Arena (31 page)

The people nearest us fell silent. The quiet rippled outward and up sloping streets where hundreds clung precariously to the upper stories of gilded government buildings. An assistant parade marshal four ranks ahead spurred back along the line.

“The rest of you hold up. Cassius Flamma? The Emperor summoned you.”

The leather reins turned to ice in my hand. The marshal opened a path for me. I jogged left through the rank and back in the direction of the podium.

Behind the Emperor stood a rank of Praetorians in shining armor. Poppaea Sabina watched me with amusement as I reined in before the Imperial stand.

Wind rustled the purple hangings above the Emperor’s head as he paced back and forth. My heart thudded so loud inside me I thought all would hear. Beneath my toga wet rivers of sweat streamed down.

But I kept my face like a chunk of wood. The game was still unknown.

“The Emperor has commanded,” I said after saluting. “Cassius Flamma attends.”

With a snigger he flung out his bejeweled right hand to point at me.

“Cassius Flamma —sell your horse. ”

The ancient command had the effect of a thunderclap on the mob. Shocked exclamations rippled out like waves on the sea. The leader of the Praetorians behind the throne glanced down the line of his men, as if signaling. I said, “May I know why the Emperor gives that order?”

Evil mirth filled his bulbous eyes. “Because, Cassius Flamma, I do not deem it fitting that our second highest noble order should number among its members — among its members —” He began to stutter then, his lips shining with the spittle of rage. “— among its members the murderer of our — our exalted Praetorian Prefect Ofonius Tigellinus.”

The sunlit Forum swam dizzily around me. I tried to brazen it out.

“Emperor, this false accusation —”

From behind the Praetorians, his armor polished to a gold luster, stepped the tribune Gaius Julius.

“The accusation is not false,” he said. “I saw you kill him.”

The ranked Praetorians swarmed forward, dragged me down from horseback and began raining blows on me while they stripped off the toga with the narrow purple stripe. I was dragged up before the podium. Julius kicked my belly once, hard.

“Vermin! When you pitched me down the stairs, perhaps you thought I died. I did not. I fell one flight and crawled the rest. A pack of looters attacked me. Stripped my helmet and armor after they knocked me down. But just in time, the vigiles arrived and I escaped.”

A scene danced in my mind: a blackened body; armor littered in a burning tenement room. The corpse of a looter; not Julius’s after all. He had been hiding all these days, waiting for a fitting time to denounce me.

The Emperor thrust the tribune aside, screaming, “I accuse this man Cassius Flamma of the willful murder of Ofonius Tigellinus.Arrest him! ”

A hundred thousand throats roared, hatefully crying my name, demands for my death. The Praetorians hustled me away from the podium. I thought suddenly of Acte, waiting and waiting in Ostia.

Waiting now for a man who would never come.

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IWAS THRUST into a sour, dark cell on the lowest level of the Imperial prison. There I heard the Emperor’s sentence.

Not instant death at the hands of one of his questionarii, paid torturers and executioners; a last appearance as a bestiarius in his Circus, at the special night games beginning the day after the
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review.

When the turnkey brought me this word, my hopes rose. Then I realized the hope was false.

Clearly Gaius Julius had remained in the background after his brush with death only because he and the Emperor wanted to plan a suitable denunciation and death for me. My appearance was probably meant to be a kind of public execution.

All next day I sat in the gloom, not touching the rotted food the turnkey brought in. A little of my strength returned, and determination too. At least I need not lie down and die like a coward.

In whatever event I was scheduled to fight — the turnkey knew, but refused to tell me — I would make as decent a showing as I could before the end came.

I begged the turnkey to help me send a message to Acte. Again he refused.

At nightfall I was taken from the cell, given a cheap clout to wear and thrust inside a wooden cage cart drawn by two mules. Like an animal on exhibit, I was carried through streets where drunken citizens jeered and hurled rocks. I watched impassively from behind the bars. On buildings I saw scrawled inscriptions likeDeath to Cassius the killer andThe gods give murderer Cassius the cruel fate he deserves.

As I stared at the written taunts, I thought a bit on the strange ways the world worked. How my name had once been scribbled on walls along with terms of praise. Somehow I preferred what was written about me now than all the false and empty plaudits of the past.

