The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Word won’t get out,’ Flaminius assured him.

  He’d seen the weal marks on Petrus’ back, faint beneath his tan, assuming they were wounds from previous fights, but this man had been a quarry slave, one of the lowest of the low. No wonder he was so keen to cling to this dangerous life as a gladiator.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Petrus frankly. ‘You’re a true friend, Tiro. If there’s ever anything I can do in return…’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Flaminius. He took a long swig of wine, studying Petrus all the time. ‘Well,’ he added in a wheedling tone, ‘there is just one thing…’

  ‘Name it,’ said Petrus quickly. ‘Anything I can do for you, friend.’

  Flaminius looked away. ‘I have another friend, an old man,’ he said, ‘a philosopher. You know the type. Fascinated by absolutely everything, researches it, writes about it. He’s at the Museum, you know, with all the Greek scholars…’

  Petrus nodded slowly, frowning. Flaminius was describing an alien world.

  ‘He wanted to know all about the life of the gladiator, would you believe it?’ Flaminius laughed. ‘Wants to write a book on the subject. I know, crazy. That’s what these philosophers are like. But he’s a decent old bore in his own way. I’ve told him all I know, but I’m new to the life.’

  Understanding dawned in Petrus’ eyes. ‘You want me to tell him about it? Of course, Flaminius, I thought you were going to ask me to do something difficult. Is that all?’

  ‘Well,’ said Flaminius, temporising. ‘That’s all for now. Just tell me all about yourself, and everything you know about the other gladiators. And Apuleius Victor. And anything… juicy. Even philosophers don’t want it all to be dry as the desert sands!’ He laughed, but it sounded hollow in his own ears.

  Petrus scratched his chin. ‘Juicy,’ he mused.

  ‘Or mysterious,’ Flaminius added. ‘Like those scare stories of Camilla’s that you dismissed so readily.’

  Petrus bristled. ‘About men going missing, you mean?’ he said. ‘The woman’s full of silly ideas, like all women. If you want to know about them, you ask her!’

  Flaminius made no reply.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Petrus contritely. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so…’

  Flaminius drank. ‘When I asked about it before, you accused me of being a snoop,’ he commented.

  Petrus nodded hastily. ‘And I’m truly sorry I spoke to you like that,’ he said. ‘It was just… you’re new. We don’t know if we can trust you. There are so many snoops about. Trust no one, Tiro, that’s my advice. Oh, except you can trust me, lad, trust me to the death.’ He patted Flaminius’s leg.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Flaminius, and Petrus apologised.

  ‘But I can understand why you might have reacted like that,’ Flaminius went on. ‘Thought me a spy. Here’s someone you don’t really know, just joined the family, asking strange questions.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Petrus. ‘I didn’t know about your friend in the Museum back then. You should have said.’

  ‘Still, people are more likely to trust you, Petrus,’ Flaminius said.

  ‘Trust me?’ Petrus asked.

  Flaminius nodded. ‘If you were to ask questions like that, of people like Syphax and Camilla and even Apuleius Victor… they’d never think you were a spy. Would they?’

  Petrus fell silent, deep in thought. Several times he stirred as if to speak, but then went quiet again. Flaminius let him think it over. It took a long time.

  ‘Are you working for the prefect?’ Petrus said finally.

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘I don’t work for the prefect.’ This barbarian was brighter than he seemed.

  Suspicion twisted Petrus’ face. ‘Who are you working for, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m working for Apuleius Victor, same as you,’ Flaminius said blandly, but cold sweat trickled down his back. ‘Oh, and I’m doing a favour to my friend in the Museum.’

  Petrus grunted. ‘Oh. This old man. Yes, you said.’

  He did some more deep thinking. Flaminius hoped it wouldn’t take all night; they were back in the arena tomorrow afternoon, and they would spend much of the morning in training.

  ‘I don’t know who you’re working for,’ the gladiator said after a long while, ‘But you know things about me that can’t become public. You want to know about these disappearances. Well, I think it’s just slaves running off.’

