by Randy Singer
“Then let’s skip the honey. That takes up room.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said, though there was nothing at all reasonable about this conversation. “How will it work?”
“The opium will hit first. Dulls the senses. Makes you happy. The other poisons do the usual things—stop your heart, choke your breathing, tie your intestines into knots. The good news is that with opium you won’t feel any pain.”
She stopped again and gave me a quizzical look. “This is for you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If it’s for an enemy, I leave out the opium.”
I had been told that Locusta made the best poisons in all of Rome. She was known for her mushrooms. But it didn’t seem to me that she should be quite so enthusiastic about her products.
“I’m in a bit of a rush,” I said, as if I had important meetings in the middle of the night. “Can I just get what I came for and leave?”
“Well, of course,” she said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared into a back room for a few minutes and came out with two vials of liquid. “Put this into somebody’s wine, and they’ll never know what hit them.” She handed me the first one.
“Can I take it without wine if I have to?”
“Naturally. Just make sure you swallow it quickly.”
I nodded.
“Do you want to know what this second vial is for?” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Most of my clients like to make sure the product works. We can go out to the streets together, find a stray dog, and watch it kill him in just a matter of minutes.”
That seemed like a horrible idea. “No thanks. I trust you.”
She howled in laughter. “A lot of people have made that mistake,” she said after regaining her composure. She chuckled again at the thought of it.
“Thank you very much,” I said as I stood and headed for the door. I had one hand on the doorknob when she spoke again. This time, there was no merriment in her voice.
“All of Rome is talking about your victory. But nobody embarrasses the emperor and lives for long.”
I opened the door and turned back to look at Locusta. Her pleasant expression was gone, and her face was grim and anxious. She walked over to me, handed me the second vial, and squeezed my hand around it.
“This one is free of charge,” she said, staring through me with those buggy eyes. “The emperor likes his wine strong. If it was me and I was dealing with a man who harbors such insatiable grudges, I might want to use them both in one glass.”
I thanked her again and retreated toward the steps.
I had not lied to the woman. My intent was to carry around the most potent poison possible at all times. I already knew how creative Caligula could be when he tortured people. Seneca had taught me well—I was determined to choose the manner and timing of my own death. If the Praetorian Guards arrested me, I wanted the ability to take my own life. Without pain, if possible.
But as I walked down the steps, I also considered this other possibility. What would life be like in Rome without Caligula and his maniacal reign of terror? His uncle Claudius was considered by most to be an imbecile, incapable of ruling. But could anything be worse than the madman ruling now?
Other conspirators had tried and failed. What made me think I could get close enough to slip something into his wine? And even if I could, was it the right thing to do?
There was one other question that had to be answered—perhaps the most pertinent question of all: Did I have the courage to go through with it? I thought I might if it was kill or be killed. Perhaps I didn’t really have a choice.
CHAPTER 56
The letter came by courier three days after the trial. It was written on parchment, and the handwriting was flawless.
From Flavia, a grateful priestess at the temple of Vesta, to the Most Excellent Theophilus:
Words cannot begin to express my gratitude for what you have done. I owe my very life to your courage and wit. Every breath that I take reminds me of a debt I will never be able to repay.
I am ever mindful of the fact that you put your own life in great danger to save mine. Please be careful, Theophilus. There are rumors that revenge is in the air. I offer prayers and sacrifices every day, to both the Greek and Roman gods, for your safety.
Though it pains me to ask for an additional favor, particularly under the current circumstances, I know of no other man who commands the respect and admiration of Mansuetus as you do. As you know, he is scheduled to fight in the games one week from today. He is in no shape to do so. The entrails of my sacrifices do not portend well if he tries. Would you be so kind as to talk to him? Like me, he owes you a debt that cannot be repaid. Perhaps he could make a small down payment by finding a way to postpone his fight until he fully recovers.
Whether you see fit to grant this request or not, please know that you have my undying gratitude and unending love.
I read the letter three times, savoring every word. My emotions were a jumbled mess. I pictured Flavia offering prayers for me as the morning sunlight illuminated her face. She would sprinkle blood on the altar, and my name would pass her lips. She would pour out the wine and beg the gods for my safety. It was not exactly the beginning of a relationship—something I had dreamed about for a decade—but it gave me hope nonetheless.
On three earlier occasions, my parents had found the woman they thought I should marry. It happened once before I headed to Judea and twice after I returned, including the woman who broke off the relationship just before the trial of Apronius. In my eyes, none of those women could measure up to my dreams of Flavia. She was a goddess. Steeped in Greek literature, esteemed by all of Rome, the intellectual equal of any man. She had elegance and valor like no woman I had ever met. Plus, her beauty far exceeded that of other women who might have caught my eye.
Perhaps it was my unrestrained idealism, or perhaps, like Caligula, I always wanted the one thing I could not have. But even before I left for Judea, I had dreamed that I would somehow make a name for myself and then wait for Flavia to complete her service as a Vestal. We would marry and start a family. I had replayed the fantasy in my mind so many times that it had nearly become part of my reality.
