by Jack Ludlow
‘Yes,’ said Aquila eagerly. Fulmina would not let him have a dog, since she held that it would just take the food out of their mouths, and besides they had no work to justify keeping an animal.
‘Minca not understand Latin. You need learn my tongue before you give him commands.’
‘I’m a quick learner,’ said Aquila eagerly.
‘So we try, no?’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Marcellus watched with intense fascination as the two gladiators circled round each other. They had come to proper combat twice already and the Bithynian, a professional fighter, had a large gash on his upper arm, bleeding copiously, but he had narrowly missed skewering his opponent, a Lacedemonian Greek, who now had a corresponding gash in his side, just below his sword arm. Neither had been able to gain an advantage in the fierce struggles, so they had been forced to part, just to recover their breath. He was aware of his father, glancing at him occasionally to see how he was reacting to the sight of proper fighting and real blood.
Marcellus wanted to yell encouragement to the Greek but he dare not; it was no part of a patrician boy’s behaviour to show that he was partisan, especially when his father had been given the place of honour. A client of his, a man who was standing for election as one of the Urban Aediles for this year, had staged the games, of which this contest was the final event. Lucius, presiding, would have to decide if one of these men lived or died and the only criteria would be their courage and skill with the short swords and shields in their hands.
All of his school friends were there as well, with their parents and siblings, so he sneaked a look towards the Trebonius family, his eye catching that of Gaius’s sister Valeria. She immediately gave him sight of her tongue, accompanied by a derisory shake of the head. Marcellus, who would have liked a brother, was grateful not to have a sister; those of his friends with female siblings seemed to suffer mightily for the privilege, none more than Gaius Trebonius, Valeria being a positive menace. Sharp-tongued and interfering, she could not leave the boys to their games. Worse, as far as Marcellus was concerned, she seemed determined to include him in her torments, as if his being an only child qualified him for her attention.
The mother was soft-hearted and indulgent, seemingly blind to her behaviour, while her father was away. Not that his presence would have made any difference; Marcellus remembered him as even less of a disciplinarian than the mother. He loathed nothing more than those occasions when whole families were invited to his house, since Valeria encouraged all the other girls, so that together they teased him and his friends beyond endurance. He shook his head slightly to clear her image from his mind and returned his whole attention to the fight.
Why did he favour the Greek? Marcellus did not really know, but the Lacedemonian was wearing a most handsome helmet, polished till it gleamed and crowned with stiff horsehair. Dyed deep red, it made the boy think of Achilles, Ajax and the other Greek heroes of antiquity, perhaps even Alexander himself. The Bithynian wore a drab affair, little more than a peaked metal skullcap, electing to fight in something light, rather than something impressive. To Marcellus, schooled in the historical works of Ptolemy, it was the Alexandrian hero versus the Persian tyranny. No Roman could place his support the other way, yet many did, no doubt because they had money on the fellow. He was quite well known, having survived several bouts at previous games without so much as a scratch and he should have seen off his less experienced Greek opponent well before this. In the first clash he had seemed content to demonstrate his prowess, exciting the crowd with some very fancy swordplay.
The Greek, fighting in a much more prosaic fashion, had parried the elegant thrusts with some difficulty and having proved his abilities to those in the crowd who supported him, the Bithynian had stood off to rest, circling round his opponent for a full minute before dashing in for the finish, his intentions plain; a couple of quick thrusts to disarm his rival, a hefty cut to draw blood and finally a stroke with the sword to bring the fellow to his knees, then he could hand the man’s fate over to Lucius Falerius. But the Greek was not prepared to play and the nature of the contest had changed immediately, the Bithynian suddenly finding himself on the defensive, with his opponent thrusting past his guard to slash his arm. The spurt of blood added an instantaneous spur, the contest becoming immediately much more heated. The Bithynian attacked with great fury, returning the compliment by drawing blood, but he could not overcome his opponent and the frustration started to show in the way the fight developed.
