‘I’m Atius. This is my friend Silus.’
Nicator ignored Silus and looked Atius up and down.
‘Can you fight?’
‘I can.’
Nicator considered, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Very well. I have a boxer who has yet to be beaten. There is a purse of five hundred sestertii for the first man who bests him.’
‘It’s as good as mine.’
Nicator smiled. ‘Give me an hour. We need to get the word out to give everyone the chance to place their bets. Meet me at the crossroads by the fountain of Mercury.’ Silus and Atius looked uncertain, so Nicator gave them directions. It was a couple of streets away. He then strutted off, still wearing a broad smile.
Atius continued to drink for most of that hour, subsidised by a reluctant Silus, who tried unsuccessfully to talk him out of the fight, or at least to moderate his intake of wine. Soon, though, the hour had passed, and Silus led Atius to the crossroads. A decent crowd had gathered, and bets were changing hands, privately and through a couple of bookmakers. The odds on Atius were good, enough to tempt Silus to place a bet himself. His friend was drunk, but he knew he was a good fighter, and he was tall and well-built.
The crowd had formed a large circle, and Nicator led Atius out into the centre.
‘Please welcome our challenger, Atius the Celt,’ he announced in a loud voice, holding Atius’ hand aloft. Silus smirked. He might start calling him Atius the Celt himself. The crowd cheered, clapped and whooped, and Atius bowed and played to the audience.
‘And now, let’s hear it for Segimerus the German.’
The crowd parted, and all heads turned to catch a first glimpse of Segimerus.
Silus’ heart sank. The man was a giant. At least six and a half feet tall, chest as wide as a bull’s, legs like tree trunks, the veins winding round his muscular arms like ropes.
Atius stared open-mouthed. He looked around to Silus, who shrugged helplessly. He wondered if his friend might try to back out, but he knew better. Atius had too much pride, even if it might see him badly beaten.
‘Let me remind you all of the rules. No weapons of any sort, edged or blunt. Stay within the circle. The loser is the one who submits, loses consciousness or dies.’
‘Atius the Celt, ready?’
Atius nodded nervously.
‘Segimerus the German, ready?’
Segimerus punched his chest with a fist like a blacksmith’s hammer and just roared.
‘Fight!’
Segimerus swaggered into the centre of the ring, hands wide. Atius cautiously moved forward, staying out of reach, circling around his opponent as he sized him up. Silus could see no obvious weaknesses. Against a man of that bulk, a smaller man would usually have superior speed, but every time Atius feinted a punch, Segimerus swayed, shuffled or ducked with respectable fleetness of foot. Atius still held the edge in quickness, but it was not a telling superiority.
Atius continued to stay at arm’s length, while Segimerus tried to close the gap between them. Twice, he managed to dart in and land a jab to his opponent’s face, and skip away from the retaliatory swings, but the German didn’t seem to notice the punches. The crowd became impatient, and began to whistle and boo. One picked up some dirt from the street and threw it at Atius, and it hit him in the back, leaving a brown mark.
Despite the number of bets on Atius, who had the best odds, the crowd started to turn against him, cheering on Segimerus.
‘Come on, you coward. Get in there.’
‘Smash him, Segimerus. Pound him into the ground.’
Maybe inspired by the support, Segimerus lunged at Atius, managing to grab his wrist. Atius thumped his fist down on Segimerus’ forearm, but before he managed to break the grip, Segimerus swung a roundhouse punch towards the side of Atius’ head. He ducked, but the blow glanced off the top of his skull with a resounding thud, and Atius staggered back, shaking his head.
Segimerus followed up immediately, and Atius desperately dodged and weaved as a rain of punches flew in, each one powerful enough to knock him out cold if they connected. Some he avoided, some he blocked on his forearms, though Silus could see even that was painful. Some got through, the force attenuated by a block or a dodge, but still enough to make Atius grunt.
