The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome

by Harry Sidebottom

  A howl of outrage made him look back at the arena.

  The games were a training in the endurance of pain and death. A gladiator should exhibit that virtue. When condemned, he should kneel, and accept his fate with dignity.

  The myrmillo, trapped in the net, was trying to crawl. Like an animal, he was scratching in the dirt for some illusory safety. Disconcerted – this was not how it was meant to be – the retiarius hovered above the fallen man.

  Kill him! Open him up!

  The retiarius stabbed down with the trident. It was not a good blow. The myrmillo was still alive. As he tried to crawl, the trident protruding from his back wagged like some obscene appendage. The retiarius went to pull out the weapon. It was stuck. The retiarius put a boot on the wounded man’s shoulder. He heaved, but the trident would not come free. The prongs must be caught in the ribcage. Charon walked over. The black clad figure swung his hammer. It took three blows to the head before the myrmillo stopped moving.

  Sempronius took out a handkerchief, dabbed at his forehead. Of course it was not an omen. A gladiator that he had backed had abandoned himself to fear. It meant nothing. A gladiator might have a bestial ferocity, but he lacked the true courage of a free man. A gladiator was not a senator. Self-control and courage – these were the virtues that marked a senator out from the herd. They were qualities instilled by education. Sempronius searched for examples from the past with which to fortify himself.

  Good riddance to bad shit! The crowd jeered as the slaves inserted the hooks, began to drag out the corpse. A smear of blood was left in the sand.

  Cato of Utica was an example to all senators. He had been only a boy when taken to see the dictator, Sulla. Seeing the severed heads of Sulla’s enemies exhibited in the house, Cato had asked why no man could be found to assassinate so ruthless a tyrant. His tutor had replied that it would be suicide, as Sulla was always surrounded by bodyguards. Cato had asked for a sword. From then the tutor had kept the child away from the dictator. Sempronius decided that was not the example he needed now.

  Slaves were spreading fresh sand, raking it smooth. Soon all trace of the dead gladiator would be effaced.

  A story from the war against Hannibal came to Sempronius. At the battle of Cannae, a mortally wounded Roman was being stripped of his armour. His hands mangled and useless, the Roman used his teeth to tear off his assailant’s nose. At the last moment of life, it was a consolation to avenge himself. Again, this example from the past failed to encourage Sempronius.

  A new pair of famous gladiators were in the arena. They were the last scheduled to fight. Infernal gods, time was running out.

  In the back of Sempronius’ mind was a story of a Greek philosopher. On the rack, whips and burning could not make the philosopher reveal the names of those who had conspired with him to kill the tyrant. Instead, with his dying breath, the indomitable sage whispered the name of the most loyal friend of the tyrant. The latter had his friend executed. Thus the philosopher managed to get revenge after his own death.

  It was only when the crowd roared for the fight’s end that Sempronius was aware it had even started. Another corpse was being dragged out through the Gate of Death. Now the emperor would distribute gifts, and then he would leave. Sempronius looked at the crumpled handkerchief. It was purple, genuine Tyrian dye, one of a batch he had bought from a Syrian merchant. His wife had complained of the extravagance. Another hour, Sempronius thought, and such trivial expense would not be an issue – one way or another.

  Trumpets blared.

  A hidden trapdoor opened in the middle of the arena. An unarmed man stumbled out into the light. The opening shut behind him.

  This was not on the programme.

  A herald went to the front of the imperial box. The crowd fell silent. What unexpected entertainment was about to be presented?

  ‘Citizens of Rome!’ The herald had a powerful voice. The acoustics made it carry even to the women and slaves in the uppermost tiers. ‘This man has practised deceit upon the sacred imperial family. The jewels he sold our noble empress were made of glass. For such terrible impiety, it is just that he be condemned to the beasts.’

  The crowd murmured. This was an awful penalty for such a minor crime.

  The man – stunned either by the transition from a dark cell to the open expanse of the arena, or by the terrible fate awaiting him – stood immobile.