  ‘But no one’s a slave in this family,’ Flaminius said. ‘Are they? You’re a freedman, and Camilla is a freedwoman. As for Syphax…’

  ‘He’s an outcast from his Nubian tribe,’ said Petrus. ‘He joined because he likes to fight and he likes women flocking round him,’ he added disapprovingly. ‘He’s like a wild stallion, they say, not that I’ve had the pleasure.’ He nodded. ‘Very well, none of us are slaves. You’re not either, though I don’t know what you really are…’

  ‘So when the previous hoplomachus ran off,’ Flaminius began, ‘the man I replaced… what was his name again?’

  ‘Capricorn,’ Petrus said.

  ‘When Capricorn ran off,’ Flaminius went on, ‘or vanished, or whatever happened—he hadn’t been running away from slavery. So what did happen? And then there’s Felix’s death. We all-star gladiators aren’t supposed to die. Was he drugged? If so, who by? And why?’

  Petrus shrugged his mighty shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But I want you to find out,’ said Flaminius. ‘Won’t you do that?’ he added softly. ‘For a friend?’

  Petrus gave him a suspicious glare.

  —5—

  The Library, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

  The Library was a vast, echoing, vaulted hall, lined with stout pillars of porphyry like those in an Egyptian temple, with occasional skylights that shone down on a marble floor where dignified bearded figures in chitons walked in ones and twos, carrying piles of scrolls to marble reading tables, some talking soberly in muted voices. On either side of the two rows of pillars, shelves rose up to the roof containing row after row of pigeon holes in which sat the papyrus scrolls that made up much of the Library stock.

  As Flaminius walked up to the main desk, the cool and the gloom was as welcome to him as the hush after the heat and the light and the noise outside. The Library was situated beside the Museum, that temple of the Muses where Greek philosophers, geometers, geographers, medics, mystics, engineers and architects came to study and to lecture—even during a public holiday like today. The Museum was part of the palace complex that sprawled across half the Brucheium, the Greek Quarter of Alexandria. The only serious rival of the famous Academy in Athens, it looked out onto the busy Great Harbour, where the Pharos Lighthouse, that wonder of the world, towered over a bustling scene of ships and shipping.

  Flaminius had left the gladiators’ school early that morning, partly to avoid the heat of the day, partly so he would not encounter Apuleius Victor. As free men, the gladiators of the impresario’s family could come and go as they pleased, but they would be expected to spend the morning in training, in preparations for the Games that afternoon. Flaminius had woken early, despite a late night with all its debauchery, donned a tunic and sandals, and hurried down to the harbour.

  ‘Do you have anything by Aristides of Miletus?’ he asked the shaven headed Egyptian behind the desk. The man glanced up. His kohl rimmed eyes narrowed.

  He gave Flaminius a withering look, and made a show of consulting a scroll that the Roman gathered was a catalogue. Then he rose from his seat and came around the desk, pausing to speak to another Egyptian man who came over to take his place.

  ‘You’d better follow me,’ the Egyptian said in an undertone.

  He led Flaminius across the wide marble floor between two stacks to a small door at the end. Glancing darkly at Flaminius, he unlocked the door and led them into a small chamber, half stacked with old furniture and scroll cases. The Egyptian sat cross legged on the floor. Flaminius had to kneel
.

  ‘It’s been quite a while, Ozymandias,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want this time, Roman?’ the Egyptian said. ‘I’ve got work to do here, remember?’

  Flaminius sat down with his back to the wall. ‘Is this room safe?’ he asked. ‘No eavesdroppers?’

  Ozymandias nodded. ‘No one’s listening,’ he assured the Roman. ‘This is a library. Get on with it. They’ll be missing me at the desk.’

  ‘Just remember who got you this job,’ Flaminius said sharply, ‘after your last employer fell on his sword.’

  ‘And whose fault was that?’ Ozymandias asked angrily. ‘Paulus Alexander wasn’t just my employer, he was my patron. He freed me from slavery and gave me Roman citizenship, with exemption from the poll tax. Without a job I would have ended up in the gutter, my sister with me.’

  Flaminius flinched. Ozymandias’ sister—also his wife; incestuous marriage was an ancient Egyptian custom—was still a painful memory. They hadn’t spoken since last year.

  ‘So I got you this job to keep you out of the gutter, Nitocris too,’ he said. ‘A nice cushy number. A lot of ex-slaves and former tomb robbers would jump at the chance. Paid good money to sit on your backside all day.’

