At the end of the road, we came to where the festival had ended, and came face to face with a gladiator, carrying water in a pot, and a guard, helping him with another. I noticed the gladiator wore manica on his right arm, and greaves, and a green loin cloth. His head was sweaty, and he had worn a helmet just now.
We blocked the way.
The guard scowled. “Step away! There is a fire! Why aren’t you helping?”
“Because,” I said, looking around, seeing a well and just few men, “we set the fire.”
Gochan stepped forward rammed his fist to the guard’s face, and I ran past him, pulled a pugio from my belt and pushed it into the guard’s throat. I stepped back and saw Gochan jumping at the gladiator, who dropped the pot, and groped for his belt. Gochan buried the tough man and was soon pummeling him until he went limp.
I lifted his face. “Lucius, eh?”
“I think so,” he said. “Thraex, no?”
“Secutor. Flame Chaser. Whatever,” I growled. “Get him up.”
We grasped him and pulled him past the well, growling at people to step away.
In that alley, I watched the man as he slowly came to.
He opened his blue eyes and saw a pugio’s blade just before one.
There was a momentary look of surprise, but little fear as two men in deep hoods were hovering over him.
He spat out a clod of blood, a bit of his tooth and scowled up at me. “What do you want? You have no idea who you are trying to fuck with. I do not take it on my knees, you shit. Old bastards, both. I see it in your hands.” We said nothing, and his tones changed into a worried one. “I got no coin. Get gone, or you will be thrown to the pit with me. Then you’ll cry for your mothers.”
He was trying to see our faces, but the hoods were deep.
“We want you to tell us something,” I whispered. “We have plenty of questions about your Pollio. We are planning on robbing him, see?”
He lifted his eyebrow. “You would ask me of my master? Planning to rob him? Brave! Why would I tell you a thing?”
I pressed the pugio to his left eye. He howled and kicked, and Gochan kicked him back against the wall. When he finally settled, panting, his face broken, his eye gone, he had lost some of his defiance.
“The other eye?” I asked him. “Then tongue? Or the other way around? Wait, if I take the tongue, you cannot—"
He shook his head. “No. Please, no.”
Gochan snorted. “And here I was thinking a gladiator dies well. But I suppose getting murdered in shit and mud is not as glorious as getting cut down in front of a high Roman crowd, eh?”
He shook his head, in an agreement. “My master. Cicero Pollio.”
“Yes,” I said. “He meets with many rich people. He is rich too? I saw the wife of dead Germanicus.”
He nodded. “Sometimes. He meets with lots of people. They pray a lot. He has power, and servants who can guide those, who need answers and the favor of the gods.”
“And what are they meeting for today?” I asked. “Like that Agrippina?”
He shook his head. “What? They meet to discuss their past, and their future. They have a future that is golden, indeed. They pray. That is what they do. They pray. That Agrippina has issues, and Pollio is close to the gods.”
I looked at his face and wondered at the man’s pained words. “Agrippina has a golden future? They pray?”
He laughed. “Hah! I see you are a fool. I—”
“Stand away from him,” I heard, and Gochan, cursing, punched the man down before we turned. He lost another tooth and his eyes rolled around in his head, as he crumbled against the wall.
We whirled to see a large, lean man, holding a javelin. It was a hunting weapon and nocked with a barbed tip.
It was the murmillo.
Ox.
He was staring at us. We could see his feverish, gleaming eyes behind the ornate visor of his cassis crista, the helmet of murmillo. The ocrea in his legs gleamed with gold and silver as he walked slowly forward.
They fought in there.
This one was armed.
We were too. We both pulled swords, and I had the pugio on my left hand.
The man looked like a panther. Only armored.
His skin was smooth, his hair long and black, like mine had been once, and his muscles spoke of lion-like, rippling power.
“You tried to rob the wrong man,” he whispered. “But I thank you for not going further from here. I get to kill both. It always pleases me to kill stupid bastards.” He lifted the javelin and moved with stunning speed. His balteus jingled as he heaved the weapon forth.
