Arena (9 page)

The Bestiarii dressed with the aid of handlers, in a long, dim passage at the open end of the Circus. Xenophon and I, among others, were given stout spears with round iron disks half way down the shaft. These signified that we were to go against wild boars in the opening animal hunt.

Syrax drew a veil and sword for bears.

Fabius was everywhere, now taunting, now encouraging. In the tunnel’s cool and dusty dimness, I had no time to fret over the countless angry looks thrown me by Xenophon. Out there beyond that square of sunlight at the tunnel’s mouth lay death, multiplied many more times than one.

Out there, too, lay fortune. This was the start of a perilous road upward. I meant to make the first steps meaningful ones.

Brazen trumpets signaled the arrival of the Emperor’s party. Slaves ran back to inform us that the priests had marched out to erect the altar to Jupiter Latista along the stone Spine which ran down the center of the Circus. Sun glared on the pure white sand strewn with gems, on the spotless robes and red scarves of the priests leading out the sacred white bull and the pair of rams with headdresses of gold.

After suitable chanting and sprinkling of wine, the animals were slain. The priests examined their entrails to see whether the gods wished the games to proceed. With Nero sponsoring, naturally the omens were favorable.

The priests retired. I was sweating. More trumpets blasted. The stone walls reverberated with cheers. A gilt chariot flashed by the tunnel mouth, drawn by black and white striped tiger horses from Africa. I had a fleeting view of the youthful Emperor adorned in his purple toga, a heavy gold wreath on his head, an ivory scepter crested with a golden eagle in his right hand. Behind the chariot marched drummers and pipers and flutists.

The Emperor’s chariot circled the arena. There was another lull, followed by fresh trumpeting.

The opening parade began.

We marched into the blinding sun. Garlands showered down upon us. The mob screamed praise. Our company was directly behind a host of Dacians attired as Retiarii, the fighters with net and trident. In the parade were all the chariots scheduled to race, and gladiators by the score, and elephants from Ind and Numidia carrying ornamental booths, and girls nude to the waist whose breasts gleamed as red as the rose petals they strewed, and Thracians and criminals — in short, nearly a thousand fighters and entertainers.

Each group marched down the arena along the Spine to the Emperor’s box. It was covered over with a canopy attached to four ivory statues fashioned in Nero’s image. Walking in a rank with four others from the Bestiarii School, I picked out several familiar faces in the lower stands.

The slippery Tigellinus lolled on a couch with a jug of wine at his elbow. The Praetorian Julius was making a hasty last-minute wager. Serenus too occupied a box, and further down, beneath a parasol, the red-haired Locusta sat. I thought she moved her painted mouth in a smile as I passed, singling me out, but I couldn’t be sure.

As we neared the Emperor’s box we passed before the six most sacred personages in Rome, the Sisterhood of Vestals. They were simply robed, sitting quietly, secure in the knowledge that theirs was the holiest task in the city — the tending of the immortal fire whose kindling, some said, dated from the time of Romulus and Remus. Of all the thousands present, only those six women of various ages who had vowed to remain chaste all their lives or suffer death, made no vulgar outcry.

At the head of our company, Fabius halted before the Imperial box. From thirty-one throats the traditional cry was shouted.

“Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute thee!”

Diffidently the Emperor Nero nodded in return. He had more interest in the next group in line,
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bare-breasted Greek slave girls with dark mahogany skin. The Emperor’s wan, fleshy face looked sweaty in the shade of the canopy. His bulging eyes never once met mine, or even noticed me.

Beside him sat a blonde woman, older, wearing a silken gown so transparent she might have left the gown at home. I took her to be his mistress, Poppaea Sabina. From the way others higher in the stands pointed at her, he was scandalizing the populace by flaunting her openly. No one honestly cared about it, though. This was the time of the games. Madness ruled.

Quickly we completed our circuit of the Spine. We returned to a position near the mouth of the tunnel, from which we had emerged. Slaves removed the bodies of the sacrificial animals.

Trumpets rang again. All the bars on the cages set into the lower walls squealed up at once.