The noise abated as they drifted apart, but it rose to an even higher crescendo as the two combatants, with a resounding clash of swords, rushed at each other simultaneously. They hacked away, the ringing sound of metal striking metal barely audible above the roar of the crowd. Their shields clashed as they sought to knock each other off balance, the prelude to a disabling thrust. The Bithynian, using his shield to protect his front, coiled his body to one side then swung his sword, neck height, with all his strength. The Greek was caught with his shield in the wrong place and had the blow connected it would have decapitated him. Marcellus heard his father speak sharply, complaining quickly about such a murderous cut, this as the Greek dropped to his knee, the sword lopping half the horse-hair plumes from the top of his helmet. He did not stay down, but used the spring effect, coming swiftly back to his full height. The boss of his shield, rising above his head, took the Bithynian’s unadorned helmet on the cap, knocking the man’s head back. The Greek’s sword followed, and the roar of the crowd was near deafening as it sliced into his opponents throat, entering in the middle of the jaw, and exiting from one side.
Marcellus kept a keen eye fixed on the scene as the blood spurted out of the gorge in a great gush. The Bithynian’s head, neck sliced through to the bone, fell drunkenly to one side, as though it was about to come off completely, the tendons and muscles looking white against the rushing, foaming blood that pumped out of the torn veins. His father, unusually for him, swore loudly, as the Bithynian dropped into the sand like a sacrificed bull, twitching and jerking as he died.
‘This is outrageous, Hortensius,’ snapped Lucius to the man on his left, the Aedile candidate who was paying for these games. The crowd had fallen silent, so the older senator’s voice fairly boomed out, ‘You really must speak to your gladiator manager about the way these fellows are conducting themselves.’
‘I agree, Lucius Falerius,’ replied the young, would-be magistrate, aware that any offence to his honoured guest could put a serious blight on his future career. Marcellus wondered if he really did agree; it had been a very good fight and from what he had heard, such a thing as he had just witnessed, the killing of one opponent by another, common in the south, was extremely rare in Rome itself. It harked back to the origin of the contest, the funeral rites of great leaders, where selected warriors would fight to the death over their grave for the right to accompany them to Hades.
‘We cannot have these fellows killing each other without permission, Hortensius. What is the point of having a presiding magistrate of the games?’
Hortensius looked very serious as he replied. ‘We mustn’t have them usurping your prerogatives, Lucius Falerius.’
‘This isn’t some left-handed way to save money, is it, a guarantee of saving a fee?’
Marcellus thought his father had asked a silly question and so did Hortensius judging by the look on his face. Luckily, Lucius had turned his attention back to the arena, and the sweating Greek who stood facing the platform, sword raised in front of his heaving chest.
Hortensius spoke quickly, eager to please. ‘Since this fellow has deprived you of your right to choose life or death for his opponent, I think it only fitting, Lucius Falerius, that you decide on his fate. Victor he might be, but he’s yours to dispose of.’
Lucius nodded once, his eyes still fixed on the man who had so angered him. Marcellus also had his eyes fixed on the Greek now, half in admiration, and half to avoid looking at the spreading bloodstain and the exposed organs
of the Bithynian at his feet.
‘This is my son’s first visit to the games, Hortensius. Would you permit him a hand in the decision?’
Marcellus stiffened as the host replied. ‘Gladly.’
‘Well?’
Marcellus blinked. He barely understood what had happened but he knew enough to be sure of one thing; that his incensed parent had the right to take this Greek gladiator’s life and why? Merely because the man had taken a meaningless decision out of his father’s hands; gladiators were supposed to entertain the crowd. It was obvious that there should be blood to please them, but to deliberately kill your opponent, without permission, was seen as an insult and now Lucius would have the guards spear him to death. Why should he take part in such a charade or a consultation that was equally meaningless? Even later that day, when he had had ample time to think, and describing the exchange to his friends, he could not say what prompted the words he used, nor the insolent tone in which he said them.
