Slaves were scrubbing the flagstones near the altar as he passed, and a man was waiting to take him to the priest, who proved to be surprisingly young, with the even more surprising name of Julius Kopros.
‘Grandfather was a foundling in Alexandria,’ he explained, evidently used to explaining, at least to anyone he judged able to understand Greek. ‘He was left on a dunghill, so someone took him as a slave and named him Kopros. Years later he bought his freedom from the profits of making and selling shoes and somehow ended up in Gaul. He got a contract to supply boots for the army as long as he was willing to set up here in Britannia within weeks of Claudius’ legions invading. And so we have been here ever since.’ The priest had a thin, angular face, a neatly trimmed beard, curly black hair and thick eyebrows over clever brown eyes. ‘Grandfather and father are both long gone, but they felt it important to carry on the name. Why hide your past when you have worked to make your own fortune, they would say. Which leaves me running the business, serving the town as priest here in this temple – and putting plenty of my own money into the day-to-day running of the place – and with a name that ought to be swept down a drain and into the river.’ He grinned. ‘So, how can I be of help?’
In truth there was little more to add to the story, except for a story about the cloak.
‘I can tell you that it is old, perhaps very old,’ the young priest explained. ‘It was originally sent by Claudius himself as a gift to his new colony. Grandfather brought it from the Temple of the Divine Claudius in Camulodunum just days before the colonia was surrounded by Boudicca. He was not a priest, but was asked to bring it out, along with a couple of other pieces, by an old friend who was. Afterwards it took a few years before everything started again, and Londinium dedicated a temple to the cult of the emperors before Camulodunum so he presented them to the priests here. That was the old temple, now gone, but everything in it was moved to this one when they opened it twelve years ago.’
The other pieces he had rescued were a mould for baking sacrificial cakes and an incense burner, and Kopros happily showed them to Ferox. ‘They were in a box that the robbers opened, and they must have seen them and not wanted them.’
‘Even so I should keep on your guard,’ the centurion advised as he left. ‘They may not know the legate has the cloak and might try again here.’
‘We’ll be ready.’
As Ferox left, a spare, elderly man in expensive but sober clothes was asking the doorkeeper to send word to the priest. ‘Tell him that Cnaeus Domitius Tullus is here. He will know why.’
There was something about the voice, a hint of the rich inflexion of a well-educated Gaul, that made him turn because it seemed familiar.
‘Excuse me, sir, are you from Lugdunum?’ he asked. Ferox had spent years in the city being educated as a Roman, but it was more than just the accent that struck a chord. He did not recognise the man, and even though Flora had spoken of a merchant named Domitius it was a common enough name.
The eyes that glared back at him were cold. ‘What business is that of yours, soldier? You look more than half a barbarian. Good day to you, sir.’ He stalked off towards the temple, his cloak an unusually bright tartan.
‘Miserable git,’ the doorkeeper muttered. ‘Been here three times now and never given a tip for good luck.’
Ferox smiled. ‘Sorry, it slipped my mind,’ and handed the man a sestercius, suspecting immediately that this was too much. ‘Know much about him?’
The doorman glanced about to see that no one was paying them any attention. ‘Turned up a few weeks ago. Rumour is he will donate a fair bit of money to the temple, and others here in Londinium. There’s always folk like him arriving and trying to buy the connections to do the really big deals.’ He spat in contempt. ‘Usually they try to be a lot more friendly, though. This one acts as if everyone else is doing him a favour.’
Ferox was hungry, so he stopped at one of the many small bars opening onto a street and ordered posca, some bread and soup. It was simple but filling, and had the owner not kept on trying to sell him oysters he might have stayed longer. For a while he considered searching for Vindex and the others. It would be good to talk to Longinus, if he could get the veteran alone. In the end he decided that he did not have the energy and toyed with the idea of visiting one of the bath-houses. Then in the passing crowd he saw two hooded figures walking with purpose and deep in conversation. He recognised Domitius from his cloak. On a whim, he left coins to settle the bill on the table, waited for a little while and then followed. He had his own hood up, and kept his vitis low, so that it should not be obvious who he was unless someone was paying particular care.
Almost as soon as he started to follow the pair stopped, threw back their hoods and went into the precinct of another temple. Domitius’ companion was Julius Kopros. Ferox waited, staying where he was a good seventy paces down the street. A juggler was performing and he joined the half-dozen or so watching the man, while making sure he could see past him to the entrance to the temple. After perhaps half an hour, and another coin to make his interest in the entertainer convincing, he saw them leave. Ferox let them have a head start and then followed. The pair visited more temples, to Minerva, Silvanus and Liber Pater, and the brightly painted shrine to Isis and Serapis where, even outside, the air smelled heavily of rich incense and he could hear the rattles shake as the priests performed one of their rituals. Finally they crossed the long bridge to the smaller section of town south of the river and went to the Temple of Mars Camulos.
