The Jupiter Myth

by Lindsey Davis

  A male figure finally emerged from the gateway. I could see he was lean, tanned, and shaven-headed. He wore natty dark brown leather trousers and navvy’s boots; he had bare arms tightly tied with rope bracelets to make the muscles stand out. He looked like any tough nut from the Suburra, and that’s a scary look.

  He was nobody I recognized—or so I thought at first.

  Behind him, by a few paces, came about five others. They strung out in a line sideways, walking casually. The odds seemed acceptable, so far. Two each, if I joined the women. The heavies were dressed up like anyone in the street, though even from this distance I could tell they carried an armory. They had swords and daggers stuffed in their belts, and a couple held staves in their fists. They sauntered in, behaving like some rich man’s train of unruly slaves who would cause trouble just because they could get away with it. It did not fool me. These men knew exactly what they were about, and it was mean business.

  I moved out fast across the ring. Chloris and her friend had shifted on light feet. They closed together, fully on guard and swords up, ready to make a stand.

  The man in leather trousers stopped, within easy call. The heavies fanned out either side of him and moved up. They remained some distance from the two female gladiators, but if the girls made a run toward any part of the perimeter, they would be easily chased. I slowed down, not wanting to precipitate anything I could not control.

  The nearest heavy was eyeing me up. He was about twenty strides from the couple at the center, half that from me. No point attacking him; well, not yet. He was a snotty brute with thrusting calves who had never learned to bathe. I could see the dirt ingrained on his skin, and his lank hair was as thick with natural grease as some old sheep’s stinking wool.

  “Amazonia!” Repeating her name, the shaven-headed autocrat shouted a little more appeasingly. His accent labeled him: Rome. Born there and taught corruption there. It was a light, troublingly weak voice. It still sounded contemptuous and arrogant. This had to be Florius.

  He had walked only as close as he needed, protected by his men. If the girls tried to reach him, they would certainly be stopped. They did not try. Nor did they answer. An intense silence filled the amphitheater. Everything lay so still, I could hear a faint chink of ringed mail as one of the bodyguards shifted his weight unintentionally. The casual daywear was a disguise; the brute was professionally armored beneath his tunic. The other men stood motionless.

  “You fight well. I’m impressed by the demonstration. But you need organization behind you and I want to supply it!” announced the hopeful manager. His tone stayed harsh, yet somehow unconvincing. Still, he had plenty of backup. It would take courage to say no to him.

  The helmeted figure with the dark plait took the risk, shaking her head. At her side, her friend showed by tiny movements that she was searching the heavies for any notice of surprise attack.

  “Put down your weapons.”

  Neither girl reacted.

  “Time to talk—” With the pretense that this was still a business arrangement, he was wheedling. Then he spoiled it: “You’re outnumbered and outclassed—”

  Not quite. The other girl touched Amazonia’s arm and both glanced behind them. Through the gate where I had entered ran a small group of their colleagues, just three or four, but enough to even up the balance. Pausing only to drag closed the mighty gates, they raced across the sand, all wearing combat costume with either tridents or short swords. Soon they were fanning out either side of the central pair to give them cover.

  Now we had a full standoff.

  The man who must be Florius toughened up. “Oh, let’s stop the games, girls. Lay aside your arms!”

  Then a new voice rang out, showing real authority: “What—and be slaughtered, Florius?”

  The woman’s cry had resounded around the arena from some high point. It surprised us all. Heads turned. Eyes sought the source. The voice had come from the President’s box. Its owner was standing, feet astride, right up on the balcony rail where banners would be draped on ceremonial days. She balanced there effortlessly, far out of reach.

  This must be the woman I had spotted earlier alone, tightly wrapped in a stole. Now she had shed her coverings and I knew her to be the real Chloris. With the showmanship she had used all her career, she sported bare, booted legs beneath a breathtakingly short skirt. She too had her hair scraped back tight, then braided in a long thin tail.

  “You can speak your lies to me,” sneered the strong apparition.

  “Oh, what’s this?” rasped Florius, looking angrily from the decoy to the real group leader and back.

