Companions (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  ‘Tomorrow I will still be alive whereas you will be food for crows.’

  He ran forward, kicked my left greave and then scuttled away, laughing as he did so. It was all part of the colourful pageant that I was a part of, a garish, indulgent display of Rome’s power and the subjugation of its enemies. I prayed that Parthia would never be home to such spectacles.

  Flustered, sweating officials rushed around checking the number of gladiators in each group, calling out names and nearly getting into fights when men wearing heavy bronze helmets that inhibited their hearing did not answer their names immediately. The officials began to berate the seemingly unhelpful gladiators, until the latter drew their swords and held the points at the necks of the former. An overweight Greek middle-aged man, beads of sweat on his forehead, appeared before us.

  ‘You are from the Ludus Palmyra?’

  We nodded.

  He consulted the tablet he was carrying, a stylus in his hand.

  ‘I have four gladiators listed. Please acknowledge your presence when I call your name. Arminius, Provocator.’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Drenis, Thracian.’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Nikephorus, Thracian.’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Surena, Retiarius.’

  ‘Surena of the Ma’adan,’ stated my former squire.

  The Greek’s forehead creased in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘I am Surena of the Ma’adan,’ reiterated our young fighter.

  ‘He is Surena,’ I said loudly so the official would hear. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You have more things to worry about than the organisers not making a note of your origins,’ I told him.

  ‘I want them to know where I come from, lord,’ he replied, ‘so that when they come to record my victories they will know that I am a son of the Ma’adan.’

  I saw the helmets of Drenis and Arminius shaking from side to side in response to Surena’s words. He really did believe he was invincible. Perhaps that was the best way to approach the games. Ticket sellers and those taking bets went among the crowd to extract more money from the spectators, who were chewing on snacks purchased from stalls around the outside of the agora. Butchery appeared to be a most profitable business.

  There was a loud blast of trumpets that made the crowd look towards the source of the noise. Small monkeys on the shoulders of animal trainers squealed in alarm and a frightened performing bear swiped an unfortunate women standing too close to it.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Drenis as legionaries made a path through the crowd so the procession could begin its journey from the agora to the Great Theatre of Ephesus where the games were to be held.

  The crowd thickened as the column of entertainers, freaks, gladiators and animals made its way to Harbour Street and then headed north towards the theatre.

  ‘How ironic that the arena should be called a theatre,’ I said to Drenis above the tumult of the crowd.

  ‘It is entirely apt,’ he replied. He nudged me in the ribs.

  ‘Now there’s one who was born to stand on the sand of the arena.’

  He was referring to Surena who had a wide grin on his face and was basking in the adulation of the people lining the street. The fact that they had never heard of him and were most probably not cheering him did not bother him in the slightest. He was here, at Ephesus, and determined to make his mark on the games. As was I, though not in the way the Romans expected.

  Eventually we reached the theatre, which was cut into the slope of the city’s Panayir Hill and was a magnificent piece of architecture. The semi-circular seating area had sixty rows of seats, divided by two walkways. The steepness of the rows increased slightly above each tier so those siting at the back of the theatre had a good view of the stage below. The steep-sided rows of seats also increased the enclosed feeling inside the theatre, making the atmosphere more intimate and intense. Facing the seating, on the other side of the arena, was the stage building to the rear of which the procession entered. The building was at least sixty feet high, with an ornamented façade facing the audience featuring reliefs, columns, niches, statues and windows.

  We were ushered from the street into the large fenced-off area at the rear of the stage building, legionaries keeping the crowds back and creating a passage for the gladiators and entertainers. Many animals were held in cages in this area. Looking through the eye guards of my helmet it appeared that there were hundreds of them: wild boar, bears, wild dogs, wolves, hyenas, lions, Caspian tigers, leopards, panthers and crocodiles. I had never seen such a collection of exotic wildlife, all brought to this place to be slaughtered in the arena.