‘Am I being asked to decide his fate, father?’
‘What!’ said Lucius, surprised enough to take his eyes off the Greek and look at his son. He declined to speak for several seconds, but when he did, his voice had that tone which warned Marcellus of deep trouble in store. ‘Do you feel qualified, boy?’
‘Would I be permitted to answer a question with a question, father?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Lucius.
‘Are you determined that this fellow should die?’
That took Lucius by surprise, a rare thing, and Marcellus knew he had the right of it for that very reason, but the question forced a denial. ‘My mind is open.’
‘Liar!’ The word sprang unbidden into his mind and Marcellus felt his body go cold. He was still of an age to assume a parent omnipotent enough to hear even his most secret thoughts, so he chose his words very carefully. ‘Then you, sir, will have to judge if I am qualified. If you feel I’m not, I would humbly beg your permission to take no part in the decision.’
Marcellus knew his father always saw dissent instead of discerning logic, so he had no hope of escaping parental wrath by pointing out the basic undesirability of the position into which his father had forced him. But Lucius was no fool either, and he had much more experience than his son at perceiving the truth behind men’s words.
‘You would let him live?’
‘I would, father.’
‘Why?’
‘He fought bravely and I think he responded to the lethal blow his opponent aimed at his head. I think he reacted like a soldier in battle, sir, and not a gladiator concerned to survive and collect his fee.’
‘Indeed?’
The thin smile on his father’s face did little to reassure Marcellus. Then Lucius indicated that the Greek should approach the platform and the man walked forward, stepping over the corpse of his dead enemy. Lucius leant forward to address him, fluently, in his own tongue.
‘Tell me, fellow, how long have you been a gladiator?’
‘Six months, your honour,’ said the Greek, his voice deepened by the metal guards on the side of his gleaming helmet.
Lucius tried to sound friendly, but given the nature of the discussion the effect was chilling. ‘Only six months. Have you had many bouts?’
‘This is my first, sir.’
That brought a frown, plus a sideways glance at Hortensius, with the implied accusation of parsimony quite evident, but the hesitation lasted only a second. Lucius returned to questioning the gladiator. ‘Indeed. And what did you do before that?’
‘I was a slave, but my master sold me to pay his debts.’
A slight note of impatience entered Lucius’s voice, as though he suspected the Greek was deliberately indulging in conversation to add a minute to his life. ‘And before that?’
‘Twelve years ago I was a soldier, your honour, in the service of Macedonia.’
‘May I ask a question, father?’ said Marcellus eagerly, fired by thoughts of that once invincible Macedonian Army that had been defeated by Aulus Cornelius.
Lucius’s head snapped round, his eyes boring into those of his son. ‘No, Marcellus, you may not.’
Then he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. The Greek raised his sword in salute, and as he turned to walk away the crowd, which, mostly without the Greek necessary to understand the exchange, had been holding its breath, roared out its approval for this unexpected decision. Lucius frowned even more deeply. He hated anything that smacked of appeasing the mob.
Marcellus had been allowed to return home from the games with Gaius, careful, on the entire journey, to avoid the unwelcome attentions of Valeria. Fortunately she shared his aversion and had gone off to play with her dolls as soon as they entered the gate. The Trebonius household made Marcellus uncomfortable and just a little envious, since Gaius had many of the things he desired, possessions forbidden him by his father. There were several dogs and cats, as well as cages full of songbirds. It was a family house in a way that he could barely comprehend, full of noise and activity, with six children running around, all under ten years old, and to Marcellus’s ordered mind, completely out of control. They drove their household slaves to distraction.
The dogs chased the cats who, in turn, could not be trusted with the pet mice, or the goldfinches. One child, at least, was always in tears, constantly pleading for justice against an older or younger sibling. Gaius’s mother seemed oblivious to all this turmoil, smiling benignly if she could be made to bother at all, and reassuring her wailing offspring that things would look much better in a few minutes. She was invariably right, because the tribulations of another child took over, submerging whatever it was that was bothering the original complainant.
