by H. B. Ashman
“I wanted to talk to you,” Tiberius said over the cheering crowd as he turned to face Augustus.
“Now?” Augustus said as he leaned forward in his seat. Flamma had almost hit the remaining racer in the head with his blood-covered mace.
“If you hear me out, my First Citizen, you will find it a rather fitting time.”
Augustus waved his hand. “Speak then.”
“The Germanic woman held by the senate . . .”
Livia and Lucius both straightened in their chairs. Marcus leaned forward.
“What about her?” he heard Lucius ask from behind.
“I would like to have her fight for her freedom,” Tiberius said. Arminius rose to his feet, his face in utter shock.
At first there was only the noise of the crowd, but then Lucius and Varus both burst out laughing.
Livia let out a sigh and straightened the golden neckline of her purple silken dress. “Tiberius, don’t be absurd,” Livia said. “Our Augustus is not in the mood for your jests.”
“I am not jesting.”
Livia pinched her lips so tightly together they turned white. Then, abruptly, she shifted course, smiling. “A jest for the people then. I see. But who could she possibly fight?”
Augustus remained silent, his eyes focused on the race, but Tiberius knew he was listening. The cheers raged on, and the thumping below continued.
“Flamma,” Tiberius said.
The box erupted in laughter, none louder than Lucius or Varus. Only Augustus, Marcus, and Arminius didn’t join in. Livia’s face was a mask of anger.
“She is a good warrior,” Tiberius added loudly for the others to hear.
“She will fall off the chariot in the first curve, but why not?” Domitia chipped in. She looked excited by the idea. Good, Tiberius thought to himself. The first supporter, but he needed more powerful ones than a sour maid.
Tiberius pointed at the large marble temple across from the imperial box, on the other side of the tracks. It was built into the seats of the arena for the gods to watch the games, its roof golden like the sun itself.
“If she falls to Flamma, then the gods have spoken and Rome is rid of her,” Tiberius said.
The laughter died off. There were more than a handful of people here who would not mind Amalia’s early death. Was Marius’s murderer on this very stage? Lucius? His wife? One of the countless senators who were plotting to turn the empire into a republic when Augustus died without an heir?
“Remind me, how do you know this Germanic woman again?” Lucius asked Tiberius, leaning even farther forward in his seat. Tiberius opened his mouth, but Livia spoke before he could.
“My son and the great Marius Vincius were friends.”
Lucius would have pressed the matter, but since it was Livia who spoke, he knew it was better left alone.
“You seem rather interested in her yourself,” Marcus’s voice emerged for the first time, his gaze on Lucius. “You bring up this Germanic woman in every senate hearing. Why is that again?”
Thank the gods for Marcus Vincius, Tiberius thought.
Lucius leaned back in his seat. “She is an enemy of Rome. How could I not?”
“Then let the gods sacrifice her to the people. Unless you are afraid she might win and prove her innocence?” Tiberius said, glancing back at Arminius again. He was sitting once more, silent, but his tense face spoke for him. As a lower-ranking member of office, he would never dare to confront Tiberius here in front of Augustus, but Tiberius could only imagine what was awaiting him outside the safety of this box.
“Don’t be absurd.” Lucius smirked. “Flamma would kill her in the first round.”
“Then let her race. She wants to prove her loyalty to Rome. After all, she built the bridge for Marius to defeat the rebels,” Tiberius said.
Livia and Lucius flinched at those very words. Augustus, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, then faced Tiberius for the first time since his arrival. “Is that so?” he asked, scratching his chin. “Can anybody confirm this?”
“That is what they say, my great Augustus,” Varus answered. Lucius shot him a deadly look. “Rumors, of course,” he added quickly.
“Hardly rumors. Marius said so himself,” Marcus said.
“Hmm.” Augustus focused on the race again. “Interesting indeed.”
“It would please the masses to have such entertainment provided by you,” Livia said. Tiberius could not help but stare at her. Why was she helping him? Did she too want Amalia dead?