Yet at a time when my dreams seemed closer than they had ever been, I also felt them slipping away. Yes, Flavia said prayers for me each morning. And yes, I had her “undying gratitude and unending love,” words that I read over and over. But Mansuetus had her heart. If I truly cared for Flavia, which for some inexplicable reason I did, I would do everything within my power to ensure that Mansuetus earned his freedom and stayed alive long enough to become her husband.
The glorious wedding would take place, just as I had imagined, and the bride would be stunningly beautiful. But it would be Mansuetus, rather than me, waiting to take her hand.
I took Marcus with me to visit Mansuetus the following day. Marcus had never watched the gladiators train, but I thought his medical expertise might be helpful in persuading Mansuetus that he wasn’t yet ready to fight.
The training camp was located a mile outside the city and was nothing like I had envisioned. Years earlier, when helping Seneca write the letter to Tiberius, I had visited the most distinguished ludi in Rome. Some of the schools housed up to two thousand gladiators in elaborate dorms with extensive training facilities. The Ludus Magnus was the largest and most important one. It had recently been purchased by Caligula himself. Three other schools each boasted more than a thousand gladiators with first-class facilities financed by their sponsoring patrons.
But Mansuetus’s school was in a state of sorry disrepair. There were less than a hundred gladiators crammed into two small barracks. The fighters slept on thin mattresses on the floor. Many of the blunt wooden swords they used in training were broken, and I learned that the men had to share weapons when they took their turns in the arena. Other than Mansuetus, who was the only real champion from this school, the gladiators lo
oked thinner and less muscled than the ones I had seen in the schools in Rome.
We arrived just before lunch, as the gladiators were concluding their late-morning exercises. Mansuetus sat on the sideline, his leg elevated, leaning back on both arms while yelling at the younger gladiators. None of them looked older than twenty-five.
“Theophilus!” Mansuetus called out when he saw me. He rose with difficulty and didn’t put any weight on his bad foot. “Get over here!” he barked.
I approached him, and he grasped my right forearm, embracing me like an old friend. I introduced him to Marcus as well.
“I owe this man my life,” Mansuetus said to Marcus.
We talked for a few minutes before I mentioned that Marcus was a physician.
“That foot looks pretty bad,” Marcus said.
Mansuetus claimed that the swelling was going down and the discolored area was receding. But Marcus bent over, studied the injury, and frowned.
“You won’t be ready to fight in six days,” Marcus said when he straightened. “You need to stay off that foot. Wash it out every day. Keep it elevated.”
Mansuetus passed it off with a smile. “I’ll be fine,” he claimed.
Before I got a chance to talk to him about Flavia’s letter, the lanista came over and thanked me for saving the life of his most important gladiator.
“I shouldn’t say this in front of him because I don’t want it to go to his head,” the lanista said, “but if we lose Mansuetus, we’d have to shut down this school. He brings in fifty times what the other men make.”
The lanista called the younger men together for a few sets of pull-ups before lunch. Many of them had been at the trial and expressed their appreciation for what I had done.
I watched as they pumped out their pull-ups. “Are those things hard?” I asked a gasping gladiator after he had finished a set.
“Only for advocates,” he said.
He had taken the bait. These men were dog tired, and I had watched them hammer out two sets of pull-ups each. This same exercise had been part of my daily gymnastics training at the Molon School, and I had continued to do them in both Judea and Rome.
“Maybe you and an advocate should have a little contest,” I suggested.
That brought the intended catcalls and insults from the other men. They goaded the young gladiator, whose name was Cobius, into going first. He grabbed the bar and heaved his big body up and down while the men counted. In his prior set of pull-ups, I noticed that he had only done about twenty. But now, with the other gladiators goading him on, he managed nearly thirty.
He dropped from the bar, exhausted but pleased with himself. “Your turn, equestrian. Try not to roughen up those smooth hands.”
I girded up my tunic and spit on both hands. I turned and winked at Mansuetus, then jumped up and started knocking out pull-ups.
During my first ten, Cobius counted as loud as everyone else. By the time I hit twenty, his face had gone red. At thirty, the other gladiators started nudging him and giving him a hard time. I dropped from the bar at thirty-three.
The other men slapped me on the back and poked fun at Cobius. The young gladiator glared at me.
“Let’s see how he does with a sword and shield,” Cobius suggested.
Even though the weapons were wooden, there was not a chance in the world I could go toe-to-toe with this guy and not get hurt. Fortunately, the lanista bailed me out. “We don’t want to embarrass you twice in one day,” he said to Cobius.
But Cobius wouldn’t let it go. “I’ll fight without a shield,” he said. “Give this pretty boy any weapon he wants.”
“Gentlemen!” Mansuetus called from behind me. Heads turned in his direction. He stood and hopped over to the circle the men had formed near the pull-up bar.
“This man put his life on the line for me in a different kind of arena,” Mansuetus said. He limped over to me and put his arm around my shoulders. “Anybody who wants to fight him comes through me first.”
And that was the end of the matter. The young gladiator stared at Mansuetus but remained silent.
