by Peter Darman
‘You really are a most disrespectful individual at times, Domitus. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence knows that high priestesses of Greek temples are virgins who are chosen for their piety and purity.’
‘I never said they weren’t,’ shrugged Domitus.
‘So to suggest that High Priestess Hippo has any amorous thoughts towards that young man in the temple grounds is not only insensitive but also sacrilege.’
Domitus rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Alcaeus, whatever you say.’
Lysander said nothing but he seemed surprised that Alcaeus should speak to his master thus. When we reached the city gates Alcaeus declared that he was going to visit the offices of the guild of physicians where he would make a sacrifice to Asklepios, the God of Healing, in the shrine behind the guild’s offices. He looked at me as he stated this, his ill humour making him forget that I was but a lowly gladiator. Lysander was taken aback but I cast my head down and said nothing.
‘If that is agreeable to you, lanista,’ said Alcaeus hurriedly.
Domitus gave his consent and Alcaeus asked Lysander where the guild of physicians was located, being told that their offices were to the rear of the agora. After Lysander had given him directions he wandered off and we continued our journey back to our accommodation. When we arrived at the house, which was still guarded by Roman legionaries, Lysander took his leave, saying he had urgent business at the high priest’s office. The head slave of the household reported to Domitus that a letter was waiting for him. We filed into the library as our lanista opened the scroll and read it.
We took off our black robes and relaxed in chairs as Domitus informed us of its contents. Slaves brought wine and fruit juice from the kitchens and served us drinks.
Domitus held up the scroll. ‘Well, this is it. A note from the governor’s office. The games begin tomorrow. Tonight, though, he invites all gladiators to the cena libera.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Gallia as she admired her statuette of Artemis.
‘A feast that is always held on the eve of the games,’ Domitus told her.
‘Where both gladiators and the condemned eat together,’ added Drenis, ‘though one could argue that all those eating are condemned in one way or another.’
‘How macabre,’ said Gallia.
‘Everything about gladiatorial games is about spectacle, Gallia,’ reflected Arminius. ‘It is bloody theatre from beginning to end.’
‘This is most excellent,’ I said. ‘At long last I can meet Burebista and tell him of our plans.’
‘Which are?’ enquired Domitus.
‘That we intend to rescue him, Domitus.’
‘And have you worked out the plan’s specifics?’ he asked.
I took a drink of wine. ‘I will know that after I have talked to him.’
‘So you are going to go through with it, then?’ said Drenis.
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘did you expect me not to?’
He held out his cup to a slave holding a jug of wine. ‘I thought we might get here and rescue Burebista before we marched onto the sand.’
The slave filled his cup and he stood, as did Arminius. They both held out their drinking vessels to me.
‘Then, Pacorus, let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.’
I went in the company of Surena, Drenis and Arminius to the feast, all of us wearing simple tunics, sandals and leather belts. Domitus and Gallia remained at the house, the former checking our weapons and equipment that we would be using the next day. Gallia wanted to accompany me but Lysander, who had returned from his pressing business, informed her that adult women were banned from the prytaneion where the feast would take place.
The night was warm and the streets were full of people. Lysander was his usual talkative, informative self, telling us that the prytaneion was one of the most important civic structures in Ephesus. It was a temple-like building where religious ceremonies, official receptions and banquets were held. It was also the location of the city’s sacred fire, which was kept continually alight to honour the gods who first bequeathed fire to humans.
When we arrived at the prytaneion we found it ringed by Roman soldiers, reinforced by a detachment of ten archers who stood to one side of the entrance. I was surprised to see many civilians, both men and women, milling around.
‘They are encouraged to see and perhaps speak to the gladiators before they enter the hall,’ Lysander said to me. ‘In this way the governor hopes that word of the games will spread so there are no empty seats.’
‘The games are popular?’
He looked disappointed. ‘They are, though many of the Greek citizens in the city object to the spilling of blood in the Great Theatre.’
‘And you?’
‘I do as I am told,’ he replied guardedly. ‘You speak Greek very well for a slave who is not Greek.’
‘I am not a slave,’ I said. ‘I am a free man.’
‘Ah, yes, I forgot. My apologies.’
We reported to the duty centurion standing beside a clerk who carried a record of all the gladiator schools and their fighters. We were then checked for weapons, for dozens of potentially intoxicated gladiators could be an incendiary situation.
‘I will wait for you here,’ Lysander told us as we walked through the columns of the Doric courtyard that fronted the hall. The courtyard itself was surrounded on three sides by a colonnade and paved with a mosaic depicting the shields of Amazons against a floral background.
‘Gallia would love this,’ I remarked.
‘As she will hate watching you in the arena,’ said Drenis.
Surena rubbed his hands. ‘It is very generous of the governor to lay on a feast for us.’
‘Kallias is paying for the games,’ I told him, ‘not the governor.’
‘More to the point,’ Arminius said to Surena. ‘Do not eat or drink excessively. You don’t want a thick head.’
We neared the open doors of the hall and heard a great noise coming from its interior.
‘It seems like many are enjoying themselves,’ said Surena.
‘The noxi,’ said Drenis darkly.
‘Who?’ asked Surena.