Ferox was not sure why he followed at all, other than a sense that something was wrong and the vague familiarity of a voice. On the way back over the bridge he kept his distance, and managed to lose them in the crowd. Then he heard whoops and the big German’s bellow as Vindex and the others appeared and dragged him into a bar. The noise in the rest of the tavern was oppressively loud, so that his merry friends had to shout to be heard. Longinus was not there, but three of the Batavians were, and they were just as raucous. Gannascus was playing dice with anyone who was willing. He won a few times, but lost more often, betting wildly. A Roman would no doubt have thought that this was typical of a barbarian. Ferox was still enough of a Silure to understand that a warrior would always be bold. When the huge man came over and said, ‘I need more money,’ he handed him most of what was left in his purse.
‘His luck’s bound to change,’ Vindex said with approval. There was no sign of it for the next few throws. As a centurion Ferox was well paid and his life at Syracuse rarely cost him much. Still, he wondered how long the coins he had brought would last if they stayed many days in Londinium. Gannascus split the room with a great bellow of triumph as he won.
In one of the rare lulls, Ferox had a quick word with Vindex, explaining that he might suddenly disappear. ‘Follow if you can, just in case. But only join me if it looks like real trouble.’
Soon afterwards he left them, needing air, and not wishing to drink too much lest it ease him back into his old ways. The sun was setting, the clouds pink edged with dazzling yellow as he looked down west along the river. He got lost on the way back to their billet, for one street looked so much like another, especially now that many of the stalls and peddlers had packed up for the day. More than once he suspected that he was being followed. Perhaps he was just nervous. After just a few days he was remembering why he did not care much for city life.
*
Philo had two messages for him. The first had been brought by one of Ovidius’ slaves, and said that he thought that he had found something and would explain tomorrow. The second was from another slave, who had said simply that someone would come for him later tonight from S, and he was to go with the guide if he would. The man sounded as if he was a Briton, and there were scars on his face and arms, suggesting he had done a lot of fighting in the past.
Hours passed, and the drinkers did not return. Ferox wondered whether Gannascus had had a run of luck. Either that, or his luck had been bad and he had gambled away their fre
edom or started a fight. By the third hour of the night there was no sign of them and he started to worry a little as he ate the supper Philo had prepared. A burst of singing in the street outside proved to be another group of drunks and not his friends.
The guide came just as he finished his meal. He had a round, pockmarked face and a head of closely cropped dark hair. Ferox did not recognise him, but followed anyway, leaving his cane behind, but keeping sword and dagger on the belt concealed by his cloak. The guide took him west and then up one of the gentle slopes. Turning a corner he saw the shacks and old fort with the amphitheatre looming behind them. He placed his hand on the guide’s arm.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You follow. I take you to her.’ The man’s Latin was slow and clumsy, and he did not look like a Briton.
Ferox followed. There were fires among the shacks, and low voices of the people who lived there. As they passed, a voice called out asking whether they wanted a ‘clean woman or a nice boy’, but the weary tone suggested habit more than any expectation of a reply.
‘This way.’ The guide took him past the locked sheds outside the arena, past the walls plastered with announcements of old and future games, to one of the small doors of the amphitheatre itself.
‘Wait.’ Ferox was tired, had drunk more that he should, but none of this felt right.
‘She is waiting for you,’ the guide said. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Ready and eager.’
Ferox grabbed the man by the arms. The guide started, eyes wide in panic, and whether it was chance or he heard or saw a movement, the centurion twisted the man savagely around as he turned to put his own back against the doorway. He felt the force of a blow as the man’s body shook once, then a second time and the tip of an arrow burst through the guide’s throat. He was choking, spitting blood, and Ferox backed into the doorway. He heard the thrum clearly as another arrow came at him and whisked past his head. The dying man shook again as a fourth missile slammed into his back.
Ferox threw the man aside and fled down the corridor. It was a low arched passageway ending in darkness. Steps led off to the right, climbing and then making a sharp turn, but it was lighter up there, perhaps a glimmer of moonlight. A long scream split the night air and then sank into a bubbling sob. The door behind him slammed closed.
IX
Ferox stopped, wrapped his cloak around his left arm and drew the gladius. Slowly, he began climbing the steps. He paused at the first corner, took a deep breath and then jumped around, sword back, ready to thrust. There was no one there. The stairs went up, turning again. He guessed this must be a small passageway used by staff rather than a route in and out for the audience. The timbers around him smelled damp and mouldy, and he guessed it was not cleaned too often. He stopped, listening, but could hear nothing apart from his own breath. After a moment he started walking up the stairs. The light was brighter now, which meant the cloud had broken and a moon close to full was bathing everything in silver.
Warily, his head emerged from the open trapdoor at the top of the stairs. Towering above him, he could see the dark outlines of the frames that carried the canopy raised over the top of the amphitheatre as shelter from sun and rain. There was no sign of anyone and he kept going until he was standing on the walkway used by the workers who operated the canopies and raised the flags and just kept an eye on the audience. The topmost tier of seats was just below, their backs against a four-foot-high solid fence.