The lanista stepped into the middle of the circle and looked around at the men. “Everyone relax,” he said. They were all covered in sweat and grime. Many were nursing visible injuries. Their hair was matted, their beards untrimmed, and I could read the desperation in their eyes. I wondered how long it had been since someone from this school had earned his freedom. Mansuetus was only three fights away. I knew what the other men were thinking. If he could do it, there was hope for them too.
“The emperor has asked four of you to fight in next week’s games in honor of Augustus,” the lanista announced. There were groans all around the circle. One hundred gladiators and only four chosen!
“He’s holding the games in the Forum and is building the wooden bleachers as we speak,” the lanista continued. “The same place where Augustus himself hosted the games during his reign. It means spectators will be closer to the action and only one pair of gladiators will fight at a time. The larger ludi in Rome got most of the slots.”
The men didn’t argue. They knew their lanista was doing everything he could for them.
“As you know, the emperor has already requested Mansuetus. I’ll announce the other three right after lunch.”
With that, the men broke into small groups. Marcus and I ate with Mansuetus under the shade of an olive tree. I had seen the training tables of the ludi in Rome and had watched the men eat massive amounts of barley, boiled beans, oatmeal, and dried fruit. But here, the men were portioned a plateful of oatmeal and a few dried figs.
“It all comes down to money,” Mansuetus told us as he scarfed down the oatmeal. “We were barely hanging on before the trial, but now the emperor will be determined to keep our men from fighting.”
I took advantage of the time to tell Mansuetus about the letter from Flavia. There would be other games in a few months, I said. He had come this far. Three more fights and he would earn his freedom. I pleaded with him to wait until he was fully healed. How could the emperor force him to fight if he couldn’t even walk?
“Do you see these men?” Mansuetus asked. His eyes took in the small swatches of fellow gladiators. “These are my brothers. We’ve endured more together than the closest legionnaires. We’ve suffered together, bled together, faced death together. If I don’t fight in six days, none of these men will survive.”
I told Mansuetus that I might be able to raise funds for his school if he postponed his fight, but he wouldn’t consider the idea. Gladiators had a code of honor. You earned money for your ludus in the arena. Besides, he said, they were taking precautions. He would forgo his normal light armor and use the weapons of a murmillo, including a tall, oblong shield and a long sword called a gladius. It was defensive armor, and it wouldn’t require him to be very agile.
When it became apparent that I couldn’t talk him out of it, I quit trying. Marcus picked up the conversation, enthralled by the strategy of the gladiators and what Mansuetus thought about his various opponents.
The only man who could give him a good fight, Mansuetus claimed, was a seasoned gladiator named Flamma, a man who had won more than thirty fights and been offered the rudius on four separate occasions. Each time, he had refused the wooden sword from Caesar that would have automatically made him a freedman because of the valiant way he had fought.
“I want to face him in my last fight,” Mansuetus said. “After that, I’ll retire and train other gladiators. But before I finish, I must defeat the best.”
I wondered if he had ever discussed those plans with Flavia. I couldn’t see her being married to a lanista. But then again, I now understood why she was drawn to Mansuetus. He wasn’t just a warrior. He was a man with a huge heart who cared more about his fellow gladiators than about his own well-being.
After spending time with him that day, I could no longer regard him as simply a rival for the affections of a woman I loved. He was a good man. He had earned my respect. He deserved
someone like Flavia.
When it came time to leave, I wished him the best, and I sincerely meant it.
On the way back to the city, Marcus gave me the bad news. The foot was badly infected. If Mansuetus had been a soldier on the battlefield, Marcus would have amputated the leg just below the knee.
“He’s in no condition to fight,” Marcus said.
CHAPTER 57
Romans know how to build things. It took thousands of slaves less than two weeks to turn the stone pavement of the Forum into a thirty-thousand-seat arena. They constructed enormous wooden stands on each side that extended almost to the majestic height of the surrounding temples.
I walked past the construction nearly every day. The slaves worked like ants, covering the Forum, and the sound of construction drowned out the legal proceedings. It made a strange sight, the oval-shaped arena sitting in the middle of Rome’s historic monuments—the temple of Concord, the temple of Saturn, the Basilica Julia, the House of Vestal, and the temple of Augustus. The architect had been astute, incorporating the Rostra into the design, using it as the foundation for the emperor’s box.
Caligula’s decision to host the games in the Forum rather than the 150,000-seat Circus Maximus had caused no small amount of grumbling. Caligula said he was doing it to honor Augustus Caesar, who had hosted his own games there. But the citizens of Rome knew the real reasons were financial ones.
Caligula had squandered an enormous amount of money. Long before he became emperor, a soothsayer once said that the son of Germanicus had no more chance of becoming emperor than of riding a horse across the Bay of Baiae. Recalling that prophecy after he became emperor, Caligula had ordered that a temporary floating bridge be built across the two-mile Bay of Baiae, using ships as pontoons. The emperor proudly rode across the bay on his racehorse, Incitatus. The stunt had cost millions of sestertii that the government couldn’t afford.
