Arena (8 page)

Aping the manners of his betters, he wiped his mouth daintily with my couch blanket. “From the same place I received the good news that the school has been hired to supply a large contingent for the forthcoming Imperial games. From the lanista’s rooms. Fabius and several guests are sitting around this moment, dead drunk. Naturally Fabius wanted to put on a good show during the haggling over price. He needed several trustworthy fellows with good manners to fetch and carry platters and jugs from the corner shop. In all the confusion, it’s only natural that one or two amphorae of excellent wine might be — shall we say — misplaced.”

“What’s behind this sudden generosity, Syrax? You’ve hardly said a word the last couple of days.”

He chuckled, downing more wine. “Now there’s a joke. Cassius the Cur complaining over a lack of conversation. Look here, partner. Don’t you understand the forthcoming games may be the first step in our rise to fortune? The scourging you suffered because of Tigellinus and the tribune Julius paid handsome dividends. The school is now in favor, and being hired. As for my silence, I let you alone because I perceived you were nursing a grudge in your usual bad-tempered way.”

“Do you blame me?” I snapped back. “I didn’t notice you remaining overlong at Sulla’s.”

His shrug was indifferent. “Preserving my skin comes first. Why should you complain? You returned safely enough. How, I can’t guess, but you got back just the same.”

“More than safely,” I said, one up on him at last. “You’re not the only one with high contacts.”

“Whatever that means.”

The shine in his narrow eyes told me he’d soon find out what it meant. And so he did, after I’d plagued him a while by drinking long and satisfyingly of the sweet Falernian. He could hardly conceal his anger as I strung him along with hints and vague references to Serenus and a certain celebrated Imperial adviser. Syrax was a man who angered easily when not in full command of a situation. Presently, though, the wine relaxed my tongue. I told him the story of my visit in the home of Seneca, and my request for introductions to a banker or two at some time in the future.

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The Syrian’s expression changed to one of elation. “Brilliant, Cassius! Positively brilliant! Are you certain they weren’t making sport of you? Can they be trusted to keep the promise?”

“Yes. They’re honorable men.”

“Truthfully, I wouldn’t have guessed you had the wits to arrange such a splendid deal. Learning you do confirms my opinion of myself in selecting you for a partner.”

My head buzzed. Dragging the amphora up again, I saluted him with it. “To our school.”

After I drank he seized the jar. “Our school which will prosper, now that the whore’s out of your system.”

“Yes, she is. How did you guess that?”

“Simple. You’ve made no mention of her.”

Wine fogged my brains more and more, and I found drunken condemnation easy. “Why I became involved with her I’ll never know. She’s greedy and cheap, like all her sisters.”

“Your change of heart makes our escapade at Sulla’s doubly profitable. So long as the Emperor doesn’t remember your face if he sees it in the arena, that is.”

I sobered somewhat on that thought, not only out of fear of Nero, but because Syrax’s mask had slipped again. In one hasty, flashing look I’d seen his true coldness, and the certainty that he would abandon me if bad luck brought down the Emperor’s wrath. Still, I managed to laugh. He was no more ruthless than I would be from this point on. We simply had no illusions about one another any longer.

“Pass me the wine,” I said, trying to stand without success. “I’m not worried about Nero.”

“A splendid attitude under the circumstances.”

He handed over the amphora. When the prime Falernian dribbled down my chin to my chest, I paid no mind, nor did he. The wine had worked quickly in bellies still growling after a slim night meal.

Syrax waggled a finger. “I’m pleased by your luck with the two gentlemen. I’m even more pleased you’ve cast that painted wench aside. She’d take your mind off our purpose.”

“Exactly,” I mumbled. “Another toast to our school.”

“Nothing’s going to stand in our way, is it, Cassius? Women. Scruples. Nothing.”

“Nothing,” I repeated dully. Then, more loudly, “Nothing. I vow that to you, Syrax.”

With a tipsy chuckle he grabbed the amphora and we drank ourselves to oblivion.

Wine is a debaser of words, rendering them worthless, easily spoken and quickly forgotten. How can I properly explain that what I said to Syrax was the truth and at the same time false?