‘The noxi ad gladium damnati, those condemned to the games,’ answered Arminius. ‘Criminals, slaves and captured soldiers mostly, who will all die in the arena. If you are one you want to enjoy yourself as much as possible on what may be your last evening in this world.’
And enjoying themselves they were. The benches were filled with men stuffing their faces with food piled high on the tables before them. Slaves were ferrying huge quantities of wine to the thirsty, greedy throng, men already drunk shouting and cheering and fondling young slave girls who tried to place jugs on tables without being molested or having their clothes ripped off. Legionaries armed with swords stood around the walls of the hall and centurions paced up and down, occasionally striking one of the condemned with his vine cane.
But not all were drinking and eating to excess. At some tables groups of athletic, quiet men were either talking in hushed tones or keeping their own counsel, rarely looking up as they picked at their food. Drenis pointed to them.
‘They are the gladiators.’
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let’s find Burebista.’
Arminius looked around at the scene of riotous excess with its small islands of quiet sobriety.
‘This takes me back. Never thought I would be at a cena libera again.’
‘Feeling old, Arminius? Drenis teased him.
‘Feeling hungry,’ he answered.
‘Me too,’ said Surena, rubbing his hands. ‘Let’s find a bench.’
‘You two go with him, ‘ I ordered, ‘I will look for Burebista.’
Surena had already seated himself beside a group of drunken Greeks, who immediately filled a cup with wine and handed it him.
‘And make sure he doesn’t get drunk,’ I told Drenis and Arminius.
I walked slowly between the benches where upwards of five hundred people were seated. T
he hall reeked of roast meat, wine and human odour, for many of these men had been rotting in jails prior to their ‘performance’ in the arena tomorrow and they stank. At least the gladiators presented a more tidy appearance, most dressed in loose-fitting tunics so their broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms would not be constrained. Looking at them I was taken back to Italy, to the army of many races that had fought under Spartacus. There were fair-skinned Gauls and Germans, olive-skinned Spaniards, swarthy Thracians and sinewy Armenians. There were also Egyptians and Nubians, their skin as dark as black marble and their heads shaved. All gathered in this great city to die for Roman entertainment.
There was a great roar as a female slave was dragged to the floor by a group of filthy criminals and stripped naked. She was held down, her legs forced apart, as one of the wretched convicts lifted his tunic and sank to his knees, ready to rape her. In an instant a centurion was behind him and knocked him unconscious with his cane, Outraged, his convict companions forgot about the naked girl and jumped to their feet. But the centurion drew his gladius and sliced open the guts of the nearest brigand, who looked surprised, and then horrified as he clutched at his belly that was pumping blood. He looked with pleading eyes at the centurion before sinking to the floor and lying there, his lifeblood oozing onto the sacred mosaic. The others looked at him, then at the centurion, and shuffled meekly back to their seats.
‘Show’s over,’ barked the centurion as he wiped his sword on the tunic of the dying man and ordered other slaves to take him away.
‘Where should we take him, dominus?’ asked one of the slaves, quivering with fear.
‘To the city rubbish dump,’ came the reply.
Most of those enjoying the festivities did not even notice this little drama as the hall echoed to the sound of cheers and raised voices demanding more wine. Some guests, previously half-starved or badly beaten, had either passed out or were vomiting violently, their stomachs unable to cope with the great quantities of food and drink shoved into them. The fetid stench of piles of vomit added to the unique aroma that now filled the hall.
I continued on my way, occasionally catching the attention of a steely faced gladiator who held my gaze with pitiless eyes before returning to his meal. I walked towards the far end of the hall and my heart soared as I caught sight of him. He still looked fierce, a little older of course, his face clean shaven and his hair shoulder length in homage to his ancestry. But he looked fit and well as he picked over slices of pomegranate. He was dressed in an immaculate red tunic with white stripes down either side. He sat apart from the other nine gladiators at his bench but all of them appeared sober and reflective, mentally apart from the debauchery around them.
I stood on the other side of the bench where Burebista sat with his head down, slowly picking up pieces of pomegranate to eat.
‘Is this space free, friend?’ I asked.
‘I’m not your friend,’ he said without looking up.
‘There was a time when you regarded me as one, Burebista.’
He looked up, his visage wearing a countenance of annoyance. It changed in an instant when he recognised me. He jumped up.
‘Lord, is it you? Are you a vision sent by Zalmoxis or are you real?’
Zalmoxis was the chief god that the Dacians worshipped.
I walked around the end of the bench and held out my arm.
‘I am very real, my friend.’
He locked me in an embrace. When he released me there were tears in his eyes, and in truth in mine. I thanked Shamash that He had granted me this moment of pure joy.
‘Sit, lord, sit.’
He laughed and held his head in his hands. ‘I cannot believe that it is you and you are here. What divine intervention brings you to Ephesus?’
‘To liberate you, Burebista. To free you as our lord would have desired, even though he died in Italy.’
Burebista waved over a slave and ordered her to bring a cup for me and fill it with wine.
‘I have never forgotten Spartacus, lord. I have often thought that if I kept myself alive then his memory would still live. Until now I believed that I was the only member of the army of Spartacus still alive.’
