“If you want details, you must ask Caelina. I cannot in honor say any more.”
“Of course you can. She’s a prostitute.”
Jonathan met Torren’s cutting stare over the bag of gold still between them. “I’m not.”
Torren gave Jonathan time to change his mind. A long moment passed, and he didn’t.
He was the one. A small fortune, but well spent to find out Jonathan couldn’t be bribed. Their lives, and those of the others, were going to depend on it.
“I can see that you are not. For that you may keep it. Though I’m sure you’ll want me to add it to your accounting.”
Confusion filled his champion’s face. “I don’t understand.”
He took the bag of coin and set it beside him. “It was a test. You passed.”
“A test?”
“It only took an extra thousand sesterces to get the truth out of Caelina.”
A storm formed in Jonathan’s features.
“Don’t be angry at her. She’s driven by coin. Besides, thanks to her, I know you can’t be bought. That’s worth all the coin I had to give both of you to find out.”
“Of course I can be bought. I’m a slave.”
Torren picked up his apple and took a bite. “You know what I meant.”
“Why is it that important to you, to know if I can be bribed or not?”
Torren feigned indifference while chewing the crisp fruit. Assassinating Caesar wasn’t a plan to involve others in sooner than required. “If and when the time comes, you’ll know. Until then concentrate on training. I sense the July games will be bigger and bloodier than even last year’s Ludi Romani. Now that Emperor Domitian has executed the consul and banished the man’s widow, Rome is restless.”
“Caesar banished his own niece?”
“It’s rumored she’s a Christian and wouldn’t worship her uncle’s deity. I think it more likely she was sent away and Clemens killed because they possessed sons that might one day challenge Domitian’s power.”
“Do the sons live?”
“For now.”
“I will pray for them.”
“Pray to your God for all of us. Domitian will court the people even closer now. That means bigger and better games. I need you to fight well and win. Much depends on it. Focus on that and nothing else. Agreed?”
Jonathan released a long sigh before standing. “Agreed, but I ask one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t send me any more women. Unless they’re Nessa.”
Torren couldn’t help but grin. “Agreed.”
Chapter 33 – Defiance
Ludi Apollinares, Rome
July 13, 95 AD
Jonathan’s breath heaved the hot, damp air trapped in his helmet, sand clinging to his sweat-covered skin. The gladiator lying prone at his feet raised two fingers in surrender. Fifty thousand people stacked to the sky all around him cheered to mark the moment. Proficient with his sword in either hand, and able to switch at will, Jonathan stood without equal in the arena.
Yet his opponent had fought valiantly, and Jonathan allowed the match to continue as long as he could to show it. The crowd battled for a unified verdict but neither opinion emerged a victor. Some of them likely recognized that Jonathan had purposefully drawn the fight out, and demanded death for the defeated. The others had been fooled by it or were simply in a merciful mood.
Jonathan waited with his sword poised between the man’s shoulder and neck, at the edge of the man’s helmet. The emperor would grant the man life on a mixed verdict. Ceaser’s thumb was the one that mattered most.
But Caesar paid them no heed. The emperor sat engaged in animated conversation, surrounded by guards and guests in the imperial box. The crowd that had been screaming Jonathan’s name for the last half hour was less patient. Angry at being kept waiting, the tenor of their cries changed. That finally captured Caesar’s attention. After a brief glance at Jonathan, Domitian threw an indifferent slash with his thumb and returned to his conversation.
Jonathan couldn’t believe it. Neither could the portion of the crowd who realized like he did what just happened and increased their cries of protest. Caesar had mistaken their impatience for a decision as death for the loser. The hoplomachus bleeding at his feet didn’t beg. He closed his eyes within his helmet where he lay face-up in the warm sand and awaited the killing stroke with honor—a true gladiator.
Anger seethed within Jonathan as he tightened his grip on his sword. This was wrong. Caesar was throwing this man’s life away as if he were the bone from a roasted pheasant leg. The man had fought well. Extremely well, considering he never had a chance against Jonathan left-handed. The crowd wanted him to live. Their white cloths and cries for missio still permeated the air. But Caesar had ordered death.