  With a theatrical crack, a trapdoor opened in front of him. The man backed away. Another door yawned behind him. He shuffled towards the far side of the arena. Again the ground opened before his feet. The man fell to his knees, held out his arms in supplication towards where the emperor sat.

  The late afternoon breeze raised little eddies of sand. The man knelt. Nothing emerged from the three black holes in the gleaming sand. The Colosseum was very quiet.

  There was a clanking of chains, loud in the silence. The sand in front of the man sank. The sound of pulleys. An enclosed cage rose into view.

  No one spoke. Sempronius could hear the thud of his own heart.

  Suddenly the door of the cage sprang open.

  The condemned man covered his eyes with his hands.

  A burst of laughter, swelling and echoing around the amphitheatre.

  The man lowered his hands, and saw the capon strutting out on the sand.

  The herald raised his staff. ‘He practised deceit, and then had it practised upon him. By order of our gracious emperor, he is free to return home.’

  The plebs roared their amusement.

  Typical of Gallienus – pandering to the plebs, a levity totally unfitting for an emperor. Everything was out of season with Gallienus. New wine throughout the year, melons in the depth of winter, sleeping chambers built of roses, women invited into the imperial council, gems on the soles of his boots, gold dust in his hair, armies commanded by shepherds and barbarians, senators ordered to bathe with hideous old hags and forced to thank him for his generosity. A pollution on the throne of the Caesars. Sempronius knew Gallienus had to die.

  Gallienus rose to his feet.

  Sempronius was half out of his seat. Cecropius caught his arm. ‘Sit down, you fool,’ the protector hissed. ‘The gifts!’

  The gifts – Sempronius had forgotten – Gallienus was not leaving, not yet. First he would amuse himself throwing tokens to the crowd. Gallienus loved to see them scrabble and fight for the little wooden balls that might entitle them to claim a fortune in gold or something like a cabbage.

  ‘Just a little longer,’ Cecropius whispered.

  Gods below. Sempronius hated Cecropius, hated all the protectores. This very evening, once he was clad in the purple, the German Guard would take care of Cecropius and the rest. The only thing that bound Sempronius to the protectores was mutual hatred of Gallienus. Once the tyrant was dead, the link would be severed. Sempronius was ready.

  And if he should fail, Sempronius would make sure that he died in the attempt. Out in the corridor, if the swords of the praetorians did not kill him, there was the ring with the poison. The torturers in the Palace cellars would not practice their terrible skills on him. The pincers and the claws would not tear his flesh.

  Should he fail, he had taken what measures he could for his family. His wife was not the partner he had hoped, and young Quintus was nothing compared with his dead elder brother, yet Sempronius had no wish to drag them with him to ruin. This morning, after he had sacrificed to his household gods, Sempronius had written the letter in his own hand. It was signed and sealed. His secretary had instructions to deliver it to the Palace in the second hour of the night. Either the servant would find his own master on the throne, or he would hand it to Gallienus. In the letter Sempronius exonerated his family from any involvement; neither his wife nor his surviving son knew anything of what he had planned.

  That was not all the letter contained. Of course there was no mention of the senators that Sempronius had approached. Acilius Glabrio and Nummius Faustinus would be safe with the army in Milan. But the full
treachery of the protectores was exposed. It was the peasant that had inveigled Sempronius into treason. There were dates and places, careful corroborating details. The peasant was named, so too the ferret, mouse, and rider. Outside of Rome, even though Sempronius remained unsure of their involvement, he had named Aurelian, Tacitus and Heraclian in the conspiracy. They might be innocent, and their executions unjust, but their inclusion would cast suspicion on all the protectores. With luck, a revengeful emperor might abolish the loathsome office of protector. Those jumped-up soldiers who Gallienus did not kill would be cast back onto the dung heap.

  Like the Greek philosopher, Sempronius would have vengeance after his own death.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Temple of Claudius

  A

  T STREET LEVEL, THE Vicus Capitis Africae was deserted. The inhabitants were watching the battle between the barbarians and the City Watch from a safe height. They crowded the windows and balconies of the upper floors. A few were even peering down from the rooftops.

