Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (48 page)

‘This was not my doing, majesty. I work for High Priest Kallias, not the Romans.’

I looked up at him. ‘I attach no blame to you, Lysander.’

‘Many worshippers are flooding into the city to see Queen Gallia, majesty.’

He finished pouring water and withdrew from the courtyard. Domitus was wolfing down a bowl of porridge while Alcaeus was picking at a bunch of grapes more thoughtfully. Surena, Drenis and Arminius, like Domitus, were eating as though it was their last meal. I felt sick; it well might be.

‘Get some food inside you,’ whispered Domitus, ‘you will need your strength today.’

‘No talking!’ bellowed the centurion as he circled the table like a ravenous wolf. We kept our heads down and I began to eat the bowl of porridge in front of me.

Gallia returned and was also served food and water. She was in a clean white dress and her hair had been brushed and her arms massaged with oil. She smiled sympathetically at me as she took her seat by my side. The slaves offered us more porridge and figs, which Domitus accepted, and then took away our empty bowls. The legionaries had sheathed their swords and the centurion had sat down on a stool and was eating a bowl of figs. Thrushes and plovers landed on the roof tiles and sang their songs and the occasional buzzard flew overhead. Despite the danger we were in the serenity of the courtyard and the sound of its fountains had a calming effect on me.

‘I hope they give him the shits,’ said Domitus slowly.

After we had eaten we were ordered to get into our gladiator clothing. Alcaeus requested and was allowed to reclaim his bag of medicines from inside the house but we were forbidden to carry our weapons to the arena. They would be taken to the theatre later by a detachment of legionaries. After we had dressed there was a blast of trumpets outside the house and the centurion ordered us all to stand in a line. His men drew their swords once more and stood behind us, the points of their weapons in our backs.

‘You have an important visitor so stay silent and show respect. Remember that you are slaves. Any disrespect will incur the gravest penalties.’

There were footsteps in the house and the great bulk of Timini Ceukianus was I front of us, behind him a slave holding a parasol to keep the sun off his balding crown. The day was warm but not unpleasantly so but already the fat editor’s forehead was beaded with sweat and his rancid body odour went before him.

His wore a leer on his bloated face as he viewed us.

‘I’ve never had a king fight in the arena before. How marvellous.’

‘He is a king no longer, sir,’ said the centurion, tapping the cane against his right leg. ‘He is a slave. They all are.’

‘Thank you centurion,’ snapped Ceukianus with annoyance, ‘I am well aware of their status. I have been fully briefed by my uncle.’

Ceukianus waved him back and snapped his fingers. A young slave boy no more than ten years of age and dressed only in a loincloth came forward with a towel to dab the
editor’s
sweaty forehead.

‘I expect all of you to fulfil the roles allotted to you,’ said Ceukianus. ‘You are now the property of Rome and she will do with you as she sees fit. Most of you will soon be dead, so meet your end with dignity and be thankful that I have given you the opportunity to experience death on the sacred sand of the arena.’

His piggy eyes settled on the bare torso of Surena. He struck the boy slave with a flick of his hand to indicate he should withdraw and took a few steps so he was standing in front of Surena. He avoided the
editor’s
gaze, his head cast down, as Ceukianus extended a hand and began to rub Surena’s chest.

‘The darling of the crowd,’ he murmured. He licked his top lip with his tongue. ‘Perhaps you will be my darling if I decide to let you live. Would you like that,
slave
?’

The tension was almost unbearable as Ceukianus waited for an answer. I prayed that Surena would keep his temper in check.

‘I am unworthy,
dominus
,’ he uttered.

Ceukianus began breathing heavily as he continued to fondle Surena.

‘Nonsense. You are a magnificent specimen. I shall arrange for you to be brought to my villa tonight where I can get more intimately familiar with you.’

He traced a finger down the side of Surena’s cheek. ‘Don’t use up all your strength in the arena.’

He sighed with satisfaction and turned to face the centurion.

‘There is a large crowd outside, centurion, do not let them anywhere near the slave woman. In their childlike imagination they imagine her to be a demi-god.’

‘Don’t you worry about them, sir, my men will deal with any trouble.’

Ceukianus spun round, venom in his eyes. ‘And if any of you cause trouble on the way to the arena I will feed you to the beasts.’

The walk to the theatre was a solemn affair, all of us with heads bowed on the centurion’s orders and the crowd picking up on the air of threat. As we walked towards the
agora
to take part in the daily procession to the theatre the crowd’s mood changed from confusion to anxiety and then anger as the legionaries pushed and struck any who tried to get near Gallia. Her face was a stone mask as she stared ahead with eyes full of resentment.

At the
agora
the mood became more light-hearted as musicians, jugglers and dwarves entertained the crowd. For a while. I noticed that there were many more people than on the previous two days and many of them were wearing clothing that indicated that they were followers of Artemis. Because the goddess was the protector of virgins and often portrayed in sculptures as a young girl, they wore their hair tied back and were attired in short tunics, both men and women. Those who could afford it had silver jewellery attached to their tunics because Artemis was known as the ‘silver goddess’. Those too poor to afford jewellery wore sprigs of cypress, a tree sacred to the goddess.

As the procession got under way the worshippers surged forward to try to get near Gallia, only to be shoved back by a line of legionaries and two centurions who used their canes freely to crack heads and strike limbs. This did nothing to improve the humour of the crowd.

‘I’m going to kill that fat bastard
editor
,’ Surena hissed to me. ‘He disgusts me.’

‘Try to stay alive, Surena,’ I answered, ‘even if it means taking unpalatable decisions.’