  “You tell me.” Chloris sounded coldly confident. She believed she had outmaneuvered him. “Why the troop of bullies? Why demand disarming? Why come heavy-handed and threaten my girls—if this is really a business meeting and you really want to work with us?”

  He tried to bluff. “Come down and we can discuss things.”

  “I think not!” she scoffed. That was my Chloris. Succinct and resentful.

  She was less safe up there than she had planned. There had been movement among the scattered spectators and now a couple of figures with evil intentions were weaving their way along the rows of seats toward the President’s box. I waved madly to warn Chloris. She glanced quickly sideways, not too disconcerted.

  “Oh, send in your runners to snatch me,” she sneered, standing like the Winged Victory of Samothrace, but with better legs. Was she armed? I could not tell. She could have anything with her in the box. Being Chloris, it could be an ostrich-feather fan and a couple of white doves. Mind you, in this new violent career, the doves might be trained to peck eyes out.

  “Oh, I want you,” retorted leather trousers. “I’ll get you too—”

  “Have to catch me first!” cried Chloris.

  She must have been well prepared for this. As the two came nearer, intent on entering the box, Chloris took a flying leap from the balcony. She had a rope, down which she slid with that swift chasing glide of a circus artiste concluding her trapeze act and returning to earth. Her feet were crossed to regulate her descent, and she held one gleaming arm high, straight above her head, brandishing a sword.

  The rope ran right down into the walkway, out of sight behind the safety barrier. Chloris disappeared.

  Enraged, Florius muttered something to his men. I knew the fight was about to start. I readied myself to join it in support of the girls. The men closed with them. As the first clash of swords rang out, there were new developments.

  Florius was intending to withdraw. I saw him pull back behind his men as they squared up to the gladiator girls. That coward was keeping out of it, even though he was armed. I slashed aside a heavy’s weapon and stormed past to rush after Florius.

  He was heading off back to the western gate through which he had arrived. But someone else was coming in that way: someone who yelled triumphantly. It was another voice I knew, and so did Florius. He pulled up short. Facing him now, the trousered gangster with the shaved head recognized the tall, brown-clad figure of Petronius Longus. That might not have stopped Florius, but Petro—unaware that I would be here as his fighting ally—had found himself another friend. Restlessly fretting at its heavy chain, it was rearing up even above Petro’s height.

  “Hold it right there, Florius—or I loose the bear!”

  There were still fifteen strides between them, but Florius faltered, then obeyed.

  XLIII

  My good friend Petronius Longus had many fine qualities. He was tough and shrewd, an amiable crony, a valued law-and-order officer, and a respected man in any neighborhood he graced. He always sneered at my dog, but had himself harbored flea-bitten kittens for his children, and I had heard him speak with devotion of an elderly three-legged tortoise called Trident, his own pet when a lad. Still, I had no reason to suppose he could handle a huge, bad-tempered, only partially tamed Caledonian bear. And I was right. He may have taken a swift lesson from the owner before he strode into the arena, bu
t the bear had already seen a chance to assert its unpredictable character.

  Petro encouraged the creature to advance on Florius. The shaggy mass, a close relation to the floor rugs Chloris strewed around her boudoir, made a short foray, grunted, then turned around and played with its chain, threatening to haul Petro off balance. Florius laughed, a loud and derisive cackle. That was a mistake. Petro muttered at the bear, which now turned and sprinted speedily toward the gangster. Petro let out more chain. Florius screamed at his bodyguard. Some of the heavies peeled off from fighting the gladiators and ran to save him. As I confronted them, I saw that the women were doing thoroughly good work, fencing with the other heavies. They did not need me. Just as well. I had my hands full as I stabbed at the gangster’s supporters. One man yelled a warning. We all looked around. The bear took another run at Florius. Petro hauled back hard on its chain but it was damned fast. It had no teeth but as it swiped with a paw, now barely two strides from the gangster, it could do serious damage. Florius was hysterical with fear.