  The ground floor of the stage building was pleasingly cool and the lighting subdued. It was really nothing more than a large open area with marble tiles on the floor and marble columns supporting the upper storeys. Only the gladiators were allowed into the building, the freaks and other entertainers being instructed to go back from whence they came or wait in the fenced-off area with the animal cages. Large awnings had been erected over them to keep the beasts in the shade, not out of concern for their welfare but to ensure they did not expire before they were killed in the arena. Roman logic was a wonderful thing.

  As our eyes got accustomed to the subdued light I noticed that there were two fences arranged parallel to each other running from the open area in the rear to twin doors in the centre of the wall that faced the arena outside. Either side of these doors were two other doors – five entrances to the arena in all. All were closed.

  Drenis took off his helmet and nudged me. ‘The animals will go through those central doors after trainers have arranged fenced-off channels leading from their cages to this corridor. All very organised.’

  Officials bellowed at slaves to fetch water for us to drink. It was hot outside and we were all covered in sweat. Young boys and girls offered us large cups and filled them with water. I drained one cupful and held it out to be refilled. Beyond the closed doors I could hear the rumble of an eager crowd.

  ‘This place will stink of blood, piss and dung in an hour or two,’ remarked Arminius who finished his cup, had it refilled and then poured the contents over his head.

  ‘Why don’t they open the doors?’ asked Surena.

  ‘Have patience,’ Drenis told him, ‘everything is done according to a strict timetable.’

  I looked around at the assembled gladiators, most in a contemplative mood and staring at the floor or fiddling with a piece of armour or their weapon in a well-rehearsed superstitious routine. Others looked around, eager to catch the eye of a potential opponent and thereby hope to intimidate or unnerve him. But I detected no fear or apprehension in the air, just a grim determination laced with anticipation. I saw Burebista at last as a man in a white tunic with red stripes removed his helmet to reveal his face.

  ‘Wait here,’ I told the others as I left them and made my way to Burebista’s side.

  The other gladiators from Capua recognised me from the previous night but none said anything as I nodded to Burebista.

  ‘Tonight we get you and your wife out of here,’ I told him.

  He shook his head. ‘It is too dangerous, lord. We are housed in a Roman barracks block. There are too many guards and locked gates. The lanista of my ludus is not stupid; he goes to great lengths to protect his investments.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Would he be open to an offer for both of you?’

  Burebista looked at me. ‘He’s a greedy toad, lord, so he might be. But he would demand a high price.’

  I laid a hand on his arm. ‘The gods smile on us, my friend, for Dura is rich. Leave it with me. And stay alive.’

  I went to leave but he pulled me back. ‘Have a care, lord. I have heard rumours that the editor of these games has been given free rein to his imagination. There may be some nasty surprises in the arena.’

  I thanked him and walked back towards my companions. I had not gone twenty paces before the hulking figure of Acco barred my way. He
was bare chested with ugly swirling blue tattoos adorning his broad chest, wide shoulders and thick neck. He and Crixus must have come out of the same mould in the underworld. His blue eyes were blazing with excitement, which, combined with his long fair hair and wild moustache, gave him a demonic appearance. The only armour he wore was leather manicas on his arms and legs.

  ‘Looking forward to dying today, Parthian?’

  ‘I am looking forward to shutting you up, Gaul.’

  He chuckled. ‘I will give you a quick, clean death.’

  I sighed with boredom. ‘I have heard it all before, Gaul.’

  I walked past him.

  ‘And tell that arrogant puppy of yours that he is next on my list,’ said Acco loudly.

  When I got back to the other three Drenis was grinning.

  ‘Been making friends, Pacorus?’

  There was a blast of whistles and officials shouted for us to replace our helmets as a great trumpet blare came from beyond the doors, the four flanking the central pair suddenly opening to let light flood into the ground floor. We were all momentarily blinded by sunlight as we donned our helmets and then filed out into the sun, into the arena of the Great Theatre of Ephesus.

