by Peter Darman
His piggy eyes settled on the bare torso of Surena. He struck the boy slave with a flick of his hand to indicate he should withdraw and took a few steps so he was standing in front of Surena. He avoided the editor’s gaze, his head cast down, as Ceukianus extended a hand and began to rub Surena’s chest.
‘The darling of the crowd,’ he murmured. He licked his top lip with his tongue. ‘Perhaps you will be my darling if I decide to let you live. Would you like that, slave?’
The tension was almost unbearable as Ceukianus waited for an answer. I prayed that Surena would keep his temper in check.
‘I am unworthy, dominus,’ he uttered.
Ceukianus began breathing heavily as he continued to fondle Surena.
‘Nonsense. You are a magnificent specimen. I shall arrange for you to be brought to my villa tonight where I can get more intimately familiar with you.’
He traced a finger down the side of Surena’s cheek. ‘Don’t use up all your strength in the arena.’
He sighed with satisfaction and turned to face the centurion.
‘There is a large crowd outside, centurion, do not let them anywhere near the slave woman. In their childlike imagination they imagine her to be a demi-god.’
‘Don’t you worry about them, sir, my men will deal with any trouble.’
Ceukianus spun round, venom in his eyes. ‘And if any of you cause trouble on the way to the arena I will feed you to the beasts.’
The walk to the theatre was a solemn affair, all of us with heads bowed on the centurion’s orders and the crowd picking up on the air of threat. As we walked towards the agora to take part in the daily procession to the theatre the crowd’s mood changed from confusion to anxiety and then anger as the legionaries pushed and struck any who tried to get near Gallia. Her face was a stone mask as she stared ahead with eyes full of resentment.
At the agora the mood became more light-hearted as musicians, jugglers and dwarves entertained the crowd. For a while. I noticed that there were many more people than on the previous two days and many of them were wearing clothing that indicated that they were followers of Artemis. Because the goddess was the protector of virgins and often portrayed in sculptures as a young girl, they wore their hair tied back and were attired in short tunics, both men and women. Those who could afford it had silver jewellery attached to their tunics because Artemis was known as the ‘silver goddess’. Those too poor to afford jewellery wore sprigs of cypress, a tree sacred to the goddess.
As the procession got under way the worshippers surged forward to try to get near Gallia, only to be shoved back by a line of legionaries and two centurions who used their canes freely to crack heads and strike limbs. This did nothing to improve the humour of the crowd.
‘I’m going to kill that fat bastard editor,’ Surena hissed to me. ‘He disgusts me.’
‘Try to stay alive, Surena,’ I answered, ‘even if it means taking unpalatable decisions.’
My words fell on deaf ears as Surena seethed and thought only of vengeance. Domitus was walking next to Gallia, seemingly unconcerned, Alcaeus having the same demeanour. I looked behind at Drenis and Arminius who appeared remarkably relaxed. I put their sanguine attitude down to their having been gladiators before they had joined Spartacus. They had escaped from Italy to join me in Parthia and had built new lives for themselves at Dura. I had robbed them of those lives.
We reached the Great Theatre and filed into the stage building, past the animal cages. Many of them were now empty, their occupants having been slaughtered in the arena and their carcasses butchered and sold as meat to citizens. The Romans were efficient in all things. There were more guards inside the building than on previous days as we tramped up the steps to the second floor, Domitus and Gallia having been escorted to their seats in the theatre. I did not get a chance to say goodbye to them before they were bundled away.
Legionaries were posted at the entrance to the second floor chamber where the gladiators gathered before their bouts, much to the consternation of the fighters. They tolerated arena officials but objected to soldiers they viewed as inferior in terms of weapon skills and fighting prowess, and they made no attempt to disguise their contempt as they hurled insults at them. The centurion who had been our gaoler forced me up on my toes with the end of his cane under my chin.
‘You cause any trouble and that blonde bitch will have her throat slit. You understand, slave?’