Gaius and Marcellus had been playing knucklebones, using walnuts as counters with which to bet, but his little brother Lineaus, only four years old, was having terrible trouble building a fortress with his wooden bricks. Marcellus went to help, despite his friend’s protests that the little brat should be kicked out of the room so that they could continue their game, a remark which reduced Lineaus to a wailing wreck, though there was no sign of a proper tear. Gaius agreed to help, merely to secure some peace and they built Lineaus a wonderful fort, with battlements, towers and an entry port, then helped him arrange his toy legionaries, before going back to the low table to continue their game.
Valeria came in right in the middle of their next set of throws, her terra-cotta doll dressed like a high-born Roman lady, complete with curled wig. She wandered over to the table and stared at the boys for a while, no doubt hoping by her presence to interrupt them. Both studiously ignored her, even when she initiated an imagined conversation with her doll on the failings of Roman boys, compared to Roman girls. When that too fell on deaf ears, she wandered over to the squatting Lineaus, congratulating him coyly on the way he had built his fort.
‘Marcellus built it for me,’ lisped Lineaus, half-truthfully excluding his own brother.
‘Did he?’ she replied, her voice high with exaggerated surprise.
Valeria’s foot swept in a wide arc, completely demolishing the fort and scattering bricks everywhere. Marcellus and Gaius were forced to pay attention as the little boy let out an anguished cry. Valeria stood, doll in hand, with a defiant and triumphant look, directly aimed at them. Gaius dived at her, but she was gone, loudly screaming as she went out through the door, calling to her mother to come and save her from her murderous brother.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Midway through the next morning, Marcellus sat in his sparsely furnished bedroom pondering his fate, the rough wood of his cot scratching his legs painfully. Already in bad odour with his father because of his behaviour the previous afternoon at the Hortensian games, he had done something more serious, in finally reacting to the constant punishment from his tutor, Timeon, not verbally, but physically.
He must sit still and upright ignoring the cold and the discomfort, because his father would come at some point, entering unannounced. When he did, his son wanted to ensure th
ere was no hint of slovenliness or an air of insolence that he would assume was aimed at him personally. He had worked out his defence using the very tenets of oratory his father so admired. If he could not persuade him that he, Marcellus, was in the right, then he must endure, unflinchingly, any punishment Lucius saw fit to hand down. His father was not the man to portray anger in any form, so when the door did open, it was slowly and somewhat more frightening for that. Marcellus tensed himself and fought the impulse to look down. His father’s unblinking stare held his, registering just the slightest flicker when Marcellus stood up. Then he saw the household slave behind his father; there would be a whip in the man’s hand.
‘This is not a duty that I find welcome,’ said Lucius coldly. ‘It is something for which I do not have the time. Yet I find I must undertake this task, since I cannot have you behaving like some drunken labourer. You are a Falerii. You’ve disgraced me.’
‘Am I to be allowed to defend myself?’ asked Marcellus. He could hear the tremor in his voice, so he assumed that his father had detected it too.
‘What defence could there possibly be for such behaviour?’
‘Is it not a cornerstone of Roman law that each man is entitled to a defence?’
That cracked the studied parental veneer. ‘How dare you address me so!’
Marcellus took a deep breath, still holding the irate gaze. ‘I speak out of admiration for everything you have taught me, Father.’
‘I don’t remember ever teaching you to use your fists. That is, outside the gymnasium.’
‘Yet you have never tired of telling me that it’s my duty to oppose tyranny.’
Lucius frowned. ‘Tyranny! What are you on about, boy?’
This was his chance and it would be the only one. If he did not make the beginnings of a case in a matter of seconds, his father would set the slave to beat him, and Marcellus would have no choice but to submit. He told himself that it was the injustice that fired him, the need to right a patent wrong, not any fear of punishment, but there was a small voice within him that consistently cast doubt on that.