by George Green
The pens had grown steadily over the previous decades, and a small town had grown up around them, mostly taverns offering facilities designed to relieve the newly rich trappers of their cash.
Serpicus and Galba set about unloading the animals. The cage-wagons opened into holding pens, which were shaped so that as the animals went forwards they were funnelled into narrow passages. The wolves were watchful and shivering, their hind quarters poised low on the earth, and seemed glad to disappear from the cage into the dark in front of them. The wild boar were less willing, and stood at bay, legs braced, breath coming hard, their tails stiff and twitching. Serpicus had to climb on top of the cage and use a long pole to get them to move. When they suddenly broke and ran the noise was like a lance in the ear. The rest of the animals were easy. Tired and hungry, the sight of food in front of them was enough to decoy them out of the door.
A system of trap-doors and gates allowed the handlers to direct each animal to the appropriate stable without needing to come into contact with them. In theory the handlers did all the work and counted the animals into the stables. In practice the trappers worked with them, partly so that they would not have to bribe the handlers as much, partly because the handlers were notoriously prone to inaccuracy when adding up the number of animals received.
The stables at the collection area were well-aired, quiet and reasonably clean, in contrast to those under the arena, which were crowded, noisy and dark. The air there was fetid with the sharp stink of wild animal, a heavy pungent dampness that clung to the clothes. Every kind of intractable beast was kept almost within reach of each other, predators and prey mixed together, snapping and clawing through the bars if a foot or head came close. The authorities justified it blithely, said that the close proximity made the animals wilder, that it made for a better spectacle in the arena, but the truth was that there was no other way of keeping them. The number of animals consumed every day by the huge mouth above them was too large to allow the handlers to keep them properly.
The trained animals were privileged and caged separately, kept deep below the arena in the dark and quiet, out of sight of each other, in order to keep them calm. When training or exercise was required they were brought up to another quiet area to the side of the race track. It was necessary. Lions don’t much like being screamed at by eighty thousand people, and it’s hard for a trainer to get them to do what he wants, even if it’s something that comes naturally to them, like eating perfectly innocent people who have upset an emperor.
Serpicus and one of the handlers, an old slave that he knew well called Calligus, did most of the unloading. Serpicus liked the old man. He worked without fuss, and the animals trusted him. There were others there who could have helped, but Serpicus preferred not to use them. They shouted and hit the bars with sticks to make the animals move. It was quieter and quicker in the long run if he did it his way. Serpicus saw Decius watching intently how the work was done, and gave him a few jobs to do. The youngster was a quick learner.
The work was almost done by the time Galba returned. There were several comments about his timing. Galba ignored them. He could afford to: Serpicus and Decius were covered with stinking sweat, whereas Galba’s clothes were clean and smelt only of the herbs he hung with them at night to keep them fresh. Serpicus dismissed Calligus with a substantial tip, sent Decius off on an errand and sat down on a box beside Galba. He wiped his hands on a reeking cloth.
‘Is he all right now?’ he asked.
Galba laughed gently. ‘He’ll live. The doctor had to dig around in his shoulder a bit and so we fed him a big skin of wine first to take his mind off it, and now he’s just getting his breath back.’ He took Serpicus by an arm. Serpicus looked at the Thracian and realized how glad he was to see him. As always Galba’s head was freshly shaved, and his small pink ears stood out in a way that made Serpicus think of a kindly weasel.
‘Come on,’ Galba said, ‘I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me what the hell happened to you.’
‘Didn’t Brutus tell you the story himself?’
‘Of course. He told me all about how he fought them off single-handed while you lot quaked and pissed yourselves under the wagons. I thought you might like the opportunity to put the record straight.’
Serpicus hesitated and then allowed Galba to lead him away and up the street.
‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I have a family who haven’t seen me for a month.’
Galba put a manicured hand on his shoulder and patted it in a way that Serpicus knew meant he had something to tell him.
‘What is it?’
‘Sure you don’t want a drink first?’
Serpicus stopped and faced him. ‘No, now.’
Galba hesitated and then sighed. ‘Metellus is dead.’ Serpicus was ready for almost any news, but not this. ‘What? How can he be dead? He’s only…’ Metellus was a few years younger than himself, not much more than twenty, with the sort of healthy good looks that made Serpicus silently promise to take better care of himself every time he saw him. Metellus had been well when they left Rome. If he was dead now then there could only be one reason for it. Serpicus dropped his voice, kept the tone of his question neutral. ‘Does anyone know how it happened?’
Galba shrugged and looked around casually. No one was nearby. ‘The usual thing,’ he said softly. ‘He’s rich, he’s got a nice villa and some good vineyards around it, in Rhodes I think. Someone noticed. His friends stood by him, but Someone was more powerful than them. So Metellus lost his villa and his lands, and, when he protested, Someone called it treason and the poor bastard lost his head too.’ Galba spat. ‘And now his family are in exile in Crete, living on charity and anyone who was their friend is wondering who’s next.’