A hundred animals poured into the arena. Deer and wild boar with fierce tusks, bears and bulls, antelope and jackals, queer long-legged cranes and hyenas, a few leopards and even some domestic cattle. A moment later a dozen foxes were released, each with a burning firebrand lashed to its tail. The foxes ran yipping among the other animals, driving them to a frenzy.

Fabius’ face gleamed with sweat. He gave us a last look.

“For the school, lads. Break ranks! Kill them!”

The mob howled and applauded as we raced down the Spine.

Each man went his own way, picking a quarry. Two bestiarii running beside me dropped back to chase an antelope. I ran on, sighting a promising tangle of three wild boars being harried by a fox further down.

The spear with its round shield weighed in my hand. Because the games usually commenced rather tamely, and only grew bloodier as the days went by, this first animal hunt was designed merely to whet the crowd’s appetite. No one could be seriously hurt slaying a dumb cow or a snapping hyena. Only the boars and an occasional bear added the spice of danger. Perhaps this was why Fabius outfitted me for the boars.

A shadow fell across the sand directly ahead. To my right Xenophon appeared.

He was puffing hard, bound on beating me to the trio of boars. They pitched their tusks at the fox circling them while the fox leaped wildly, driven mad by the fire singing its bushy tail.

Xenophon grinned and ran harder.

I ran hard as well, straining every muscle. A man stumbled in the sand as we passed. The wild pony he’d chased hoofed his skull into two pieces. The mob cheered wildly.

Drawing ahead, Xenophon flung his spear at one of the boars with all his might.

Instantly the three hairy tuskers swung round. Their small eyes burned with mindless hate.

Snorting out of wet snouts, they charged.

Xenophon dodged behind one of the statues decorating the base of the Spine. He left me to fight the trio alone. He was laughing.

The Greek’s spear had furrowed a long wound down the backbone of one of the brutes, then skimmed off into the white sand. I took a hard grip on my own spear. I lifted it over my head and lashed down as the first boar neared.

The point went true, into the boar’s throat and gut.

Torn to pieces inside, the animal bit down on the shaft. I struggled to wrench it free.

The second boar, bleeding from Xenophon’s throw, hurled itself over the first to tusk me. The round shield on the spear met the tusks with a clang. The animal fell back, tumbling over as I pulled the gory point from the throat of the first.

The third boar backed off, pawing the sand for a new charge. Behind me, cheers went up. I paid no attention, intent on Xenophon and the two remaining animals.

The boars lumbered forward side by side. I jumped over them both, racing on to where the Greek’s spear had fallen. Cursing, Xenophon broke from his safe nook behind the statue, guessing part of my intent.

The thews in my legs ached as I ran, heedless of the trample and thud of the boars turning back, charging again, tusks aimed at my backside. I snatched up Xenophon’s spear, avoided his lunge
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that carried him by, then pivoted, a spear in each hand.

Two wet snouts loomed, and four tearing tusks. I bit down on my lip and rammed both spears at once.

The one in my right hand pierced the animal’s neck. The left one slid into the wounded boar’s shoulder and angled back to the ribs. The animal pitched over, kicking.

I let go the right spear so the boar who’d swallowed it could die. Xenophon’s shadow grew large as he ran up behind me.

Feigning a move to rip the shaft out of the wounded boar, I worked it back and forth until my shoulders ached. The wood splintered and broke.

Xenophon lurched to a halt. I whirled and handed him the useless shaft.

“Here, Greek. See whether you can out-score me with half a weapon.”

Clutching the wood in his hands, he stood with a muscle in his throat leaping, wanting to kill me.

Nonchalantly I moved toward the other boar and proceeded to pull out my own spear.

Flower petals rained down from nearby boxes. Xenophon saw the cheering was all for me. He dared risk no open attack. He stalked off, swearing, to find another prey.

Too late. The last of the fire-tailed foxes was being slaughtered. Animal corpses littered the sand. Only one bestiarius, so far as I could see, the man who’d been trampled by the wild pony, was down. Others were wounded, but not seriously.

Syrax limped toward me. He carried his bloodied veil and blade in his right hand, and three severed bear claws in his left. He grinned.

“All with more than two kills will receive a garland from the Emperor, Cassius. Come on, what are you waiting for?”

