by Peter Darman
Kallias retook his couch and drank a mouthful of wine.
‘I have no interest in revealing your identities to the Romans and nor will I do so. I just want you gone. And to expedite your leaving you might be interested to know that my esteemed friend and governor, Quintus Caecilius Metellus, is an enemy of Pompey, who slighted him in some way.’
‘He has denied him a triumph, high priest,’ said Hippo. ‘It is some sort of parade through Rome that is accorded to returning victorious generals.’
Kallias nodded. ‘That makes him an ally of Marcus Licinius Crassus, King Pacorus, a man I believe you are acquainted with.’
‘Though not fondly,’ I added.
Kallias picked up another piece of pumpkin. ‘I am sure the governor would like nothing more than to ship you and your wife back to Rome as slaves to be paraded through the streets in chains, King Pacorus.’
‘Dura and Rome are not at war, priest,’ spat Domitus.
Kallias sighed. ‘How little you know of politics, general. I heard that Pompey agreed a peace with King Pacorus because he did not want to be annihilated, or at least that is what vicious tongues say. The peace agreed between him and your king means nothing to Pompey’s enemies, of which Metellus is one.’
He shook his head. ‘What were you thinking of coming here?’
‘I told you,’ I said, ‘we are here to rescue a friend.’
I explained to him about Burebista and my approach to the lanista of the Ludus Capua concerning purchasing his freedom and that of his wife. Of how I had believed that Burebista had been killed outside Rhegium during the fighting to rescue Spartacus’ army, and how Athineos had travelled to Dura to inform me that he was a gladiator and would be taking part in the games at Ephesus.
‘But what I do not understand, King Pacorus,’ said Kallias, ‘is why you came here pretending to be a lowborn gladiator to risk your life in the arena? Why not just send a representative to Ephesus to bargain with the owner of this Burebista? It makes no sense.’
Domitus laughed and gulped down some wine.
‘There’s no point in talking about sense to Pacorus, priest, he has none. He has a god-given gift for winning battles and wars but when it comes to common sense you will get more from one of those statues outside.’
Kallias was appalled by Domitus’ intemperate words.
‘You allow your subordinates to speak to you in such a manner, lord king?’
I told him about the Companions and how each man and woman of our close-knit band is allowed such familiarity, regardless of rank or race.
‘That is why I have to secure the release of Burebista, high priest,’ I told him, ‘because he is a Companion and we leave no man behind.’
‘Or woman,’ added Gallia.
I saw Hippo smiling and staring with wonderment at Gallia. Perhaps she believed that my wife was one of the bronze statues in her temple given life by Artemis. But Kallias was at a loss to understand my reasoning.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘the worshippers who have come to Ephesus will not be at the temple but around the theatre, hoping to catch a glimpse of Queen Gallia. It will be a volatile situation and will only take a tiny incident to spark a disturbance. If that happens the Romans will unleash great violence against any trouble makers.’
‘I give you my word that I will not incite the crowd,’ said Gallia solemnly.
Kallias stared into his kylix. ‘I am afraid, Queen Gallia, that you will have no control over the mob’s actions. Once seized by a collective madness no one individual can influence its mood. That is why it is imperative that you all leave and do not appear at the theatre tomorrow. I will not allow the Romans to butcher my people.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘we cannot do that.’
Kallias fixed me with a hard stare. ‘That is your final word on the matter?’
‘It is.’
‘Then our discussion is at an end.’
Kallias called for the doors to be opened and informed the captain of his guards that we were to be escorted back to our quarters. He smiled politely as we took our leave and was surprised when Hippo stated that she would accompany us back to the house.
As before we were surrounded by a phalanx of temple guards, half a dozen carrying lighted torches to provide illumination. Beyond the gated square onlookers and well-wishers, all eager to catch a glimpse of or get close to Gallia once more surrounded us. The presence of Hippo beside Gallia only confirmed to them that my wife had indeed been sent by Artemis herself; for why else would the high priestess of the goddess’ temple be accompanying her?