I nodded and avoided his gaze. I stared at the hilt of his sword and momentarily thought of making a lunge for it. But to do so would imperil Gallia so I played the listless slave. He grinned and walked away, ignoring the wolf whistles and jeers directed at him by the other gladiators.
The crowd was warmed up with beast hunts, the nets around the arena having been strengthened and heightened to ensure none of the animals could escape. I sat at a bench alone with my thoughts and saw Burebista being escorted into the room by legionaries. He immediately went to one of the windows. I looked at Drenis and Arminius and we went to stand before him. His face wore an expression of rage.
‘Burebista?’
He managed a thin smile. ‘Your plan nearly succeeded, lord, but you reckoned without the maliciousness of Lentulus Vatia.’
‘I apologise,’ I said.
‘You have nothing to apologise for, lord, but these games will be my last. And to ensure I play my part the governor uses my wife as a hostage.’
He pointed down at the crowd, to the awning where the governor and the high priest were sitting. I saw Marcus Aristius sitting behind the governor, the fat editor, Gallia and Domitus and a woman with long black hair behind them.
‘My wife, Anca,’ he said, a note of distress in his voice.
As the beast hunters slaughtered a host of bears, leopards, dogs and panthers I looked at the row of legionaries sitting behind the nets and poles, more surrounding the dignitaries and two more lines at the outer edges of the audience. In addition, there were archers at the very back of the theatre’s seats. Clearly the governor was not going to take any risks regarding security inside the theatre.
The crowd was muted in its applause of the beast hunters, many of the spectators more interested in trying to catch sight of Gallia or even get near her. As the last of the carcasses of the slaughtered animals were removed from the arena slaves ran from the stage building pushing small two-wheeled carts filled with sand, which they proceeded to scatter over the blood-drenched surface. After they had finished it was time for the editor to indulge his base instincts before the midday execution of criminals.
Ceukianus rose from his seat and clapped his hands. Moments later a score of young boys, the oldest no more than ten years of age, ran from the stage building on to the sand. There was a groan of disgust from the audience as the people realised that they were all naked, and obviously nervous. Then the central doors swung open and the same number of porcupines was ushered into the arena. A whistle was blown and the boys attempted to capture the animals, the spiny quills on their backs, sides and tails inflicting nasty cuts on the youths’ naked flesh as they tried to pick them up or pounced on their backs. Ceukianus was in raptures as the boys’ tender flesh was pierced and bled, members of the crowd hurling abuse at the editor for his depravity. I shook my head. The morality of the crowd was a curious thing. It was perfectly acceptable for animals and criminals to be ripped to pieces but the notion of innocent children being hurt for a fat Roman’s amusement was viewed as being abhorrent.
The display was an exercise in futility as each boy was cut and bruised and gave up. Some started crying and the crowd began jeering and whistling. A hard-faced Metellus turned and uttered a few words to his nephew as Kallias shook his head. I saw that the seat next to him was empty and wondered where Hippo was. The editor stood and gestured to an official in the arena to bring the sordid spectacle to an end. Animal handlers came from the stage building to usher the porcupines back through the central doors into the fenced-off corridor and thence to their cages. The boys were
led away to the other exits, several of the younger ones in tears and clearly distressed by the experience. But the editor called for one, a tall lad around eight years of age, to be brought to him.
The crowd nearest the dignitaries growled their disapproval as the boy was taken to the editor’s side and Ceukianus began caressing his cut and bruised buttocks and legs. The governor turned for a second time and shouted at his nephew, the boy jumping at the outburst. Ceukianus ordered a guard to take the boy away.
The editor, now furious, nodded at the announcer whose deep voice resonated around the theatre. He told the spectators that fraudsters would not be tolerated in Roman Ephesus.
‘But Roman corruption is,’ shouted one man to great applause, who was quickly identified by the guards and manhandled from the arena.