‘Not the only one, Burebista. There are others.’
The slave returned with a cup and another in tow with a jug of wine. As she poured it I began to tell Burebista about the flight of the Companions from Italy, my return to Parthia, being given the crown of Dura and the subsequent civil war in Parthia. Of how Gallia was now Queen of Dura and Domitus the commander of its army and how a Cretan sea captain had travelled to my city to inform me that he would be fighting in the arena at Ephesus. He in turn told me how he had been captured after the breakout at Rhegium but had been expected to die from his wounds. However, Crassus had taken a personal interest in his welfare and assigned him expert medical care.
‘I spent a year being nursed back to health, lord, during which time the Appian Way was decorated with the bodies of six thousand members of Spartacus’ army nailed to crosses. They were left to rot as an example of what happens to those who challenge Rome’s rule.
‘I expected the same punishment but when I had fully recovered I was sold as a gladiator to the Ludus Capua.’ He looked at the other nine men sat at the table. ‘These men are from the same school, the best of our lanista’s fighters, personally chosen by him to grace Ephesus’ arena.’
He pushed another slice of pomegranate into his mouth and chewed slowly.
‘And now I fight as a horseman in mockery of my time with Spartacus, a living reminder to spectators that Rome defeated its greatest threat.’
I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Your time of torment is at an end, my friend.’
‘What’s this? Is this your Greek lover, Burebista?’
I heard the deep, mocking voice behind me and turned to see a large brute with a wild moustache, even wilder long hair and a round, pale face. I saw the swirling blue tattoos decorating his flesh, a gold torc around his neck and I was transported back to Italy. He was big, bold and had fire in his eyes and for a moment I thought that Crixus had returned from the dead.
‘Watch your words, Acco,’ hissed Burebista, ‘I would not wish to spill your blood before we begin the games and send your soul to whatever black abyss the Gauls call hell.’
The Gaul roared with laughter. ‘The day a Dacian can beat me is the day I will slit my own throat.’
I stood slowly as the Gaul turned his attention to me.
‘What’s your story?’
He spoke in Latin with an accent similar to Gallia’s. He exuded confidence and disdain.
‘None of your business, Gaul,’ I answered.
‘You should have a care, Acco,’ said Burebista, ‘this is Pac…’
‘My name is Nikephorus,’ I interrupted hurriedly, ‘and I am a Parthian.’
He studied me for a few seconds, his eyes settling on the scar on my cheek.
‘I’ve heard that the Parthians fight on horseback so they can run away quickly in battle. Real men fight on foot so they can get close to their enemies.’
I sighed. I had heard it all many times before from Crixus and his boorish companions. I was about to reply when Drenis, Arminius and Surena appeared behind Acco.
‘Do we have a problem,’ enquired Drenis calmly.
Acco spun round to face them as the gladiators at the table looked up and began to take an interest in what was happening. Acco looked at the Thracian with the short-cropped hair and facial scars.
‘You’re not a Parthian,’ he said.
‘Thracian,’ growled Drenis.
‘And I am Surena of the Ma’adan, barbarian,’ announced my former squire, staring hatefully at Acco and folding his thick arms across his chest.
‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ asked Acco.
‘You will be,’ sneered Surena.
‘He’s just a boy,’ said one of the gladiators at the table, ‘leave him alone. Acco.’
Surena switched his attention to t
he man who had spoken, glaring at him.
‘Come here and say that to my face, slave, and I will cut out your tongue.’
The gladiator jumped up but I held out an arm.
‘He meant no offence. Surena, be quiet.’ I looked at Drenis and Arminius. ‘Get him out of here. It’s fine.’
Drenis nodded towards Burebista. ‘Is that him?’
‘It is,’ I replied.
‘Just a minute,’ said Acco, pointing at Surena. ‘I haven’t finished with him.’
‘Yes you have, Gaul,’ I stated.
Two other gladiators at the table and Burebista stood as Drenis and Arminius squared up to Acco. The air was tingling with the threat of impending violence.
‘You lot sit down,’ ordered a centurion who appeared next to Burebista, ‘save your fighting for the arena where you belong.’
Acco now had a new target to try his intimidation on. ‘Why don’t you go away before I shove that cane up your arse?’
The centurion tucked his cane in his belt and ordered over four legionaries before drawing his sword. Now all the gladiators at the table rose to their feet. Surena walked forward to stand beside me.
‘We’ve beaten Romans before, lord.’
‘Shut up!’ I ordered as Acco squared up to the centurion, both unyielding in their stares. The legionaries also drew their swords as they closed behind their commander. The other gladiators slowly moved to stand on the flank of the legionaries, unconcerned that they were unarmed. A sudden blast of trumpets interrupted the stand-off, gladiators and Roman soldiers alike turning their attention to the source of the sound. I too looked round to see the obese figure of Timini Ceukianus flanked by two centurions and standing before six trumpeters and a small phalanx of legionaries. The din in the hall died down as all eyes turned to stare at the fat Roman. Ceukianus waited until there was silence, or at least a modicum of quiet interrupted only by men throwing up, belching and talking in inebriated gibberish.