Serpicus sighed, a sound that came all the way up from the soles of his feet. He had liked Metellus. And he was their sponsor and main buyer. ‘So, we’ve got a cargo of animals and no one to pay us for them.’
Galba looked at a manicured fingernail. ‘The news isn’t quite all bad. Well, for Metellus I suppose it is. But there’s some hope for us.’
Serpicus grabbed his arm. ‘You found another buyer?’
‘Yes, but don’t get too excited.’
Serpicus hesitated. ‘How much?’ Galba pulled at a tiny fragment of cuticle with great concentration. ‘Come on.’
‘Two thousand.’ Galba narrowed his eyes and winced as he spoke.
Serpicus let go of Galba’s arm in disbelief. ‘Two? That’s half what Metellus was going to pay. We’ll be lucky to cover our costs.’ He leant back against the nearby wall. He felt as if he had just completed a long and exhausting race and had then been told to go out and do it again. The business was under enough pressure already. All the established firms of animal trackers were suffering because a plague of amateurs, mostly veterans with no income, were coming into the trade in the hope of quick profits. The amateurs were incompetent. They killed as many animals as they brought home and scared off most of the others. Catching the beasts was getting harder, costs were going up while prices were being driven down. The demand for suitable animals was enormous but it surely wasn’t infinite, and even if it was the supply of easily obtainable beasts wasn’t. Eventually, and probably sooner rather than later, it would start to get difficult to find the animals that were still left and then the amateurs would move on and the people who knew what they were doing would get their business back again. But for now, the market was flooded with beasts and the buyers had the upper hand. Metellus had been a shrewd businessman, but a fair one. He had driven a hard bargain with Serpicus, but it was reasonable and they could have survived on what he would have paid them. The money would have settled their debts and allowed them to take a rest, and there would still have been just about enough left over to re-equip for the next expedition. For the first time in ages they would not have been in debt before the expedition even set off. They might just have made a profit.
But now Metellus was dead, and the deal died with him.
Galba kicked a stone across the street. ‘It was the best offer around, and believe me I have spent a month grovelling to people I wouldn’t normally even nod to in the street. There are just too many animals around.’ He raised and then dropped his arms again so that they slapped against his sides. ‘We’re too early. The big games aren’t for another six weeks. Once the Ludi Plebi have taken place, the Masters of Games will have slaughtered everything they’ve got bigger than a sewer rat and the price will rise again, but for the moment no one is buying seriously. If we had storage space we could…’
‘But we don’t,’ Serpicus said. He put a hand on Galba’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I blamed you and that’s unfair. I know you’ve done everything you could.’
Galba waited. When Serpicus didn’t say anything, he said, ‘So, what now?’
‘We’ll just have to go straight back out again.’ There was no choice. Serpicus didn’t say the obvious: that they had no capital to pay themselves with, that they would be living on credit at ruinous rates of interest, and that every last penny they could raise would have to be ploughed into the next expedition. Still, they both knew that life was suddenly very simple. If the next trip wasn’t a success, they were bankrupt.
Galba managed a weak smile. ‘So, I suppose no drink then?’
Serpicus smiled back and offered him his hand. ‘No. We’ll talk tomorrow.’ As he reached the corner he turned to see Galba was heading for the tavern. Brutus and the others would be there soon. Serpicus suddenly wanted a drink very much, but he wanted to see his family more.
He went back to the pens and chose the horse that looked least tired. The road was quiet and he made good time to Rome. He stabled his horse and walked the short distance to his house. It was getting dark when he pushed the front door open and walked into the atrium of his house. A single taper burned on the wall. It was warm inside, and he smelt new bread. Two cups and a jug with condensation on the sides were on the table.
Antonia looked around the corner of the alcove where the oven was built into the wall. She smiled and as always he was sure that the room got brighter.
‘Not long,’ she said and turned back to the table.
He stood behind her and put his hands on her hips. She didn’t speak or turn round, just pointed to the back door with one slim arm. He didn’t argue. A man who works all day smeared with the sweat and shit of dozens of frightened wild animals could perhaps hope that his wife might still love him when he got home, but not that she would immediately want to kiss him.
He went out into the tiny yard. There was a shallow stone trough and two wooden buckets filled with water, and a clean robe hanging from a nail. He pulled his tunic off and stood naked in the trough. He soaped and washed himself from the first bucket then poured the remains over his head, gasping with the cold of it. The second bucket he poured more slowly, sluicing himself carefully. As he put it down she called to him and a soft cloth flew out through the door. He caught it and dried himself, enjoying the warm night air.
He wrapped the robe around himself and went back indoors, clean and dry. Antonia was putting olives and bread on the table. He poured two cups of wine and passed one to her. She pressed her lips gently against his and then pulled away and smiled again. ‘That’s a lot better,’ she said, and raised her hand. The two cups touched. They drank.
‘Hungry?’
He nodded, and walked to the tiny room where the children slept. He pulled back the curtain. They were curled up together like puppies. Serpicus let go of the curtain and the two of them sat down and ate together. For a long while they didn’t speak. When people live in a small house and they have children, sometimes an uninterrupted silence feels like the most profound communication they can achieve.