I should have died.
Gochan crashed me aside.
I fell to the wall, Gochan yelled with pain, and then I got to my unsteady feet, only to meet the man’s sword. It stabbed against my chest, tore to my tunic, and threw me back to the wall.
The chainmail I wore under had saved my life.
His eyes were large with shock. “You are no ordinary thief. But you’ll be a corpse like any.”
He attacked with a stab. He had no scutum, his large shield, to slow him down, so that stab was terrifying.
Like Nihta had once been, he was fast as a snake.
His sword crashed against my pugio and tore it off my hand. I danced away and pulled back my sword and stabbed at his throat. He smashed his blade at it and pushed it to the side. He crashed to me, and he threw me back.
“First Pole of the murmillo, that’s what I am,” he growled. “The absolute best. Ox of Gaul, bastard. Come, eat my sword.”
He came, and his attack was brutal.
He stabbed and dodged my desperate slice, and the blade tore to my chain at the side. Blood flowed from a wound. I howled, and he laughed. He came forward, young and fast, and pushed me back, his sword parrying and aiming all the time for my guts, stabbing at my thigh, then gut again. I crashed against a wall, bashed my sword down on his shoulder, but the helmet took it. His hand grasped my face under the hood and smashed it to the wall. Dizzily, I saw the blade coming.
I kicked hard up, my foot struck his manhood, and his blade scraped across my chest and struck the wall next to me.
He was hurt.
He was trying to gather his wits, and then, there were men coming. A jingle of armor filled the alley.
The Ox cursed, slapped me, and kicked my legs from under me so fast, I barely noticed the movement. I crashed to the ground, and he sprinted off.
A pila sailed after him.
I got up, crawled to Gochan, and found the tip of the javelin was sticking out of his chest. The rest of it was broken off. He was still alive, and I looked up at vigiles, streaming past to fight the fire. I also saw Macro. He hesitated and kneeled next to us. Marco grunted and came to help with Gochan, and I cursed softly.
“Got surprised?” he murmured.
I gave him an unkind eye. “You are spying on us.”
He nodded. “Sejanus ordered it. He is upset with my efforts. With some other things too. Cassius is in favor now.” He gnashed his teeth together and calmed himself. “Sorry. He will be furious with your actions. Fire? Gods above!”
“Aye,” I said, and found I was bleeding on the side and back. I looked Lucius, who was moaning softly, out of it.
“Can’t take him,” Macro murmured. “Come on. Help! Pick that one up!” he called to a pair of vigiles, who saw the praetorian uniform under the cloak, and turned to lift Gochan.
“Damn them,” I cursed.
“He is badly hurt,” Macro said softly.
“He’ll live, if he is strong,” I grunted. “He should survive. My brother will see to him,” I said miserably, and turned to look away. “Take him.”
He did, and I stayed.
***
The next afternoon, I was walking through the ruins with the vigiles and looters.
Pollio’s house was a standing wreck.
I was pushing though rubble and wreckage and shook my head in despair.
The uppe
r floors had burned up, and only the walls stood. I walked the length of the house, bleeding from my side, and sat down in what had been a garden.
I turned to look at the studies, what had been studies at least, and then, I spotted something odd.
A remains of a bed had been dragged to a corner. You could see the marks on the floor.
I got up and walked there.
I looked down and saw how charred bedframe lay over a small hole, and I realized it was a man-sized one, only covered by the charred bed.
I squinted as I looked at the hole, and saw light beneath.
Oil lamps.
I struggled the huge, blackened bed to the side, until I could see the hole fully. I popped my head in and found sturdy set of stone steps. I hopped along them, slipped on rubble, and then found something truly odd.
A rectangular room.
There was a large area bereft of any furniture, and there were massive, odd statues of animal headed beings, with bodies that resembled human, but were not. They were twice the height of a man and made of jet. Their stone eyes stared ahead, above my head, dispassionately.
And there were bodies.
