Two For The Lions (30 page)

LVIII

A BLAZE OF SUNLIGHT swathed the arena from the first hour. Slowly the stone seats and the brilliant white sand on the arena floor began to warm up. As the crowd started to assemble, the sound of the ocean was lost, though we could still smell the ocean on the salty air that dried our faces and made our hair stiff and lank.

Justinus and I had gone early. Rutilius would arrive much later, ceremonially. We thought we were prompt yet other people had beaten us to it, though the atmosphere remained relaxed. Even at that stage, however, the holiday mood had extra tension caused by the presence of contingents from Oea and Sabratha.

Admission was free, but the ticketmen were in place, ready to hand out the tokens which assigned places in the various tiers and wedges of seats. Cushions for the front row seats were being unladen from mules. Smoke rose lazily from fires on the beach where hot tidbits were being cooked by food sellers. Wineskins and amphorae had been brought in large quantities. Snack sellers were hoping for a lucrative day.

Country dwellers, drawn by the spectacle and the chance of making sales of their produce and crafts, had turned up on horses and the occasional camel, and were squatting on the beach. Some had even pitched long, dark, desert tents. And keen folk from town were meandering up the shore and along other paths even as we ourselves arrived, looking for friends to greet or betting touts to haggle with. Playbills appeared; we got hold of one, but apart from the professional fighters who were listed by name and fighting style, the special bout was only described as a "combat of three novices."

After the first arrivals had strolled up, some still eating their breakfasts, the influx suddenly increased and the atmosphere pulsated. The citizens of Lepcis were now pouring forth, some dressed in white in the formal Roman manner (as we were), others robed in brilliant colors. Women in their best finery, bejeweled, incredibly coiffed, saucily veiled or lurking under parasols, were carried here in litters or forced to walk by frugal husbands. Children scampered free or clung shyly to parents. Men wandered about making contacts, perhaps with male business acquaintances, perhaps even with forward women who ought not to have been available. Ushers finally appeared--far too late to make much impact, though no one seemed to care.

The rows of seats were filling fast. Cheeks, foreheads, and bald pates were already shining up and reddening in the sun. Bare-armed beauties would look like lobsters this evening. An elderly man was carried off on a stretcher, overcome before the event even started. A fine haze of unguents, perspiration, fried squid, and garlic gently assaulted our nostrils.

The hum of noise rose, then fell off expectantly. Rutilius Gallicus arrived.

Toga-clad and wearing a wreath to which he must be officially entitled, he took his seat, received with warm applause. The citizens of Lepcis were well aware he had given them territorial preference over Sabratha, and particularly Oea. There were a few jeers, presumably from the visitors, immediately swamped by another surge of appreciation from the victorious Lepcitanians.

Justinus and I slipped into our seats beside Claudia and Helena. We had the best view available. Rutilius had extended his favor to allow us, as his houseguests, to share his plot like equals. This put us in prime position--with cushions--among the three front rows of the nobility, priests, and dignitaries who were enthroned on their hereditary wide marble seats. Behind us the massed crowds craned their necks from the plain benches that would give them stiff buttocks and backache by the end of the day.

I spotted Euphrasia amongst the elegantly turned out town councilors and their wives. She looked extremely expensive in a grand set of gold hardwear and near-sheer indigo drapes. To my surprise she had Artemisia, Calliopus' handsome young wife, on her left and the expansive shape of Hanno's sister Myrrha on her right. Any public display of close affinity usually masks an intended coup. So that looked good news. The three lanistae were presumably off somewhere preparing their gladiators. I wondered where Scilla was. I could not believe she would not be observing today's activity; especially as the special bout was so important for her compensation claim.

Rutilius had to leave his seat again. A parade of statues of local gods, crudely disguised under the names of Roman ones, heralded a few brisk religious formalities. He took part with suitable gravity, slitting open a chicken so its entrails could be surveyed. His manner was quiet and extremely efficient as he then pronounced the omens good and the procedures all in order. This enabled the Games to start.

Immediately preparations rushed ahead for the execution of the man caught raving against the gods yesterday. Veils were now wrapped discreetly around syncretized Jupiter Ammon and around Milkashtart and Shadrapa, ancient eastern deities who apparently passed themselves off as Punic variants of Hercules and Liber Pater or Bacchus. A huge chorus of booing went up as an armed guard dragged in the criminal. His crimes were posted up, though without the dignity of naming him--assuming anyone had even bothered to find out who this ranting foreigner was. He was shaven-headed and filthy. The man had been beaten up last night in prison, without doubt. He hung limply in the arms of his captors, either unconscious from the beating or still drunk. Both maybe.

