The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  During the march from the ludus, the guards had done nothing to stop their charges from being abused by the crowd. The degradation reminded Romulus of the walk he’d made through the streets of Seleucia before Crassus’ execution. This felt even worse, though. Rather than being Parthian, his attackers were of his own nationality, and today he understood all the insults. Covered in spit, rotten fruit and vegetables, he and his companions had finally arrived at Pompey’s magnificent complex on the Campus Martius, the plain of Mars. It was a place that Romulus had fought in before, but, hurried to the cells below the audience’s seats, he did not get to appreciate its grandeur. With its people’s theatre, temple to Venus and chamber for the Senate, it was a monument to extravagance that had cost Pompey an absolute fortune to construct. Despite this, it had won him little popularity with the masses. His opulent house nearby stood empty now, its pattering fountains and graceful statues mocking Pompey’s fall from grace.

  At least the general’s end in Egypt had been quick, thought Romulus. Infinitely better than what awaited him and the other men in the barred chamber. He tried not to think about what a lion’s claws might feel like as they ripped apart his flesh. The pain as a bull gored him to death. Or having his head ripped off by an elephant – that was how he had seen Vahram, the cruel primus pilus of the Forgotten Legion, die. It was impossible now not to imagine these terrible fates. Romulus paced up and down, swallowing the bitter-tasting bile that kept rising from his stomach. His urge to vomit was overwhelming, but he would not let himself. Some prisoners were praying to their gods, while others just sat, staring into space. Petronius was furiously doing press-ups. As if that would help, thought Romulus. He said nothing, though. Each man faced death in his own manner, and it was not for him to laugh at it.

  He and his companions were in an iron-barred cell beneath where the spectators sat. Theirs was just one of a line of similar cages, designed to hold gladiators, venatores and lowly noxii. Along the back of the pens ran a long passageway, with regular corridors down to the arena. Apart from the guards, there was no one else around. The gladiators who would fight later hadn’t arrived yet, and the animals were kept in a separate area, which was even more secure. They could tell where it was from the cacophony of roars, snarls and bugling. Promising death in multiple ways, the noises chilled the blood.

  It wasn’t long before Memor reappeared, looking smug. Half a dozen guards with spears and bows were with him. Romulus knew where the lanista had been: settling the running order with the master of ceremonies. Deciding all of their fates. Nausea washed over him anew, and his knees wobbled. Locking them was the only way he could stay upright.

  ‘Steady,’ whispered Petronius in his ear. ‘Don’t give the fucker any satisfaction.’

  Quickly Romulus regained control. He glanced at his friend, nodding his thanks.

  Memor came to a halt outside the cage and beamed in at them. ‘Who wants to go first?’ he asked. ‘Any volunteers?’

  Behind Romulus a man was sick, puking up the paltry breakfast of porridge they’d finally been given at the ludus. The acrid smell filled all of their nostrils, adding to the tension. No one spoke.

  Ignoring Petronius’ hisses, Romulus raised his hand. What did it matter which particular animal killed them? He just wanted to get it over with.

  ‘Not you,’ growled the lanista. ‘Or your friend.’

  The pair exchanged a glance. He had something else planned for them. It wouldn’t be a better way to die either.

  No one else would look at Memor. Growing bored, he stabbed a finger at the three nearest men. ‘You, you and you can be the first act of the day. And your adversaries?’ He paused, smiling cruelly. ‘A pack of starving wolves.’

  Romulus looked at the trio, and wished he hadn’t. There was more fear in their faces than he’d ever seen on a battlefield. Perhaps Crassus’ terror before he died had matched it, but he wasn’t sure.

  The exit into the arena was formed by the end of the corridor between the cages. Two of the guards were already busy lifting a giant locking bar which allowed them to open it. Once this was done, one pulled wide the cage door while his comrades stood by with ready spears.

  ‘Outside,’ Memor ordered. ‘Now.’

  One of the prisoners ran to the bars and ripped open his tunic, exposing his chest. ‘Kill me now,’ he begged. ‘For the love of the gods, please!’

  Indifferent, Memor studied his bitten fingernails. ‘Get them into the arena,’ he snapped. ‘Quickly.’