Atius managed to sneak through some punches of his own, to body and to head, but they had little impact. Then Segimerus managed to grab him in a clinch, his arm around his shoulders, his other hand punching the back of Atius’ head. Fortunately, the close proximity meant that Segimerus couldn’t get the angle to make the blows full power, but they were clearly still getting through to Atius.
In desperation, Atius sank his teeth into Segimerus’ shoulder, drawing blood. The giant German howled and let go, turning to look at the bite marks deep in his flesh.
‘You will pay for that, Celt,’ he growled.
‘Give it up, Atius,’ Silus shouted. ‘It’s hopeless.’
Atius gave him a sour look, and Silus felt guilty for his lack of encouragement, but he had now become genuinely worried for his friend’s safety. There was a very real chance here of a major injury or death. He wondered if he would have to step in, and whether he would even be able to with the crowd here determined to see the fight to its finish.
Then Silus saw there was a small cut above Segimerus’ eye, and it was trickling a little blood. One of Atius’ blows must have done a bit more damage than he first realised.
‘Atius,’ he yelled. ‘The eye. Work on the cut!’
Atius looked closer, then waved an acknowledgement to Silus. Segimerus tried to close on Atius again, but Atius used his slight edge in speed to dance in and out. Now, every jab that Atius threw was aimed at Segimerus’ bleeding brow, and soon the cut had extended across his forehead, and blood was streaming down into his eyes. Segimerus used the back of his hand to wipe it away angrily, but the blood continued to pour, worsening, as Atius continued to jab.
Soon the German was blinking, struggling to see at all. His punches went wild as he struggled to find Atius through the red blur across his vision. Atius stepped back, assessing his opponent’s injury. Segimerus roared and flailed, wiping ineffectually at his face.
Atius took two steps forward, and using all his momentum, all his quite respectable bulk and strength, bending his knees and using the power in his legs to explode upwards, he landed an uppercut on Segimerus’ chin.
The giant’s jaw clanked shut and his head rocked backwards. Beneath the blood, Silus saw the German’s eyes roll up into his head. He took one step backwards, another, then toppled over to crash onto his back and lie still.
There was a brief shocked silence, then the crowd erupted into cheers and roars of approval. Nicator came out into the middle of the ring, took Atius’ wrist and lifted his arm high.
‘Atius the Celt is the victor! Segimerus is defeated for the first time.’ He presented Atius with the purse of money, and seemed to be genuinely happy that the prize had finally been won.
The bookmakers were pleased – the favourite losing was always profitable as the most likely winner attracted the most bets, even though the odds on Atius had been temptingly long. The winning gamblers were delighted, and even the majority of the losers accepted their losses with good grace after witnessing a fight that would be talked about for weeks.
Segimerus had a bucket of water thrown over his face, and he sat up spluttering, looking around him in confusion. Silus decided it was time to make their exit. He stepped into the ring, put his arm around Atius. ‘Come on, friend, let’s get you home. Clean you up.’
‘What a fight,’ gushed Nicator. ‘Such persistence. And what a punch. There is a place for you here among my fighters any time.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Silus, and guided Atius away.
When they were clear of the crowd and on their own, Silus turned to Atius and put his hands on his shoulders so he could look him directly in the face.
‘Atius, you are an idiot. You are reckless, a gambler
, a drunk. But by Mithras and all the gods of Olympus that was magnificent.’
He grabbed Atius’ hand and gripped it hard as he shook it vigorously.
Atius let out a scream.
‘What is it?’ asked Silus in sudden concern.
Atius cradled his arm against his chest.
‘That last punch,’ he said. ‘I broke my hand.’
* * *
‘Kill him,’ said Caracalla. He was pacing up and down his private study, while Oclatinius stood at attention, letting the Emperor rage. ‘Cut off his balls and feed them to the dogs. Slice him into quarters. I know, flay him alive and paint the skin Blue before his eyes as he dies.’
‘Can I be clear about who we are discussing here?’
