Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  The month was Junius, at the beginning of what promised to be a long, hot summer. The blue sky and undulating green hills were especially beautiful here in the Etrurian countryside outside the town of Saturnia, where Cicero and I, travelling separately from Rome, had arrived the day before to attend the funeral of a local magistrate. Sextus Thorius had been struck down in the prime of life, thrown from his horse while riding down the Clodian Way to check on the progress of a slave gang doing repair work on the road. The next day, word of his demise reached Rome, where quite a few important persons had felt obligated to attend the funeral.

  Earlier that morning, not a few of the senators and bankers who gathered to watch the funeral procession had raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gordianus the Finder among them; feeling the beady gaze of a prune-faced matron on me, I distinctly overheard her whisper to her husband, ‘What’s he doing here? Does someone suspect foul play at work in the death of Sextus Thorius?’ But Cicero, when he caught sight of me, smiled grimly and moved to join me, and asked no questions. He knew why I had come. A few years ago, facing the prospect of a ruinous business scandal, Thorius had consulted Cicero for legal advice, and Cicero had sent Thorius to me to get to the bottom of the affair. In the end, both scandal and litigation were averted. Thorius had rewarded me generously, and had subsequently sent quite a bit of business my way. The least I could do on the occasion of his death was to pack my best toga, spend the night at a seedy inn in Saturnia, and show up at his funeral.

  We had followed the procession of musicians, hired mourners and family members to the little necropolis outside Saturnia, where, after a few speeches of remembrance, Thorius’ remains had been set alight atop a funeral pyre. At the soonest opportunity to do so without seeming impolite, I had turned to leave, eager to start back to Rome, when Cicero caught my arm.

  ‘Surely you’re not leaving yet, Gordianus. We must stay for the funeral games.’

  ‘Games?’ I meant to load the word with irony, but Cicero took the question in my voice literally.

  ‘There’s to be a gladiator show, of course. It’s not as if Thorius was a nobody. His family wasn’t rich, but they’ll have spent whatever they can afford, I’m sure.’

  ‘I hate watching gladiators,’ I said bluntly.

  ‘So do I. But they’re a part of the funeral, no less than the procession and the eulogies. One has to stay.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood to see blood spilled.’

  ‘But if you leave now, people will notice,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘You can’t afford to have them think you’re squeamish, Gordianus. Not in your line of work.’

  I glanced at the faces around us, lit by the funeral pyre. The prune-faced matron was among them, along with her husband and numerous others from the same social set back in Rome. Much as I might hate to admit it, I was dependent on the trust and goodwill of such people, the sort who had occasion to call on my services and the means to pay for them. I ferreted out the truth, and in return they put bread on my table.

  ‘But I have to get back to Rome,’ I protested. ‘I can’t afford another night at that seedy inn.’

  ‘Then you’ll stay with me,’ said Cicero. ‘I have accommodation with a local banker. Good food. Comfortable bed.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  Why did Cicero want so badly for me to stay? It occurred to me that he was the squeamish one. To watch the gladiators, he wanted the company of someone who wouldn’t needle him about his squeamishness, as so many of his social equals were likely to do.

  Begrudgingly, I acquiesced, and so found myself, that fine afternoon in Junius, seated in a wooden amphitheatre constructed especially for the funeral games to honour the passing of Sextus Thorius of Saturnia. Since I was with Cicero, I had been admitted into the more exclusive section of seats beneath the shade of the blood-red awning, along with the bereaved family, various local dignitaries, and important visitors from Rome. The local villagers and farmers sat in the sun-drenched seats across from ours. They wore brimmed hats for shade and waved brightly coloured fans. For a brief moment, bemused by the fluttering fans, I had the illusion that the crowd had been covered by a swarm of huge butterflies flapping their wings.

  There were to be three matches, all fought to the death. Any less than three would have seemed parsimonious on the part of the family. Any more would have begun to look ostentatious, and added to the cost. As Cicero had said, the family of Sextus Thorius, while eminently respectable, was not rich.