Apprehensive about going before Nero again, I borrowed his sword and loped off the right forehooves of the three boars. I carried my dripping prizes down the length of the arena toward the ivory-columned box. From the opposite direction a slave named Mercor approached. He held four large crane feet. Apparently we were the only ones who had managed more than a pair of kills. Many times the animals destroyed one another before a bestiarius could reach them.

Syrax smiled broadly as we marched up beneath the Emperor’s box. Already wager takers bustled in the stands, pointing to us, marking down our names. Victors enjoyed a certain fame so long as they stayed alive. The more victories, the greater the fame. Truly, this was an auspicious beginning.

The triumph palled somewhat as we presented ourselves to the Emperor. The moon-faced boy peered indifferently over the marble rail.

We flung our gory trophies in the sand before him. Syrax spoke for us. “Emperor, your servants Syrax, Cassius, and Mercor beg your favor.”

Nero tossed three vine garlands down and waved us away.

The frantic beating of my heart stilled. Nero turned to fondle the arm of the blonde wench seated beside him. Perhaps the light had been too poor at Sulla’s, or the wine too strong. He had not recognized me.

Syrax adjusted his garland with sticky red fingers. We strolled back in the direction of the tunnel.

Slaves cleared the arena of dead animals.

To provide amusement between the acts, a company of andabatae, senile old men buck naked except for gladiatorial helmets with no visors, swung blindly at one another with comical bladders. At the far end of the Circus a company of Secutorii, gladiators with greaves and the Gaul fish insignia on their helmets, waited in place to begin hand to hand combat.

“Too bad about Calluris,” Syrax said as we marched along under the admiring stares of the crowd. “I had to let him take the fight out of the second bear before I could finish the beast off.”

“What happened to Calluris?”

Syrax shrugged. “Oh, the bear ripped his belly open. Poor fellow died.”

“I thought only one man got killed. Redarus, with the pony.”

Syrax waved. “Calluris and I were on the other side of the Spine. Look, what does it matter? We
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got the garlands, didn’t we? That’s what we came for.”

I was about to retort that a garland couldn’t be fairly won at the expense of another man’s life.

He gigged me with a bloody elbow.

“There’s that stupid Tigellinus talking to Madame Poison. It appears she’s more interested in you. Partner, this is a momentous day. In the name of the gods, flash her a smile.”

He moved ahead of me with an exhilarated step, exchanging greetings with the crowd in a merry voice, as if it didn’t trouble him that he’d won his victory by letting another man die first.

I looked carefully to the left while I walked. Ofonius Tigellinus had moved over to Locusta’s box and was now bending at her shoulder, lust so patent and open on his Sicilian face that I wanted to laugh. I didn’t because the woman was watching me closely. Her breasts rose and fell like pointed weapons under her gown. Her copper hair shone. Her eyes were greenish, wide, slightly tilted and inscrutable. She seemed in a state of excitement.

Her painted mouth broke into a lazy, sensual smile. She inclined her head in greeting.

I judged her to be forty at least, but her arms, ringed with bangles, looked smooth as a virgin’s.

There was something cold, passionless, even a little forbidding in her glance, though.

Soon I reached the spot where Fabius was waiting by the tunnel. He was slapping Mercor and Syrax on the back happily. I was thankful Tigellinus had been too intent on making advances to notice me.

Fabius congratulated us on doing well. We trudged back into the tunnel. There we relaxed and joked among ourselves. We would not appear again until the fourth day of the games. Then we would be pitted against lions and leopards trained as man-eaters. It would be far more of a test of skill than this morning’s mild slaughter.

I lifted the garland of vine leaves and settled it on my head, then accepted a mug of posca from a handler. I was a fool not to enjoy the victory. Nero hadn’t recognized me. I had drawn the notice of a famous lady. And if Fabius didn’t concern himself about Syrax winning at the expense of Calluris’ life, why should I?

I slopped down the posca. “Here’s to another garland three days from now, Syrax.” Then I went to dress, untroubled even by the sullen, vengeful stares of the hulking Xenophon.

That evening, in the midst of a drunken celebration Fabius arranged at the school, I was summoned by the lanista himself.

He spoke low in my ear, “Go to your cell, Cassius. There you’ll discover a fine new tunic and sandals. Put them on. Wash the wine from your face and climb in the litter waiting in the courtyard.”