Caracalla whirled on him. ‘Haven’t you been listening to a word I said? I told you what happened in the Circus, how Euprepes praised Geta and excluded me.’
‘So it is Euprepes you want dead?’
‘Of course, who else?’
‘Well, it did cross my mind that maybe it was your brother…’
Caracalla’s eyes narrowed.
‘Careful, Oclatinius. I trust you with my life, but there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.’
Oclatinius bowed his head, though Caracalla saw little repentance in his expression. His old spymaster was no fool: he saw what was coming, even as Caracalla tried to lie to himself that it would not come to that.
Caracalla stopped raging, let the fire down, and let the ice take over. He took a few deep breaths and released them slowly.
‘Was it premeditated, do you think?’ he asked.
Oclatinius considered. ‘None of my spies in the factions had any warning this was coming. Which means it was kept a closely guarded secret among only a few, or it was spontaneous. If you want my opinion, from what you have told me, your brother did not seem particularly surprised. I think this was all carefully planned. The victory could obviously not be guaranteed, but if the Greens hadn’t won that race, they would have won another soon, and then they would have proceeded as they did today.’
‘I want an example made of him, Oclatinius. I want people to know that if you support Geta, no matter how famous or loved you are, you risk your life.’
‘Yes, Augustus. I’ll get my best team straight on it.’
* * *
‘You are without doubt my worst team!’ yelled Oclatinius. Silus, Atius and Daya stood before him with heads bowed, taking the admonishment stoically.
‘What did I say to you? Rent an apartment in an insula. Buy a house slave. Explore the city. Keep your head down.’
‘To be fair, boss, he did the first three,’ said Atius.
‘Shut the fuck up, Atius. This is not the time to be messing with me. Things are starting to come to a head. You are going to need to be sharp, alert, at the very top of your game. Instead, what do I find out? You had some trouble with some pathetic lowlife, so instead of shrugging it off, doing as he asked, and acting like a cowering, submissive, ordinary person, you went in heavy-handed, and made sure everyone in the Subura knows that there is a new tough guy in town. So much for anonymity.’
‘Sir, he wanted me to fuck a cripple every night.’
‘If you need to arse-fuck a leper twice a day because the job demands it,’ yelled Oclatinius, ‘that is what you will do! Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, boss,’ said all three together.
‘And then this idiot breaks his hand in a bare-knuckle boxing contest. Knocking out the infamous Segimerus at the same time, guaranteeing you will be remembered while simultaneously making you useless to me for at least a month.’
Oclatinius took a deep breath and stroked his chin. ‘It may not be a complete disaster. Your missions aren’t in the Subura anyway, and there is not a lot of overlap in the social circles of the Subura poor and the important people your missions will involve. That said, your next job doesn’t involve someone of the noble class.’
Daya looked up, eyes suddenly bright. ‘You have a job for us, sir?’
‘Yes. You are to kill Euprepes.’
Oclatinius left a dramatic pause, awaiting their reaction.
The three Arcani looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Right,’ said Silus. ‘Anything else?’
‘Do any of you know who Euprepes actually is?’ asked Oclatinius.
All three shook their heads.
‘Fuck me, two foreigners and a girl. What should I expect? Euprepes is the most famous charioteer in the city. More famous than any gladiator. More famous to the common man than any senator or noble except the Emperors themselves.’
The three Arcani looked unimpressed and Oclatinius sighed and sank into his seat.
‘I shouldn’t have to explain this to you, but time is short. I know you have chariot races in the provinces, but it’s different in Rome. And I know you, Daya, won’t have had much chance to ever attend a race, nor probably the desire – it tends to be a man’s interest.
‘The races are huge. Almost every man in the city will have a favourite team, and the conversations in taverns and the street corners are far more likely to involve a discussion of the latest race than the latest fight in the arena.
‘Charioteers have an unusual place in society. They are mostly lowborn, slaves or freedmen, and are often looked down upon by the elite. On the other hand, the successful ones can be fabulously wealthy. The richest ever, Diocles, supposedly made more than thirty-five million sesterces. That’s more than most senators.
