Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  ‘Well!’ said Cicero, breaking his silence. ‘So far it’s been a better show than any of us expected, I daresay. I wonder what the final match will bring?’

  Sometimes, if the games are boring, spectators begin to vacate the stands after the first or second match, deciding they’ve adequately paid their respects to the dead and need stay no longer. On this day, for the final match, not a single spectator stirred from his seat. Instead, there was a new arrival. I was not the only one who noticed her; one of the men behind me released a wolf whistle.

  ‘Feast your eyes on that beauty!’ he murmured.

  ‘Where?’ said his friend.

  ‘Right across from us, looking for a place to sit.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see. A beauty, you say? Too dark for my taste.’

  ‘You need to broaden your palate then. Ha! I’ll bet you’ve never had a Nubian.’

  ‘As if you had!’

  ‘Of course I have. You forget that I spent a few years travelling around Libya and Egypt …’

  I grew deaf to their prattling, fascinated by the newcomer. She was strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips and flashing eyes. Her dense black hair was piled on her head in the latest style and tied with ribbons, and she wore a tunica of pale blue that contrasted with the ebony sheen of her naked arms and throat. Her burnished-copper necklace and bracelets glinted in the bright sunlight. Her bosom heaved slightly, as if she were excited or slightly out of breath. One seldom saw in Italy a Nubian who was not a slave, but from her dress and the fact that she appeared to be out and about on her own, I took her to be a free woman. While I watched, a row of male spectators, clearly as struck by her beauty as I was, nudged one another and obligingly made room for her, giving her an aisle seat.

  The two gladiators who strode into the arena for the final bout could not have been more different. The first was stoutly built, his chest and legs covered by curly red hair. He was outfitted in the manner of the Gauls, with a short sword and a tall, rectangular shield, a loose loincloth and bands of metal-plated leather wrapped around his mid-section, leaving his legs and chest bare. His helmet covered not only his head but, tapering and flaring out again like an hourglass, extended down to cover his neck and breastbone as well.

  Following him into the arena was a retiarius, to my mind the most fearsomely attired class of gladiators. Retiarii carry not a sword and shield, but a long trident and a net. This one was all the more striking because of his contrast to the red-haired Gaul, for he was the tall, smoothly muscled Nubian we had seen in the opening parade of gladiators, as ebon-hued as the woman who had just found a seat in the stands. I wondered briefly if there might be some connection between them – then drew in a breath as the Gaul made a rush at the retiarius, and the combat commenced.

  Sword clanged against trident. Already heated to fever pitch by the previous matches, the crowd became raucously vocal at once, jumping from their seats and crying out for blood. The gladiators responded with a bout that exceeded anything we had previously seen that day. For two men so heavily muscled, they moved with surprising speed (although the retiarius, with his long legs, was considerably more graceful than his opponent). They seemed almost to read one another’s thoughts, as blows were deflected or dodged at the last possible instant, and each attack was followed at once by a counterattack of equal cunning and ferocity. Beside me, Cicero repeatedly flinched and gasped, but did not look away. Neither did I, swept up by the primal fascination of watching two men in a struggle for life and death.

  As the match continued, the attributes of each fighter became clear. The Gaul was stronger, the Nubian quicker; he would need to be, if he were to succeed in casting the net over his prey. Several times, when the Gaul closed the distance between them in order to slash and thrust, the net almost captured him, but the Gaul eluded it by dropping to the sand, rolling out of harm’s way, and springing back to his feet.

  ‘At this rate, the Gaul’s going to exhaust himself,’ said one of the men behind me. ‘Then watch the Nubian catch him in that net like a fish out of water and start poking holes in him!’

  Irritated, Cicero turned to shush the man, but I was thinking exactly the same thought. And indeed, almost more quickly than my eyes could apprehend it, the very thing happened. The Gaul rushed in, slashing his sword. Wielding the trident with one hand, the Nubian parried the Gaul’s thrust, and with his other hand he spun the net in the air and brought it down directly over the Gaul. The lead weights sown at various points around the edge of the net caused it to collapse around the Gaul and swallow him, sword, shield and all.

  If the Gaul had tripped, which seemed almost inevitable, that would have been the end of him. But somehow he managed to stay upright, and when the Nubian, wielding his trident with both hands now, rushed towards him, he managed to spin about so that the three sharp prongs landed squarely against his shield. The prongs, failing to penetrate flesh, instead became enmeshed in the fabric of the net. The Nubian yanked at his trident to free it, but the net held it fast, and the Gaul, though pulled forwards, managed to stand his ground.

  Sensing more than seeing his advantage – for the net must have greatly blocked the view from his narrow visor – the Gaul rushed forwards. Holding fast to the trident, the Nubian was unable to stand his ground and was pushed back. Tripping, he fell on to his rump and released the shaft of the trident with one hand, still gripping it with the other. The Gaul, using his bull-like strength, twisted to one side. The Nubian, his wrist unnaturally bent, gave a cry and released the trident altogether.