  ‘I got good money as a scribe,’ said Ozymandias. ‘It was much the same kind of position. Get to the point, Roman. This wasn’t a social call, or you wouldn’t have given the password.’ He shook his head. ‘The Library stocking Milesian fables indeed!’

  Aristides of Miletus was an old Greek author of scurrilous tales who had inspired Flaminius’ favourite writer, Petronius Arbiter. ‘You get well paid for your other job, too,’ Flaminius reminded him. ‘Few assistant librarians can afford the sort of villa you and your sister live in.’

  ‘So you want information,’ Ozymandias said. ‘I’ve got information, more than I know what to do with. What kind are you after?’

  ‘Gladiators,’ Flaminius said mysteriously.

  ‘Gladiators?’ Ozymandias said. ‘You’ve been lounging round the amphitheatre while I’ve been shelving scrolls? I thought you were down in the Thebaid with the legate, anyway.’

  ‘I was in fact down in the Thebaid,’ Flaminius acknowledged, ‘but now, yes, I’ve been in Nicopolis amphitheatre. But not lounging round. Topping the bill, my friend, topping the bill.’

  Ozymandias put his head in his hands. ‘Sarapis! You’ve become a gladiator?’ he said, his voice muffled.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Flaminius in mock pride. ‘The Roman matrons swoon when they see the size of my muscles, and ponder the ineffable mystery of what a gladiator wears under his kilt.’

  Ozymandias looked up. ‘I suppose there’s a reason for this lunacy,’ he said.

  Flaminius had been enjoying himself, but the Egyptian was right; there wasn’t much time. Ozymandias had to get back to work before the chief librarian caused an uproar, and of course Flaminius had to return to the gladiators’ school. He explained.

  Ozymandias looked pensive. ‘I’ve not heard anything about any gladiators’ rebellion,’ he said. ‘Can’t help you there. I can see that it would be a problem if this rebellion spreads, especially during the Days of Hadrian. But that’s Egypt. Rebellions; they happen.’

  He tapped his chin. ‘River pirates are a different basket of Nile perch, of course. I’ve kept a few contacts from my younger days, my days as a tomb robber. The Delta swamps are still a haven for robbers of every kind, despite the prefect stepping up the river patrols. The Bucolics of the marshes turn from herding to river piracy at a whim.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sorry not to be much help, but I’d better be getting back to my post. The chief librarian’s been making a big fuss ever since one of the Museum scholars discovered that most of their copies of Archimedes of Syracuse and Sostratus of Cnidus have gone missing...’

  Flaminius rose, scowling. He had not shared the news of the emperor’s imminent arrival, but surely the assistant librarian could see the significance of a rebellion in Egypt.

  ‘I’m looking into a possible uprising,’ he said, ‘and you’re more concerned about a few missing library books! For Jove’s sake,’ he added, following the Egyptian from the little chamber, ‘this is important…’

  His words echoed as they came out into the main Library. Bearded heads turned his way with expressions of disgust. Ozymandias put his finger to his lips.

  ‘Don’t make so much noise,’ he hissed. ‘Some imperial agent you are! Always drawing attention to yourself! If you get me in trouble with the chief librarian…!’

  But he broke off. Louder shouting had broken out from the imposing Library entrance, sending a storm of echoes down the hall that made Flaminius’ expostulations sound like the merest zephyr.

  ‘Fire! Fire! Fire in the harbour!’

  The dignified Greek scholars did nothing more at first than turn their opprobrium on the scruffy little figures silhouetted in the high doorway. But as the echoes resolved themselves into words, one and all they looked at each other in horror and their stoic reserve vanished.

  ‘Fire!’ Philosophers and engineers, literary scholars and geometers all took up the cry.

  ‘What’s got into them?’ Flaminius asked Ozymandias. Talk about a disturbed ants’ nest!

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ the Egyptian said. ‘Fire! Papyrus! Parchment! The Library is in danger!’

  Flaminius followed him out into the nave. Dignified scholars rushed about in a frenzy. ‘But the fire’s in the harbour,’ he complained. ‘It won’t get here.