"He's way out of it. That's a relief."

Barely glancing at the slumped figure, I turned to talk to Helena. She sat, purse-lipped, with her hands clasped in her lap and with downcast eyes. I heard the trundling noise as a low-wheeled platform was brought. The victim, stripped naked, was being tied to a stake on this conveyance, which had a shin-high guard shaped like a low chariot front. Every move brought a new surge of angry noise from the crowd. I dropped one hand reassuringly over Helena's clenched fists.

"Soon be over," muttered Rutilius, soothing her like a surgeon while maintaining his smile for the crowd.

The little cart was pushed out into the ring. Attendants poked it forwards with long poles. From nowhere a lion had been released. Needing little encouragement it ran out towards the man at the stake. Helena closed her eyes. The animal seemed to hesitate. At the roar from the crowd, the prisoner finally revived, raised his head, saw the lion and shrieked. The hysterical voice caught my attention, shockingly familiar.

A sea breeze dragged at the veil covering one of the statues, causing it to flutter free. The attendants pushed the cart closer to the lion. The lion took a closer interest. One of the guards cracked a whip. The prisoner looked up at the statue of Shadrapa, then yelled defiantly, "Stuff your Carthaginian gods--and stuff bloody one-eyed Hannibal!"

The lion leapt on him.

I was on my feet. I now knew his voice, his Aventine intonation, the shape of his head, his stupidity, his raving prejudice--everything. There was nothing I could do. I could never have reached him. He was too far away. There was no way to get there. A thirteen-foot-high smooth-sided marble barrier kept wild beasts from invading the audience and kept the spectators out of the ring. The whole crowd rose in a standing ovation, shouting out their indignation at the blasphemy and their approval of the kill. Seconds later the lion was tearing the man to pieces, while I fell back holding my head in my hands.

"Oh dear gods . . . Oh no, oh no!"

"Falco?"

"It's my brother-in-law."

Famia was dead.

LIX

GUILT AND DREAD were beginning their inexorable descent on me as I shoved my way to the backstage area. What was left of Famia's bloody corpse had been dragged out, still hanging from the cart. The sated lion had been retrieved with the customary efficiency; with its jowls dripping red, it was already caged, and about to be whisked away down the covered tunnel. After an execution beasts were removed from sight very speedily. I heard somebody laugh. The amphitheater staff were in a happy mood.

Gagging, I made a family claim for the body, though there would be little to cremate at a funeral.

Rutilius had warned me to be careful what I said. His caution was unnecessary. Famia's appalling outcry still rang in my ears. I would do what was proper here for my own people at home, though probably no one would thank me. I had no wish to add to the insult that had been offered locally.

How could I ever explain this to Maia--my favorite sister--and her nice, well-brought-up children? Marius, who wanted to teach rhetoric. Ancus, with the big ears and the shy smile. Thea, the pretty, funny one. Little Cloelia, who had never seen her father for what he was and who doggedly worshiped him. I knew what they would think. I thought it too. He came out here with me. Without me, he would never have left Rome. It was my fault.

"Marcus." Camillus Justinus was at my shoulder now. "Anything to do?"

"Don't look."

"Right." Utterly sensible like most of his family, he gripped me by the arm and wheeled me away from where I had stood rooted to the spot. I heard him speaking in a low voice to whoever was in charge. Money changed hands. Helena and Claudia must have given him a purse. Arrangements were concluded. The remains were to go to an undertaker. What was needed would be done.

What was needed should have happened a long time ago. Famia should have been dried out. Neither his wife nor I had had the time nor the will to do it. Maia was long past trying.

Well, that burden was over now. But I knew the tragedy had hardly started yet.

I wanted to go.

I would have to extricate Helena. Leaving the presidential seats was bad form. Two of us had already abandoned Rutilius very publicly. He might not be too displeased, knowing the circumstances, though the crowd certainly would. In Rome showing disinterest in the expensive bloodshed of the arena caused the kind of unpopularity that even Emperors feared.

"We have to go back, Marcus." Justinus spoke quietly and calmly, the approved way of dealing with a man in shock. "Apart from our diplomatic duty, we don't want to get crucified!"

"I don't need you looking after me."

"I wouldn't dare suggest it. But we owe it to Rutilius to respect appearances."

"Rutilius condemned him."

"Rutilius had no choice."

