“Truth remains, through time and flames,” Cato says. “When these wars are over, I will turn my attention to him.”
Flaccus’ eyes shine. “When his sun dims, his time will come, Cato. Him and his brother Lucius.”
“I am off to work my fields,” Cato says. “But bear this mind. Scipio may be a soft-handed Hellenic, but he knows how to defeat an enemy.” Cato stalks from Flaccus’ manse, his shoulders tense with purpose.
That night, a small cloaked figure rides near Cato’s sturdy little farm house. He ties his horse to a shadowed olive tree and pads softly to the arched entryway. The man sidles along the side of the house, staying in the shadows. He comes upon Cato, sitting on his tiny patio while he writes by candlelight.
The man eyes Cato’s broad back. He reaches into his satchel and softly steps into the light.
An aged house slave appears. “Master, there is someone to see you.” A stern young man walks onto the patio, wearing his purple-bordered tunic of office.
“Senator Ennius!” Cato declares. “Why come you unannounced, at this late hour?”
Ennius frowns, his fists knotted at his side. “I have to talk to you about this Scipio, and his Hellenic Party. I just heard they are proposing to add two more holidays to our calendar. Two more days when my men lie idle, and the state pays for games to entertain them!”[lxxxv]
“The idle rich are disgusting enough,” Cato replies, “but the idle poor are intolerable!” He gestures toward a split log bench. “Seat yourself. Let us figure out how we can defeat this silliness.”
Inside the shadows, the cloaked figure’s head slumps with frustration. He slides backward, easing himself off the patio, and pads back toward his waiting horse.
OUTSKIRTS OF ROME. “This place smells like a toilet sponge,” Prima declares. “These fights had better be worth it.”
“Oh they will,” Laelius says, squeezing her green-robed shoulder. “You will be quite surprised, I promise you!”
Laelius and Prima sit on a worn splintered bench deep inside the bowels of an abandoned warehouse, surrounded by hundreds of working men—and a handful of patricians. As the only woman in the place, the beautiful Prima fetches many an admiring—and inviting—glance. She meets each set of male eyes with a disdainful gaze, until the men look away.
Laelius shifts about uneasily, pulling on his tan tunic. Come on, boy. Make conversation. “So, how do you like being Amelia’s guard?”
Prima shrugs. She repositions the tortoiseshell comb in her elegantly piled hair. “Oh, it is more like being out with a friend,” she confesses. “We go to the marketplace and the baths, and then I return to my manse when she is home for the night.”
She smirks. “She is not comfortable with having a guard, I tell you that. I think she wants a chance at the woman who tried to kill her.” Prima stares into the distance and smiles. “Maybe I can teach her a few things about how to do that.”
“Mars’ balls, don’t let her try!” Laelius says. “I couldn’t stand to lose her. I’ve loved her since childhood. Besides, she has to direct my campaign when I run for consul!”
“You for consul?” Prima asks, feigning incredulity. “You are barely a senator, with little political experience.” Her mouth tightens. “And you are not from one of the ruling families. Now, if you were a Julii, or a Fabii...”
Laelius taps his chest. “I am a war hero! The plebians love me; I am one of their own. Just you wait, I’ll soon be—never mind, we are starting!”
Two men walk into the circular dirt ring. One is a large, loose-limbed Carthaginian, as smoothly muscled as a seal. He tattoos the air with punches, ducking and weaving as if he is fighting some invisible opponent.
The other combatant is a square-bodied Iberian, every muscle and vein visible upon his chiseled body. The Iberian bends down and grasps his ankles, stretching. His long black topknot falls over his head. He rises and massages his iron-thewed thighs, smiling faintly to himself.
“This will be a good match,” Laelius says. “Both have won bouts here. They fight for money to buy their freedom.” He points at the squat Iberian. “That’s Lagunas. I like him, he is most eager to fight.”
Prima nods. “I have fought many a man like that. They are oft too eager. I always felt sorry when I did them in. I tried not to kill them whenever possible.”
Laelius blinks. “Uh, that was very considerate of you.”
Standing on opposite sides of the ring, two men hold out their bare fists. A stern-faced older man inspects each of their hands.