  The three pairs of gladiators were paraded before us. Helmets hid their faces, but they were easy to tell apart by their different armour and their contrasting physiques. One stood out from all the rest because of his colouration, a Nubian whose muscular arms and legs shone beneath the hot sun like burnished ebony. As the fighters strode before us, each raised his weapon. The crowd responded with polite cheering, but I overheard two men behind us complaining:

  ‘Pretty obscure outfit. Owned by some freedman from Ravenna, I’m told; fellow called Ahala. Never heard of him!’

  ‘Me neither. How did the family settle on this crew? Probably came cheap. Still, I suppose the Nubian’s something of a novelty …’

  There followed the ritual inspection of weapons for sharpness and armour for soundness, performed by the local magistrate in charge of the games, then the gladiators departed from the arena. The magistrate invoked the gods and delivered yet another eulogy to Sextus Thorius. A few moments later, to a blare of trumpets, a pair of gladiators reemerged and the first bout commenced. The shorter, stockier fighter was outfitted in the Thracian manner with a small round shield and a short sword. His tall, lumbering opponent wore heavier Samnite armour and carried an oblong shield.

  ‘Samnite versus Thracian – a typical match,’ noted Cicero, who often fell to lecturing when he was uneasy or nervous. ‘Did you know that the very first gladiatorial matches took place right here in Etruria? Oh, yes; we Romans inherited the custom from the Etruscans. They began by sacrificing captive warriors before the funeral pyres of their leaders—’ Cicero gave a start as the sword of the Samnite struck one of the iron bosses on the shield of the Thracian with a resounding clang, then he cleared his throat and continued. ‘Eventually, instead of simply strangling the captives, the Etruscans decided to have them fight each other, allowing the victors to live. We Romans took up the custom, and so developed the tradition of death matches at the funerals of great men. Of course, nowadays, anyone who was anyone must be honoured with games at his funeral. I’ve even heard of gladiator matches at the funerals of prominent women! The result is a tremendous demand for fresh gladiators. You still see captive warriors among them, but more and more often they’re simply slaves who’ve been trained to fight, or sometimes convicted criminals – murderers who’d otherwise be executed, or thieves who’d rather take a chance in the arena than have a hand chopped off.’

  Below us, the Thracian thrust past the Samnite’s shield and scored a glancing cut across the man’s sword-arm. Blood sprinkled the sand. Cicero shuddered.

  ‘Ultimately, one should remember that it’s a religious occasion,’ he noted primly, ‘and the people must have their religion. And quite candidly, I don’t mind watching a death match if both the combatants are convicted criminals. Then at least there’s something instructive about the bloodletting. Or even if the fighters are captured warriors; that can be instructive as well, to take a good look at our enemies and to see how they fight, and to celebrate the favour of the gods, who’ve put us in the stands and them down there in the arena. But more and more the trend is to have trained slaves do the fighting—’

  The tall Samnite, after a staggering retreat under the Thracian’s relentless assault, suddenly rallied and managed to score a solid thrust at the other’s flank. Blood spattered the sand. From behind his helmet the Thracian let out a cry and staggered back.

  Behind us, the two men who had earlier complained now both roared with excitement:

  ‘That’s how to turn the tables! You’ve got him n
ow, Samnite!’

  ‘Make the little fellow squeal again!’

  Cicero fidgeted in his seat and cast a disapproving glance behind us, then looked sidelong at the young woman seated next to him. She was watching the bout with narrowed eyes, one hand touching her parted lips and the other patting her heaving bosom. Cicero looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘And then there’s the unwholesome glamour which these gladiators exert on certain women – and on more than a few men, as well, I’m sad to say. The whole culture has gone gladiator-mad! Roman boys play at being gladiators instead of generals, Roman ladies swoon whenever they see one, and do you know, I’ve even heard of Roman citizens who’ve volunteered to fight as gladiators themselves. And not just for the money – although I understand even some slaves are paid handsomely if they can survive and make a name for themselves – but for some sort of perverse thrill. I can’t begin to imagine—’

  His objection was abruptly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. The stocky Thracian had rallied and was once again relentlessly pushing the taller Samnite back. Sword clanged against sword, until the Samnite, tripping, fell backwards. The Thracian stepped on to the shield the Samnite had drawn over his chest, pinning the man down. He pressed the tip of his sword against the Samnite’s windpipe. The Samnite released his sword and instinctively grasped the blade, then drew back his hand, flinging blood from the cuts across his fingers.