  The first thing that struck me as the crowd stood and roared its approval was the small size of the semi-circular area of sand. The diameter was no more than forty yards and the radius twenty yards. And the crowd that towered above us, numbering over twenty thousand, appeared very close. Because it had been designed for plays there was no wall surrounding the arena to protect spectators. Instead there was a row of posts positioned around the perimeter to which was fastened nets. In the first row of seats sat legionaries, no doubt to give added protection from wild animals that might be tempted to climb the nets.

  The nearest seats were reserved for the city’s élite: rich Romans, Greek aristocrats and foreign dignitaries. In the centre was a large crimson awning that protected the most important spectators from the sun. As we saluted the crowd and basked in its adulation I noticed that those under the awning remained seated. In the centre sat a stern-faced Roman with a long face, dressed in a black muscled cuirass similar to my own, a red cloak draped around his shoulders. He must have been Quintus Caecilius Metellus. On his left side sat another, younger Roman senior commander perhaps around thirty years of age. Handsome, he had a lighter complexion than his older superior. On Metellus’ right side sat an imposing figure in a white robe that appeared to be edged in silver. He had a formidable visage, with a strong nose, a black beard and hair that was heavily streaked with grey. I assumed he was High Priest Kallias because on his right side sat the enticing Hippo, her hair oiled and adorned with a silver crown.

  Behind Metellus I could see the obese Timini Ceukianus who was shovelling food into his mouth. He leaned forward and peered at the gladiators as there was another blast of trumpets. The crowd roared again and people sat down as a figure dressed in a long white robe near the most important guests raised his arms and called for silence.

  ‘High Priest Kallias welcomes you all to the annual games at Ephesus.’ His voice was deep and the acoustics of the theatre ensured that it carried to every part of the stadium.

  ‘High Priest Kallias has generously financed these games,’ he continued, ‘as a gift to his friend the governor, his Excellency Quintus Caecilius Metellus, the conquer of Crete.’

  There was polite applause from the crowd as Metellus turned his head to Kallias and nodded his acknowledgement of the high priest’s largesse.

  ‘Before the festivities begin,’ said the announcer, ‘High Priest Kallias will ask the goddess for Her blessings to shine on these games and on Her city.’

  I noticed the governor looked decidedly unhappy with the phrase ‘Her city’. Ephesus was a Roman city and in the governor’s eyes a Greek goddess had no authority over the People and Senate of Rome. As the announcer sat down Kallias rose to his feet, followed by over twenty thousand others who bowed their heads respectfully. Metellus begrudgingly rose to his feet and Ceukianus managed to lift his great bulk off his cushion-stuffed marble seat.

  There was silence as the tall high priest raised his hands to the heavens.

  ‘Great Artemis,’ his voice thundered, ‘the one who is the beauty of the earth, the green of growing things, the White Moon whose light is full and bright among the stars and soft upon the earth. From You all things are born and to You all things, in their season, return.

  ‘Bless this Your city and these Your games, Divine One, and accept the souls of those who are to be sacrificed here, unworthy though they be, as tokens of our love for You.

  ‘Hail Artemis.’

  As one the crowd shouted ‘hail Artemis’ and Kallias returned to his seat. Metellus looked even more annoyed, his face a mask of stone. There had been no mention of Rome in the high priest’s speech, even though the games were designed to be a display of the power of Rome and Roman ways. Kallias for his part looked immensely smug. I sensed a keen rivalry between the two.

  The announcer stood again and held out a hand to the gladiators standing on the sand.

  ‘From the four corners of the world have they come, men of iron and bronze to grace the holy sand of the arena with their courage and blood. They are the students of the finest gladiator schools in the world, those schools being Rome, Ravenna, Pompeii, Capua, Pergamon, Palestrina, Alexandria, Palmyra, Syracuse and Ephesus.’