“What’s he doing?” Prima says. “Where are their fist wrappings?”
Laelius grins. “Oh, did I neglect to tell you? We are not watching a boxing match; the gloves are off in this one. This is pankration. It’s become very popular in Rome, though it’s still quite illegal.”
“Pankration?” Prima says.
“Yes, ‘all forces.’ Boxing, wrestling, kicking—you can do almost anything to win! It’s just become part of the Greek Olympics. They think it’s the ultimate test of a warrior.”[lxxxvi] He grins and pokes her shoulder. “See what you missed living out in the hinterlands?’
Prima digs her elbow into Laelius’ ribs, making him gasp. “Capua is hardly a pig’s sty, Pretty Boy. We shall see what I missed.”
The older man calls the two men into the center of the ring. “You know the rules: no gouging, no biting—he glares at the Carthaginian—and no grabbing someone’s balls, Matho!”
The Carthaginian grins maliciously. “Sometimes they just find their way into my hand!”
Lagunas and Matho separate and crouch down, legs akimbo. They spread out their arms, looking as if they are ready to grab their opponent and throw him to the ground. The crowd tenses with anticipation. Dock workers exchange bets with noblemen, throwing their money into the bet-takers’ pottery bowls.
The referee claps his hands. The two men rumble toward one another, still crouched low.
Matho grapples for the Iberian’s left wrist, aiming to twist it behind his back. Lagunas snaps a quick punch to the side of the African’s jaw, jerking his head sideways. Roaring with anger, the Carthaginian leaps upon his smaller opponent. The two fall to the ground, wrestling and punching.
“It looks more like a street brawl than a sport,” Prima sniffs.
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Laelius replies, his face rapt.
Lagunas shoves his opponent away and springs to his feet, his hands balled into fists. The Carthaginian approaches him warily, waving his open hands in front of the Iberian’s face to distract him. His right fist flashes out, catching Lagunas on the jaw.
The Iberian flicks his head sideways, reducing the blow’s force. Shaking his head, he grabs Matho’s wrist and elbow and bends his arm inward. Twisting the Carthaginian’s arm behind him, Lagunas leaps onto the African’s back and kicks him in the back of his knee, plowing him face first into the crumbly dirt. Instantly, the Iberian wraps his left arm about Matho’s throat and pulls his chin back, cutting off his wind.
The Carthaginian bucks and twists like a man gone mad, rolling about the earth as he gasps for air. He grapples for Lagunas’ crotch, but the wily man draws up his knees to protect himself.
The Iberian grits his teeth. His arms tighten his hold. His shoulders and triceps bulge against his veined skin. He closes his eyes, lost in the focus of maintaining his grip.
Time and again the mighty Carthaginian tries to rise but the Iberian kicks his legs out from under him. His efforts weaken. Finally, his arms splay out to his side and his face darkens. The Iberian turns to the referee, a question on his face.
The referee nods. “Victory!” he declares, pointing to the Iberian. “Vanquished!” he adds, pointing at Matho.
Lagunas immediately releases his hold. Choking violently, the defeated Carthaginian rises. The Iberian raises his arms and flexes his biceps, grinning at the crowd. He walks to the open portal that serves as the ring’s entry and exit.
An elegantly togaed man walks out
from the stands and wraps his arm around Lagunas’ shoulders, leading him out from the ring. “You did well,” he says. “Tonight there will be wine and women for you.”
“Well, it was certainly a spirited match,” Prima says, her face flushed. “I will have to learn how to fight like that, kicking them in the back of the legs.” She lays her hand on top of Laelius’ sinewy fingers. “You were right. That was a nice surprise.”
Laelius feels himself stir. Really? he says to himself. A woman? Why not? You’ve done it before, and she’s more a man than half the ones you’ve been with.
He manages an awkward grin. “Well, that wasn’t the main surprise, it’s still coming,” he says. Prima arches her eyebrows, but she says nothing.
For the next hour Laelius and Prima watch a series of boxing and pankration matches. They cheer their favorites and hiss when their foes win.
Laelius stands up and stretches. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he says. He soon returns, handing Prima a honeyed blackbird on a stick. “Sorry, they didn’t have any peacock,” he says.
