Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (37 page)

‘They have little choice,
lanista
. To violate the sanctuary would incite a riot, if not a full-scale rebellion.’ Lysander suddenly remembered to whom he was talking. ‘I meant no offence, sir.’

Domitus shook a hand at him. ‘No offence taken. The priestess seems to be on good terms with the rabble-rouser.’

Lysander looked at Hippo. ‘The priestess’ heart is filled with nothing but affection for the followers of the goddess,
lanista
. She pities Cleon.’

Hippo’s face broke into a beautiful smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind her showering some of her pity over me,’ said Domitus.

‘Where’s this High Priest Kallias, I wonder?’ I mused to Domitus.

‘Probably enjoying the affection of one of those young priestesses,’ he joked. ‘Lysander, where’s the high priest?’

‘After the early morning ritual he spends his time in the city dealing with administrative matters,
lanista
,’ replied Lysander.

As we sat eating I continued to observe Cleon and Hippo talking. I noticed the presence of other men milling around her, most like him in their twenties, and all fit and strong. They did not look like pilgrims and I assumed they were Cleon’s followers. I wondered how many of the thousands of people camped around the temple were criminals or rebels. It seemed a very strange state of affairs. Normally the Romans would have rounded them up and either crucified them or condemned them to the mines. It must have irked the governor enormously that so many enemies of Rome were camped just beyond the city walls and untouchable. As I finished my apricot Hippo gave Cleon a final smile and then walked back to the temple escorted by four guards.

When we had satisfied our appetites we walked back to the city, not an inch to spare on the road from the temple to the city gates so many pilgrims were there. The sun was now high in a clear sky and the temperature was rising rapidly, and the stench of sweating humans was quite pungent, made worse by the absence of any breeze. The heat must have made Alcaeus ill tempered because he began to berate Domitus.

‘You really are a most disrespectful individual at times, Domitus. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence knows that high priestesses of Greek temples are virgins who are chosen for their piety and purity.’

‘I never said they weren’t,’ shrugged Domitus.

‘So to suggest that High Priestess Hippo has any amorous thoughts towards that young man in the temple grounds is not only insensitive but also sacrilege.’

Domitus rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Alcaeus, whatever you say.’

Lysander said nothing but he seemed surprised that Alcaeus should speak to his master thus. When we reached the city gates Alcaeus declared that he was going to visit the offices of the guild of physicians where he would make a sacrifice to Asklepios, the God of Healing, in the shrine behind the guild’s offices. He looked at me as he stated this, his ill humour making him forget that I was but a lowly gladiator. Lysander was taken aback but I cast my head down and said nothing.

‘If that is agreeable to you,
lanista
,’ said Alcaeus hurriedly.

Domitus gave his consent and Alcaeus asked Lysander where the guild of physicians was located, being told that their offices were to the rear of the
agora
. After Lysander had given him directions he wandered off and we continued our journey back to our accommodation. When we arrived at the house, which was still guarded by Roman legionaries, Lysander took his leave, saying he had urgent business at the high priest’s office. The head slave of the household reported to Domitus that a letter was waiting for him. We filed into the library as our
lanista
opened the scroll and read it.

We took off our black robes and relaxed in chairs as Domitus informed us of its contents. Slaves brought wine and fruit juice from the kitchens and served us drinks.

Domitus held up the scroll. ‘Well, this is it. A note from the governor’s office. The games begin tomorrow. Tonight, though, he invites all gladiators to the
cena
libera
.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Gallia as she admired her statuette of Artemis.

‘A feast that is always held on the eve of the games,’ Domitus told her.

‘Where both gladiators and the condemned eat together,’ added Drenis, ‘though one could argue that all those eating are condemned in one way or another.’

‘How macabre,’ said Gallia.

‘Everything about gladiatorial games is about spectacle, Gallia,’ reflected Arminius. ‘It is bloody theatre from beginning to end.’

‘This is most excellent,’ I said. ‘At long last I can meet Burebista and tell him of our plans.’

‘Which are?’ enquired Domitus.

‘That we intend to rescue him, Domitus.’

‘And have you worked out the plan’s specifics?’ he asked.

I took a drink of wine. ‘I will know that after I have talked to him.’

‘So you are going to go through with it, then?’ said Drenis.

‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘did you expect me not to?’

He held out his cup to a slave holding a jug of wine. ‘I thought we might get here and rescue Burebista before we marched onto the sand.’

The slave filled his cup and he stood, as did Arminius. They both held out their drinking vessels to me.

‘Then, Pacorus, let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.’

I went in the company of Surena, Drenis and Arminius to the feast, all of us wearing simple tunics, sandals and leather belts. Domitus and Gallia remained at the house, the former checking our weapons and equipment that we would be using the next day. Gallia wanted to accompany me but Lysander, who had returned from his pressing business, informed her that adult women were banned from the
prytaneion
where the feast would take place.

The night was warm and the streets were full of people. Lysander was his usual talkative, informative self, telling us that the
prytaneion
was one of the most important civic structures in Ephesus. It was a temple-like building where religious ceremonies, official receptions and banquets were held. It was also the location of the city’s sacred fire, which was kept continually alight to honour the gods who first bequeathed fire to humans.

When we arrived at the
prytaneion
we found it ringed by Roman soldiers, reinforced by a detachment of ten archers who stood to one side of the entrance. I was surprised to see many civilians, both men and women, milling around.

‘They are encouraged to see and perhaps speak to the gladiators before they enter the hall,’ Lysander said to me. ‘In this way the governor hopes that word of the games will spread so there are no empty seats.’