  Then again the action changed. Through the western gate came the thunder of hooves. Mounted men galloped in, clearly Florius’ reinforcements, two and three to a horse. The numbers of gangsters rose to a dangerous high—but now there were other movements on the edge of the arena: ropes shot down from the safety palisade, with figures sliding down them fast—more armed females who had materialized from among the apparent sightseers. They shimmied down their ropes at several points, loudly whooping a challenge.

  Most of the riders sped past us to the center. Fights broke out in all directions. There were almost as many combatants now as in the best-ticketed displays. I tried to assess the situation. The day might still be containable. The women had skill and determination, and for some reason the newcomers were not attacking them. Instead, they were riding in circles, harrying the foot-soldier heavies who were already here. Petronius and his long-nosed hairy ally had stopped Florius leaving; I was tackling the bodyguards closest to him, so Petro could make him a prisoner. Two events destroyed that hopeful plan. First, a lone horseman rode up behind Florius. Florius turned, hoping for rescue from the angry bear. Then he went pale. He was facing me, so I saw what had alarmed him: wide-shouldered, warty, and scowling, the rider was Splice.

  I began to run toward them, yelling to Petronius. Under my feet the sand was packed hard enough to run on, but it’s an odd surface for those not arena-trained. Slow going. Your feet soon tire and drag. It allowed time for Splice to rein in his mount so hard it reared up right above Florius. Splice, knowing that his leader had intended to kill him with poison, obviously meant to retaliate. It explained why the new arrivals were fighting their supposed allies—we now had a gang war to contend with.

  Florius scrabbled away desperately. The bear roared and came at him. This time Petronius was pulled over, though instinctively he clung on to the chain. I was trying to attack Splice, but a man on foot is no match for cavalry.

  Through the open western gate then raced a new contender. This would be a big thrill for a watching crowd: a girl fighting from a light, rapid two-horse British chariot. It was Chloris. She had a driver, while she herself leaned out over the wicker side, one arm raised with her drawn sword. She went straight for Florius. Splice had to avoid the chariot. He leaped from his horse, cursing, but reached Florius and grappled him. Torn between avoiding Splice and dodging the maddened bear’s needle claws, Florius ended up with his back to Splice, who gripped him with one arm across his chest while pummeling him with his free fist. The driver wheeled the chariot around them in a tight circle, looking for a chance to get close. Then in the chaos, she made the mistake of driv-ing too fast over the bear’s chain. A wheel jerked violently and left the ground. The chariot skewed, flew up, and nearly went over. Chloris, unprepared, was flung out. She lost her sword but scrambled after it. Finding itself free, the bear leaped and clambered onto the horses. The terrified girl driver screamed and threw herself off the side, landing on Petronius and temporarily flooring him. The chariot careered on into the main fight at the center of the arena, now looking as if the great black bear was riding in a circus act.

  Apart from this mad scene, there was a sudden tense pause. Florius was being dragged backwards by Splice. Petro, Chloris, and I were regrouping to tackle him.

  Then the light changed. The heavens closed and it grew dark as a portent.

  Dry in the mouth, I saw no way this could end well. In the eerie new half-light, fighting would be even more dangerous.

  As I struggled toward Splice and Florius, Petro pounded after them too, in an easy style, on his long legs. Many a thief had been caught out and brought down, thinking Petro was putting no effort into a chase. He was gaining, but Splice was aware he had trouble. He turned, using Florius as a human shield, ready to fight Petro for possession of the gang leader.

  In the main battle, heavies still appeared to be fighting one another, though some broke away from the pack to support their leader. It split the action nicely, but there was still work for the girls. A hasty glance told me those honeypots were excellent. What they lacked in weight they made up in training and bladework. A stamp and a flick brought a man down before he had even started fighting them. They were not squeamish: if a slashed artery would stop an opponent, they wasted no energy with a death blow—which takes strength—but sliced into an accessible limb, then leaped away as the blood spurted. Those I could see were methodically working through anyone who came at them.

