For as long as he could remember Sharek had been part of a theatre company. As a boy no older than seven he was sold, as a slave, to a troupe which performed in and around Alexandria. At first, he served as a kitchen hand and cup bearer, but then he worked as a set-painter, carpenter and costumer. He soon took to the stage as well. Sharek fell in love with playing a part, telling a story and garnering applause. Within the space of a couple of hours he felt that he could make a group of complete strangers fall in love with him. Several lead actors and patrons fell in love with the boy in a far more intimate way too, as he served as their catamite. A wealthy merchant was so taken with the youth that he bought his freedom. Sharek remained a slave to his profession however. After working as an actor, writer and choreographer, he set up his own company of travelling performers. Hearing about Rome’s increasing prosperity under Augustus the shrewd Egyptian decided to follow the money and venture west. Business was good – especially since being in the exclusive employ of the Roman senator. The former catamite could now afford his own string of young, virile lovers. The senator granted him use of his villa, as Sharek worked on writing the tragedy he was commissioned to put on. The play was slowly but surely taking shape, despite or because of his patron’s suggestions. The gourmand in Sharek instructed the cook – and the sybarite in him instructed the slave boys at the house.
“I fear he is using some poetic licence to describe me as accomplished,” Varro replied, squinting in the afternoon sun. Or he was part-blinded by the theatre manager’s garb. Varro couldn’t help but notice Sharek wearing a pair of glass earrings and an accompanying necklace, which he had also seen Lucilla wear. He didn’t know whether to smirk or cringe.
“Sharek will give you a tour of our theatre and introduce you to some of our actors, should you wish. I can also arrange for Vedius here to have our gladiators give you a demonstration of their skill. As well as serving as my bodyguard, Vedius oversees the local ludus,” Scaurus remarked, briefly turning to the hulking figure beside him.
Vedius appeared formidable – and Varro had no doubt that the granite-faced attendant was formidable. He was dressed in fine pieces of armour and his weaponry – a gladius, hand axe and dagger – were of the highest quality. Vedius nodded at his master’s guest, but otherwise gave off an air of being indifferent or unimpressed by the supposedly distinguished visitor. Varro couldn’t quite tell if his blubbery mouth was curled into a permanent sneer, or he suffered from a slight harelip. His nostrils were as wide as a bull’s. His arms were knotted with muscle, his skin as tough and leathery as animal hide. Vedius’ chest and shoulders were even more pronounced than Manius’. Varro imagined the bodyguard could easily thrust a spearhead through a man’s torso, even if he was clad in armour. The former gladiator gave off an air of knowing about pain, both absorbing it and, more so, inflicting it.
“I’d be delighted to take a tour and be introduced to some of the actors. Whilst doing so you might like to have your gladiators give a demonstration to my attendant, Manius. He can then duly report back to me.”
“Excellent. Once you are finished I will have Sharek bring you to my villa, where we can have lunch. I can provide you with a carriage to take you back home, but should you not need to return to Rome urgently you will be welcome to stay the night. We can lodge your bodyguard in our slave quarters too,” Scaurus suggested, without even glancing at Manius. Slaves were little more than cattle to the senator. They were unable to vote and unable to contribute to his campaign fund.
Varro resisted the temptation to correct his host, by stating that his attendant was a freedman – and his adopted brother even. Perhaps he was being tested again. Manius was also sufficiently thick-skinned to shrug off the insult.
“I am afraid I will have to travel back after our lunch but thank you for your kind offer. You must allow me to invite you to lunch or dinner, to repay your hospitality. I can even arrange a party in your honour,” Varro warmly issued, greasing the wheels of his burgeoning relationship as much as his host.