The announcer maintained his professional composure and went on to inform the crowd that a local jeweller, Phormio, who was bundled into the arena by two legionaries, had been discovered using fake stones in his products. The legionaries left the hapless, portly middle-aged artisan on the sand and withdrew from the arena, the door being slammed shut behind them. He looked up at the crowd, clearly terrified, frantically rubbing his hands together as the announcer went on to tell the crowd that the jeweller had not only defrauded his customers but also Rome. As such he must be severely punished. The man jumped in terror as he heard a lion’s roar coming from behind the central doors. Even from two storeys up I could see him trembling and then those occupying the front seats began to laugh and point as he pissed himself in terror.
‘He shall face a beast and Jupiter will decide if he deserves to live,’ shouted the announcer.
The jeweller shrieked in alarm and fainted, just as one of the side doors opened and a hen was thrown into the arena. The crowd fell about laughing as the legionaries re-entered the area and walked over to the unconscious Phormio. Many of the gladiators saw the funny side of the episode but I had no smiles in me this day. The legionaries kicked the jeweller awake and hauled him from the arena, leaving a circle of damp sand behind.
Ceukianus, sensing that the crowd’s mood had lightened, rose to his feet and spread his arms.
‘Am I not merciful?’ he shouted.
‘Are you not fat?’ came the reply from a wit.
There was uproarious laughter as the incensed editor ordered the centurion standing near him to eject the individual. There was a scuffle as friends of the man who had made the comment objected to the Romans trying to evict him, the centurion being forced to use his cane on them as a detail of legionaries reinforced him. Once again the crowd became surly.
As I frantically racked my brain trying to think of a way to get out of our predicament, an official appeared in the doorway.
‘The following gladiators are to enter the arena immediately. Surena, Arminius, Drenis and Nikephorus of the Ludus Palmyra. Acco the Gaul and Burebista of the Ludus Capua.’
Burebista turned to me. ‘Zalmoxis calls, lord.’
He offered me his hand. I took it.
‘Of all the men I have known and fought beside, lord, only you came back for me. For that I am in your debt and go to my death gladly, knowing that I will fall beside a great warrior.’
He went to a table and picked up his full-face bronze helmet and round shield. Legionaries filed into the room and began handing my companions and me our weapons. Surena snatched his net, trident and dagger from a soldier while Drenis and Arminius took their weapons in a more measured manner. Tears were running down Alcaeus’ face as he stood before me. I laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘My friend, we have come a long way together but now I have to leave you. Stay alive so the memory of Spartacus and what we created at Dura stays alive.’
He closed his eyes and nodded his head as I walked past him and out of the room. Our centurion gaoler led the way down the steps, past the first floor infirmary and down to the ground floor, which stank of animal guts and dung. The building was dark until one of the side doors was opened and brutal sunlight flooded in. The centurion barked an order for us to follow him and we walked out into the sun, and to our fate.
The crowd rose to its feet and began chanting ‘Surena, Surena’ when my former squire walked out into the sun. He raised his trident and net and basked in the adulation, totally unconcerned that this was his last day on earth. The legionaries circled the others as the centurion pointed his sword at me and ordered me to walk forward to face the governor and high priest. He then pointed his weapon at Acco and ordered him to do the same.
‘You point that weapon at me again and I will ram it down your throat,’ said the Gaul loudly.
He stood beside me, a mass of muscles, hair and fury. I stood looking at Gallia, smiling at her and then nodding to Domitus. My wife appeared deathly white, my friend very angry. The announcer rose slowly, looking at the editor who, still resentful at the crowd’s lack of deference towards him, nodded his ugly head. I put on my helmet.
The announcer stared at Acco and myself and extended an arm towards us.
‘Behold the gladiators Nikephorus and Acco, who will now fight to the death for your entertainment in a contest to determine who will triumph in a battle between eastern and western barbarians. Will it be Acco, a fighter from Gaul, the land of savages that the gods have decreed will be civilised by Rome? Or will it be Nikephorus, a heathen born in the desert wastelands of Parthia where no culture exists?
‘Let the gods decide.’
I saw Kallias staring at me, a look of what appeared to be sorrow on his face. The governor’s top lip was fixed in a sneer and Marcus Aristius was looking contemptuously at my companions.