“This is just as good,” she replies, crunching into the roasted bird.
“I like it. I only wish I had a cup of Thracian beer to go with it!”
Prima wrinkles her nose. “Beer? Gauls drink beer!” She shakes her head. “You are truly a street rat.”
“And you are a prissbutt patrician, in spite of all your gladiatorial bravado,” replies Laelius good-naturedly.
The events turn to wrestling. Two dwarves open the contests, followed by several wooden-sword bouts between boys training to be gladiators. Laelius glances over at a yawning Prima. “I could whip them all,” she muses, “with or without weapons.”
She’s becoming bored. Well, it won’t be long. “Here’s someone you’d find challenging,” he says. “The hordearii are going to fight.”
Two ex-gladiators enter the ring, wide-bodied men known as the “barley-eaters” because their barley and bean diets gave them the fatty layers they use to advantage in the ring.[lxxxvii] The two men grapple upright for minutes, each striving to topple the other by shoving at them. The crowd jeers. Several throw scraps of turnip and pumpkin into the ring.
Finally, the older man crooks his leg behind the other’s knee and drives his shoulder into the younger man’s underarm, crashing him to the earth. The elder wrestler flops upon his prone opponent’s back, driving the breath from him, and twists his arm behind him until he yowls his surrender.
The referee declares the younger man vanquished, amid the crowd’s raucous cheers. The elephantine warriors stumble out from the ring, their arms draped across each other’s shoulders.
“Formidable men,” Prima says, suppressing a yawn. “A bit slow, but formidable.”
Another enormous hordearii stalks into the ring, a dark, iron muscled behemoth covered with matted hair. “Where is the Roman who will fight me?” he roars. “Does any man here have the balls for a grapple?”
“This is one of the challenge matches,” Laelius says. “They call that ox Nero, ‘the strong one,’ because he is as strong as two men. With that hair and attitude, he’s obviously a Greek, eh?”
Laelius rises from his seat and steps down toward the ring.
“Where are you going?” Prima says.
“I’ve got a match to win!” Laelius declares gaily. And it cost me a slave’s fortune to arrange it.
“Quit being silly,” Prima says. “You can’t beat that ox.”
Laelius slides over the wood slat railing that encircles the ring. He pulls his tunic over his head and drops it inside the railing. He eases off his sandals and stalks to the center of the ring, wearing only the black leather subligaculum of a trained fighter.
“What are you doing?” Prima shouts, clasping her hands to her mouth. She grins with bewilderment and delight.
“I’m proving to you that a man can be silly and still be strong!” Laelius shouts back. He jerks his arms behind his back, loosening them up.
Prima chuckles. What a fool! She stares at Laelius’ v-shaped back. He is well constructed, though. Smooth muscled, like a swimmer. This is like a seal fighting a bear.
“Ten denarii on the big one,” she hears behind her. “I’ll take that bet,” comes another voice. “I’ve seen the pretty one fight before.”
“I’ll take the pretty one, too,” Prima finds herself saying. “At a hundred denarii!”
Laelius stalks toward his large opponent. He spreads out his arms and grins at the glowering Greek. “Come on, ox-face. Let’s see you give me a tumble.”
Nero pivots his right leg forward and grabs for Laelius’ shoulders. Laelius ducks under the Greek’s grasp and grabs his heels. One quick jerk, and Nero crashes onto his back. Laelius scrambles on top of him and grabs his head in an arm lock, rolling his body to the side of Caesar’s head. His biceps bulge as he constricts his grip.
Nero’ face turns a dark red. His lips flap, spitting out silent imprecations. The giant plants his feet and elbows, raising his back and thighs from the ground. In one violent twist, he wrests his body sideways within Laelius’ grasp.
He grabs Laelius about the midsection and raises him high off the ground. Laelius tightens his grip, his neck veins popping with the effort. Nero leaps forward, collapsing on top of Laelius.
Laelius’ breath whooshes from him. He rolls weakly under Nero, struggling to push himself upright. The wrestler wraps both arms about Laelius’ midsection and pulls him off the floor, raising him over his head. Laelius hangs limp in his arms. Nero braces his legs for a final throw, intending to land Laelius face first into the dirt.