“I have never been one to decline an invite to a party, especially one organised in my honour. Before we proceed I should just also introduce you to Tabiry and Salassi, two of the lead dancers in our company. They will be joining us for dessert at lunch. You can see more of them then, if you wish. I should mention beforehand that they barely speak a word of Latin, but less is often more when it comes to female conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”
Varro grinned in reply – and then turned to smile at the two dancers standing a dozen paces behind his host. They were equally alluring and wore similar, diaphanous dresses which left little – or a lot – to the imagination. They eyed the nobleman up, as if he were a feast. Varro was twice as handsome – and half the age – of Scaurus’ previous guests. Tabiry pouted and Salassi seemed to mouth a couple of words - or kiss the air. She then let out a burst of laughter and poked the tip of her tongue through her gleaming teeth as she did so. The woman on the left, who Varro took to be Tabiry, was dusky-skinned. Her almond eyes and thick black hair suggested she was from the East. Salassi had paler skin and auburn hair. Perhaps she was from Gaul, or a barbarian tribe north of the Rhine. Her eyes were dark yet playful, kittenish. As Scaurus beckoned them to come closer their less than subtle oeillades grew even more suggestive. The myrrh and jasmine of their perfumes wafted through the air and nearly overpowered and intoxicated his senses. Nearly.
Sharek clapped his hands three times, as if to break the spell of the women - and focus the nobleman’s attention back on himself.
“Shall we proceed? I have much to show you.”
The dancers scowled momentarily at their impresario - or bawd - but then turned their smiles back on, as if they were closing and opening shutters. They knew they would be centre stage later. The attractive and wealthy Roman could have one - or both of them - for dessert. They could all feast on each other.
“I am in your hands, Sharek,” Varro said, after offering the women a bow and an equally suggestive look.
If only, the decadent ageing actor desirously thought.
17.
Manius was all too familiar with the sights, scents and sounds before him. An oval-shaped blanket of sand, spread over concrete, covered part of the field. Sword posts sprung-up from the ground like saplings. Steaming bowls of barley sat over campfires. Slaves ladled out rations of watered-down wine. He winced not at the fetid smell of sweat, as he was led towards the make-shift arena. Whilst some men wore armour, some walked around shirtless – and Manius was at least pleased to see how Vedius spared the use of the vine-staff. The Briton had seen enough warriors, whipped like livestock, to last a lifetime. Tirones – beginners – practised their sword strokes or were drilled to improve their strength and conditioning. Thankfully clouds began to marble the sky, tempering the searing sun. A cacophony of grunts, roars, orders, howls, curses and clangs galloped through the air. The gnarled, swarthy expressions, surrounded by long, lank hair had little changed since his time as a gladiator. No doubt some of the men were condemned criminals, who had chosen to enter the ludus rather than be sentenced to death immediately. Some might have been slaves, who had turned on their masters and were suffering the consequences. Or some were impoverished young men from the countryside, who had ventured to Rome in search of fortune and glory. Others would have once been destitute and desperate soldiers. The arena was a source of hope, as well as dread – reward as well as punishment. Some of the figures before him would end up as fodder, for beasts and veteran gladiators alike. But a few might win fame and freedom – and eventually work as bodyguards or debt collectors.
“You were a gladiator too were you not, some time ago?” Vedius asked, in his low, rasping voice.
Manius nodded, not quite knowing if his tone was more sinister or suspicious.
“I would say you fought honourably in the arena, but if you did you’d be dead. There was only one rule for me: kill or be killed. I fought as if my life was at stake even when the contest wasn’t a f
ight to the death. And I still train as if my life depends on it. Every now and then I need to bloody my blade, like a wagoner needs to grease his wheels to keep them turning. I was trained as a provocator – but I also trained myself to fight as a retiarius and eques. I was undefeated. The people chanted my name.”
Vedius puffed out his chest, like an umbo protruding from a shield, as he spoke.
Manius had heard many a soldier and gladiator tell old war stories and sing their praises before. He was tempted to yawn but he appeared interested and impressed.