  The bowmen among his guards moved right up to the cage. Notching arrows to their strings, they levelled them at the unfortunate soldiers.

  ‘They will loose on the count of three. First into your legs, and then your arms. After that, your groin,’ said the lanista calmly. ‘One.’

  The men looked at each other. A pair of them began to weep like children.

  ‘Two.’

  With dragging feet, the condemned trio walked out into bright autumn sunlight.

  Memor smiled as his guards closed off the exit.

  Despite themselves, Romulus and Petronius rushed to the front of the cage. So did the three others. Through gaps in the brickwork, it was possible to see the circle of golden sand upon which so much blood was spilled. With a clean layer raked into place, it was empty except for their erstwhile comrades. Who, with their limbs paralysed with fear, stayed close together.

  A loud announcement was made that these were legionaries who had left their comrades to die at Zela. This was met with a chorus of insults from the audience. Pieces of bread and fruit rained down on the deserters’ heads, and those in the front rows spat or threw coins. Cowering, the trio moved away from the hurled objects and into the centre of the arena. Gradually the torrent of abuse died down. The master of ceremonies was waiting for this exact moment.

  ‘Cowards like these deserve no mercy,’ he cried in a deep, booming voice. ‘What animal could deliver an apt punishment?’

  Speculation from the curious crowd filled the air.

  ‘The merciless creature which, if given the chance, will slaughter the shepherd’s entire flock. Or attack the unwary traveller on a winter’s night,’ the announcer shouted. ‘The mighty wolf!’

  Cheers of excitement greeted this revelation.

  Falling to his knees, one of the men raised his hands to the heavens, which prompted more whistles and catcalls of delight. Nobody was going to help this wretch. His companions shuffled from foot to foot, their gaze fixed on the other side of the arena. Romulus saw at once what was attracting their attention. There were three metal grilles set close together in the enclosure’s wall. Already they were opening, pulled upwards by ropes attached to a ring at the top of each. No doubt urged by spiked prods wielded by their out-of-sight handlers, eight lithe animals emerged into the light. Their thick fur was a combination of colours from grey to brown or black, and they stood larger than most dogs. With intelligent faces and pricked upright ears, they were magnificent examples of the wolf, which lived all over Italy.

  Romulus held his breath. He had only rarely glimpsed these creatures before, in the mountains of the countries he’d marched through. Wary of humans under normal circumstances, they lived as far from them as possible. Of course it didn’t stop hunters trapping them for events like this, and despite the artificial environment, the wolves would not hold back from killing the three soldiers. Although their heavy coats hid the evidence, they were starving. To make sure of a good spectacle, the beast handlers would have given them no food for many days.

  Sure enough, the predators had only advanced a few steps before their gaze fixed on the arena’s occupants. Growling and snarling, they immediately split up, some moving straight at the soldiers, while others went to either side. Then they began to close in, slinking along with their bellies almost touching the sand.

  ‘I’ve seen them chasing a deer in the hills near my home,’ Petronius muttered. ‘It’s incredible to watch. They hunt together, like a team.’

  Al
though filled with horror, Romulus could not drag his eyes away. The man who had fallen to his knees was now praying loudly to Mars, and begging for forgiveness. The other two had moved back to back and were shouting threats and waving their arms to keep the wolves at bay. It made little difference, and the audience bayed with amusement and bloodlust at their helplessness. More food and coins were thrown in an attempt to anger the wolves, but few struck their targets.

  It didn’t matter, thought Romulus. The crowd were going to get their wish soon enough.

  Sensing his weakness, the predators moved in on the kneeling figure first. Two leapt at the same time, grabbing him by the arm and neck and knocking him to the ground with ease. Savaging the howling soldier’s flesh with their powerful jaws, they held him down as their companions swarmed in for a feed. The man struggled and thrashed about, his screams piteous to hear. Thankfully the din did not last for long, but it was enough for the two other legionaries to lose all self-control. Hopeful of a last-chance redemption, one ran to the edge of the enclosure where a prominent noble was sitting. There he begged for his life. It made no difference: his potential saviour completely ignored him, drinking wine from a silver goblet rather than look down. When the soldier tried to climb out of the arena, guards thrust at him menacingly with their long spears. This didn’t stop his now crazed efforts to escape, and at length he was stabbed in the chest. Dying, he was thrown back on to the hot sand. Three wolves began feeding on him at once, ripping open his belly to get at his intestines first.