That monster’s going to break his neck, Prima thinks. Her eyes narrow. If he does I’ll kill him.
Laelius springs to life. He rams his forearm under Nero’s chin, shoving it backward. Laelius’ other hand grasps his wrist for leverage. He pushes his forearm deeper into Nero’s jawline.
Nero’s head arches backward. The Greek tightens his grip about Laelius’ back, his face a rictus of pain and effort. Laelius’ eyes bore into Nero’s. He pushes the giant’s neck ever backward, grunting with effort.
With a gasping roar, Nero loosens his hold and grabs for Laelius’ offending arms. Laelius drops to his knees and darts between Nero’s tree-trunk legs, popping up behind him. He grabs Nero’s right ankle and shoves his shoulder under his knee. With a yell so loud it silences the crowd, Laelius jerks Nero’s leg up over his head, crashing the back of his head onto the ground.
In a flash, Laelius wraps his legs about Nero’s throat and tightens them. The stunned wrestler grapples at Laelius’ viselike grip, to no avail. Nero gurgles and rolls his eyes, slapping at the ground.
The referee steps forward. “Victor!” he says, grasping Laelius’ arm. “Vanquished!” he says, pointing at Nero.
The crowd erupts in cheers and curses, with most of the noise coming from the bettors. Roses fly in from the audience, mute testament to the onlookers’ approval of Laelius’ prowess. Laelius reaches down and pulls the wrestler to his feet, patting him on the back. “You earned your money today, Hairy One,” he whispers.
Bathed in sweat, Laelius staggers over to the railing and dons his tunic. He teeters up the steps and plops himself next to Prima, his eyes bright with excitement. She says nothing, her eyes fixed on the next two entering combatants.
“Well?” he says, frowning at her. “Do you still think I am a frivolous person?”
“You smell like a summer fish market,” she snaps.
“That’s all you have to say?” Laelius says, shaking his head in amusement.
Prima looks sideways at him. She smiles and squeezes his forearm. “Oh, all right. You were magnificent. But tell me the truth. You paid him to throw that match, didn’t you?”
“Nothing of the sort!” Laelius retorts, wrinkling his nose at her. “When I was a dock orphan, I used to wrestle men like him for money.” He taps his damp chest. “I could have made a living at it.”
“At least until you got as fa
t as that one,” Prima replies. She smiles coquettishly. “I am not unaccustomed to the sport myself. Perhaps I could give you a tumble.”
His eyes wander over her body as if inspecting a horse. “Hm! You are overly confident of yourself, gladiatrix.”
“You are certainly not the first man to tell me that—and be wrong. I have won much from your cocky breed—so to speak.”
“Win what? What would we compete for?”
Prima stares at him, then smiles. “Why, truth and honor, of course. And maybe something else...” She puts her hands on her knees and pushes herself upright, rubbing the back of her neck. “Let’s go. I’m getting bored watching these slum-dwellers roll in the dirt.”
“As you say, Sweet.”
The couple enter their waiting carriage and trundle down the cobblestoned road to central Rome, the moonlit Tiber glistening alongside them. A half hour later the carriage pulls in front of the Julia manse. They walk to the large green double doors.
Prima looks up at the starred sky. She inhales deeply. “Ah, it is so good to be back in the greatest city on earth. I am so grateful that Scipio got us here.” She stares into Laelius’ eyes and touches his cheek. “And that I met you, my strong and silly fellow.”
”Silly?” Laelius blurts. “You are just like the rest. You think anyone with the intelligence to have a sense of humor is weak or superficial! Well, I can whip any—” Prima leans forward and kisses him deeply upon the mouth, interrupting his tirade.
“I think nothing of the sort,” she says. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here. Have a pleasant evening.” Prima bangs her fist on the door until a slave opens it. She glides inside and booms it shut.
Laelius turns to walk away. The door creaks open behind him. Prima’s head pops out. “Do not think I’ve forgotten about our match,” she chirps. “We’ll see how you do against a real gladiator!” The door slams.
Laelius stares at the door, dumbfounded. He rubs his chin. She does stir me—a woman, of all people! He rubs his sore left shoulder and smiles. A wrestling match could be fun.
Scipio Rules Page 23