  The Gaul, slashing at the net with his sword and thrusting upwards with his shield, managed to push the net up and over his head, taking the trident with it. Stepping free, he kicked the net behind him, and with it the now hopelessly entangled trident. The Nubian, meanwhile, managed to scramble to his feet, but he was now without a weapon.

  The Gaul might have made short work of his opponent, but eschewing his sword, he used his shield as a weapon instead. Rushing headlong at the Nubian, he struck him with his shield, so hard that the Nubian was knocked backwards against the wooden wall of the arena. The spectators directly above him, unable to see, rushed forwards from their seats and craned their necks, peering over the railing. Among them – not hard to pick out in that crowd – I saw the Nubian woman. Even greater than the contrast of her dark flesh next to the paleness of those around her was the marked contrast of her expression. Submerged in a sea of faces that leered, gaped and howled with bloodlust, she was silent and stricken, wearing a look of shock and dismay.

  The Gaul played cat-and-mouse with his prey. He stepped back, allowing the Nubian to stagger forwards, gasping for breath, then struck him full-force again with his shield, knocking him against the wall. Over and over, the Gaul struck the Nubian, knocking the breath out of him each time, until the man was barely able to stand. The Gaul delivered one last body-blow with his shield, and the Nubian, recoiling from the wall, fell forwards on to his face.

  Casting aside his shield, the Gaul grabbed hold of the Nubian’s ankle and dragged him towards the centre of the arena. The Nubian thrashed ineffectively, seemingly unable to catch a breath. To judge from the intermittent red trail he left in the sand, he was bleeding from some part of his body, perhaps from his mouth.

  ‘Ha!’ said one of the men behind me. ‘Who’s the fish out of water now?’

  The Gaul reached the centre of the ring. Releasing the Nubian’s ankle, he held up his fists and performed a victory strut in a circle around him. The crowd gasped at the man’s audacity. The Thracian had behaved with the same careless bravado, and had very nearly paid for it with his life.

  But the Nubian was in no condition to take advantage of any miscalculation by his opponent. At one point, he stirred and tried to raise himself on his arms, and the crowd let out a cry; but his arms failed him and he fell back again, flat on his chest. The Gaul stood over him and looked to the spectators for judgement.

  The reaction from the stands was mixed.
People rose to their feet. ‘Spare him!’ cried some. ‘Send him to Hades!’ cried others. The magistrate in charge turned his head this way and that, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the lack of consensus. Whichever course he chose, some in the crowd would be disappointed. At last he gave a sign to the waiting gladiator, and I was not surprised that he did the predictable thing. Mercy to a defeated fighter had already been granted once that day; mercy was the exception, not the rule. The crowd had come expecting to see bloodshed and death, and those who wanted to see the Nubian killed had more reason to see their expectation gratified than did those who preferred the novelty of allowing him to live. The magistrate raised his fist in the air.

  There were cries of triumph in the stands, and groans of disappointment. Some cheered the magistrate, others booed. But to all this commotion I was largely deaf, for my eyes were on the Nubian woman directly across from me. Her body stiffened and her face froze in a grimace as the Gaul raised his sword for the death blow; I had the impression that she was struggling to contain herself, to exhibit dignity despite the despair that was overwhelming her. But as the sword descended, she lost all composure. She clutched her hair. She opened her mouth. The sound of her scream was drowned in the roar of the crowd as the Nubian convulsed on the sand, blood spurting like a fountain around the sword thrust between his shoulder blades.

  For an instant, the Nubian woman’s gaze met mine. I was drawn into the depths of her grief as surely as if I tumbled into a well. Cicero gripped my arm. ‘Steady, Gordianus,’ he said. I turned towards him. His face was pale but his tone was smug; at last, it seemed to say, he had found someone more squeamish at the sight of death than himself.

  When I looked back, the woman had vanished.

  With their palm fronds held aloft, the victors paraded once more around the arena. The magistrate invoked the memory of Sextus Thorius and uttered a closing prayer to the gods. The spectators filed out of the amphitheatre.

  ‘Did you notice her?’ I asked Cicero.

  ‘Who, that hyperventilating young woman next to me?’

  ‘No, the Nubian across from us.’

  ‘A Nubian female?’

  ‘I don’t think she showed up until the final bout. I think she was alone.’

  ‘That seems unlikely.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s related somehow to the Nubian gladiator.’

  He shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice her. How observant you are, Gordianus! You and your endless curiosity. But what did you think of the games?’ I started to answer, but Cicero gave me no chance. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I actually rather enjoyed myself, far more than I expected to. A most instructive afternoon, and the audience seemed quite uplifted by the whole experience. But it seems to me a mistake on the part of the organizers, simply as a matter of presentation, not to show us the faces of the gladiators at some point, either at the beginning or the end. Their individual helmets project a certain personality, to be sure, like masks in the theatre. Or do you think that’s the point, to keep them anonymous and abstract? If we could see into their eyes, we might make a more emotional connection – they’d become human beings first, and gladiators second, and that would interfere with the pure symbolism of their role in the funeral games. It would thwart the religious intent …’Safe once more from the very real bloodshed of the arena, Cicero nattered on, falling into his role of aloof lecturer.