  Meanwhile, the last deserter made for the exit from which he’d been expelled, and began ripping at the bricks with his bare hands. ‘Help me,’ he shouted, reaching his bloodied fingers through a tiny gap in the wall. ‘For pity’s sake!’ From only an arm’s length away, Romulus and Petronius watched in total revulsion as a wolf jumped on to the man’s back. Placing its large paws on his shoulders, it sank its teeth into the back of his head. Stumbling backwards with his arms flailing, the soldier was a perfect target for another wolf. It darted in and grabbed hold of his groin, eliciting a cry of agony that made Romulus wince and turn aside.

  He could not block out the terrible sounds of distress as the deserter was torn apart half a dozen paces away. Or the delirious shouts from the people sitting overhead. While Romulus had no sympathy for men who would run and leave their comrades in the midst of a battle, he didn’t think that they deserved to die like sheep, or deer. Crucifixion was brutal beyond belief, but this was worse. To the rabid citizens above, however, this was justice being done.

  It was a long while before all the shrieking stopped, but the men’s deaths did not bring silence to the arena. Instead the screams were replaced by the growls of wolves arguing over their prey, and the noise of bones being cracked by powerful jaws. The spectators began to lose interest and soon, the predators were forced out of the arena by dozens of slaves. While some banged drums and cymbals to cause confusion, others carried shields and flat pieces of wood. Walking close together in a long line, they herded the wolves back through the open grilles and into their cages.

  During this interlude, Memor reappeared in the corridor. With a cruel wink at Romulus, he picked the second trio of soldiers and sent them out to face two bears and a pair of wild bulls. Still giving the friends no clue as to what they’d face, he disappeared again. Romulus’ stomach clenched into a tight knot, and he sat down. He was damned if he’d watch another spectacle like the previous one. Besides, his fear was threatening to overcome him. Although death had been omnipresent in his life since Gemellus had sold him into the Ludus Magnus, some tiny chance of survival had always appeared. He’d beaten an older, more experienced gladiator; he’d survived the slaughter at Carrhae to be taken prisoner; he’d escaped the almost-certain annihilation of the Forgotten Legion by a vast Indian army. Now, with his ears ringing with the dying howls of his fellow captives, his life seemed to have come to a complete dead end.

  He glanced at Petronius, who was sitting beside him. The veteran’s eyes were closed, and he was muttering a prayer to Jupiter. He’s more composed than I am, thought Romulus with surprise, and the poor bastard shouldn’t even be here. He could have walked away and left me to it. A true friend, he didn’t. Shame filled Romulus. How could Petronius face death like a man when he was acting like a scared child? His comrade deserved more respect.

  ‘Time’s up,’ Memor’s voice broke in.

  Romulus looked up. Hands on hips, the smirking lanista was standing a few paces away. Only the metal of the cage separated them. ‘What I’d give for a chance to rip your throat out,’ he said from between gritted teeth.

  Memor grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘If that happened, my guards would kill you. Then the good people of Rome wouldn’t get to see the final spectacle of the morning. Can’t have that, can we?’

  Romulus got to his feet.

  Deep in his own world, Petronius stayed where he was.

  Dusting his hands off, Romulus moved right up to the bars. All he was going to show from this moment on was steely determination. ‘What have you got in store for us, you old shitbag?’ he demanded fiercely.

  Surprised, Memor took a step back. He was quick to recover his poise, though. ‘An Ethiopian bull,’ he replied. ‘Some call it a rhinoceros.’

  Studiously ignoring the lanista, Petronius stood up and watched the guards opening the exit. The only sign of his inner tension was his jaw clenching and unclenching. The wilder rumours in the ludus had included an armoured beast with the colloquial name of ‘Ethiopian bull’. They had been terrifying.

