. The other two are wailing in pain. I help Marcus to his feet. He looks like I feel, with the start of a black eye and a bleeding lip. His tunic is torn and a scar on his left shoulder blade catches my eye. It looks like a portion of flesh was ripped off. But the wound is old. The injury happened years ago.
Marcus sees me staring. He turns, so that I can no longer see his old wound.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you both.’
‘Thank Marcus’s hatred for soldiers,’ Theseus says. ‘He hates them like Juno hates Aeneas.’
Marcus looks down at the ailing soldiers. ‘It’s best we leave.’
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