Sword of the Gladiatrix
Page 19
The guards herded them into a dark cell, beneath the amphitheater seats, where they struck off the prisoners’ shackles. They heard, muffled through the stone, the trumpets and crowd roar during the initial entrance of the editor and the parade of gladiators.
“The entertainers will be doing their fake fights now.” Bassa listened to the crowd laugh. “They’ll be coming for us soon.”
Afra gathered Bassa, Corva, and Celer. “You remember what to do?”
“Stay together, flap our arms to look big, yell,” Celer ticked off the points on his fingers. “Do you really think this will work?”
“I don’t know, but it’s our only hope.” Afra looked over her little troop. Bassa tried to explain to Corva, again, what she should do, but the old woman looked at her blankly.
“I overheard your plan.” Priscus joined them with the blind soldier. “Do you think two more bodies would help?”
“It couldn’t hurt.” Afra shrugged. “Keep your friend facing the right way. When we get out on the sand, stay close to me. Follow my directions.”
The heavy door creaked open. “Out, you noxii, and give the audience a good show!”
Guards, armed with spears, laughed as they herded the condemned down a dark corridor. At the door to the arena, two slaves stood with buckets and brushes. As each prisoner passed, the slaves slathered them with red gore.
The iron tang of blood filled Afra’s nostrils as the slave painted her limbs with the sticky stuff. She walked out the door onto the floor of the arena. The late morning sun sparkled on the sand, dazzling her eyes. She squinted, picked up a hand full of sand, and tried to clean the blood from her arms. She could do nothing about the stains already soaked into her tunic.
More and more condemned poured from the door. Afra gathered her small troop and moved away from the others, toward the end of the arena, where they could keep the animals from coming at them from behind.
“Take the blood off with the sand, if you can.” All but Corva followed her example.
Trumpets sounded and the narrator of the games called out, “The esteemed Sextus Licinius Murena, giver of the games, now presents the execution of criminals by the beasts! These are murderous slaves, thieves, rebels condemned to an ignoble death! Let the sentence be done!”
Arena slaves dressed in bright red tunics, hauled several covered cages on wagons into the arena. One hauled back a tarp and opened the cage door with a lance. A huge male lion emerged, lean from hunger. He blinked in the bright light, roared, and tried to retreat back into the cage. The beast handlers prodded him in the hind quarters with iron-tipped spears until he ran onto the sand. The crowd shouted its approval.
Afra watched the big cat with sympathy. Male lions usually didn’t hunt, particularly during the day. He was starved, stunned by the light, and confused by the noise of the crowd. If all the animals were in this shape, they might, just might, have a chance of survival.
Other doors opened. More hungry, confused animals lumbered onto the arena floor: another lion—a female, a couple of enormous dogs with slavering jaws, a leopard, and a huge shaggy animal she had seen as a pelt on a floor. Marcius called it a bear.
Some of the condemned men panicked and ran; attracting the attention of the predators. The bear brought down one man, breaking his back with a single swipe of his powerful paws. The lioness jumped another man, tearing out his throat. Chaos reigned as people ran screaming, chased and mauled by the animals. The stench of entrails wafted on the heat. The crowd shouted and pointed at particularly gruesome deaths.
“Line up!” Afra shouted to her charges. They lined up, except for Corva who sat in the sand behind them. The male lion was the first to approach them. “Step forward! Yell!”
As a group, they stepped toward the lion, flapped their arms, and shouted. He veered off in search of easier prey. Afra watched the animals closely, assessing their danger to her small troop. A pair of cheetahs streaked across the arena. The smaller cats avoided the other predators, looking to scavenge already-downed prey.
Afra’s heart leaped. She shouted a wild ululation, scaring off the approaching leopard.
“Mari! Cari! To me!”
At the sound of Afra’s voice, the cheetahs turned away from a pile of entrails and raced toward the small knot of people, chirping a greeting.