  Ahead, at the foot of the street, Ballista saw the massive bulk of the Colosseum. It was so close now. The noise of the crowd boomed through the surrounding streets. Running, they could cover the distance in no time. But to approach the amphitheatre by this route, they would have to pass by the armoury and the training school for imperial slaves. They would enter the open space around the Colosseum between two of the gladiatorial schools. There was no cover that way, and the public buildings that close to the amphitheatre must be under observation by both the frumentarii and the City Watch. Fifty armed warriors at their back would have ensured safe passage. The case was different with just the three of them.

  ‘Follow me!’

  Where the Street of the African Head diverged, Ballista turned left into Scaurus Street. Maximus and Tarchon followed, blowing hard under the weight of their mailcoats. Together they pounded under the Caelimontana Gate, the sound of their boots echoing back. Scaurus Street led down to the Great Market. Far better to work their way through its maze of arcades, and the alleys of the tenements that abutted the rear of the Temple of Claudius. They would get to the Colosseum from the west, by the Sweating Post fountain.

  The street ran steeply downhill. The Colosseum disappeared behind the Temple, and that in turn vanished behind the tall apartment blocks. The sun was out of sight behind buildings, but it was getting very low. The sky was pink with its setting. Still, not long now – a quarter of an hour, no more. Get to the Gate of Life at the west of the Colosseum, walk through the numbered corridors, ascend the stairs that led to the imperial box. Gallienus trusted him. All Ballista had to do was speak to the emperor, and this nightmare would be ended. He could rest – go home, embrace his wife and children, a bath, have his injuries dressed, a meal and a drink, and then sleep. Rest for a few days, and then take a ship to Sicily, and the peace of the villa high above the Bay of Naxos.

  There were still shoppers making their way home from the Great Market. They all stopped and stared. Allfather, of course they gawp. How could Ballista have been so stupid? Two armed men pelting down the quiet, residential street, chasing after a man with a drawn sword, his tunic soaked in blood – anyone would stop and stare.

  Before Ballista had time to consider what to do about his alarming appearance, things got much worse. The gods were unkind. Just ahead, coming out of market, was a squad of the City Watch. Eight of them, axes one shoulder, clubs resting on the other, buckets in hand – a routine patrol that was about to turn into high drama. The watchmen saw the three men.

  ‘After them!’ The centurion commanding the patrol shouted.

  The watchmen hesitated, evidently unsure what to do with all the equipment that encumbered them.

  ‘Drop the fucking kit! Swords out!’ Centurions of the City Watch were promoted out of the praetorians. They were more experienced soldiers than the firemen they commanded.

  Axes and buckets and clubs clattered to the ground. The watchmen hauled the coiled ropes off their shoulders, dragged out their blades.

  ‘Lucius, you stay with the stuff,’ shouted the centurion.

  The delay had bought a little time.

  ‘In here!’ Ballista dived into an opening between two buildings to the right.

  Wedged between the street and the podium of the temple, the tenements here were packed very close together. The alleyway was narrow. The damp brick walls on either side almost rubbed Ballista’s shoulders. It turned left, then right. Other passages opened on either side. Ballista turned into one at random. It was narrower still.

  The sun never penetrated down here. The air stank of mould and piss. Ballista took another turning to the right. Unable to see the sun or the horizon, he was lost already, unsure in which direction he was heading.

  Rounding a corner, he blundered into a man leading a donkey. What the fuck was he doing with a donkey here? Shoving the beast aside, Ballista grabbed the man by the front of his tunic.

  ‘How do we get out of here?’

  Terrified, the man goggled at him.

  ‘Which way is west?’

  Still the man did not speak.

  From somewhere in the labyrinth came the sound of hobnailed boots.

  ‘How do we get to the west gate of the Colosseum?’ Ballista patted the man like he would a horse. ‘Get to the Sweating Post?’

  Still incapable of speech, the man pointed back the way Ballista had come.

  ‘Fuck,’ Maximus said.

  Maximus was right, the thud of boots was coming from that direction.

  ‘Come on,’ Ballista said. ‘We’ll work our way around them.’