The announcer remained standing as more gladiators filed out of the stage building – ‘hoplite fighters’, ‘net men’, Thracians and Murmillos of the ludi Ephesus and Alexandria, at least thirty fighters. The crowd applauded the gladiators from Ephesus but were unsure what was going on. Usually the executions of the condemned took place after the beast hunts but there were now gladiators in the arena.
‘The governor, his Excellency Quintus Caecilius Metellus, has no mercy for cowards, liars and enemies of Rome. Yesterday Roman soldiers fled before a few wild beasts, and their cowardice was made worse by their being shamed by a weak woman armed only with a bow. Therefore those soldiers will now face summary justice.
‘But first they will witness the duel between Acco and Nikephorus so they can reflect on their disgusting behaviour and ask the gods to grant them good deaths.’
The doors opened behind us and Roman soldiers filed into the arena. They wore only their red tunics and had nothing on their feet and heads. As they shuffled onto the sand I noticed that they were chained together at the wrist in groups of five, one man in each group carrying a gladius. There were fifteen groups – seventy-five men.
The gladiators from Ephesus and Alexandria were grumbling among themselves. They did not mind killing each other but considered slaughtering criminals beneath them. They were, after all, skilled fighters not executioners. The former legionaries had tired, listless faces and appeared to be resigned to their fate. The gladiators would make short work of these shackled individuals. I thought that the scenario was a deliberate insult on the part of the governor towards Kallias and his gladiators and the other fighters from the East. Those gladiators now faced the condemned legionaries, who looked decidedly nervous, especially the ones carrying swords.
The announcer took his seat and a referee came forward to position his stick between Acco and myself. The Gaul stepped back and slashed the air with his swords. The referee removed his stick and the bout began. Acco came at me like a huge scything machine, his swords whirling in the air with the speed of dragonfly wings. I ducked and leaped to the left, attempting to slash his torso with my sica. But he brushed aside the blow and lashed out with the gladius in his left hand, which I deflected with my shield. But the blow splintered the wood and when I used it to parry two more blows it disintegrated in my hand.
The crowd
was shouting and cheering now, urging us on and filling the theatre with a great din. I tried to dance around Acco, using nimble footwork to avoid his strikes. But he was amazingly light footed for such a brute and despite my movements dented the brim of my helmet with an overhead blow. My ears were ringing as I jumped back, ducked low and thrust forward with my own sword. I gashed his side and the crowd cheered but my success only made Acco more determined.
He pulled back the gladius in his right hand to give the impression he was going to strike with it but instead swung his other sword that lopped off my helmet’s crest. He then lunged forward with the other gladius to strike me in the torso. I managed to step to the right to avoid the thrust before stabbing my sica at his face. But he slashed sideways with the sword he held in his left hand to parry the blow, stepped forward and smashed his left knee into my belly. Its force winded me and made me drop my sword. Acco swung his other sword into the side of my helmet, the metal protecting my skull but rendered me senseless. I collapsed to the ground and Acco kicked me onto my back. In a second he was straddling me with the point of a gladius at my neck.
The crowd fell into silence as all eyes turned to the editor, though only those in front and to the side of where the dignitaries were seated could see him due to the awning. I turned my head to peer up at Timini Ceukianus who wore a haughty expression on his podgy face. Through the helmet’s eyelets I saw the portly magistrate draw a thumb across his throat and his mouth twist into a malevolent grin. I was finished. But before the crowd had a chance to respond to the editor’s decision Gallia jumped to her feet and shouted at Acco.
‘Gladiator. My name is Gallia of the Senones tribes, one of the ancient free tribes of Gaul. I am the daughter of the late King Ambiorix, the son of King Cavarinus, both rulers of the Senones.’
The crowd sat in absolute silence as this daughter of Artemis spoke in a language none had ever heard before. It was the tongue of the Gauls, though in truth I had some difficulty understanding what she was saying because although she had taught me her native language, she rarely spoke it.