Nor did I have any hatred for those sneering faces outside my cart. When I was dead, some new object of the Emperor’s wrath would receive their witless screamed denunciations, and I would be forgotten. Probably before the next sun rose.

The imposing Circus of Nero glowed with lights. The cart rattled across a Tiber bridge and creaked down a long tunnel beneath the stands. The tunnel, by contrast with the array of torches along the outer walls, seemed unnaturally dark. Drunken shouts from thousands of spectators rang in the night. The interior of the amphitheater seemed strangely black too.

I asked a handler, “Where are the tiers of torches to light up the sand?”

He chuckled. “Different torches are being used tonight. Come to think of it, you might enjoy watching before we lock you up to await your turn on the program.”

Under guard, I was taken to the tunnel mouth. A few lanterns gleamed here and there in the stadium, but apart from those, the packed masses sat in virtual darkness.

Musicians sounded the opening call of the festivities. Lights were struck in the Emperor’s box half way down the right-hand balustrade. A torch was lighted from the puffs of tinder, and passed to a man on the sand below the box. He in turn lit torches in the hands of a dozen slaves grouped around.

The light increased. The crowd surged to its feet, applauding. The slaves fanned out across the arena. In the glow of the firebrands, it was possible to suddenly see tall wooden crosses arranged at intervals around the great oval. On the crosses naked human beings had been nailed up.

At first I refused to believe what I saw. I told myself the black stuff smeared on the feet and legs of the crucified men and women was not what it smelled like. A torch boy reached the cross nearest Nero’s box, flung his torch hand high. A young girl of twenty or so hung there. She shrieked when the black pitch smeared on her legs ignited.

All around the amphitheater, a great rosy light sprang up, making the sand bright as day, flashing off the armor of Praetorians in the stands, and off the gilt garland on the head of Nero, who rose to acknowledge the applause. One by one, the human torches blazed up.

“The Christians make splendid illumination, don’t they?” the handler asked.

“Lock me up,” I snarled. “It makes me sick.”

He gave me a boot in the spine. “I hardly think we have to worry about the opinion of a condemned murderer. If the Emperor approves, surely the gods must. Move along!”

Imprisoned in a stone chamber, I pondered over the incredible sight I had seen. Occasional shrieks of pain drifted through the thick walls, mostly women’s. At last the door opened again.

“Ready, killer? The Thracians are finished. It’s your turn as soon as the sand’s cleared.”

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I was led back to the tunnel opening. Slaves were busy carting off the dead gladiators who had fought in Thracian dress, with small round shields and curved Grecian swords. Other men climbed wood ladders leaning against the crosses. They hacked down blackened bodies, dragged unprotesting new victims up, hammered in the nails and then smeared the Christians with pitch. Nowhere did I see one of the living sacrifices resist.

The charred stink that hung in the air turned my stomach. A guard thrust a long sword in my hand, whispered, “I saw you win the wooden sword. I wish you luck, even though you don’t stand a chance. The Praetorians want blood.”

“Do you know who I’m going against? A man? Animals?”

“No talking there!” bawled the chief handler. “Get moving, Cassius. Your partner’s already come out. See, he’s waiting for you by the Imperial box.”

A hush had fallen, broken only by the hiss of smoldering pitch and an occasional moan from a woman on one of the crosses. I stepped into the arena. The night erupted with screams of hate.

Rocks and fruit peels and even animal manure showered down on me as I clutched the sword and walked up the sand toward the box where another bestiarius waited. As I marched, I looked into the stands, to show them I wasn’t afraid of them or their senseless screaming. The lower tiers were packed with Praetorians, the games being designed to slake the soldiers’ hunger for vengeance over the loss of their Prefect. All at once, in the citizens’ seats above, two strange faces leaped out.

I recognized the bearded face of Paulus, and beside him, the younger Christian, Marcus. At such a distance I could not see the agony that must be in their eyes as they watched their brethren writhing in silent pain on the crosses. For this I was grateful. Of all the chanting, cursing thousands gathered there that night, only those two were silent as I passed. I smiled to myself, emptily. Two might mourn my death, anyway.