Which of course it isn’t, as they proved after supper. Lying next to her afterwards, face to face, thigh to thigh, slick with sweat, he knew there was no better place for him to be. He ran a finger down the soft line of her mouth and then pulled her silently against him, as if to imprint the memory of her on his skin. She winced and pulled away. With a smile she took hold of the leather thong around his neck and held what hung from it in her hand.
‘No doubt,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘Always.’
She frowned at it. ‘This thing gets in the way.’
As always he took her hand in his, and as always he remembered the day they were married.
When the priest had pronounced them one, Artemidorus, her father, stepped forward and held out his hand. In it was a pale circle of what looked like polished bone, with two small holes drilled into it.
‘Ivory,’ he said.
He took it in both hands and pushed gently. The circle snapped in two. He produced two thin leather thongs, threaded them through the holes and tied the ivory around their necks. They could see that the circle had not broken evenly, but with a jagged point around the middle.
Antonia was pleased, but still complained to her father. ‘Couldn’t you have broken it evenly? The edge presses into me.’
Artemidorus looked at her seriously. ‘It is meant to. I prepared it so earlier, drew a knife point down the centre of the bone until there was a groove along which it would break.’
She laughed with surprise. ‘You wanted it to be jagged? Why?’
He paused. ‘Two reasons. To make it impossible to duplicate, so that there would only be one man who could ever wear the other half that matches your own, and to make it snag on your clothes sometimes, and so remind you of this day.’
And so it did. And they complained and joked about the ivory amulets, and sometimes they cursed him, but they never took them off, and any time one of them took the other’s token in their hand, they would hold the two halves so that the two jagged sides matched, and they would remember.
And every time Antonia held it she said ‘No doubt’, and every time she did so he replied ‘Always’, because of the agreement they made the night they were married, standing together in front of the statue of Apollo. They swore they would never doubt each other, and he never had doubted her; nor had he given her cause to doubt him.
She fell asleep almost at once, but Serpicus lay awake for a long time, watching her in his arms, feeling her warm breath on his chest. He had not yet told her that, having just returned, he was going to turn around and go straight back out again. Or that there was no money, and that soon he might not even have a job. There would be time enough for talking and worrying tomorrow.
Chapter Five
To Aelius Sejanus, from his Servant:
As you have commanded, the search for the two Germans has commenced. We know that they are of the Treveri tribe, and it is believed that they are still within the city walls. Enquiries are proceeding with the utmost circumspection; your command that they should not be aware that we are searching for them is being heeded by every one of our agents. Were it not for this necessity I believe we would already have run them to ground. Nevertheless, I am confident that you will have them within a few days.
To Aelius Sejanus, from his Servant:
The two Germans have now, as I assured you, been located. The one called Sigmund now calls himself Decius, although it is understood that most of those around him call him ‘the German boy’ so the change in name from German to Roman is at best academic. The other barbarian Alraic calls himself Serpicus, as our previous intelligence indicated.
Enquiries have been made as to their circumstances, as per your instructions. Both men are employed – as many of their race are – in the stables attached to the Circus. It is understood that the barbarian Serpicus used to race chariots there, but has retired from that occupation for reasons unspecified. The boy Decius has raced a few times and, although lacking physical and mental maturity, is believed to show promise.
The income from stable work is insufficient to support a man all year round, and so a number of the Germans have gone into business as animal trappers. They work the stables for the summer and autumn, when the races are
frequent, and use the off-season to travel to Africa, Asia Minor or the north to collect animals for the arena. I understand that business has not been good for the last two years, for a variety of reasons. The death of Metellus has, it is rumoured, left them in a difficult position. There is every reason, therefore, to anticipate that they will be receptive to your proposals.
To Aelius Sejanus, from his Servant:
Please be assured that my only concern is to facilitate your wishes, and that if I have overstepped the bounds of my responsibilities in seeking to offer advice or conclusions, it is only in that spirit and no other that it was done. I took your instruction to omit no detail too literally. I will confine myself to the facts in future.
The Germans will be approached today; as you instruct.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Serpicus walked to the arena with a lot on his mind. When he came around the final corner he looked up, as always, and even though he had seen it a thousand times, unfailingly he stopped to admire the sheer scale of the building. Those who knew it intimately, as he did, often said that it was just as well that the scale was breathtaking as there was little else to commend it.
The design of the arena was praised by architects and politicians alike. The public too thought it was wonderful. It was admired and pointed to with pride by almost everyone. The only ones who hated it were people like the charioteers and animal handlers, those who actually had to use it For some reason the stables for the racing horses were placed close to the pit where the dead and dying animals were thrown by the arena slaves, and the smell and noise were atrocious. Panic and fear flowed from the doomed animals and swirled around the racing horses like steam, making them skittish and fretful.
Everyone who worked in the arena complained about it, everyone knew it was wrong, but nothing was ever done.