  We arrived at Cicero’s lodgings, where he continued to pontificate to his host, a rich Etrurian yokel who seemed quite overwhelmed to have such a famous advocate from Rome sleeping under his roof. After a parsimonious meal, I excused myself as quickly as I could and went to bed. I could not help thinking that the lice at the inn had been more congenial, and the cook more generous.

  I fell asleep thinking of the Nubian woman, haunted by my final image of her – her fists tearing at her hair, her mouth opened to scream.

  The next day I made my way back to Rome. I proceeded to forget about the funeral of Sextus Thorius, the games, and the Nubian woman. The month of Junius passed into Quinctilis.

  Then, one day, as Rome sweltered through the hottest summer I could remember, Eco came to me in my garden to announce a visitor.

  ‘A woman?’ I said, watching his hands shape curves in the air.

  Eco nodded. Rather young, he went on to say, in the elaborate system of gestures we had devised between us, with skin the colour of night.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘A Nubian?’

  Eco nodded.

  ‘Show her in.’

  My memory did not do justice to her beauty. As before, her hair was done up with ribbons and she was attired in pale blue and burnished copper. Probably the outfit was the best she possessed. She had worn it to attend the funeral games; now she wore it for me. I was flattered.

  She studied me for a long moment, a quizzical expression on her face. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ she finally said.

  ‘Yes. In Saturnia, at the funeral games for Sextus Thorius.’

  She sucked in a breath. ‘I remember now. You sat across from me. You weren’t like the rest – laughing, joking, screaming for blood. When Zanziba was killed, you saw the suffering on my face, and I could tell that you …’ Her voice trailed off. She lowered her eyes. ‘How strange, the paths upon which the gods lead us! When I asked around the Subura for a man who might be able to help me, yours was the name people gave me, but I never imagined that I’d seen you before – and in that place of all places, on that day of all accursed days!’

  ‘You know who I am, then?’

  ‘Gordianus. They call you the Finder.’

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘My name is Zuleika.’

  ‘Not a Roman name.’

  ‘I had a Roman name once. A man who was my master gave it to me. But Zuleika is the name I was born with, and Zuleika is the name I’ll die with.’

  ‘I take it you shed your slave name when you shed your former master. You’re a freedwoman, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s sit here in the garden. My son will bring us wine to drink.’

  We sat in the shade, and Zuleika told me her story.

  She had been born in a city with an unpronounceable name, in a country unimaginably far away – beyond Nubia, she said, even beyond the fabled source of the Nile. Her father had been a wealthy trader in ivory, who often travelled and took his family with him. In a desert land, at a tender age, she had seen her father and mother murdered by bandits. Zuleika and her younger brother, Zanziba, were abducted and sold into slavery.

  ‘Our fortunes varied, as did our masters,’ she said, ‘but at least we were kept together as a pair; because we were exotic, you see.’ And beautiful, I thought, assuming that her brother’s beauty matched her own. ‘Eventually we found ourselves in Egypt. Our new owner was the master of a mime troupe. He trained us to be performers.’

  ‘You have a particular talent?’

  ‘I dance and sing.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Zanziba excelled at acrobatics – cartwheels, balancing acts, somersaults in mid-air. The master said that Zanziba must have a pair of wings hidden somewhere between those massive shoulders of his.’ She smiled, but only briefly. ‘Our master had once been a slave himself. He was a kind and generous man; he allowed his slaves to earn their own money, with the goal of eventually buying their freedom. When we had earned enough, Zanziba and I, we used the money to purchase Zanziba’s freedom, with the intention of putting aside more money until we could do the same for me.

  ‘But then the master fell on hard times. He was forced to disband the troupe and sell his performers piecemeal – a dancer here, a juggler there. I ended up with a new master, a Roman merchant living in Alexandria. He didn’t want me for my dancing or my singing. He wanted me for my body.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘When Zanziba came to him and said he wanted to buy my freedom, the man named a very steep price. Zanziba vowed to earn it, but he could never hope to do so as an acrobat, performing for coins i
n the street. He disappeared from Alexandria. Time passed, and more time. For such a long time I heard no word from him that I began to despair, thinking that my brother was dead, or had forgotten about me.

  ‘Then, finally, money arrived – a considerable sum, enough to buy my freedom and more. And with it came a letter – not in Zanziba’s hand, because neither of us had ever learned to read or write, but written for him by the banker who transmitted the money.’

  ‘What did the letter say?’

  ‘Can you read?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then read it for yourself.’ Zuleika handed me a worn and tattered scrap of parchment.

  Beloved Sister,

  I am in Italy, among the Romans. I have become a gladiator, a man who fights to the death to honour the Roman dead. It is a strange thing to be. The Romans profess to despise our kind, yet all the men want to buy us drinks in the taverns and all the women want to sleep with us. I despise this life, but it is the only way a freedman can earn the sort of money we need. It is a hard, cruel life, not fit for an animal, and it comes to a terrible end. Do not follow or try to find me. Forget me. Find your way back to our homeland, if you can. Live free, sister. I, too, shall live free, and though I may die young, I shall die a free man. Your loving brother, Zanziba.