The bestiarius waiting beneath the Emperor’s box lifted his sword in salute. I hadn’t recognized him because his dark, powerful body displayed many whitened scars, and his hair was streaked with gray.

“Ave,Cassius. I’ve been waiting.”

“Ave,Xenophon,” I said in return.

The Greek turned smartly and lifted his blade to salute the Emperor. Nero was leaning over the rail of his box, amused. I thrust my sword into the air also. Whatever honor I had left demanded the gesture.

“Hail, Caesar,” we called together. “We who are about to die salute thee.”

Nero gestured. We dropped our swords to our sides. “Hear my command,” he said. “Two lions will be loosed. Kill them. Then each other. One man, or perhaps two beasts will live.” He flung out his arms for silence. The stands nearby quieted. Though he addressed the noisy Praetorians, his eyes never left my face. “By my decree, even though the victor be condemned of a crime, he shall go free if he wins. Beast or human, he shall be spared in the interests of a good fight.”

He dipped his hand to signal the start. A few of the Praetorians applauded for form’s sake. Most didn’t even bother, grumbling openly. They didn’t care for the prospect of my going free. Nero sat down, at great pains to show regret that his decision hadn’t been received with utter joy.

Xenophon jogged out toward the center of the arena. “Cassius, the man who goes free tonight will be one the crowd will approve, I promise you.”

I followed him. He stopped in the sand. Lions snarled and snapped in a barred cage in the far wall. Xenophon glanced at me sidewise, adding, “I have enough money and fame to retire whenever I wish. Nothing would please me more than to take the wooden sword the night I kill the man I’ve wanted to kill for years.”

“Then be on your guard, Greek,” I said. The old tension returned. The wooden cage bars creaked up. “I have a chance to live. I mean to take it.”

“Not while there’s breath left in me, you —” He finished the sentence with a string of foul words.

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With a guttural growl the first lion padded into the arena.

Deadly quiet fell again. Weird lights sparkled on the sand, cast by the smoldering bodies on the crosses. The second lion followed the first. Both stood sniffing the burned air. Both were males, large, ferocious specimens. Four yellow eyes turned toward us balefully.

I was no longer the young man I had been when I won freedom. I wondered how much the rigors of the past years had slowed me down. The largest lion began walking toward us.

Sweat trickled along my wrists, making the handle of my sword slippery. The second lion growled again, remaining motionless. We were upwind of them. They caught the scent at last.

Xenophon gave a quick, nervous chuckle, crouched. I moved off to the left of him. The first lion broke into a lope, snarling as it charged.

“Farewell, Cassius,” Xenophon called. “This one’s all yours.”

And with a lithe movement he scooped up a handful of sand and flung it in my face.

The crowd cheered him. Xenophon ran toward the arena’s far end, drawing off the second, smaller lion for himself. I scrubbed the sand in my eyes, cursing. I snapped my head up in time to see the long, uncoiling yellow streak of the lion springing.

I hacked at his neck. The edge of my blade glanced harmlessly off his thick hide. The smell of him was hot and putrid as he struck me, his monstrous weight carrying me to the sand. For a terrible instant I stared into his wet red widening mouth, while his hind claws, kicking frantically, lacerated my belly and thighs.

I struck without seeing where I was aiming the sword — and suddenly my fingers were empty.

Empty.The sword gone. Flown from my sweat-slicked palm because the thrust had been too jerky.

The lion went for my throat.

I had no time to think. My knee crashed up into his great writhing belly as he bit into the arm I’d flung across my face. His fangs sank to the bone. Blood gushed, and a scream from my throat.

Again I drove my knee into him, my back near to breaking as I arched up.

The lion tumbled away, scrambled to his feet.

Outraged cries drifted from the stands. “Run, Cassius! Run, lily-liver!”

I rolled over on my face and slid under the lion’s belly. I turned my hand to its edge and hit for his vitals, screaming aloud at the jarring impact.

The lion’s hind quarters lifted off the ground. He trumpeted his pain. I scrambled from underneath him. He lowered his flowing mane, yellow murder in his eyes.

But when he tried to charge, his hind legs gave way.