My words fell on deaf ears as Surena seethed and thought only of vengeance. Domitus was walking next to Gallia, seemingly unconcerned, Alcaeus having the same demeanour. I looked behind at Drenis and Arminius who appeared remarkably relaxed. I put their sanguine attitude down to their having been gladiators before they had joined Spartacus. They had escaped from Italy to join me in Parthia and had built new lives for themselves at Dura. I had robbed them of those lives.

We reached the Great Theatre and filed into the stage building, past the animal cages. Many of them were now empty, their occupants having been slaughtered in the arena and their carcasses butchered and sold as meat to citizens. The Romans were efficient in all things. There were more guards inside the building than on previous days as we tramped up the steps to the second floor, Domitus and Gallia having been escorted to their seats in the theatre. I did not get a chance to say goodbye to them before they were bundled away.

Legionaries were posted at the entrance to the second floor chamber where the gladiators gathered before their bouts, much to the consternation of the fighters. They tolerated arena officials but objected to soldiers they viewed as inferior in terms of weapon skills and fighting prowess, and they made no attempt to disguise their contempt as they hurled insults at them. The centurion who had been our gaoler forced me up on my toes with the end of his cane under my chin.

‘You cause any trouble and that blonde bitch will have her throat slit. You understand,
slave
?’

I nodded and avoided his gaze. I stared at the hilt of his sword and momentarily thought of making a lunge for it. But to do so would imperil Gallia so I played the listless slave. He grinned and walked away, ignoring the wolf whistles and jeers directed at him by the other gladiators.

The crowd was warmed up with beast hunts, the nets around the arena having been strengthened and heightened to ensure none of the animals could escape. I sat at a bench alone with my thoughts and saw Burebista being escorted into the room by legionaries. He immediately went to one of the windows. I looked at Drenis and Arminius and we went to stand before him. His face wore an expression of rage.

‘Burebista?’

He managed a thin smile. ‘Your plan nearly succeeded, lord, but you reckoned without the maliciousness of Lentulus Vatia.’

‘I apologise,’ I said.

‘You have nothing to apologise for, lord, but these games will be my last. And to ensure I play my part the governor uses my wife as a hostage.’

He pointed down at the crowd, to the awning where the governor and the high priest were sitting. I saw Marcus Aristius sitting behind the governor, the fat
editor
, Gallia and Domitus and a woman with long black hair behind them.

‘My wife, Anca,’ he said, a note of distress in his voice.

As the beast hunters slaughtered a host of bears, leopards, dogs and panthers I looked at the row of legionaries sitting behind the nets and poles, more surrounding the dignitaries and two more lines at the outer edges of the audience. In addition, there were archers at the very back of the theatre’s seats. Clearly the governor was not going to take any risks regarding security inside the theatre.

The crowd was muted in its applause of the beast hunters, many of the spectators more interested in trying to catch sight of Gallia or even get near her. As the last of the carcasses of the slaughtered animals were removed from the arena slaves ran from the stage building pushing small two-wheeled carts filled with sand, which they proceeded to scatter over the blood-drenched surface. After they had finished it was time for the
editor
to indulge his base instincts before the midday execution of criminals.

Ceukianus rose from his seat and clapped his hands. Moments later a score of young boys, the oldest no more than ten years of age, ran from the stage building on to the sand. There was a groan of disgust from the audience as the people realised that they were all naked, and obviously nervous. Then the central doors swung open and the same number of porcupines was ushered into the arena. A whistle was blown and the boys attempted to capture the animals, the spiny quills on their backs, sides and tails inflicting nasty cuts on the youths’ naked flesh as they tried to pick them up or pounced on their backs. Ceukianus was in raptures as the boys’ tender flesh was pierced and bled, members of the crowd hurling abuse at the
editor
for his depravity. I shook my head. The morality of the crowd was a curious thing. It was perfectly acceptable for animals and criminals to be ripped to pieces but the notion of innocent children being hurt for a fat Roman’s amusement was viewed as being abhorrent.

The display was an exercise in futility as each boy was cut and bruised and gave up. Some started crying and the crowd began jeering and whistling. A hard-faced Metellus turned and uttered a few words to his nephew as Kallias shook his head. I saw that the seat next to him was empty and wondered where Hippo was. The
editor
stood and gestured to an official in the arena to bring the sordid spectacle to an end. Animal handlers came from the stage building to usher the porcupines back through the central doors into the fenced-off corridor and thence to their cages. The boys were led away to the other exits, several of the younger ones in tears and clearly distressed by the experience. But the
editor
called for one, a tall lad around eight years of age, to be brought to him.

The crowd nearest the dignitaries growled their disapproval as the boy was taken to the editor’s side and Ceukianus began caressing his cut and bruised buttocks and legs. The governor turned for a second time and shouted at his nephew, the boy jumping at the outburst. Ceukianus ordered a guard to take the boy away.

The
editor
, now furious, nodded at the announcer whose deep voice resonated around the theatre. He told the spectators that fraudsters would not be tolerated in Roman Ephesus.

‘But Roman corruption is,’ shouted one man to great applause, who was quickly identified by the guards and manhandled from the arena.

The announcer maintained his professional composure and went on to inform the crowd that a local jeweller, Phormio, who was bundled into the arena by two legionaries, had been discovered using fake stones in his products. The legionaries left the hapless, portly middle-aged artisan on the sand and withdrew from the arena, the door being slammed shut behind them. He looked up at the crowd, clearly terrified, frantically rubbing his hands together as the announcer went on to tell the crowd that the jeweller had not only defrauded his customers but also Rome. As such he must be severely punished. The man jumped in terror as he heard a lion’s roar coming from behind the central doors. Even from two storeys up I could see him trembling and then those occupying the front seats began to laugh and point as he pissed himself in terror.