I fully intended to keep my promise to myself, and to those heartless patricians who baited me that first fateful day. I intended to rise to the eques rank, heedless of the cost. Yet I had not told the strange, devious man fate had chosen as my partner the entire truth. Despite all I knew about her, Acte remained a memory of sweetness and peace, a curious symbol of a life exactly the opposite of the one I now planned for myself.

Was I wrong about her? I doubted it.

Then why did some perverse part of me keep hungering for her? Remembering her? And loving her?

The tempo of our days at the Bestiarii School soon made such gloomy thoughts impossible.

The lanista’s whip cracked more and more frequently. We trained from early in the morning until late in the day, drilling until we dropped. Thirty of the school’s inmates were to appear in the Imperial games.

One drowsy, heat-muffled afternoon, Fabius was putting us through our paces with a bull and a leopard roped together. A splendid retinue appeared in the stands. I paid little mind, ready to take my turn with the animals.

The object of the lesson was practice in dodging the thrust of the bull’s horns. Each student darted in with a sharp wooden goad, jabbed at the bullock and the leopard lashed together until both began to leap and stamp angrily. Then the student rushed between them, avoiding both the leopard’s jaws and the bull’s tossing horns until Fabius called a halt.

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When Fabius ordered me to the center of the training ring, I stepped forward eagerly. After the animals were suitably aroused by my goad, I sprang one way, then another, dodging their clumsy attacks with ease. Dust clogged my throat. Sweat trickled down my forehead. Soon I could see little but the glinting horns and the bared fangs.

I dove under the bullock’s barrel to avoid the leopard. Then I lurched up, grasped the horns and leaped over his head, as legend said they’d once trained youths to do on the isle of Crete. The leopard snapped, not eager to kill, merely wanting to show his irritation by eating part of my leg.

As I bound off the bull’s back, my left foot struck the earth at a bad angle. My leg buckled. The leopard lunged for my chest.

Over and over I rolled. The leopard jerked up short on the line, spitting and hissing when the bullock stupidly decided to stand his ground. I climbed to my feet.

Fabius trotted up. Behind him, Xenophon glared at me. The scarred lanista surveyed me head to foot:

“All in one piece. Lucky. That was a pretty escape, Cassius. Unfortunately, it was altogether unnecessary. Why do you always do something out of the ordinary when we have important visitors?”

I squinted through the blowing dust. “Who? I see only that matron under the parasol. Roman ladies out to watch a few slaves get mangled aren’t strangers here. They enjoy the sport.”

“Enough of your impertinence!” he cried. “Mind you do the maneuver more skillfully next time, so I won’t be embarrassed. That’s a lady of some reputation. Next man!” With an impatient crack of his whip he returned to teaching.

I wandered back to the group of students. They squatted dusty and perspiring in the sun. I watched Xenophon dodge the bull and leopard and privately sneered at his clumsiness. Then I felt a curious prickling on my scalp.

I turned my head. The Roman lady who sat surrounded by eunuchs under her parasol was paying no attention to the burly Greek. She was watching me.

At a distance it was impossible to tell much about her age or features. Her gown was splendid, shimmering like the silk brought from the mythical land of Serica far eastward. It was dyed a rich shade of green. A high pile of curls emphasized the glittering redness of her hair. Her body and breasts looked well-formed and generous.

I grinned to myself. At least I’d fared better than most. Students were constantly plagued by the attentions of fat, lovesick old cows whose husbands had long since stopped touching them, for obvious reasons.

As the afternoon wore on the lady paid little heed to the lesson. I felt her eyes on me almost constantly. When it was once more my turn to bait the animals, I came off well, receiving Fabius’

commendation, as well as polite applause from the lady. I bowed to her. Fabius was all smiles.

The sun sank and the day ended. The lady’s retinue assembled and she left the stands. Fabius dismissed us. Xenophon walked over, smirking.

“There’s a real match for you, Cassius.” He indicated the departing woman. “But you might not be so skillful evading her peculiar brand of menace.”

“I didn’t see anything peculiar about her,” I growled. “To the contrary. She plainly has an eye for a man with talent, and feet that aren’t made of marble.”

He flushed at the reference to his repeated stumbling during the lesson. “One day —” he began.

Then he choked off the threat. “Why should I bother with you? Let Locusta get her hands on you, and you’ll never trouble me or anyone else again.”