Jonathan breathed deep and pulled his elbow back and up, raising the sword for a fast, clean thrust. He had to obey.
Didn’t he?
No.
Nessa’s life was no longer at stake. She would be proud of him, when she learned how he’d died. And maybe, somewhere, Jelani would be too.
Jonathan set his shield down and grabbed the arm of his conquered opponent. “Get up.” He hauled him to his feet, retrieved the longest piece of the man’s spear, and put it in the man’s hand. “If Caesar wants you dead, he can come kill you himself.”
A fierce expression stole over the hoplomachus’ face, and peace settled over Jonathan. God’s work for him must be finished. He’d lose his life before he ever took another one without cause, and the indifference of a man, even Caesar, wasn’t good enough.
The collective approval of the mob rocked the sand beneath their feet as guards began to flow into the arena. Jonathan picked up his shield, put his back to the hoplomachus, and let the guards fan out around them. “No killing.”
“Them or us?”
“Them. They blindly obey. Spare them if you can.” Jonathan cast one last look at Caesar. The emperor was on his feet, screaming something lost in the roar of the mob while praetorians and guests in the emperor’s box scattered in every direction.
An arrow pierced Jonathan’s shoulder. No warning this time. His focus honed in on the archers among the guards he faced. He charged, with a shout that echoed over the cries of fifty thousand more.
Torren sat statue still on his stone seat with his hand over his mouth. Jonathan was throwing his life away, a fortune in future earnings with it, and though he had no way of knowing so, months of planning.
Senator Nerva leaned closer, the abhorrently strong scent of sweat clinging to him. “Your champion defies Caesar. I hope that’s not something I should expect from either of you in the future.”
Nerva had no way of knowing that by sunset today he should have been made the new Caesar. He’d wanted to be kept from the details as he called them. Those details—the bribes, the maneuverings, the assassination—they were in ruins now. Because of his gladiator.
Domitian screamed orders and both prefects were sent to deal with the problem in the arena. Without the prefects in place, men the alliance had bought, the plan would be instantly aborted. No assassination today. At least not of Caesar.
Torren held his chin so hard his jaw ached, determined to speak with a calm he did not feel. “Don’t worry, Senator. My champion won’t survive defying Caesar. Few do, as you know.”
The reminder they were in this together, even after success, could go to work on the senator. The emperor still stood, surrounded by servants and a few guests that remained. The prefects had left the box, and it appeared the others knew to abort. The alliance was safe, for now. For now, he’d have to resign himself to watching his best gladiator die.
But Jonathan wasn’t dying. Guards dropped all around his sword like ripe fruit from tree limbs in a high wind. The hoplomachus defended Jonathan’s back, and even with half a spear, defended it well. His gladiator still held his ground against the praetorians closing in among a field of fallen arena guards. A broken arrow shaft protrud
ed from his shoulder, a long slash across his ribs bled, and blood flowed from somewhere on his thigh. Yet the two dozen or so challengers hung back, as the braver among them would move forward to challenge.
Jonathan’s sword danced like a hummingbird moth in his left hand. His shield moved equally as fast in his right, both blocking and delivering blows. The pure union of strength, skill, and solid form holding firm in a hopeless fight took Torren’s breath away. It was beautiful to watch. The way Torren’s father had been—one with his sword.
But there were too many. Jonathan’s swings were slowing, his shield missing more and more hits, and the hoplomachus looked nearly spent. The circle of praetorians closed in on his champion from all sides now, like a pack of wolves on a tired stag. The violence from the sand bled into the tiers of seats, all the way to the upper rows. The din of the people became as crushing as the circle of praetorians about to take down their idol.
Nerva coughed and pulled his crimson-trimmed toga tighter around himself. “You see, Gallego? Even the common people have had enough of this emperor.”