“This all takes me back,” Manius replied, affecting a sense of nostalgia. But the Briton had scant fondness for his time as a gladiator. He still suffered occasional nightmares. If he concentrated he could still feel the prick of the surgeon’s needle, from when he sewed-up his wounds. Manius remembered how his arm would often feel like a slab of lead at the end of a day’s training. He would often wake-up, with a companion dying from a fever or his injuries, in the bed next him. The smell of death – both real and metaphorical – would fester in his cramped quarters. A slave’s lot seemed more enviable. The crowd would applaud him, especially if they had placed a winning wager. But gladiators were still creatures to be fettered, rather than feted. The memory of Spartacus lingered. The notorious gladiator, who led a rebellion against Rome, was a monster, a tale to scare children with. The crowd might cheer but it was more likely they would curse his name and call for his death, Manius remembered. He could still picture them spewing spittle and gnashing their rotten, crooked teeth. And that was just the women in the arena.
“Well I intend to get your blood racing some more, instead of just stirring some memories. Should your master be taken under our wing then you may one day serve under my command. I wish to test your mettle, and have you fight one of my men. Call it a bit of friendly sport if you like. Let us hope that you fare better than the bodyguards who faced my men this morning. As much as it’s dog eat dog for most men, whether they be a beggar or senator in Rome, the city can also make a man grow soft. He can attend too many parties or catch a pox. You are more likely to have to protect your master from a nagging wife or scornful mistress than from a bandit nowadays.”
“Serve under your command? I didn’t know we were at war,” Manius replied. He started to notice he had attracted the attention of several gladiators. They eyed him suspiciously, although a few smirked in amusement when Vedius mentioned the previous bodyguards, who had attended to Scaurus’ senatorial party earlier. It seemed that their mettle had been tested – and found wanting. Manius gazed back at the various fighters, neither defiantly nor timidly.
“We all possess enemies, it’s just that some don’t always know who they are. War is as inevitable as death,” Vedius decreed, before snorting a gob of phlegm out of his broken nose. “If you want to head over there and see our quartermaster, Amatius, you can choose your preferred weapons and armour. In the meantime, I’ll select a fitting opponent for you.”
Manius felt like he was being ambushed or bullied into accepting the challenge. But he agreed to take part in the contest. He needed to earn Vedius’ respect and trust – not for his own sake but for Varro’s. Scaurus might have entrusted his plans to the lanista. And perhaps Vedius would entrust his plans to his newest recruit. The more intelligence he could gather the better. Also, Manius viewed the contest as a training exercise for his more important bout tomorrow. As he walked across the lip of the oval the Briton observed various spots of blood marking the sand. He also heard Vedius sound out some instructions to two gladiators practising nearby:
“Plant yourself like a tree, otherwise be chopped down. Good footwork can finish an opponent off, or save your life… Don’t just thrust with your arm, like some limp-wristed eunuch, but thrust forward with your whole body…”
The ageing quartermaster had a sage – or grizzled - air. He stood in front of a table and a brace of wagons containing all manner of weaponry and armour: greaves, tridents, axes, swords, breastplates, helmets, knives and spears. Either due to the sunlight, or poor eyesight, Amatius squinted as he took in the bodyguard, whilst gnawing on a ham bone.
Manius instantly dismissed fighting as a retiarius. He had seen more men enmesh themselves in their own nets than he cared to remember. He picked up a few practise swords, their points rounded off and edges blunted, to gauge their weight and balance. Manius also thought intently about how much armour he should wear - and asked for the quartermaster’s advice. Protection and mobility needed to be taken into consideration. It would have helped if he knew the type of gladiator he would be facing. In the end Manius donned the short sword and large shield of a provocator. As the Briton readied himself he observed the crowd – audience – surrounding the practise arena.
“How do you rate my chances?” the bodyguard remarked, as he tightened the strap on his manica.