I was startled. “Locusta the poisoner? The woman who supposedly helped Agrippina murder her husband Claudius?”

“So they say,” replied the Greek. “I hear she has an interest in many things. Business properties.

Gladiators who gain the public’s fancy for a moment. The cult of the Great Mother of Pessinus, Cybele, of which she’s a priestess. People say their rites would make even a satyr’s eyes pop. Best of all, she’s an expert with deadly roots and herbs.” He laughed coarsely. “That’s why I
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congratulate you, Cassius. Good luck on your new friendship.”

I returned his laugh. “You’d like nothing better than to have some woman feed me a bowl of poisoned mushrooms, wouldn’t you, Greek? Then you’d have no competition in the Imperial games. No one to show you up for the clumsy lump you are.”

He lashed at my head. I ducked under the blow and he went purple in the face.

“I’ll out-score you in the games, Cassius, and watch you bleed on the Circus Maximus sand when you die!”

A pitiless hate congealed inside me. I’d borne his insufferable conceit and bullying ways too long.

“Want to wager on it, Greek? I doubt if you do. You have nothing better to put up than the hot gas that gushes from your mouth day and night.” So saying, I walked off.

Fabius had watched the little scene with evident displeasure. One day there would be a reckoning between Xenophon and me. While he was not an easy enemy, I looked forward to it.

Though none of us from the school was present to see, we could well imagine the clamor around the Circus Maximus as the opening day of the games approached.

In the Vallis Murcia, that long cleft between the Palatine and Aventine hills, the arches around the outside of the great Circus would be jammed by thousands of slaves and freedmen fighting for one of the ivory tokens that would admit them to the wooden upper tiers of the mammoth amphitheater. Day and night the streets roundabout would echo with the croakings of astrologers, the sibilant whispers of child whores, the rumble of cage carts delivering penned and snarling animals to the warrens within the stadium walls.

Thoughts of Acte receded from my mind in all the excitement. Only now and then did I entertain a painful hope that she might turn up on the night of the regular visit of the girls from Sulla’s. She did not. I spent the long hours completely alone.

Next day, I went to Fabius. I found him fretting over a broken wheel on a cart loaded with lethargic brown bears. I asked whether by chance I had received any messages.

“None,” he said shortly. “Don’t bother me with foolish questions, Cassius. The games are only two days hence, and there are a million things still undone.”

Plainly I ought to forget her forever, I told myself. Concentrate upon the events of the next few days. I had never fought in Rome before. Much was at stake.

The remaining two days blurred into a confused round of last-minute preparations. Then came the hot, bright morning when Fabius, finely attired, assembled thirty of us for the march to the Circus and the opening of the games of Nero, Princeps and Imperator.

We walked in threes, Fabius at our head. We were clad in loose white smocks and a few cheap glittering amulets. As we neared the looming Circus we passed through cheering crowds. They scattered flowers before us, or occasionally let out a bitter curse if the person cursing happened to favor regular Dacian or Gallic gladiators. The sky rang with the thunder of thousands of voices. The roar seemed to shake the very foundations of Rome.

Side streets were clogged. As we descended toward the tunnels beneath the stands, we passed long queues of citizens with ivory tokens in hand, waiting their turns to be shown their seats by the locarii. The Circus was the great leveler. All Rome’s business enterprises shut down during the six days of entertainment. Men were free to cheer, scream or insult each other, as they wished. The only social distinction was maintained by the seats they occupied. Senators and equites took the lower tiers of stone, their boxes draped over with rich cloth pavilions.

Freedmen sat higher up on the wooden benches. The slaves were highest of all. How many jammed the great U-shaped structure I could not guess. My father told me once it was more than a hundred thousand.

The arches outside were confusion. Street musicians played. Hawkers shouted. Bettors arranged wagers on the program of events. Praetorians in armor kept watch on the lines, so no thieves would slip back to the empty streets to loot. In the tunnels beneath the stands the confusion was even worse.

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From wooden cages first dragged into the arena, then placed in barred niches all around the lower wall below the first tier of seats, animals screamed and clawed and vented their anger at penning. Lions snarled. Elephants trumpeted. Wolves howled. Ostriches made their queer sound.