"True." I was a fair man. My brother-in-law had just been mauled to death in front of me, but I knew the rules: cheer loudly, and say he asked for it. "Even if Rutilius had known the man was related to me, insulting Hannibal in his home province isn't allowed. Blaspheming the gods like that would have got him flogged even at home . . . Don't worry. I shall return looking shifty, like a man who has just had to run out after being taken short."

"Tact," agreed Justinus, walking me steadily back to my seat. "Wonderful feature of civic life. Dear gods, now don't let anybody offer us a friendly dip in their honeyed nuts . . ."

Although we meant to do the right thing, we were forestalled in rejoining the happy crowd. As we passed the end of the tunnel nearest the amphitheater, we realized the next phase of the Games had now begun. The bloody sand had been raked clean; the tracks made by the cart as it was dragged out had been smoothed over. The huge doors were open and the procession of gladiators was entering the ring. They passed right in front of us, and we felt drawn to follow them as far as the great rectangular gateway through which they all marched.

It was a sight of mingled grandeur and bad taste, as always. Fed, exercised, and honed to a high pitch of fitness, the huge men who fought professionally strode out, to be greeted by a tremendous roar. Trumpets and horns were blasting away. The fighters were dressed ceremonially, each in a gold-embroidered cloth-of-purple Greek military cloak. Oiled, and showing off their muscles, they strutted forth in order of the program. Their names were hailed. They acknowledged this arrogantly with upheld arms, turning to either side of the crowd, buoyed up by a surge of energy.

They made a stately circuit, showing themselves to every portion of the audience. They were attended by their lanistae, all in crisp white tunics striped over the shoulders with narrow colored braid, and bearing long staves. Amongst them I spotted Saturninus, parading to roars from the locals. Attendants came on, carrying salvers on which large purses of prize money bulged. The slaves who raked and brushed the sand attempted a ragged goose-step in a shaky line, holding their implements on their shoulders like ceremonial spears; others led on the horses which would be used in mounted combats, manes burnished and harnesses glittering with enamel disks. Finally in walked an eerie figure portraying the mystical judge of the Underworld, Rhadamanthus, in a tight somber tunic, long supple boots, and the sinister beaked mask of a bird; he was followed by his hard-hearted crony, Hermes Psycopompus--the black messenger with the fiercely heated snaky staff, a branding iron with which he would prod the inert, to discover whether they were really dead, simply unconscious--or feigning.

Crowded in the doorway with a group of arena staff, Justinus and I could see Rutilius on his feet as he supervised the drawing of lots. Fighters of equal experience would be pitted against one another, but that still left the actual draw at each level; this now took place. Some of the pairings were popular and drew enthusiastic cheers; others produced good-humored groans. Eventually the program was all settled, and the weapons to be used were presented formally to the president. Inspecting the swords, Rutilius took his time. This improved the mood of the crowd even further because it showed he knew what he was about; he even rejected one or two after testing their edges.

All through these formalities, the fighters in the ring were showing off. Their warm-up consisted of straightforward muscle exercises with plenty of grunts and knee bends, plus feats of balance and tricks with javelins. One or two hurled their shields aloft and caught them spectacularly. All made great play of feinting and parrying with practice weapons, some lost in total private concentration, others miming attacks on each other, playing up real or imagined enmities. A few egotistical amateurs from the crowd went down to the arena and joined them, wanting to look big.

When the weapons had been approved, attendants carried them from the president's tribunal to be distributed. The warm-up ended. More trumpets blared. The procession formed again as all those who were not in the first bout made to leave. The gladiators marched around the whole ellipse once more, this time deafening the president with the time-honored shout: "those about to die salute you!"

Rutilius acknowledged them. He looked tired.

Out came most of the gladiators again through the great doorway. We stepped aside hastily. They were heavy and huge-thighed, not men to be trampled by. Behind them someone bawled the formal incitement to the first pair: "Approach!"

The hum of noise subsided. A Thracian and a myrmillon in a fish-crested helmet circled each other warily. The long day's professional slaughter had begun.

Justinus and I turned away, still intending to resume our seats. Then, coming from the tunnel, we saw a young man, running fast.

"That's Hanno's son. It's Iddibal."

Stung into action, I was the first to waylay him and demand what was wrong. Iddibal seemed hysterical. "It's Auntie Myrrha! She's been attacked--"

My heart lurched. Things were starting to happen. "show us!" I commanded him. Then Justinus and I took him by an arm each and pretty well dragged him to where he had found his injured aunt.