  Trying to protect his friend, Romulus had denied all knowledge of it. A pointless gesture, he now saw. He gripped the bars tightly, remembering the capture of a rhino he’d witnessed when working for Hiero. It had taken nearly a score of slaves with ropes and nets to subdue the giant two-horned creature enough to get it in a cage. More than one slave had died in the process. Plenty of others had been hurt in the weeks and months that followed. Irritable and aggressive, the rhino had been Hiero’s prize capture. It could even be the same beast, Romulus reflected. How ironic. He closed his eyes and sent up a prayer to Mithras. Grant us a swift death.

  Memor chuckled. ‘You should never have run away,’ he said, almost regretfully. ‘Might have even won a rudis by this stage. Made me a fortune in the process. Now look at you.’

  There was a clunking sound as the heavy planks of the exit were lifted and then placed on the ground. Blinding sunlight poured into the cage, making it difficult to see out into the arena. As usual in breaks between bouts, the audience was largely silent. All that could be heard were the voices of mobile food vendors hawking their wares of sausages, bread and watered-down wine, and bookmakers offering odds on the gladiator fights which would take place later in the day.

  ‘Burn in Hades, Memor,’ Romulus spat. Without waiting for a response, he trotted out on to the sand. It was the only gesture of defiance he could make. That, and dying like a man.

  Casting dreadful aspersions on the lanista’s parentage, Petronius followed.

  Memor did not reply. Instead the planks were replaced, leaving the friends stranded in the arena. People noticed the activity on the sand, and turned from their conversations. ‘Deserter scum,’ shouted a portly figure in a ragged tunic. ‘Cowards,’ cried another. Their accusations were infectious and soon insults were pouring down on the pair.

  The fact that desertion was not their crime was irrelevant, thought Romulus. Place anyone in this circle of death and the citizens would assume that they were guilty. And he was, technically. Although he’d been press-ganged into the Twenty-Eighth, Romulus had joined Crassus’ army as a slave. Yet, even facing this most brutal of ends, he was glad that he had. What momentous things he had seen in only eight years – and what friends he’d made in Brennus, Tarquinius and Petronius. His only regret now was not being able to speak with Fabiola for just a few moments. That, and being reconciled with the haruspex.

  ‘This Ethiopian bull,’ said Petronius.
‘Does it really have a horn as long as a man’s arm?’

  ‘Yes.’ Romulus could still picture the slave he’d seen being gored by Hiero’s rhinoceros. His had been a lingering death. ‘At least that length.’

  ‘It’s twice as big as any bull?’

  ‘Or more,’ Romulus admitted. ‘Aggressive too. One small help is that it’s half-blind.’

  ‘So what? We can’t hide anywhere.’ Fear surfaced on Petronius’ face at last, but he did not panic. ‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked, his deferential tone giving Romulus the leader’s role.

  Romulus scanned the perimeter of the enclosure. There were no spikes to prevent animals jumping out, but at regular intervals stood spearmen and archers. Any attempt to escape would win them the same fate as the deserter a short time previously. He looked up at the sky, hoping against hope to be given a sign. A clue. Anything at all. He wasn’t. It was just another glorious autumn morning. ‘Don’t know,’ he said heavily. ‘I can’t think.’

  Petronius barked a derisory laugh. ‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘Still, it was good knowing you.’

  ‘Aye, comrade,’ answered Romulus. ‘It was.’

  Ignoring the shouts of the crowd, they gripped forearms.

  A short delay followed. Initially, Romulus thought it was a cynical ploy by Memor or the master of ceremonies to increase their fear and terror. He caught sight of the lanista making his way to the seating area just to one side of the dignitaries’ box, which was protected from the hot sun by the velarium, a large cloth awning. As the man responsible for providing the deserters, Memor had to be on hand if the editor, or sponsor, wanted to quiz him. Today of course, this was none other than Caesar himself. The great general’s seat was empty, though. The box was occupied only by the announcer, a short figure with oiled hair and a self-important manner, and a couple of bored-looking senior officers. Caesar probably wouldn’t turn up until much later in the day, thought Romulus. What interest would he have in watching men being torn apart by beasts? There was no martial skill in that.