“They’re mine,” she shouted to her followers. “Stay behind me.” Afra stepped out of the line. The cheetahs ran to her feet. She kneeled down and grabbed each, burying her face in their fur, laughing and sobbing. They rumbled with pleasure.
“My sisters! Mother Isis is indeed great!” She felt their ribs. “But you’re so skinny!”
By now the crowd had noticed the unusual behavior. They started to shout, some encouraging, others in anger.
“Look! They’re a bunch of women and cripples!” Someone shouted. Others started to mutter. “Mercy for the women and gray hairs!”
The editor called over an attendant and said something.
“Mari. Cari. Guard!” The cheetahs stationed themselves on either side of Afra, facing the other animals. Most of the other condemned were dead or dying. A row of beast handlers at the other end of the arena were prodding animals off their prey with their spears and leather whips, herding them toward the survivors.
With a hand signal, Afra sent Mari and Cari to head off the female lion trying to sneak around the end of the line. Lions killed cheetahs in the wild, but they usually hunted as a pride.
Afra held her breath, fear for her cheetahs, struggling with pride in their bravery. The strange situation was enough. The lioness snarled and turned back.
The bear came next. Afra had never seen such a creature. When it stood on its hind legs and roared, she thought they were dead. It dropped to its four legs and lumbered forward, shaking its head from side to side.
“It can’t see well. Shout and flap!”
In the face of a wall of noise and movement the bear retreated. One of the beast handlers tried to prod it forward, but the bear grabbed the spear in his mouth and swiped at the man, opening his stomach with one pass of his paw. The beast handlers retreated carrying their downed colleague. The animals trailed after the fresh blood or left for easier prey.
Afra listened to the crowd as she watched the animals retreat. The mood seemed confused. She heard shouts for mercy and others complaining about the lack of a show. “Mari!” Afra shouted and pointed. The animal raced away. “Stop!” Mari skidded to a stop, sand flying. “Return!” The cat padded to her feet. “Down!” When the cat lay at her feet she reached down and rubbed her ears. The crowd roared its approval.
Afra picked up a bloody arm bone, dropped by one of the beasts. “Cari! Retrieve!” She threw the bone in front of the editor’s box. The cheetah raced after it, grabbed it in her jaws, and returned. “Give!” The great cat put the bloody bit in Afra’s hand. “Down! Over!” Cari rolled onto her back. Afra rubbed her lean belly. People were now whistling and shouting for more.
“Good girls,” she whispered to both. “Up!” Both came to their feet. Afra gave another signal. Mari stood on her hind legs, facing Afra, front paws on her shoulders. A few in the crowd shrieked, thinking the cats were, at last, attacking. Mari gave Afra’s face a good licking. The cat’s rough tongue felt good on her sweaty skin, but Afra wrinkled her nose at the blast of rotten meat smell from Mari’s breath.
A trumpet sounded. The crowd quieted.
Afra ordered Mari down and both cats to her heels. They stood still; tails twitching.
The editor stood in his box. The narrator announced, “Survivors of the beasts, come forward. Handlers, round up your animals.”
Afra looked over her shoulder at her troop. Hope showed in their eyes. Flanked by the cheetahs, followed by her companions, she made her way to the editor’s box. They were a pathetic bunch, covered in blood and dust; the hale helping the lame, blind, and mad. A high fence separated the sand from the stands. Guards, armed with bows, stood around the wall. No animal or human c
ould escape or cause mayhem in the stands.
Afra looked up at the editor, recognizing the magistrate who condemned her to the arena. A lump formed in her stomach. Their fate would be determined by this man…and the crowd.
Sextus Licinius Murena held out his arm and addressed the crowd. “What say you?”
“Missio! Missio!” roared the crowd. Mari and Cari added their cries.
Reprieve! Afra gave the hand movement to the cats. They sat next to her, ears twitching at the noise. But not freedom.
“Missio!” declared the magistrate.