The amphitheatre was silent, with no sign of life. Almost at the centre of the arena’s sand was a dark huddled shape. Ferox vaulted over the fence onto the seats. Still no one else moved. Whoever had tried to kill him outside must have known where he could go, so why were they waiting? He edged along past the bare seats, which always looked odd without the cushions the audience brought or hired for the day, and came to the wide stairs leading down towards the better seats and the edge of the arena itself. At least here he could move faster than he could in the narrow path in front of the seating. Slowly, crouching as a poor defence against any more arrows, he walked down towards the arena.
The clap echoed around the amphitheatre, unnaturally loud. Three times someone clapped, and only then did he see the darker shape in the shadows at the back of the box on the far side. On festival days, that was where the president of the games and his guests would watch the slaughter.
‘Who are you?’ a deep voice called out, the sound echoing even louder than the clapping. The words had a Gallic accent.
‘You call yourself Domitius Tullus,’ he shouted back.
‘Sometimes, but that was not the question. Who are you?’
Ferox glanced down. The arena was a good nine or ten feet below him. He could jump over the wall and drop onto the sand. Perhaps one of the gates onto the arena was open. Or he could take the same wide passageway that the audience would take to leave. Either way there would surely be someone waiting in ambush. He could not see a way to reach the box without giving Domitius plenty of time to escape.
‘Are you half-witted, boy? Who are you?’
‘Who is that?’ The dark shape down on the sand was obviously a corpse. For a moment the horrifying thought came that it was Sulpicia Lepidina, but then he dismissed it. She had not set this trap and he was a fool to have walked into it.
‘A man who was no longer of any use. Or just another sacrifice in this temple of blood.’ The echo was even louder down here. ‘But once again I must ask, who are you?’
‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’ His voice broke as he spoke.
‘You do not sound sure.’
Something moved over to his right and behind. Ferox glanced back and saw someone emerge from the stairs over past the next cuneus of seating. The shape seemed odd, until the moon glinted off metal and he recognised the outline of one of the high helmets worn by some gladiators. A noise came from the other side and two more armed men were coming up the stairs over in that direction.
‘Whom do you serve, boy?’
‘The princeps,’ he shouted back. The arena seemed the best option as there was still no sign of anyone there. He wanted the three attackers closer, so that when he jumped down they would either follow as a group or have to spread out before they came down. ‘I have taken the sacramentum,’ he called, playing for time.
Domitius clapped again. ‘Well done. But which princeps? Does that really matter to you? Who is Trajan to you? Another lord could be a good deal more generous?’
‘I am listening.’ The men on his left were twenty paces away, both bearded and shaggy haired, wearing cloaks. One had a gladius and the other a short spear. The one over to his right was more cautious and his face was covered with the mesh mask of the high-topped gladiator’s helmet. He was a Thracian by the look of him, with curved sword and shield.
‘What do you most want?’ The question surprised Ferox and for a moment he hesitated. Then he put his cloak-wrapped left arm on the top of the fence between two of the decorative wooden pommels.
‘Don’t!’ yelled the Thracian, and it was a woman’s voice, but Ferox had already swung up and over. His hand held onto the top of the wall for just a moment, slowing his fall. The landing was harder that he would have liked, and his knees gave and he rolled onto the sand. His cloak had snagged on a pommel and been left behind. He pushed himself up and ran towards the box.
‘Kill him!’ Domitius’ voice boomed around the amphitheatre. With a painful grating of poorly oiled hinges, an iron barred gate opened. Ferox waited, but no rush of armed men appeared. He glanced behind him, but no one had followed him down. In the middle of the arena, he could see the corpse clearly and recognised Kopros, several great wounds to his chest and stomach, although most of the blood had soaked away into the sand.
The growl was low, but rumbled in a way that suggested size and strength. A lion was standing in the open gateway. He could hear it sniffing, no doubt smelling the corpse. It came padding forward, head searching from side to side and shoulders swaying. Steel clas
hed on steel somewhere up above and there were grunts of effort and pain, but Ferox kept his eyes on the great beast. He stepped back, slowly, wanting the dead Kopros between him and the cat in the hope it might choose the easiest meal.
The lion twisted its head back and growled, louder and even more menacingly this time, and another cat, without a mane appeared beside it. As they came into the arena they spread out, prowling across the sand, one either side.
‘Die, pig!’ The woman’s voice was gruff as she yelled the insult, and for a moment he turned, saw the spear as it flew through the air, going wild and slithering across the sand to stop seven or eight paces short of him. Gladiatrix or not, she could not throw a spear.
Ferox stepped to his right, towards the spear. The lioness roared. She was on that side, closer to the spear than he was, and he had no doubt that she was faster. He was not fond of the games and gladiators, but in his youth he had had a brief passion for the venatores and the beast fights. He had seen animals like this in the Flavian amphitheatre in Rome and elsewhere. The Silures called themselves the wolf people, but he was alone, without a pack around him, and lions were far greater killers than wolves.
The lion reached the corpse, sniffed for a while and then reached down and began to tear at his flesh. Before the games, animals like this were all but starved for days and had weeks or months of training to kill humans. Maybe these were new and the next festival some time away, for the lion seemed happy for the moment with this meal. The lioness showed no interest and simply watched him.
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