  The Samnite had been worsted. From behind the visor of his helmet, the triumphant Thracian scanned the stands, looking to the crowd for judgment. Following the ancient custom, those who thought the Samnite should be spared would produce handkerchiefs and wave them, while those who wanted to see him put to death would raise their fists in the air. Here and there I saw a few fluttering handkerchiefs, all but submerged in a sea of clenched fists.

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said one of the men behind us. ‘I rather liked the Samnite. He put up a good fight.’

  ‘Bah!’ said his friend, shaking his fist in the air. ‘They’re both amateurs! The whole match was barely acceptable; I wouldn’t give a fig to watch either of them fight again. Send the loser straight to Hades, I say! Anything less would dishonour the memory of Sextus Thorius.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said the other, and from the corner of my eye I saw him put away his handkerchief and raise his fist.

  The Thracian looked to the magistrate in charge of the games for the final judgement. The man raised his fist and nodded curtly, and the Thracian drove the sword into the Samnite’s throat. A great fountain of blood spurted from the wound, gushing across the Samnite’s helmet and chest and on to the sand all around. The man thrashed and convulsed, very nearly throwing the Thracian off-balance. But the Thracian steadied himself, shifting more weight on to the shield that confined the Samnite and bearing down on his sword until it penetrated the back of the Samnite’s neck and was driven firmly into the packed sand beneath.

  With a roar of triumph, the Thracian stepped back and thrust his fists in the air. The Samnite bucked his hips and thrashed his limbs, pinned to the earth by the sword through his neck. The Thracian performed a victory strut in a circle around him.

  ‘Disgusting!’ muttered Cicero, pressing a clenched fist to his lips and looking queasy.

  ‘Delightful!’ uttered one of the men behind us. ‘Now that’s more like it! What a finish!’

  Then, as a single body – myself included – the crowd drew a gasp. With one of his thrashing hands, the Samnite had managed to grab hold of the Thracian’s ankle, and with his other hand he had somehow managed to regain his sword. He pounded the pommel against the sand, as if to still that arm from thrashing, so that the blade pointed rigidly upright. The Thracian lost his balance and, making circles in the air with his arms, began to tumble backwards.

  For a long, breathless moment, it looked as if no power in the heavens or on the earth could stop the Thracian from falling backwards directly on to the upright blade of the Samnite’s sword, impaling himself.

  Even Cicero bolted forwards, rigid with suspense. The woman next to him swooned. The men behind us bleated with excitement.

  The Thracian swayed back – regained his balance – and swayed back again. The upright sword glinted in the sunlight.

  Making a tremendous circle with his arms, the Thracian at last managed to propel himself forwards. Wrenching his ankle from the Samnite’s grasp, he took a few staggering steps forwards, then wheeled about. The Samnite had stopped thrashing, but the sword in his fist still pointed skyward. Approaching cautiously, as one might a snake that seemed to have writhed its last but might yet strike, the Thracian squatted down and snatched the sword from the Samnite’s grip – then jerked back in alarm as a bizarre noise emerged from the Samnite’s throat, a gurgling death-rattle that froze my blood. Gripping the pommel in both hands, the Thracian pointed the sword downwards. As one might strike a last blow to make sure that a snake was finished, he drove the blade deep into the Samnite’s groin.

  Again, the crowd gasped in unison. Like Cicero beside me, I put my hand to my groin and flinched. But the Samnite was now truly dead. Fresh blood stained the loincloth around the wound, but he did not move.

  His chest heaving, the Thracian stood and recommenced his victory strut. After a moment of stunned silence, the exhilarated crowd rewarded him with thunderous cheering. The magistrate strode into the arena and rewarded him with a palm frond to mark his victory. Waving it over his head, the gladiator departed to raucous applause.

  ‘Well!’ declared Cicero, clearly impressed despite his avowed distaste for the games. ‘That will be hard to top.’