Torren couldn’t think about Caesar or the many reasons they needed to free Rome from his tyrannical rule right now. That was Jonathan standing in the center of that circle of death. For the first time, this was no acceptable loss measured in coin and steeped in tradition. He tore his gaze away, unable to watch his gladiator—and friend—be struck down.
The shouts surrounding them erupted with fresh intensity.
Torren thought he might be sick.
Nerva grabbed his arm. “Look.”
Not wanting to appear weak in front of the soon-to-be emperor, Torren returned his gaze to the arena floor. Men from the first rows of seats had jumped the retaining wall and were running toward Jonathan, who still stood! They advanced on the guards, shaking fists in the air that made the folds of their togas whip like sails in a storm. Several of them picked up the weapons of the fallen guards.
Rome was rioting.
Nerva’s grip on his arm tightened. “We must go. Now.”
Pure fear filled the older man’s face. Fear echoed in the faces of the nobility around them, those that hadn’t already begun to pour into the arena. Rivulets of darker-clothed peasants ran down from the upper sections to mix with the white of the patricians as men continued to pour into the arena.
Water trumpets blasted from the pulvis, loud and long.
Domitian frantically waved the sign for life, his golden laurel leaf crown askew. The voice of the mob ebbed, its pack mentality fractured. For the space of two heartbeats, no one moved.
Sweat invaded Jonathan’s eyes but he dared not blink, surrounded by a wall of praetorians. He watched the eyes and weapons of those still standing for who would attack next. The man at his back bumped against him. “Still with me?” he yelled.
A grunt answered him.
The hoplomachus still stood. That was a blessing.
Over the horizon of helmets a mounted prefect galloped toward them. The soldier yanked the reins of his horse hard, and the animal reared and pawed the air. “Cohort, stand down! Stand down all of you!”
Stand down? If they were taken alive, they’d be tortured before being crucified or fed to the lions. Jonathan stepped forward and swung his sword at the guard nearest him. The sound of their steel clashing set other swords against each other, and the fighting all around them resumed.
In the corner of his vision, the prefect’s horse barreled toward them. “I said stand down! The gladiators will live. Stand down you fools, all of you.”
Reluctantly the praetorian Jonathan fought withdrew, holding his shield high.
Jonathan glanced to the pulvis, where Caesar waved the sign for life over and over. “God spares us for the moment, my friend.”
“Which god?”
“There is only one God.” Jonathan remained battle ready, watching everyone around him in turn. A few of the praetorians he’d wounded might ignore the command, judging by their murderous glares. Now that the pitch of the battle had ebbed, he felt the ache of his wounds. Felt his insides grabbing for air not tainted by the heat and sweat of his helmet. Felt the trembling of his muscles as he maintained a defensive form.
Spectators who’d spilled onto the arena floor rushed to clamber back over the wall. Caesar’s clemency had little chance of including his impromptu defenders. Slaves and citizens alike pulled them up. Several of the praetorians began to grab for the slower among them.
The prefect raced his mount in a tight circle around Jonathan and the hoplomachus, between them and the guards. “Cohort, stand down. Stand down or be flogged, the lot of you. Let them go.”
When the last spectator made it back over the wall, the prefect dismounted. Jonathan tightened his grip on his sword, beginning to feel the exhaustion deeper as his battle rage continued to recede.
The prefect approached, without drawing his sword. “Surrender your weapon.”
“No.”
“Surrender the weapon.” The man extended his hand. Close enough Jonathan could sever it in one strong swing. “None formed against you will prosper.”
The words of the prophet Isaiah in Deborah’s stories. From the lips of a praetorian? The prefect himself? Jonathan’s sword tip faltered toward the ground. The man drew nearer, and closed his hand on the flat of Jonathan’s blade, his eyes imploring.
“Tell your master Torren to do nothing until I send word. You must tell him. Now release the sword.”
Jonathan’s every instinct railed against him, but he finally let go.
The prefect tossed the sword to another guard. “Let them pass.”