‘When I heard the stories of Queen Gallia and the Amazons I did not believe them.’ Hippo said to Gallia in Latin so the guards would not understand her. ‘My apologies, majesty. You speak the language of the Romans?’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ replied Gallia.
Hippo continued in Latin. ‘When I saw you shooting your bow in the theatre it was a revelation. It was as though everything that I have held dear all my life had come to fruition. It is surely no coincidence that you have come to Ephesus, the city of Artemis.’
‘We came to free one of our own,’ replied Gallia, ‘nothing more.’
‘The gods may work through you, though you may not realise it, majesty.’
Gallia turned and looked at me. ‘My husband worships Shamash, the Sun God.’ She tilted her head at Domitus beside her. ‘His general worships Mars, the Roman God of War. We have many gods in Dura. I like to think that the gods help those who help themselves. That they respect strength and determination but I ask no favours of any god.’
‘Is it true that you have fought in battle?’ enquired Hippo.
Gallia smiled. ‘Many times.’
Hippo turned to look at me.
‘It is true,’ I said.
Hippo suddenly appeared sad. ‘I envy you, majesty. To be a woman in this world is to be subservient but you have shown a glimpse of a different world where women are free to follow their desires.’
I had a feeling that she was not speaking of her role as a priestess but as a beautiful young woman with feelings for another. The captain of the temple guards called a halt as we reached our house, ordering the crowd that we had gathered to disperse back to their homes immediately. A few drifted away but the majority ignored his demand.
Gallia laid a hand on Hippo’s arm. ‘There is another life for you should you desire it, priestess. A gilded cage is still a cage.’
Hippo smiled politely and bowed her head to Gallia as the legionaries opened the gates to allow us to enter. When we were out of earshot Domitus turned to me.
‘We should take that priest’s advice, Pacorus, even though I don’t trust him.’
But as we wandered into the entrance hall to the house, oil lamps burning on brackets on the walls and candles on stands by the doors, I realised that Kallias was the least of our problems. We walked into the andron, a salon that was usually reserved for men though Gallia had disregarded this formal rule as soon as she had arrived. We were stopped in our tracks when we saw the figure of Governor Metellus sitting in a chair.
He conformed to every notion I had of a senior Roman commander. Lean, severe and with an expression that was as hard as the blade of the gladius he wore at his left hip, he sneered at me as I stood in the entrance.
‘King Pacorus of Dura. You will forgive me if I do not stand only I do not rise when slaves enter a room.’
Domitus made to throw himself at the man who resembled him in appearance if not in age, but I held out an arm to stop him. The handsome young tribune stood behind Metellus and there were six legionaries nearby, all with swords in their hands.
‘Where are my men?’
‘Under lock and key in the storerooms that were allocated for the quartering of gladiators when they are not at the Great Theatre.’
He looked at Domitus. ‘You are a Roman and yet you ally yourself with these slaves. Why?’
‘These slaves,’ replied Domitus slowly and sternly, ‘ar
e my friends and are braver than any Romans I have ever encountered.’
The governor rose from his chair and walked over to me, our faces inches apart.
‘I have heard much about King Pacorus, the Parthian who fought beside the outlaw Spartacus, who vanquished his foes in a civil war in Parthia, defeated a Roman army before the walls of Dura Europos and cowered the great Pompey.’
‘Who betrayed us?’ I asked flatly.
He smiled. ‘Betrayed you? You seem to forget that you are in a Roman city, Parthian, under Roman jurisdiction. The lanista of the Ludus Capua sent a message that he had been approached by a Cretan captain who was negotiating on behalf of a person or persons unknown to purchase one of his gladiators. Does this sound familiar?’
I looked away from him without answering. He walked back to his chair and sat down.
‘The lanista,’ Metellus continued, ‘a base individual common to his profession, would have been given short shrift had it not been for two other things he informed me of. First, there is no Ludus Palmyra. I know this because Palmyra is not under Roman rule, at least not yet.’