The crowd shouted its approval. Sextus Licinius Murena took his seat. The last of the animals disappeared into their cages. Guards came on the sand to escort the survivors through the Gate of the Living. They kept a good distance from the cheetahs. As they entered the dark passage, the water organ began a lively tune. Workers rushed out to carry off the bodies and prepare the sand for the afternoon gladiator games.
“You lot, in here,” a guard ordered them into a holding cell. “Not you.” He barred Afra’s way with his spear. “Our esteemed editor wants to see you. The cats go back to their cages.”
“They must be fed first.”
“I’m sure the beast handlers have something for them.”
“Not human flesh!”
He grunted and indicated stairs leading down another dark tunnel.
“To me.” The cats stalked at her heels as she followed the guard into the underbelly of the arena. Oiled torches provided flickering light. The farther they went the more restless the cats became. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear permeated the air. Soon they were hissing and chirping in distress.
“How far?”
“Next corridor.”
She smelled it before they came out into a large room filled with cages of wild cats. The dogs and bears must be kept separate. The smell of wet fur, blood, and cat musk hung in the air like a miasma. The female lion had blood on her muzzle. The leopard lay panting, lethargic, its belly filled with human flesh. A wiry man with claw scars across his left bicep and missing two fingers; jumped to his feet with a big smile. “Wonderful work with those cheetahs. Never saw anything like it. Can you teach me your training techniques?”
“Later, Naso. Murena wants to see her. We need to get these cats put away.”
Naso’s smile slipped. “Over there.”
Afra inspected the cages. “I need clean straw, fresh water, and meat—not human.”
Naso muttered, but did as she asked. Afra coaxed the animals into their cages with pats, murmurs, and large joints of beef. “Take good care of them. I’ll be back.”
The guard next led her to a suite of rooms under the seats, behind the editor’s box, where the magistrate and his guests enjoyed a mid-day meal. A joint of ham, eels in garlic, salads, and dozens of dishes Afra couldn’t identify covered the tables. A slave in blue livery served wine in delicate stemmed glasses.
Her stomach cramped and mouth watered.
The magistrate spied her and pointed to a side door. The guard took her into a small room painted bright yellow, with green vines twining around the walls. A chandelier of oil lamps lit the room, furnished with a couple of folding camp chairs.
Afra ignored the seats and prowled the perimeter of the room. She couldn’t smell herself, but knew she must be stinking up the small room. She shook her head, three weeks of sweat, blood, and dust were the least of her worries.
The door opened. Sextus Licinius Murena entered with a guard. His nose twitched, but he didn’t say anything until he took a seat. “Quite a performance you put on, Marcia Afra.”
Afra started.
“That is your name?”
“Yes. I’m a free woman from Kush.”
“Were a free woman.”
Afra kept her face blank.
“I remember your case. You’re a striking figure, even after a beating.” He gave her a slight smile. “You claimed innocence if I remember right.”
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“I did tie Clio up, but I never intended murder. I returned.”
“And the others in your little band?”
“A mother who protected her child, a mad old woman, a crippled boy who stole to feed his family, a scholar who insulted the wrong man, a soldier who served Rome well and was turned out to beg when blinded.”
“Sad stories, all, but you have some of the facts wrong. The mother murdered her husband. The mad old woman sold her the poison. It doesn’t matter that Bassa thought she protected her daughter. She could have left her husband. Bassa and…” he consulted a list, “Corva, the poisoner will die. The soldier is a deserter blinded after he came home. His centurion saw him on the street begging and turned him in. We must retain discipline in the ranks. Desertion is punished by death. The arena was the appropriate fate for those three, but now they will have a more merciful death.”
Afra had to admit the justice of his statements. Bassa freely admitted her murder and had accepted her punishment of death…just not in the arena. Corva, whether in her right mind or not, did wrong. The soldier? She didn’t know one way or the other, but Murena seemed well-informed.