  Petro and I would have made short work of Splice, and if Florius was killed, well, no complaints. We were thwarted, however: the loose chariot swerved back at us, its horses crazed with fear of the slavering bear. Out of control, it rattled between us and our quarry. We tried leaping for the horses’ heads but were knocked aside. I heard Petro curse.

  “You brought the hairy boy racer!” I complained.

  “I didn’t know he was chariot-mad.”

  Some of the bodyguards now rushed us. Not sure even if they were for Florius or Splice, I took on two of them. Without armor, this was no fun. I had put one man down before Petro joined me. Close by, Splice and Chloris were hard at it. Florius was on the ground, Splice holding him down with his foot. Other thugs were there in support. Chloris was laboring. The heavies had no scruples about attacking women. They were pressing in on Chloris; I was losing sight of her. Petro and I made a big effort, finishing off our opponents with savage sword strokes.

  Chloris had no intention of letting us in on the fight against Splice. She was letting out high-pitched grunts of effort every time she struck a blow. Even that hard nut Splice looked anxious.

  More thugs were arriving. The chariot veered back toward us and turned over on its axle, cutting them off. The bear sprang off, sideswiping me with a hot, heavy flank and pouncing on one of the bodyguards. I smelled its rank odors and heard a scream. The man was down. There were shouts, jeers, frantic growls.

  A female voice shrieked, then I saw Splice fall. Chloris stabbed him again hard; he was done for. Miserably wriggling from under them, Florius escaped the pack and made a run for it. The heavies were fighting the bear. It was overcome by weight and numbers. They kicked and slashed at the creature, which fought back viciously. Chloris raced after Florius. Petro and I burst through the mob and took off after her.

  Chloris and Florius were already halfway to the eastern gate. They attracted attention, so when Petro and I reached the center of the arena, men ran out to intercept us. In the lead, I raised my sword and let out a tremendous shout. There were more than I could handle, but I was fighting mad.

  “Falco!” Petronius could see the odds.

  I took the head half off the nearest brute while he stood with his mouth open. I still don’t know how I did that. It felt good, though. In my next onslaught I went for two at once. Now the thugs scattered away. I was on my own for half a minute, then I was aware of Petronius alongside.

  Other things were happening.

  Rattling chains signaled the opening o
f the huge hatch for animals at the eastern gate. It shot up; new figures raced out, amid the frantic noise of baying dogs.

  “Watch out!” Petronius called to me. If these were arena-trained, they were killers. We made a run for the outskirts. Some of the heavies were less lucky. The pack of hounds were on them, hot for blood. To my astonishment, in among the dogs I saw the slight, pale form of our rescued girl, Albia, wild-eyed and cheering them on. Running in behind in a flash of blue came my own Helena. After her lumbered the dogman, waving his arms, puffing with effort, protesting in a way that said he had not parted with his dogs willingly. Helena turned to remonstrate, defending the hijack.

  Petronius and I had lost Chloris and Florius in the melee. Petro spotted them first. Almost at the gate, Florius kept going, unaware how closely he was being chased by Chloris. He thought he was safe. Then Chloris leaped on him from behind. We heard him gasp. He went flat, swallowing sand.

  Chloris was up again. Merciless, she hauled Florius to his feet, her sword at his throat. She was angry. “Get up, you bastard!”

  A grumble of thunder disturbed the summer afternoon. It seemed to be darker than ever.

  “We’ll take him—” commanded Petronius as we two ran up, breathless. He thought himself the gallant type, which meant never subservient to women.

  “Stuff you!” growled Chloris. I bent double, getting my breath. We had run almost the length of the arena, after fighting hard.

  “This rat is mine—” Petro would never learn. Sweating hard in the sultry temperature, he drew a forearm across his brow.

  “No, I want him,” Chloris insisted.

  “I’ve been after him for years!”

  “And now I’ve got him!” Chloris backed away, dragging the gangster like a barley sack. White-faced in her grip, he now looked like the old bundle of gibbering nonentity. Leather trousers don’t turn a wimp into a demigod. He may have shaved his head, but he still had all the personality of a dirty rag. He was so scared he was dribbling.