“She needs a sponsor to plead for her innocence to grant this fight. She cannot fight for me,” Augustus said. “The people will sit on her loss like flies on shit if I stand with her. But I shall not object to her fighting for someone else if Marcus does not mind it. The masses would enjoy it. I am certain.”
All eyes were on Marcus now. “I don’t mind,” he said. “As Tiberius said, the gods will tell us who she really is.”
There was a loud outcry from the crowd as Flamma rammed his mace into the last surviving charioteer’s left wheel. The chariot overturned, brutally mingling horses, chariot, and racer into a bloody wreck.
“Wonderful!” Varus shouted, clapping emphatically as his wine cup hit the ground. A slave bolted over and fell on his knees to clean it up, placing the man’s head into Varus’s view for a brief moment.
“Get out of the way, you idiot.” He kicked him over.
The crowd went berserk as Flamma slowed his horse for his victory laps—his tradition before paying Augustus his respects.
The whole imperial family was clapping in delight as Flamma stopped in front of the box. Flamma yelled something, and all four of his horses fell onto their front knees to bow in front of Augustus, who threw his head back in laughter. The crowd loved it, cheering even louder.
“So Tiberius,” Lucius said, still clapping. “Who do you have in mind that would dare to sponsor her against Flamma? She cannot fight independently, as is custom.”
“She won’t fight independently. I shall fight with her,” Tiberius said.
The clapping faded in the imperial box.
“I shall sponsor her and fight with her. The gods are on my side. I know it,” Tiberius said. Of course he wouldn’t send Amalia to her death alone. Tiberius was competent with the reins. He had raced for years when he was younger. He was no Flamma, but who knew? Together they might stand a chance. And if not, at least he would fulfill his promise to his dear friend.
“You will do no such thing!” Livia yelled at Tiberius. But Augustus twisted his lips, seeming to weigh the idea. Tiberius knew what he was doing. If Tiberius could pull off the impossible and defeat Flamma, he might be able to renew his position as heir. And if Tiberius fell, Livia could no longer object to Germanicus’s path to the throne. A win-win.
“What a brave young man you are, Tiberius. Admirable, truly,” Lucius chimed in. Livia threw him a glance that could kill. He looked away, scratching his neck. Of course he would like to see Tiberius’s head smashed against the Circus Maximus. It would make Gnaeus even closer to the empire.
“Augustus, tell Tiberius that you will not allow it,” Livia said. Augustus remained silent a moment longer. Livia rose to her feet, her face terrified. “Octavian,” she said, “I beg you.”
Augustus looked at her and, as always, grew soft. He loved this woman. He was the only one blind to her poison.
“Your mother is right, Tiberius,” he said. “But you are free to send her to the races without your sword. In name only, as her sponsor. We shall pair her with other fighters, to extend the race.”
“A very wise choice, my Augustus.” Livia sat back down, her hand briefly squeezing Augustus’s. “Why not pair her with the Ethiopian Amazons?” she added.
Tiberius felt panic turn his stomach. Amalia needed an experienced charioteer, not the crew who fought a bunch of animals and drunken prisoners to warm up the crowd. He opened his mouth to protest, but someone else spoke up before he could.
“I will f
ight with her,” Arminius’s voice echoed over the heads of the senators as he stepped forward. For a moment there was confusion, then all heads turned to stare at him.
“I shall fight with her, my Augustus,” he repeated, his eyes intense, his voice steady.
Augustus’s lips twitched as if he were wondering who Arminius was, but then he smiled faintly. “Arminius, my boy. Have you not just honorably left the legions and entered politics?”
Arminius opened his mouth to answer, but Lucius loudly clapped his hands together. “What a marvelous idea,” he hollered, absolutely giddy. “The barbaric woman and the former prince against the strongest man alive. It shall be a race like no other. The people will come from as far as Aegyptus to watch it! My Augustus, I beg of you, grant it!”
The senators mumbled excitedly like hens with their feed. Augustus studied them and nodded.
“It is decided then,” he said, lifting a hand. “The Germanic warrior woman and one of Rome’s greatest tribunes against the monster Flamma from Iberia.”