He looked at Gallia. ‘Second, and perhaps more important, he informed me that the blonde-haired woman who had until today kept herself covered was none other than his wife. Or at least his former wife.’
‘I am not the wife of that pig,’ sneered Gallia.
‘That is of no concern to me,’ said Metellus, ‘but I was interested in the story of how his wife had escaped from Capua, joined the band of Spartacus and subsequently became the scourge of Italy riding alongside the one they called “the Parthian”.’
He pointed at me. ‘You are he are you not?’
‘If you know the answer then why are you asking?’
The strapping tribune walked forward and struck the side of my face with the back of his hand. The blow was heavy and made me smart. Domitus growled in anger but I shook my head at him as I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth.
‘You will answer, slave,’ ordered Metellus.
I said nothing as he nodded to the tribune who drew his gladius and held the point at Gallia’s neck.
‘If you refuse to answer Tribune Marcus Aristius will kill your queen.’
‘I am Pacorus, king of Dura and husband to Queen Gallia of Dura,’ I said loudly.
The governor waved Marcus Aristius back.
‘According to Roman law you are an escaped slave and can expect to receive punishment commensurate with such an offence. However, as I do not wish to deprive those who have come to attend the games of their entertainment, I have decided that tomorrow you and your companions will fight in the arena. It would be callous to deprive you of the opportunity to fight in the arena since you have devoted so much time and effort to become gladiators. So gladiators is what you shall be.’
He pointed at Domitus. ‘Tomorrow you will sit near me to maintain the fiction that you are the lanista of the Ludus Palmyra, and the day after the games you will be crucified outside the city so before you die you will have time to reflect on your betrayal of your race.’
He stood and looked at Gallia. ‘And you will be returned to Lentulus Vatia, to be used as he sees fit. You will not be so pretty when you have been branded for being a runaway. Take them away.’
We were bundled out of the room into the courtyard and then into the storeroom next to the one where the others were incarcerated. After the door had been locked and guards posted Drenis shouted to us to enquire if were all right. I shouted back that we were, but our conversation was interrupted by a centurion informing us that if we did not remain silent he would order his soldiers to rape Gallia and break each of our left arms.
So we sat in silence, Gallia in my arms, as the guards laughed and joked outside. Dobbai was right. I was a hopeless dreamer and now my fanciful plan would result in the deaths of my friends and see my wife condemned to a life of slavery.
Chapter 11
The night passed slowly, but eventually the courtyard grew lighter as the first rays of the sun peaked above the hill to the east of the city to bathe Ephesus in glorious sunshine. Gallia opened her eyes and I kissed her forehead. I felt utterly helpless and forlorn and then I felt angry. Angry that I had allowed this situation to come to pass and even angrier in the knowledge that I was absolutely powerless. As my wife stretched out her tired limbs and stood up to peer through the grille in the thick door I realised that I was no longer a king but a Roman slave.
I had previously been captured by the Romans in Cappadocia and transported in harsh conditions to Italy where Spartacus had rescued me on the slopes of Vesuvius. During the journey I had been beaten and flogged and had often been bereft of hope. But my incarceration had ended in liberation followed by three glorious years fighting beside Spartacus against the Romans. But there was no slave army anywhere near Ephesus, no would-be liberators, only a docile population of a Roman city. I slammed the floor with my fist.
Domitus stirred. While I had been possessed of self-recriminations and regrets during the night he had slept like the dead. He was facing death on the cross and yet managed to sleep like a baby. He stretched out his muscled arms and looked at me.
‘Did you get any sleep?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
He stood and stretched his back. ‘Course not. Spent the whole night torturing yourself, no doubt. Why do it to yourself when the Romans will do it for you?’
I heard voices outside. I pulled Gallia back from the door as it was unlocked.
‘Out slaves!’ came the order as light flooded the storeroom. The door where the others were imprisoned was also unlocked and they too were ordered into the courtyard. Surena bowed his head to me while Alcaeus, Drenis and Arminius nodded.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked them.