“The other two are trickier cases.” He consulted the list again. “The slave boy Celer stole food. He admitted it, but it’s a slight infraction; more worthy of a beating than beasts. It’s illegal for a master to condemn a criminal slave to the beasts without a hearing before the urban prefect. However, I suspect his master gave a small gift to the prefect, because he didn’t want the expense of a crippled slave and couldn’t sell him. I’ll see what I can do to finding another household for him to serve in.”
“Thank you, sir. And Priscus?”
“Our mouthy poet, condemned for stealing gold from Gnaeus Cornelius Arvina.”
Afra was startled by the huge smile on the magistrate’s face. He seemed about to laugh out loud, but controlled it.
“Arvina happens to be my rival for aedile in the upcoming elections. Priscus skewered him in several, clever, humorous poems. I doubt the old man gained access to Arvina’s household to steal the plate. However, I have no proof. I can commute his sentence, not set him free. He’ll have the option of suicide or slavery. I’m currently in need of a good secretary. Perhaps he’ll consider that position over self-destruction.” He looked closely at Afra. “And that leaves you.”
“You have my fate in your hands, Excellency. You have shown yourself merciful and fair in your judgments.”
“The appropriate fates for all the others were clear to me, but yours?”
Afra gazed steadily into his eyes. She would not argue or beg for mercy.
“Whether or not you intended murder, you did assault a Roman citizen. Roman law demands your enslavement and condemns you to the arena. However, the crowd commuted your sentence from death by beasts with their cries for missio.”
He paused. She held her breath.
“You’re wasted as a noxii. I’m sending you to a gladiator school. I happen to have part ownership in a good one outside the city. You’ll be a slave, but if you work hard, you could buy your freedom with your winnings or earn it from the crowd. They seem to like you.”
Afra bowed her head. Still a slave, but I have a chance. Praise to you, Mother Isis. “May I ask a favor, Excellency?”
“I believe I’ve done enough.”
“The cheetahs…?” She wouldn’t plead for herself, but would for them.
“Ah, yes, remarkable animals.”
“Please sir, would you take them? I trained them to be game hunters, not executioners.”
“I have a country estate where they can be installed. They should be happy there. I’ll be most pleased to have them. I’ll send my huntsman to you to learn your secrets.”
“May the gods smile on you, sir.”
He motioned to the guard. “Take her directly to the ludus. I’ll write orders for the disposal of the others.”
Afra bowed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Julia rushed in, “Have you heard?”
“What?”
“Silo’s in a towering rage. That group of Parthians that came in yesterday. The ones he had such high hopes for? All dead!”
“Not the plague!”
“They strangled one another. The last one bashed his head against the wall. The noise brought the guards, but it was too late. He died in the infirmary during the night.”
“I wouldn’t want to be the guards on that watch!” Suicide wasn’t common, but did happen among the fighters. Their training was harsh, the arena brutal. Not a few gave in to despair. They were guarded night and day to prevent such losses. The guards that lost those men would be lucky to escape the arena themselves.
“Any other news?”
“About what?” Julia teased.
“Afra, who else?” Cinnia sometimes grew tired of Julia’s light ways, but the Roman woman seemed to have friends everywhere who passed on gossip and news. She had offered to inquire, as best she could, about Afra.
The blue eyes sparkled. “Yes!”
“Yes?” Cinnia jumped up and shook Julia by the shoulders. “And you told me of the Parthians first? What? What news?”
Julia brushed her hands away, pouting. “I’m not sure I should tell you. After all, it might not be Afra.”
“Please, Julia.” Cinnia tamped down her impatience. “For friendship’s sake?”
“Fine.” Julia plopped onto her bed. Her eyes drifted shut; a slight smile played on her lips.
Cinnia kept quiet, knowing she would get the news faster with silence, but itching to strangle the woman.
“The carter who brings the vegetables had an interesting story. It seems that several months ago an Ethiopian woman, condemned to death by beasts in the arena at Pompeii, saved herself and a handful of others. She’s evidently a sorceress with power over animals. She commanded two devil cats to guard her. The other beasts turned on their handlers. The crowd cried ‘Missio’ and they were reprieved.”