  The crowd rose to its feet and cheered the last name, chanting ‘Ephesus, Ephesus’ as the guards in the front and back rows looked at each other nervously. There must have been upwards of four hundred legionaries in the theatre but they were vastly outnumbered. Many among the crowd would have been Romans who were residents of Ephesus, but the vast majority of spectators were Greeks.

  The referees who would adjudicate individual gladiator fights blew their whistles to indicate that we should leave the arena. As we turned and headed towards the doors Surena raised his trident and net and accepted the applause of a section of the crowd nearest to him.

  ‘I am Surena of the Ma’adan,’ he shouted.

  ‘Surena,’ I called to him, ‘stop playing the fool.’

  We were told to make our way to the second floor of the stage building as the beast hunters assembled on the ground floor. These men, armed with spears, knives and swords, were apparently trained to display their hunting prowess in the arena, being pitted against a variety of wild animals. Though looking at them with their fearful expressions and trembling limbs, I sensed that they were either slaves or petty criminals coerced into taking part in the games.

  There were two pairs of stone steps at each end of the ground floor that gave access to the first floor, which contained rows of empty cots, and the second floor. Alcaeus informed me that the cots were for injured gladiators.

  ‘If you get injured you will be pleased to know that the organisers of the games have spared no expense with regard to medicines,’ he told me.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Drenis, ‘gladiators are literally worth their weight in gold.’

  We reach the second floor where gladiators took off their armour and relaxed at benches that had been positioned either side of tables. There were at least a dozen open windows that gave a view of the arena below but few seemed interested in watching the proceedings. Most had seen the spectacle many times before. They were more interested in sating their thirsts and picking at the snacks that were brought by slaves. These jumped when a high-pitched scream came from the arena as a man was mauled by a leopard or gored by a wild boar.

  ‘Talking of weight in gold,’ I said to my companions as we sat at the end of a table. ‘I spoke to Burebista and he believes that his freedom and that of his wife could be bought, for the right price.’

  The sounds of animals squealing and screeching and people shouting and screaming came from below.

  ‘It will be a high price,’ said Drenis.

  ‘Then it is fortunate that Dura is a rich kingdom,’ I retorted. ‘I will ask Athine
os to broker a deal.’

  ‘He will want paying for his troubles as well,’ said Alcaeus.

  ‘It will be worth it,’ I told him.

  The animal hunts lasted about half an hour at most. Afterwards, as some of the one hundred and twenty gladiators dozed on couches that had been arrange around the walls, slaves wafting fans over them, the condemned were herded into the arena to be executed. There was a great roar from the crowd as leopards and panthers were released on to the sand, the animals immediately attacking the hapless captives whose tunics had been smeared with blood to make them more appetising to the animals. The cries and shrieks of the victims reached my ears and I shuddered.

  ‘Not like you expected it to be, is it?’ said Drenis.

  I had seen criminals being executed but there was something bizarre bordering on the obscene at such wholesale slaughter.

  ‘Roman justice is brutal,’ I answered. ‘I expected that.’

  I declined an offer from Surena to observe the butchery from a window. After it was finished he returned and informed us that upwards of a hundred prisoners had met their deaths below.

  ‘The sand is red,’ he said.

  It was now afternoon and many of the crowd had left their seats to either stretch their legs or purchase something to eat from the dozens of food stalls outside the theatre. I lifted an arm and saw that it was shaking a little. Pre-battle nerves, though I did not feel nervous but rather eager to get to grips with the enemy. I looked around. I would be fighting one of these men who appeared relaxed and even peaceful. Who would it be? I saw the wild hair of Acco. He and I would be a good match.

  A small, white-haired Roman in a white tunic appeared, two referees flanking him. They blew their whistles to get everyone’s attention.

  The white-haired man spoke. ‘The editor demands the presence of all gladiators in the arena in thirty minutes.’

  There were murmurs among the fighters and Acco pushed his way to stand before the Roman.

  ‘All gladiators? Hasn’t the fat bastard arranged matched pairs yet? No doubt too busy filling his gut.’