  The body of the Samnite was dragged away, the pools of blood were raked over with fresh sand, and the next match commenced. It was a novelty bout between two dimacheri, so-called because each wielded not one but two daggers. To compensate for their lack of shields, they wore more pieces of armour than other types of fighters – greaves to protect their forearms and shins, plated pectorals to guard their throats and chests, and various bands about their limbs and bits of metal over their naked flesh that suggested adornment as much as armour. Instead of the nerve-wracking banging of swords against shields, the sound of their match was a constant, grating slither of blade against blade as they engaged in a dizzying dance of parries and thrusts. One was swarthy and the other pale, but otherwise their physiques were much alike; not as muscular as either of the previous fighters, they had the lithesome bodies of dancers. Speed and agility counted for more than brute strength in such a match, and they were so evenly matched, and their manoeuvres so elegant, that their contest seemed almost choreographed. Instead of grunts and cheers, they elicited ‘ahs’ and ‘ohs’ of appreciation from the crowd. Watching them whirl about, I felt the pleasure one feels from watching dancers rather than warriors, so that I almost forgot that for one of them, death waited at the end of the match.

  Then, with a scraping noise that set my teeth on edge, a dagger slid over armour and successfully connected with unprotected flesh, and the first blood was spilled. The crowd exhaled an ‘Ah!’ at a higher pitch than before, and I sensed the stirring of their collective bloodlust.

  Both fighters seemed to be wearying, losing the unerring focus that had kept them from harming each other. More blood was spilled, though the wounds were minor, mere scratches that dabbed the blades with just enough blood to send red droplets flying through the air to mingle with the fine spray of sweat cast from the gladiators’ glistening limbs.

  Slowly but surely the pace of the parries and thrusts accelerated, even as their rhythm became more ragged and unpredictable. My heartbeat quickened. I glanced at Cicero and realized that he had not said a word throughout the match. He leaned forwards, his eyes glittering with fascination.

  The swarthy fighter suddenly seized the advantage. His arms became a blur of movement, like the wings of a bee. And like a bee he stung, managing to prick first the right hand of his opponent, then the left hand, so that the pale gladiator released both of his dagger
s and stood defenceless. Pressing his daggers to the other’s wrists, the swarthy fighter forced the disarmed man to spread his arms wide open, like a crucified slave.

  It was a brazen gesture on the part of the swarthy gladiator to humiliate his foe, but it contained a miscalculation. At such close quarters, almost chest-to-chest, the pale gladiator was able to thrust one knee into his opponent’s groin, and simultaneously to butt his helmet against the other’s. The swarthy gladiator was sent staggering back. The hushed crowd erupted in shrieks of laughter.

  The pale gladiator’s advantage was short-lived. He made a dash to recover one of his daggers, but the distance was too great. The swarthy gladiator was upon him like a pouncing lion, hemming him in with his daggers, jabbing and pricking him, forcing him to perform a spastic, backwards dance, controlling him at every step. To pay him back, the swarthy gladiator kneed him not once but twice in the groin. The pale gladiator folded forwards in agony, then abruptly performed the motion in reverse, straining upright on to his toes, for not one but two daggers were pressed against the soft, unarmoured flesh beneath his chin. The movement was so neatly performed that it seemed like the climax to a dance which the two had been performing from the moment their bout commenced. They stood like statues, one with daggers poised, the other on tiptoes, quivering, empty hands at his sides, helpless. The crowd roared its approval.

  The victor looked towards the magistrate, who raised an eyebrow and turned his head from side to side to assess the will of the crowd. Spontaneously, the crowd produced a multitude of fluttering handkerchiefs. Voices cried, ‘Spare him! Spare him!’ Even the men behind me took up the chant: ‘Spare him! Spare him!’

  In my experience, the judgement of the mob is like quicksilver, hard to pin down and impossible to predict. If I had turned at that moment and asked the men behind me, ‘Why spare the pale gladiator?’, no doubt they would have given the rote answer: ‘Because he fought well, and deserves to fight another day.’ But the Samnite had fought just as bravely, if not as beautifully, and they had been eager to see him die. I think it was the fact that the two dimacheri had fought so well together that swayed the crowd to spare the loser; they were like a matched set that no one wished to see broken. The pale gladiator owed his life as much to his opponent as to himself; had they not been so precisely matched, those two daggers would have been thrust into his gullet in the blink of an eye. Instead, one by one, the daggers withdrew. The pale gladiator dropped to his knees, his head bowed to show deference both to the spectators who had spared him and to the man who had bested him, as the victor received his palm frond from the presiding magistrate.