Six, seven.
I kneeled and watched the corpses.
They had been poor, once. They were old, mostly, and servants, or slaves. Six dead.
I looked up at the stone face of a peaked monstrosity, and for a slight moment, I felt like it had moved. Just a bit.
I moved back, and I was sure swords had killed each man there. One was a woman.
The gladiators.
Then I saw a cup of wine, and from there, crawled out a spider.
I got up, and went to send word to Sejanus.
***
He stood with me in the shadows and paced back and forth. “Play. Prayers. She prays Nero would be the next Princeps.”
I nodded. “Along with all of Rome.”
He watched the house. The hole was filled with rubble. It had either collapsed or been filled.
“And she comes to these meetings just to pray,” he said.
“That is what he said,” I told him. “But the gladiators kill in these prayers. They looked like sacrifices. They are not just prayers.”
He cursed. “And you said below there are six corpses. And a cup with spider.”
I nodded.
He held his face and shook it. “Spiders and cups, and odd gods. And now we cannot find them, because it is all filled with rubble, this hole of yours.” He looked at me darkly. “You failed to find a man who might speak about all of this.”
“The gladiators escaped,” I said.
He cursed and shook his head. “Agrippina is going away for a week.”
I was silent.
“This is not helpful,” he said, his movements like a nervous lion in a cage. “This fire, this story of bodies.”
“Well, you know there is something taking place,” I snarled at him. “Longinus and she were here, and there were guests murdered. And the spider is…was real. Could be just a coincidence. It was alive, after all. No poison.”
“Statues of gods?” he murmured.
“Animal headed,” I agreed.
“Egyptian gods,” he said, bored, as if to himself. He turned to look at me and was nodding. “It seems we must wait for Agrippina.”
I nodded.
He scowled at me. “And it means you must fight, then. You do that, and we get back to this business. I do wish you luck. And to your brother.”
“I need no luck,” I said. “I would just arrest all these people. They are doing something truly terrifying.”
“I don’t terrify easily, Hraban,” he said. “We need more than spiders, statues, and corpses. We need someone who speaks to us. Dreaming of a golden future, plays, and sinister deals are not a crime, not yet.”
He turned to go.
I stopped him and turned him around. “I will win. Make sure I don’t get killed after by archers.”
He smiled. “Tiberius decides such things, not I. But worry not. You can trust us.” He hesitated. “We are thinking about one solution to this Pollio issue. We shall discuss it immediately after you win.”
I nodded.
I knew what he had in mind.
CHAPTER 4
The five days passed slowly.
Gochan was badly hurt and had developed a high fever.
The javelin had been barbed.
The tip had broken in the wound, leading to an hour-long desperate battle by the surgeon to remove it. He had been left weak and shivering by the ordeal.
The medicus, who visited many times, smiled weakly, and looked grave.
He had been a medicus for the legions. He knew what he was looking at.
For many nights, Gochan was close to death, even so close I thought he had actually died. It surprised me that I felt sorrow for him. We had been past some storms together, and he was my half-brother, as he was Gernot’s, and for some days, he, too, had been worried enough to pray to Woden. He thought I had not seen him, but I had. He, for Gochan, even paid a Sarmatian priest to pray to the Fire God.
At one point, we placed a sword in his hand and waited, until one day, two days before Saturnalia, his fever abated.
I watched him with Gernot and told him what I thought would happen after the games.
He didn’t look surprised.
“I think,” I said, “that you are right. Leave Rome soon. Do what we agreed on, with Maximus, and these other deeds, but leave.”
“I shall,” he said.
“And when Gochan is hale,” I said sadly, “you hire him fully. Make sure he has a place in our table.”
“I already have,” he said.
“I only ask he would do me a favor,” I told him. “Ask him to go to Ravenna—”
“As it happens, I would have,” he said. “My new business venture needs some—”
“And more,” I intercepted him, “tell him to see that my father is not plotting anything.”
“Not sure how he would do that,” he murmured. “But I will ask. He is our father, by the way.”
