Ferox wished that he could reach the spear. Instead he crouched down on one knee, moving slowly in the hope that this would not provoke the beast.
The attack came without warning, as the lioness bounded forward, and he would never know whether he had provoked it or not. Ferox leaned into it, head bowed and left hand folded protectively in front, gladius held out as firmly as he could, the pommel hard against his stomach.
In an instant the animal leaped, and the sheer force and weight was far greater even than he had feared. He was knocked over and back, breath driven from him as the wooden pommel was slammed into his stomach. There was hot blood everywhere, soaking onto his hands, and a burning pain on his face and one shoulder, but his right hand still grasped his sword and he forced it as hard as he could, feeling it tear through muscle. The lioness hissed and then slumped onto him.
With effort, Ferox rolled the animal’s dead weight off and staggered to his feet. His tunic was badly torn and not all of the blood came from the cat. The gladius was buried up to the hilt in the carcase, stuck too hard to come free.
The lion paused in its meal to glare at him, but otherwise seemed unmoved. Moving slowly, head still reeling, he edged towards the spear. There was a crack, then another and a man in tunic and boots appeared in the arena, wielding a whip. Two more men came behind him, murmillones in big face-covering helmets, and each with a gladius and scutum like a legionary. The whip was swung again, snapping not far from the lion, which turned to roar angrily. Another crack and it grudgingly left its meal. Ferox reached the spear, bent over, almost fainted, and managed to pluck it up and ready it in both hands.
Outside a bell started to ring insistently. The lion remained surly and uncooperative.
‘Finish him!’ The man with the whip shouted, snapping the whip once more, but failing to make the animal attack.
‘Come on then!’ Ferox called back, hoping to hurry the gladiators. They ignored his taunting and came on slowly, one cautious step after another, moving apart to take him from two directions just like the lions. He flicked the spearhead to face each man in turn.
There were shouts now from outside. Ferox went back, guessing he had about twelve or fifteen paces before he would be up against the wall with nowhere left to go. His chest hurt with each breath, and he knew he did not have the strength left to rush one of them and kill the man before his comrade could intervene.
Back, still back, the gladiators following cautiously. Neither was as tall as him, but their shoulders were broad and their arms and legs thick like all professionals’. The ornate bronze helmets shone in the moonlight, their faces covered. Behind them the man with the whip watched, while the lion returned to its feast.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ he yelled, hoping to break their calm. They ignored him.
There was a distant banging followed by a crash. Then there were shouts, which sounded as if they came from another direction although it was hard to be sure down in the arena. Ferox guessed he was a couple of paces from the wall. He sprang forward, pelting at the gladiator on his left. The man stopped, shield up ready, and he skidded and nearly fell as he changed to head for the other man, trying to get on his unshielded right side.
With all his strength he stamped forward and jabbed with the spear, aiming for the man’s armpit, but he was moving and instead the spear caught him lower down, grazing his stomach, drawing blood from the bare skin. Then the gladiator had recovered, stepped back and was facing him, body covered by the shield. Ferox started to spin around to face the other one, who was coming on, then with a crack something grabbed his left arm. The man with the whip had him and jerked him off balance, and the one he had wounded punched with his shield, the dome-like boss smacking the centurion in the face and flinging him back. Ferox staggered, falling to his knees, and the other gladiator pounded him on the side of the head and he dropped, face down, on the sand.
An iron door swung back to open with a bang and there were shouts echoing around the arena. Ferox tried to push himself up, but his head was swimming and the best he could do was roll. A sword thrust into the sand an instant after he had moved, and then the gladiator was being forced back, massive blows from a sword taking lumps out of his shield. Gannascus followed, and for a big man his speed and balance were amazing. When the gladiator feinted and jabbed, the German was simply not there, and laughed as he beat the other man’s guard and slashed a deep gouge across his chest. Ferox almost felt sorry for the gladiator. He had fought the big man once, when they had first met, and only survived that because help had arrived and Gannascus had decided to leave. Two more blows and the gladiator was on the sand, desperately trying to hold in his bowels.