I felt a sharp pain on the side of my face as a centurion struck me with his vine cane.
‘No talking, slave.’
Surena began to move aggressively towards the centurion but I shook my head. There were ten legionaries in the courtyard, all of whom had swords in their hands in case of any trouble.
‘You will all eat and change into your gladiator attire,’ the centurion stated. ‘Any trouble and I have orders to kill you on the spot.’
We were allowed to wash our faces, arms and legs in the fountains and relieve ourselves on the communal lavatories – a novel feature of these rich houses – that flushed out into the sewers beneath the street outside. The centurion must have been under orders to accord Gallia some respect because she was allowed back into the house to change and wash in private, female slaves attending her.
More slaves brought food for us to eat: eggs, barley porridge, grapes and figs. Lysander, no longer wearing a smile, poured water into our cups. He avoided our eyes as he did so, though when he filled my cup he whispered into my ear.
‘This was not my doing, majesty. I work for High Priest Kallias, not the Romans.’
I looked up at him. ‘I attach no blame to you, Lysander.’
‘Many worshippers are flooding into the city to see Queen Gallia, majesty.’
He finished pouring water and withdrew from the courtyard. Domitus was wolfing down a bowl of porridge while Alcaeus was picking at a bunch of grapes more thoughtfully. Surena, Drenis and Arminius, like Domitus, were eating as though it was their last meal. I felt sick; it well might be.
‘Get some food inside you,’ whispered Domitus, ‘you will need your strength today.’
‘No talking!’ bellowed the centurion as he circled the table like a ravenous wolf. We kept our heads down and I began to eat the bowl of porridge in front of me.
Gallia returned and was also served food and water. She was in a clean white dress and her hair had been brushed and her arms massaged with oil. She smiled sympathetically at me as she took her seat by my side. The slaves offered us more porridge and figs, which Domitus accepted, and then took away our empty bowls. The legionaries had sheathed their swords and the centurion had sat down on a stool and wa
s eating a bowl of figs. Thrushes and plovers landed on the roof tiles and sang their songs and the occasional buzzard flew overhead. Despite the danger we were in the serenity of the courtyard and the sound of its fountains had a calming effect on me.
‘I hope they give him the shits,’ said Domitus slowly.
After we had eaten we were ordered to get into our gladiator clothing. Alcaeus requested and was allowed to reclaim his bag of medicines from inside the house but we were forbidden to carry our weapons to the arena. They would be taken to the theatre later by a detachment of legionaries. After we had dressed there was a blast of trumpets outside the house and the centurion ordered us all to stand in a line. His men drew their swords once more and stood behind us, the points of their weapons in our backs.
‘You have an important visitor so stay silent and show respect. Remember that you are slaves. Any disrespect will incur the gravest penalties.’
There were footsteps in the house and the great bulk of Timini Ceukianus was I front of us, behind him a slave holding a parasol to keep the sun off his balding crown. The day was warm but not unpleasantly so but already the fat editor’s forehead was beaded with sweat and his rancid body odour went before him.
His wore a leer on his bloated face as he viewed us.
‘I’ve never had a king fight in the arena before. How marvellous.’
‘He is a king no longer, sir,’ said the centurion, tapping the cane against his right leg. ‘He is a slave. They all are.’
‘Thank you centurion,’ snapped Ceukianus with annoyance, ‘I am well aware of their status. I have been fully briefed by my uncle.’
Ceukianus waved him back and snapped his fingers. A young slave boy no more than ten years of age and dressed only in a loincloth came forward with a towel to dab the editor’s sweaty forehead.
‘I expect all of you to fulfil the roles allotted to you,’ said Ceukianus. ‘You are now the property of Rome and she will do with you as she sees fit. Most of you will soon be dead, so meet your end with dignity and be thankful that I have given you the opportunity to experience death on the sacred sand of the arena.’