Tiberius nodded. In truth, this had gone far better than he’d imagined. Yet now that he’d accomplished his task, the reality of what was going to happen settled on him. Amalia was going to die and Arminius with her. Was Marius watching him right now? Shaking his head in disgust? There had to be another way. Maybe he could change Amalia’s mind and stop this nonsense. At nightfall, he could help her flee the city and then the country. She could return to her tribe. They would not give her up, those loyal Germanic bastards. And since he would be praetor of Germania, she would be left in peace.
Tiberius rose with a fake smile on his lips. “Wonderful. I am certain this will be a fight like no other.” Because it will never happen. “Am I excused? I feel rather tired from the long journey back to Rome.”
“Of course,” Augustus said. He focused his attention back on Flamma, who was riding his chariot over his victims’ corpses and chasing after the slaves who dared to clean up the arena, killing the ones he could get ahold of.
Tiberius sighed as he left the Circus Maximus. He had never enjoyed it. The violence reminded him of war, and war reminded him of Marius.
I’m doing my best, my friend, he thought. I will find a way to make her safe.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A malia did not have anything to gather, so she simply stepped out of her cell and followed the guards when they came to escort her to the Circus Maximus. Arminius was next to her, dressed in his military armor, but he had barely spoken since he found out about her plan and was unable to change her mind. He and Tiberius had tried to get her to flee the city, but she had remained stubborn. Not in a thousand years would she risk her only chance to see Marius and Marcus again. Not even if that meant she had to fight Flamma—even if she was terrified. And she truly was. Day after day, she had listened to the cries and cheers of the Circus Maximus as he won over and over again. She felt guilty that she had to rely on others to drive the chariot for her. Tiberius had explained that she would be paired with the Ethiopian Amazons and another charioteer. Apparently, the Amazons were great warriors and knew a lot about horses, but they were no match for Flamma.
The warm rays of the sun touched her skin for the first time in weeks as she stepped out of the building and onto the earthen street. It felt wonderful. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back when the loud sound of a wagon her attention.
“They are here,” Arminius said, and nodded toward the cart being pulled by two oxen.
Amalia walked around it to find eight dark-skinned women sitting on some hay. They all stared at her as if waiting for something to happen. None of them smiled. All except one had braids on the front half of their heads and thick curly hair in the back. The other had shaved her hair off entirely. Her bald head was covered in round and pointy-shaped tattoos. They were dressed in short green tunics, their scarred, muscular arms and legs uncovered.
“Get in,” the tallest one growled at Amalia. She was almost a head taller than the rest of them, even in a sitting position. A thin tattoo starting from her upper lip ran in a line all the way down her chin. Around her neck was a thick metal choker. She was extremely pretty and, by God, fit!
“She will ride with me,” Arminius said to the woman. She looked away as if he hadn’t even spoken.
He rode his horse next to Amalia and reached out his arm. “At least give me that,” he said. She lifted her hand and let herself be helped onto his horse with him. She was about to thank him when a white flicker caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. Amalia looked up at the roof of the laundry building. She almost cried out when she saw it. The white owl! It was sitting on the edge of the roof, its amber eyes piercing down on her.
“Arminius,” Amalia mumbled in shock, but as soon as the words had left her lips, the owl spread its wings and launched off, disappearing behind the building.
“What is it?” He looked up to follow her gaze. Amalia shook her head.
“Nothing.” Everything! I’m on the right path!
The cart was set into motion and pulled down the empty roads ahead of Amalia and Arminius.
“Where is everybody?” Amalia wondered as they passed the deserted forum. Its mighty stairs leading to the shiny temples and monuments were abandoned. The usually crowded markets were dead.
“They are already at the circus,” he responded as he rode his horse by a group of soldiers, who greeted him. Amalia noticed that they were all staring at her, whispering to one another.
“Today’s race has turned into the most anticipated event of the year. Never before has Rome seen a team of women race against Flamma,” Arminius explained. “Augustus had to place guards to avoid riots and looting.”
“In case Flamma wins or loses?” Amalia asked.