The other one was already dead, finished by Vindex and one of the Batavians, while Longinus had almost beheaded the man with the whip.
‘What in Hercules’ name is going on? Who are you?’ A stocky man, with a big belly but plenty of muscle, led half a dozen others armed with clubs and spears into the arena. They came from the same tunnel the lions had used. Already angry, he became incandescent when he saw the dead lioness. ‘My breeders. Which mongrel got them out of their pen?’
Ferox tried to get up, but was struggling until the grinning German lifted him to his feet. If these were animals kept for breeding rather than fighting, then it helped to explain their reluctance to kill.
‘I am a centurion,’ he said. ‘Acting on the orders of the legatus Augusti himself.’
‘Are you? Well, I’m not under your damned orders and you can go and shag yourself blind outside. I’ll have you in court.’
It took a moment before he began to calm, helped by the realisation that he was faced with five armed men, one of them huge and the rest big and handy enough. Ferox tried to explain that he was lured here by a guide, then ambushed.
‘We got one,’ Vindex said at that point. ‘The other got away, but I gave a good enough cut to the arm to stop him shooting a bow anytime soon.’
Ferox went on, telling how he came inside and found the murdered Kopros.
‘Knew him,’ the thickset man said. ‘Bit too fancy, but played his part when the statues of the emperors were paraded. Poor bugger.’
When he spoke about Domitius there was also recognition. ‘That old sod. He’s been sniffing about a few times in the last weeks. First he said he wanted to hire some of my boys, then buy some animals. Nothing came of it.’
‘Three gladiators attacked me.’ He pointed at the corpses. ‘Those two and I guess the one with the whip. The other one was a woman.’
‘Woman? What sort of ludus do you think I run? No women, no freaks, nothing but the real art of fighting. That’s what you get from Sempronius. Only the best.’
‘Are these men yours?’
‘If they’d been mine, lad, you wouldn’t be talking now. No, never seen ’em before. Probably someone’s bodyguards or from out of town.’
‘Anyone see the woman?’ Ferox turned to look at the others, but was greeted by shaking heads. ‘Any sign?’ he called up to Sepenestus, who with his bow had climbed up among the seats.
‘No. Couple of dead men and that’s it.’ Ferox wondered about that. By the sound of it they were dead before the archer arrived, which meant maybe the woman had killed them. If so, then she really was dangerous, but it would seem she was not working for Domitius.
‘What did she look like?’ Vindex asked. Even in the moonlight his leer was obvious.
‘Like she wanted to kill me. Who knows about her face? She had a Thracian’s helmet on.’
‘Sounds a good woman.’ Gannascus slapped him hard on the back and he almost fell over.
‘No women fighters,’ Sempronius repeated. ‘Not here, not ever. Go to the east if you want that sort of skin show. Or Rome in the old days, but not in Londinium.’
The sky to the south was glowing. ‘That’s a fire,’ Sempronius said without any obvious emotion. ‘Well, we can leave my formal complaint at turning the amphitheatre into a private battleground until tomorro
w. You clear off, and we’ll clear up. I can think about that formal complaint in the morning.’
‘My name is Flavius Ferox of Legio II Augusta.’
‘I heard the name the first time, and the legion don’t matter. This is still a small town, sonny boy. If I want to find you, I’ll find you.’
‘Do you need a surgeon?’ Longinus asked as they left, having waited for the archer to come down and join them in the same tunnel Ferox had used to enter the place. It was hard to tell how long ago that was.
‘No, Philo can fix me up.’
‘He was the one who sent us,’ Vindex explained. ‘Said I was to follow if you slipped away. There was no sign of us, so he followed on his own, saw you were coming here, and by the time he got back we were just coming in. By the way, we may need some more money.’
‘Dice were crooked,’ Gannascus said, as if pained by the evil in the world. ‘Still, fight was good. I like it here,’ he added with an air of finality.
As they came outside and went past the buildings they could see the glow of at least three fires in different parts of the town.
‘That doesn’t look like an accident,’ Longinus said. ‘You sure you will be all right?’