  They moved more cautiously now. At every turning and junction, they stopped to listen. The noises of pursuit seemed to come from all directions. Had the patrol split up, or was it some trick of the sounds travelling down the walls? Worse, had they been reinforced? There were a lot of shouts and footfalls.

  ‘Only eight fuckers,’ Tarchon said. ‘Walking out easy, killing them on way.’

  ‘No,’ Maximus said. ‘Down here.’

  A local shopkeeper was pulling down his shutters. Seeing the men, he quickly locked them and rushed for the door. Maximus was too quick for him. The Hibernian got his shoulder to the door before it could be shut. As Ballista and Tarchon bundled after them into the shop, a woman screamed.

  ‘Quiet now, mother,’ Maximus said.

  ‘Take what you want,’ the shopkeeper stammered. ‘Don’t hurt us.’

  ‘We won’t be hurting you, and we won’t be taking anything,’ Maximus said.

  The woman was sobbing.

  ‘Much hurting, if not quiet,’ Tarchon said.

  Huddled in the corner, the woman was silently shaking.

  Maximus shut the door. ‘Don’t mind old Tarchon. We are just after a little sit down. We will be on our way before you know it.’

  The shop was tiny, little bigger than a cell. A ladder went up to a miniscule sleeping platform. The whole was barely lit by a clay lamp. The oil it burned was cheap. Its rancid smell mingled with that of old vegetables.

  From outside came the tread of military boots.

  ‘Quiet as a mouse now, my darlings,’ Maximus whispered.

  The hobnails were getting closer.

  Ballista indicated for Maximus to keep an eye on the woman. He put his arm around the shoulders of the man. Tarchon stood on the other side.

  The soldiers were right outside.

  A silence in the room so profound, it was almost tangible.

  The footsteps stopped.

  They all started as the door rattled against its hinges.

  ‘Open up, Numerius.’

  The City Watch had the right to enter any property.

  ‘Come on, you old bastard, we know you’re in there.’

  Ballista put his lips right against the shopkeeper’s ear. ‘Tell him you are busy.’

  The man looked at him as if he was insane. He had a point – what on earth could he be doing in this tiny cell?

  ‘Say yo
u attending to conjugal duties,’ Tarchon whispered.

  Somehow the shopkeeper managed to stammer out that he was with his wife.

  The fireman outside laughed. ‘We can wait, won’t take you long.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ The shopkeeper managed to sound convincingly annoyed.

  ‘Numerius, listen – someone down the alley said three men were heading this way. Did you see anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you do, stay inside. They are dangerous bastards. One of them has already killed a watchman and several civilians since last night.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Perhaps, Ballista thought, the moralists were right – being a trader accustomed a man to mendacity.

  As the tread of the City Watch receded, everyone exhaled at once.

  ‘Give them a chance to move away,’ Ballista said quietly, as much to himself as anyone.

  In the gathering hush, Ballista’s thoughts wandered of their own accord. Scarpio, Prefect of the Watch, and Rufinus, leader of the frumentarii – both were equestrians, both held important posts. But they could not hope to overthrow an emperor, and survive the attempt. No one would accept either on the throne. There had to be more important figures behind them; senior commanders, senators or equestrians of higher rank. Neither Scarpio or Rufinus were bald, neither looked like a peasant.

  ‘We should be going,’ Maximus said.

  The woman was sobbing again.

  ‘There is something I must do first,’ Ballista said. ‘Take off your clothes.’

  ‘Never!’ The woman’s voice was edged with hysteria. She was close to breaking point.

  ‘Not you,’ Ballista said, ‘your husband.’

  ‘Bastards!’ The woman leapt up. There was a knife in her hand. She slashed at Maximus. The Hibernian stepped back, rising on his toes, letting the blade pass close across his stomach, like a beast fighter working a bull in the arena. He punched her once, hard in the face. She crumpled to the floor, hands to her face.

  Tarchon seized the man.

  ‘Sure, I would never hit a woman.’ Maximus stooped, collected the blade. ‘But a woman with a knife, now that is a deadly weapon.’