“Unfortunately, for you, Vidius won’t pit you against one of the tirones. I see he’s lining up Bulla. He’ll snarl and bark like a cur but don’t underestimate him. He’s sly as well vicious. He won’t treat things like a practise bout either. The edge on that sword may be as dull as a German’s wit but it can still do some damage. I once saw Bulla bludgeon a man to death in the arena with just the pommel of his gladius. But if you are Manius “The Briton”, who bested more than a dozen similarly sly and vicious curs in his time, then your chances are far from dire,” Amatius replied, having recognised the former gladiator. The sage quartermaster had seen and assessed many a fighter in the arena over the years – and the Briton could stand toe to toe with most of them, in his prime.
“And what if I’m not that Manius?”
“Then you may want to find him and ask if he can take your place.”
Both men offered each other a wry smile and respectful nod. Manius swished the sword around to loosen up his wrist – and went through a few more stretching exercises – before making his way back towards Vedius, who was waiting in the middle of the oval, beside his opponent.
Amatius was right. He was no tirone. The leather-faced veteran grinned, as if he was already triumphant. Vedius had chosen to match him up with a Hoplocanus – a Hoplite fighter. The seasoned combatant wore a padded jacket for protection, as well as greaves and armguards. His build was solid and stocky, an alloy of strength and speed. His helmet sat on the ground in front of him. In his right hand the fighter carried a thrusting spear, with its tip rounded off instead of coming to a point. The weapon wouldn’t be able to penetrate Manius’ armour, but it could still crack bone or leave him with some nasty bruises. In his left he held a polished bronze shield, which the experienced fighter would try and use to deflect the light and temporarily blind his opponent. The crowd started to chant their champion’s name. He was either famous, or infamous, Manius judged. Bulla’s furtive expression bespoke of his former profession, as a bandit. Until he was captured. But the ferocious – and wily – criminal had flourished in the arena.
The plan would be to avoid the tip of the spear and move inside. His opponent would then be vulnerable. But no doubt his opponent already knew this. Manius reasoned that he needed to end the bout as early as possible. The longer he fought the shorter the odds would be on him suffering an injury. And he needed to be in good condition for his bout the next day. He filled his lungs and gripped his sword and shield in determination. Manius was now fighting for Varro and Camilla, as well as for himself.
Vedius called for quiet as he introduced the combatants and explained the rules. The gladiators could yield at any time. Victory could also come from one of the opponents putting the other on his back.
“Let us hope that our bodyguard fares better than his predecessors. He certainly couldn’t fare any worse,” Vedius announced, to a chorus of cackling laughter.
Bulla slowly, ceremoniously, donned his helmet – as if it were a crown. Another cheer went up from the throng. Swords clanged upon shields as a form of applause. The fighters stood half a dozen paces apart. Vedius stood between them, with his right arm
aloft. Once he lowered it the bout would begin. Bulla licked his lips, as if he were about to savour a mound of roasted meat. He also briefly clasped a small iron amulet around his neck and offered up a silent prayer to Mars. Gladiators were even more superstitious than soldiers, Manius fancied. The hoplite fighter then addressed his opponent, in a guttural rather than Greek accent:
“You won’t be the first Briton I’ve bested. I even killed one of your bastard countryman a few years back. He pissed himself as I stood over him. He died a lonely death, a long way from home.”
This time Manius gave in to the temptation to yawn. The reaction riled his opponent. Bulla’s eyes widened - ablaze - with ire. His grimace transformed itself into a grin again though as the sun broke through the clouds. He could now use his burnished shield to its full effect.
Manius planted his right foot forward, digging his toe in the sand. Bulla scuffed the ground with his left foot, as if he were a bull about to charge. The two men barely blinked as they glowered at each other, whist also noting the position of Vedius’ arm.
The lanista paused, enjoying the attention and power he wielded. He didn’t quite know whether to be impressed or disconcerted by the Briton’s air of calm and confidence. But Bulla would do his job. Vedius had briefed his gladiator to toy with his opponent: “Sap his strength and probe any weaknesses. I want to know if he’ll prove an asset or not, should Scaurus recruit his master to the cause. We need durable men, who can follow orders.”
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