‘Yes. Help me back to the billet. And thank you all. You saved me,’ he said, and meant it.
‘We all make mistakes,’ Vindex said, and the German roared with laughter.
X
The temple of the Divine Vespasian was burned almost to the ground, and the fire had spread to a warehouse that backed on to it and was storing olive oil, among other things. By the time parties of soldiers and gangs of locals had managed to knock down enough buildings to make a fire break half a dozen houses and shops were reduced to ashes. Fortunately there had been no wind, or the damage would surely have been a lot worse, but people had died and others were scorched and overcome by smoke. The shrines of Liber Pater and Mars Camulos were almost destroyed, but there the fires had not spread and only a nightwatchman had died in Mars’ temple. The head priest suspected the man was too drunk to wake in time. The keepers of Minerva’s house were fortunately holding an overnight vigil and were not disturbed. Less surprisingly, the always active priests of Isis saw intruders with torches, and by banging their gongs and clashing cymbals chased them away and roused the neighbourhood. A woman initiate had been stabbed in the scuffle and the injury was said to be serious, but they had caught one of the attackers and torn him limb from limb.
‘Before he could talk, of course,’ Crispinus said. ‘Rather a pity really.’
‘Did anything happen at the Temple of Silvanus?’ Ferox asked. He had been summoned to the praetorium the next morning, and then ushered into a waiting room while the legate went through the formalities of morning salutations. The young tribune had joined him soon afterwards, brimming with news.
‘No. At least nothing has been reported. Why do you ask?’
The door opened and Ovidius was ushered in, his tufts of hair wilder even than usual.
‘The legate’s apologies, but it will be a while before he is done. The worthies of Londinium are nervous and need reassurance.’
‘I don’t blame ’em.’ Crispinus was even more full of cheerful self-assurance than usual. Perhaps it was being in a town after so long or enjoyment of the crisis, or both, but he even stood a little taller. ‘But, noble Ferox, you were about to explain your question. Why Silvanus and not any of the other shrines dotted around the place? Come on, man, speak up.’
Ferox told them about Domitius and Kopros, and how he had followed them on their tour. Then he spoke about the ambush last night, not saying why he had believed the messenger or making any mention of Sulpicia Lepidina.
At the end of it all Crispinus let out a low whistle. ‘And there was I too polite to mention that Philo had made a pig’s ear of shaving you this morning!’ Ferox sensed that much of his story was already known to the young tribune, who liked to play these little games, always exploring others’ openness and trust. He knew there were bruises and scratches on his face. The cuts were light and would soon heal, but the bruises and broken ribs would take longer.
‘You killed a lion, single-handed?’ Ovidius was impressed. He patted Ferox on the arm and then looked guilty as the centurion winced. His whole body was sore.
Crispinus laughed. ‘Sounds as if inspiration for a work art is forming as we speak. A five-book epic perhaps?’
‘At least, my boy, at the very least. Why, this is a feat for Hercules himself!’ said Ovidius.
‘It was not a very big lion, my lords, and I was lucky, very lucky.’ That was true and he knew it. Chance had made the animal land at just the right angle, impaling itself on his sword, its own weight driving the blade deep. ‘The poor thing was a female, part of their stock, and not an animal trained to kill.’
Ovidius beamed at him. ‘You really do need a poet to tell your tale, friend Ferox!’ he said. ‘You wish to hide your glory. Why, I could make you a new Achilles.’
‘Well, he’s taller and better looking than Claudia’s whisperer.’ Crispinus grinned. ‘Well, in a good light, at least. Shall I call a slave and see if we can find a good enough light?’ He slapped the centurion hard on the back and with great effort Ferox managed not to react. ‘Splendid, splendid. Now, let us return to Silvanus. Do you think his house was spared because the god is from Britannia?’
‘What about Mars Camulos?’ Ovidius asked. ‘He sounds rather local.’