‘The games are popular?’

He looked disappointed. ‘They are, though many of the Greek citizens in the city object to the spilling of blood in the Great Theatre.’

‘And you?’

‘I do as I am told,’ he replied guardedly. ‘You speak Greek very well for a slave who is not Greek.’

‘I am not a slave,’ I said. ‘I am a free man.’

‘Ah, yes, I forgot. My apologies.’

We reported to the duty centurion standing beside a clerk who carried a record of all the gladiator schools and their fighters. We were then checked for weapons, for dozens of potentially intoxicated gladiators could be an incendiary situation.

‘I will wait for you here,’ Lysander told us as we walked through the columns of the Doric courtyard that fronted the hall. The courtyard itself was surrounded on three sides by a colonnade and paved with a mosaic depicting the shields of Amazons against a floral background.

‘Gallia would love this,’ I remarked.

‘As she will hate watching you in the arena,’ said Drenis.

Surena rubbed his hands. ‘It is very generous of the governor to lay on a feast for us.’

‘Kallias is paying for the games,’ I told him, ‘not the governor.’

‘More to the point,’ Arminius said to Surena. ‘Do not eat or drink excessively. You don’t want a thick head.’

We neared the open doors of the hall and heard a great noise coming from its interior.

‘It seems like many are enjoying themselves,’ said Surena.

‘The
noxi
,’ said Drenis darkly.

‘Who?’ asked Surena.

‘The
noxi
ad
gladium
damnati
, those condemned to the games,’ answered Arminius. ‘Criminals, slaves and captured soldiers mostly, who will all die in the arena. If you are one you want to enjoy yourself as much as possible on what may be your last evening in this world.’

And enjoying themselves they were. The benches were filled with men stuffing their faces with food piled high on the tables before them. Slaves were ferrying huge quantities of wine to the thirsty, greedy throng, men already drunk shouting and cheering and fondling young slave girls who tried to place jugs on tables without being molested or having their clothes ripped off. Legionaries armed with swords stood around the walls of the hall and centurions paced up and down, occasionally striking one of the condemned with his vine cane.

But not all were drinking and eating to excess. At some tables groups of athletic, quiet men were either talking in hushed tones or keeping their own counsel, rarely looking up as they picked at their food. Drenis pointed to them.

‘They are the gladiators.’

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let’s find Burebista.’

Arminius looked around at the scene of riotous excess with its small islands of quiet sobriety.

‘This takes me back. Never thought I would be at a
cena
libera
again.’

‘Feeling old, Arminius? Drenis teased him.

‘Feeling hungry,’ he answered.

‘Me too,’ said Surena, rubbing his hands. ‘Let’s find a bench.’

‘You two go with him, ‘ I ordered, ‘I will look for Burebista.’

Surena had already seated himself beside a group of drunken Greeks, who immediately filled a cup with wine and handed it him.

‘And make sure he doesn’t get drunk,’ I told Drenis and Arminius.

I walked slowly between the benches where upwards of five hundred people were seated. The hall reeked of roast meat, wine and human odour, for many of these men had been rotting in jails prior to their ‘performance’ in the arena tomorrow and they stank. At least the gladiators presented a more tidy appearance, most dressed in loose-fitting tunics so their broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms would not be constrained. Looking at them I was taken back to Italy, to the army of many races that had fought under Spartacus. There were fair-skinned Gauls and Germans, olive-skinned Spaniards, swarthy Thracians and sinewy Armenians. There were also Egyptians and Nubians, their skin as dark as black marble and their heads shaved. All gathered in this great city to die for Roman entertainment.

There was a great roar as a female slave was dragged to the floor by a group of filthy criminals and stripped naked. She was held down, her legs forced apart, as one of the wretched convicts lifted his tunic and sank to his knees, ready to rape her. In an instant a centurion was behind him and knocked him unconscious with his cane, Outraged, his convict companions forgot about the naked girl and jumped to their feet. But the centurion drew his
gladius
and sliced open the guts of the nearest brigand, who looked surprised, and then horrified as he clutched at his belly that was pumping blood. He looked with pleading eyes at the centurion before sinking to the floor and lying there, his lifeblood oozing onto the sacred mosaic. The others looked at him, then at the centurion, and shuffled meekly back to their seats.

‘Show’s over,’ barked the centurion as he wiped his sword on the tunic of the dying man and ordered other slaves to take him away.

‘Where should we take him,
dominus
?’ asked one of the slaves, quivering with fear.

‘To the city rubbish dump,’ came the reply.

Most of those enjoying the festivities did not even notice this little drama as the hall echoed to the sound of cheers and raised voices demanding more wine. Some guests, previously half-starved or badly beaten, had either passed out or were vomiting violently, their stomachs unable to cope with the great quantities of food and drink shoved into them. The fetid stench of piles of vomit added to the unique aroma that now filled the hall.

I continued on my way, occasionally catching the attention of a steely faced gladiator who held my gaze with pitiless eyes before returning to his meal. I walked towards the far end of the hall and my heart soared as I caught sight of him. He still looked fierce, a little older of course, his face clean shaven and his hair shoulder length in homage to his ancestry. But he looked fit and well as he picked over slices of pomegranate. He was dressed in an immaculate red tunic with white stripes down either side. He sat apart from the other nine gladiators at his bench but all of them appeared sober and reflective, mentally apart from the debauchery around them.

I stood on the other side of the bench where Burebista sat with his head down, slowly picking up pieces of pomegranate to eat.