I grinned. “Indeed. And if he could find…Thusnelda. The boy. Thumelicus. See where they are.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I think, Hraban, that that would be a job for you. You gave Armin the oath. It would heal some of this madness I fear comes from our family curse, or the evil bastard gods. This vengeance…” he spoke and then closed his eyes. “I cannot heal it. I can only endure it.”
I looked surprised at his vehement speech and nodded. “Thank you. You cannot. You should. Ask him to find her anyway. Flavus would likely know. Ask him to ask Flavus. Carefully. Flavus is Tiberius’s man fully, and I don’t…” I rubbed my head. “Thumelicus is his nephew.”
“Gochan will ask,” he said. “Anything more, or is that enough?”
“Yes,” I said. “One more thing. Ask him to kill Sigimer, if he is still alive.”
He smiled cruelly and got up. He grasped my arm. He leaned close to me. “Remember, Hraban. I think you are in danger. From yourself. Think about it, if you live.”
I nodded and thanked him with a smiled.
On the day of Saturnalia, Macro arrived to take me to the games.
***
Saturnalia was the ancient celebration of a being who originated from the Golden Age, the mythical past even beyond the time of Roman kings.
The god was much like Woden, and perhaps he was Woden himself. The hooded statue in the Temple of Saturn, wooden and menacing with a scythe, was readied on this day. Woolen shoes that covered his feet were taken off for seven days of festivities, and feasts were set up all across Roman world. They were not your usual feasts, or birthday parties. For this one, you dressed in a Greek fashion; gaiety and color were the theme, drunkenness and gift giving would mark it as a feast of equality. All the courts of justice rested, as did the Senate. All along the days of celebration, families would devote time to each other in a manner befitting their means. The wealthy would share their tables with the
ir slaves, and rules and laws were loosened to a degree.
It would also be a time of sacrifice.
No human sacrifices were given, not in this age, if you forget what Octavian had done in Perusia, and what I had seen in Pollio’s place.
Unless in the games.
There, sacrifices to the gods were plentiful.
And even they had changed in nature.
Augustus had taken over the gladiatorial games. Previously, you would arrange them when you were applying for the position of a questor, for example, to boost your chances with fabulous, and bloody games. There were basically no limits back then on how much you could spend on them. It was a dangerous institution for men like Octavian Augustus, who did not want any man with the means to pay to outshine him. He made the games a state-run business, part of the imperial cult. You could pay for part of the games, but the editor, the face of the games the people saw? That was one of the family. You would gain favor from the masses, but not all of it, and there were strict limits in spending and how many fighters one could sponsor.
There were few true theaters suitable for the sport.
You would set them up as asked, or in Rome, use the Circus Maximus or the small, almost tiny amphitheater of Statilius Taurus. Often, a temporary arena would be built in the Forum, or in the Campus Martius, but to truly benefit from the glory of the bloody battle, you needed a round theatre. The tickets were either given freely, or awfully expensive, depending on the games, but the ones held that Saturninus were Tiberius’s gift to the people.
For six days, people were celebrating like kings.
And the games were the best part of the celebration.
I watched the streets from the slaver’s wagon.
There were clouds in the sky. Wind was buffeting some storefronts.
Streams of people were passing and waving at us, celebrating in gay colors, many drunk, many on their way to the Circus Maximus, where our fight would take place. Some tried to reach out to touch us, probably for good luck, but the guards shoved them back.
Macro’s officer—Cassius, the silent centurion with an oddly delicate, pretty face—was driving the gaged slaver wagon, and there were many men in the wagon with me. Some were weak with old wounds, others had more recent ones, many bore whip or cane marks. They were rebels from Cantabria, pirates from Sicily, Gauls from Alps, and Noricum, and all were an ever-present danger to Rome, no matter how many wars you won over them. Many were Germani, few were Thracians, and there were even Dacians. We all watched the people surging around the wagon, and the praetorians, disguised as slave guards, were pushing them back again.
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