‘And because charioteers take such massive risks every time they get on the track, they are considered lucky, at least the ones that survive. Men want to be them, women want to fuck them. People make lucky charms with their names on. Once, a fan even threw himself onto the funeral pyre of his favourite charioteer and burnt with him. Am I starting to get through to you how beloved and important charioteers are?’
The Arcani nodded.
‘Well, Euprepes is the best known in the city. He is an old man now, but he won an enormous number of races, he is rich, and he is idolised by the common folk and not a few of the senators too.’
‘So how has he upset the Emperor?’ asked Silus.
‘You don’t need to know why,’ snapped Oclatinius. Then he shook his head. ‘Poor Euprepes. I remember watching him. No one could touch him in his day. Handsome and talented. Even I admired him. And now he has got himself involved in politics.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Just go and kill him, and make it obvious and public. But beware the fans.’
‘And what about… incidental damage?’ asked Atius.
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Just try to keep the body count down.’
* * *
Lucius Fabius Cilo had a perpetually worried expression, Titurius thought. Even when Severus was in power, and Cilo was one of his closest friends, position entirely secure, he seemed constantly on edge. Now, sitting on a bench in Titurius’ peristylium, the elderly senator looked close to breaking down.
‘Were you there, Titurius? Did you see his face?’ Cilo had never quite lost the Spanish accent he had acquired from his place of birth.
‘I’ve told you already. No, I wasn’t there, I’m not a fan of the horses. But I hear he wasn’t pleased.’
Cilo worried at a piece of loose skin at the edge of a fingernail, peeling it back and leaving a tiny stripe of raw flesh beneath. He didn’t seem to notice what he was doing, staring blankly at the far wall where roses climbed a trellis. Titurius saw similar red marks along his other fingers. His nails were bitten short and there were scratch marks on the backs of his hands.
‘What is going to happen, Titurius? Will it be another civil war, but this time between two brothers? When has Rome ever seen the like of that before?’
‘Rome was founded by warring brothers, and that worked out well in the end.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Titurius. This is serious. This could be the incident that pushes Antoninus over the edge and turns him into a murderous tyrant.’
�
��You think he has it in him?’ asked Titurius more sombrely.
‘Severus certainly did.’
‘If it is a trait in his nature passed down from his father, then why are you more afraid of Antoninus than Geta?’
‘Because Antoninus is more capable,’ said Cilo, and Titurius nodded agreement.
‘But this? A trivial incident in the Circus. A disrespectful charioteer?’ Titurius couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice. He didn’t understand the men of senatorial rank who demeaned themselves attending the races, although given the love Caracalla and Geta had for the sport, he would be very careful who he said that to.
‘You have never understood the allure of the Circus Maximus, Titurius, and I won’t try to explain it to you again. Either it’s in your blood or it isn’t. Suffice to say that for men of all ranks of society, the races are of the utmost importance. When a big race is looming, or one has just been run, they talk of nothing else. They gamble huge sums on the outcome, they hang around the Circus, they harry the camps of the racing factions of their opposing teams. You know a man is far more likely to change his wife than ever to change allegiance to his team.’
‘I know all this, Cilo, even if I don’t feel it. But why are you here?’
‘I used to be a brave man, you know, Titurius. I have been a legate, a military prefect, a proconsul, urban prefect and a consul. I fought for Severus against Pescennius Niger. I saw combat. I killed Roman soldiers.’
‘You have had a career that I for one am envious of, senator.’
‘Surely we should become braver as we age. And yet when we are young, we are anxious to risk all the life we have ahead of us, while when we are old, we cling to what we have left like frightened mice waiting for the terrier to dig us out.’
‘Cilo, what do you want from me?’
‘I’m going to talk to Antoninus. Plead for harmony and co-operation with his brother.’
Titurius kept his face impassive, but inside his heart sank. He couldn’t see how that would end other than badly.
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