He dropped the shield and cradled his arm against his chest, careful of the arrow shaft sticking out a hand’s width from his shoulder. The gate of life opened, never more beautiful than in this moment.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You.
The other gladiator tried to keep pace beside him. From the wounds on his arms and chest, he’d suffered bitter punishment in the fight, as had Jonathan. But they were still standing.
“You must tell me of this God of yours. A God who makes even Caesar yield to a slave.”
Jonathan pulled his helmet off and grinned at the man as they limped their way toward the open gate. “There is only one God, my friend. And it seems His work for me is not yet finished.”
Chapter 34 – Aftermath
Cedars along the stone highway stretched their long shadows in Torren’s path as his horse ambled along. He remembered these trees when they were no taller than his knees. When his wooden sword was half the size of his father’s, and his desire to please him knew no end. What would his father think of this?
Torren glanced at the ox-drawn cart rolling along beside him. Underneath that blanket and the watchful eyes of his medicus, lay what was left of Jonathan. Caesar had ordered him scourged—a generous punishment, merciful in the extreme, considering he’d openly defied him.
Torren had the people to thank for that.
“How is he?”
Otho raised the blanket and grimaced. “Keeping him in delirium is all I can do until we reach the ludis.”
The scourging Jonathan endured had quelled Torren’s fury at him for ruining everything. Months of planning, hours of covert meetings, all wasted. He’d had to return his full payment for these games—a hundred thousand sesterces—in apology. Feigning sincerity to Caesar while apologizing for his gladiator’s defiance required every bit of Torren’s will.
Domitian was supposed to be dead and Nerva the new Caesar. Torren had been close enough when he’d knelt at the emperor’s feet, to rush Domitian and snap his neck. He would have been killed by the guards without the prefects there to control them, but his reward in the afterlife would have been taking the tyrant Caesar with him. He would have done it if he’d been certain all in the alliance were still committed.
“He’s strong. He’ll pull through,” Rooster said.
Torren glanced over at Rooster. He must have hopped from the other cart, but ho
w long had he been walking between them?
“He will,” Rooster reassured him, before falling back.
“I hope you’re right.” Torren cast a hopeful glance at Otho, but the man frowned.
“He’ll live. Whether he fights again or not I can’t say. His shoulders—”
“I know.” Torren kicked his horse into a trot and let him pull well ahead. He couldn’t think about that right now. The earnings could be won back, even without Jonathan, and another attempt on Caesar planned. The increased danger lay in the time it would take. Caesar could replace the two prefects suddenly, like he did last year when their first attempt failed. The prefects led the praetorians, Caesar’s private army.
Without Norbanus and Secundus, the alliance would crumble. Given this failure, the price of the praetorians’ allegiance would be higher. The others in the alliance would blame Torren. They would want him to pay the difference alone, which Torren wouldn’t, even if he could. They were in this together or not at all. The longer they tarried, the greater the risk of discovery or Emperor Domitian accusing any one or all of them of treason. Of course they were plotting treason, unlike the many lives Domitian had ordered taken the past five years—men whose only crime was their wealth. Wealth Caesar would claim after their executions.
Torren turned and looked back at the men following him. Apart from Otho, Rufus, and the two guards traveling with them, each of his twelve gladiators was a proven crowd favorite. They were known by name, though none as well as Jonathan. Alone they were valuable, together worth a fortune, and he would free every last one of them, even Rufus, before Caesar would have them.
But it wouldn’t come to that. That’s why he’d entered the alliance in the first place.
Before enduring Caesar’s wrath, Jonathan delivered a message from Norbanus that made it sound like the prefect remained committed. Nerva would distance himself, but he’d don the purple when the time came. The three other senators who were the true power in their alliance, particularly Senator Tarquinius, would want to know what went wrong, to relay to their buried followers in the senate. All the while, some errant word spoken by a dimwitted slave into the wrong ears could send them all to crosses. Or the arena. That would be an ironic end for a lanista. Be sentenced ad gladitorium, death by gladiator.
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