‘He comes from Gaul,’ Crispinus replied, not taking his eyes off Ferox. ‘A god of the Remi, I believe.’ He smiled when Ferox gave a slight nod. ‘Unlike Silvanus Vinotonus.’ He paused. ‘At this point a flood of praise for my knowledge would be nice. No? Oh well, in truth the explanation is simple, and more than the blind chance that Archimedes would tell us will eventually mean that even I can be right now and again. I’ve hunted enough with Cerialis to know the north’s god of the chase. But to return to the point. Was Silvanus deliberately spared?’
‘I believe so,’ Ferox said. ‘But it may have more to do with the billeting of some of the legate’s mounted singulares in the next street. No soldiers live as close to any of the other shrines.’
‘Hmm. We shall have to check, but that sounds plausible. Well done. We must assume they did not want a general conflagration, since that would have been easy enough to arrange, even in this damp weather. Kopros is dead, and since that is unlikely to have been his objective, we must consider what this Domitius wants.’
‘Nervous people,’ Ovidius said, in the tone of a schoolmaster impatient for a pupil to get to the point. ‘No one likes the houses of the gods destroyed. They see it as a sign of displeasure, and an omen of worse to come. You could see it in the faces of half the legate’s callers this morning. Speaking of which, I will go and see whether he is ready for us. If you will both excuse me.’
After the old man had hurried away, Crispinus chuckled fondly. ‘Well, he came with the legate because his life was dull. We have done a good job of changing that!’
‘He is a good man, my lord.’
‘Yes, he is. And a good friend to my uncle. No, I do believe he is thriving in his new life.’ The tribune chuckled again. ‘And how about you, centurion? Are you truly all right?’
Ferox shrugged and wished he had not as his body complained. ‘I’m alive, my lord.’
‘And what do you want from this life, my friend? You know the legate thinks most highly of you. We all do.’
The sudden change of topic caught Ferox by surprise. ‘I do my job, my lord,’ he said for want of anything better.
‘Such devotion is admirable, and deserves reward. No doubt promotion will come, but as well as a loyal officer of the princeps you are a prince of your own tribe. Do you ever think of going back?’
‘Doubt I’d be welcome, my lord.’ Ferox still found the conversation baffling. ‘Reckon I’ll just keep on serving. Be good to get back to my region.’
The tribune ignored the hint. ‘Then do you ever think of marr
iage?’
‘Marriage?’ Ferox repeated the word before he could stop himself.
‘Well, perhaps you should think on it. From all I understand, being mauled by a lion would be considered admirable practice for that hallowed bond between man and woman!’
The door swung open and Ovidius’ head appeared. ‘Time to go.’
‘You should think on it,’ Crispinus said quietly as Ferox stood to let him leave the room first. ‘Might be time to settle down.’
Neratius Marcellus, the legatus Augusti of the province of Britannia, was still, which was never a good sign. He stood behind a chair, gripping the back so hard that his knuckles were white. The room was large, with the wall panels painted in cityscapes and the wooden floor of well-laid and highly polished timbers.
‘About time,’ he snapped, as they were announced. ‘Centurion, you look a mess.’
‘You should see the lion,’ Crispinus whispered.
Philo had done his best, but an accident had left Ferox with most of a plate of porridge over his best tunic. In its place he now wore the same garment he had worn yesterday, hastily darned and cleaned as well as the short time had allowed. The blood stains remained obvious.
‘Never mind, sit down, all of you.’
Cornelius Fuscus watched with obvious amusement. The procurator was around fifty, his hair kept black with dye, eyebrows neatly plucked and tunic, toga and shoes immaculate and obviously expensive. His face was very large and flat, the nose crooked from an ancient break, a scar on his chin, the skin leathery and lined, and it did not fit the clothes. His hands were massive, on short, obviously powerful arms. Ferox thought he looked more like a short gladiator or wrestler than the emperor’s chief financial representative in the province.
‘Are you sure about this, my dear Cornelius?’ the legate asked.
‘Yes, my lord. Word came two hours ago. Two days ago there were fires in Camulodunum. The temples of Mars Ultor, of Diana, and of the Divine Claudius were all destroyed. It is unlikely to be a coincidence. It makes a man question whether the destruction of the temple of Mars at Verulamium last week was mere accident, as was first thought.’
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