  A tall Greek with a snowy white beard heard his words. ‘Do you Romans know nothing of your own history?’ he boomed in a lecture hall voice. ‘It was a fire in the harbour that almost destroyed the Library in Caesar’s day! Ships were set ablaze by Caesar, the fire spread to the wharf, and soon the Library warehouses were burning!’ He hobbled out, beard shaking with emotion.

  ‘We’d better see what we can do,’ said Ozymandias.

  Outside, the sun shone down on a scene of confusion. The steps of the Library led down to the water’s edge, where stone warehouses stood along the wharfs of the Great Harbour. The causeway known as the Heptastadion joined the mainland with the island of Pharos, where the famous lighthouse’s mirror reflected the sunlight in a beacon that could be seen for miles out to sea.

  Out in that glass floored bay, a trireme was on fire.

  The scholars lined the steps, staring in anxiety at the burning ship. The wharfs were a scene of great activity, with men rushing back and forth. A boat had been requisitioned, and legionaries of the harbour guard were preparing to row out.

  A centurion stomped up the steps.

  ‘You Greeks,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got a fire aboard that ship. Clever buggers, aren’t you? Magicians, they say. Well, it happened like magic. One minute it was sailing towards the straits, next the sails were on fire. I saw it with my own eyes. Not that I’m blaming you lot though, not without evidence. But can’t you do anything to help?’

  An imposing figure pushed his way through the gathered scholars. ‘Enough of these wild tales of fire from heaven. Have you no water pumps, officer?’ A tall, spare man, he had a short, jutting beard and cold eyes. Flaminius gathered that this was a senior member of the library staff, perhaps the chief himself.

  ‘That’s just the problem, chum,’ the centurion explained. ‘The pumps are too big to get aboard that boat. We could requisition a larger vessel, but in the time that it would take, the ships nearby would have caught light. Is there no way you can put the fire out from here on land?’

  The librarian shook his head. ‘We are merely scholars, centurion,’ he said, ‘not thaumaturges! Perhaps you should ask at the temple of Sarapis.’

  Shaking his head irritably, the centurion turned away. But as he was departing, another Greek, a younger man with an enthusiastic expression, hurried forwards.

  ‘Where’s Hero?’ he called. ‘This is his kind of thing! He’s been developing a new force-pump, you know. If we set it up on the wharf, we could hit
that ship from here.’

  ‘Where is this force-pump?’ the centurion said excitedly, turning back. ‘That’s exactly what we need! Get it, man, get it before your Library goes up in flames a second time.’

  The enthusiastic young Greek’s face fell. ‘It’s only a prototype,’ he admitted. ‘It’s in the Museum, but we’d need people to carry it. Two big men, maybe… Oh, where is Hero?’ He wrung his hands.

  ‘You, civvie!’ the centurion bellowed at Flaminius. ‘You’re a likely looking lad. You’re coming with me!’

  ‘But I…’ Flaminius began. He hunted in his tunic for his lancehead brooch—the insignia identifying him as an imperial agent—only to realise that he had left it in the gladiators’ school.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ the centurion boomed. ‘You’ve been conscripted! You’re in the legions now, under my orders. Follow me! At the double!’

  He turned back to the young Greek. ‘Take us there!’

  They hurried across a plaza, flanked on all sides by colonnades. Ozymandias ran alongside Flaminius. The young Greek led them, holding up the folds of his chiton. The centurion followed grimly behind him.

  The Greek took them to a pair of doors. He banged on them but there was no answer.

  ‘I really don’t know where Hero is today.’ He wrung his hands again. ‘He’s usually in his workshop. Wonderful man. True heir of Ctesibius and Philo Mechanicus…’

  ‘The squirter’s in here?’ the centurion barked.

  ‘I, er, beg your pardon? Oh, the force-pump! Yes, it should be in there…’

  The Greek broke off as the centurion shoulder-barged the door. On the second attempt, with Flaminius and Ozymandias helping, he burst the door open and they stumbled into a workshop. Its benches were littered with bizarre engines and mechanical contrivances. Half unfolded on a lectern was a scroll depicting a blueprint of the Pharos Lighthouse. Flaminius picked up another scroll to read the words The Method of Mechanical Theorems… Ozymandias glanced over the scroll on the lectern.