“Both. Flamma has been undefeated—until today, I pray.” Arminius’s body tensed behind hers. She felt bad for keeping her plan from him, but she knew he’d have done nothing but try to stop her.
“Will there be no other teams then?” Amalia asked. The big lump of anxiety stuck in her throat almost blocked her words. Reality was slowly settling in—she was about to race on a chariot against Rome’s superstar.
“No, only two teams, six chariots. You women and one more racer against Flamma—green against red.”
Amalia turned to the cart and the other women. “What is your name?” she asked the tallest of the woman, the one with the tattoo.
But the woman remained silent.
“My name is Amalia.”
Suddenly, a distant explosion of cheers swept through the streets. The women in the cart exchanged looks. Amalia’s whole body tensed.
“The pregames. We are near,” Arminius explained.
He was right. It took only a few more streets and turns until the side wall of the most enormous building Amalia had ever laid eyes upon appeared in front of her—the famous Circus Maximus. It must have been the size of several football fields. Huge terracotta-colored stone arches supported the structure and its mighty columns. A large wooden roof with sailboat-like sails provided the crowd shade from the sun. It really was breathtaking.
They rode up to a big open metal gate as the cart with the Amazons slowly came to a halt. The women jumped off the cart in smooth, practiced motions. Arminius also dismounted, but Amalia was paralyzed, her gaze glued onto the colossal arches that formed the oval-shaped arena in front of her. Countless booths with food lined the many entrances to the circus, mixing smells of garlic, olives, spices, fresh-baked bread, and even wine. People were coming in and out of the entrance to the circus as they pleased, grabbing food or placing bets.
A muscular man wearing a metal cuirass with a golden tiger on it stepped out of the metal gate and screamed at Amalia and the other women: “Get ready!” Then his dirty moon-shaped face, with small swine-like eyes, noticed Arminius, and he blinked. “We need to hurry,” he added, in a much more deferential tone.
The women, emotionless, strode past him and disappeared inside. Arminius started wa
lking toward the opened gate, Amalia following him, still trying to take it all in.
Her heart was racing in her chest as they entered the dark hallway of the tunnels and preparation rooms underneath the circus. Gladiators and charioteers were rushing up and down like bees at war. Some stopped at the various smiths’ fire pits to sharpen their seasoned weapons, and others tried on fancy clothing and armor. A screaming man was carried inside on a stretcher from one of the gates that led out onto the racetracks, his left arm shredded and dangling off the stretcher like a piece of mushy dough.
Something gripped Amalia’s arm, and she jerked around to find that a monkey had reached for her through his rusty metal cage. The animal’s keeper yelled at him and hit his cage with a whip. The monkey jumped off into a dark corner, screeching in fear.
“In here,” the swine-eyed man ordered as he walked into a dark room. The Amazons followed without hesitation—not their first ride it seemed. The room reminded Amalia of a dungeon and was cramped with game accessories: weapons, clothes, and a stone bathtub filled with bloodstained water. The only light in the room came from a small oil lamp and a tiny window that looked out onto the arena tracks. Amalia caught a glimpse of several slaves outside. They were hectically removing the leftovers of the pregames—mostly animal and human corpses. It all was so horrific. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.
She scanned the room and saw a rack of helmets. Probably a good idea, she thought, and walked over to the rack. She was reaching for one when pig man yelled, “Not that one, this one.” He cleared his throat as he glanced at Arminius. “This one is yours,” he added in a much softer tone as he threw a helmet with a wolf head at her feet. Then the man piled on brown leather clothing, an axe, a metal breastplate, and a round shield that was no doubt Germanic. Amalia studied the armor skeptically, then looked around the room. The Amazons were already dressing in their own armor, each of them putting on helmets with cheetah heads attached to them.
Amalia sighed and picked up the wolf’s head, inspecting the leather straps that fastened it to the helmet. Then she looked up to see what Arminius was making of all of this. He just shook his head, as if this whole idea was insane—which it was. Wolf head under her arm, Amalia strode over to him and put a hand on his arm.
