Caligula

by Douglas Jackson

  Lion.

  The galley from Carthage to Ostia had carried them as cargo. Two big females and two cubs. Now he was staring into those same murderous eyes, pale golden yellow flecked with shadows of grey and shooting back pure hatred.

  He still did not truly understand why he had been sold to the slaver. His father was a Spanish auxiliary who had settled in Mauretania at the completion of his service. He had been a better soldier than farmer. Their little homestead in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains was a parched, dusty place in the summer where the rocks cracked with the frost in winter. His mother was a vague memory now, but he knew with certainty that she had loved him, if only because of the contentment he felt whenever he thought of her. If he closed his eyes he could almost recall her face and the damp, morning smell of her long black hair. They were always hungry, but could she have stood by while he was dragged away crying? He supposed she must have. That, he calculated, was in the eleventh year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius.

  Fronto had a dozen lions, including three magnificent blackmaned males. But there were also slim, athletic cheetah, and three lithe, spotted cats of a species unfamiliar to Rufus.

  'They are leopard,' Fronto explained. 'The crowd loves them. Big as a lion. Twice as fast. Once they get on top of a man, it doesn't matter how well protected he is, he's dead. Their teeth go for his throat and their claws go for his belly. You've seen a kitten worrying a dead pigeon, little paws scraping away like mad? Same thing with a leopard. If they can't get his belly, they'll get his balls. If not his balls, they'll strip his legs to the bone. Doesn't matter really. Just means it's over more quickly if they get his belly.'

  Finally, they came to what Fronto called his monster.

  'Amazing, isn't it? You'd never think something like that only eats grass.'

  Rufus gazed at the grey goliath standing alone in its paddock. The animal was about twice the size of a bull, with thick, leathery skin. Its head was large even compared to its body, but its legs were almost comically short. It had tiny eyes and from low on its wide, shovel nose projected two horns, one behind the other. The larger, at the front, was nine inches across at the base and tapered over about the length of two feet to a deadly point. The second was half the size, but looked even sharper.

  'I don't know what to do with it. It looks dangerous, but it never seems to do anything except stand around. You can pat it like a dog. Why don't you give it a try?'

  The eyes which studied Rufus brimmed with sincerity. Fronto wore the look of a man who had never done wrong in his life; a man who would go to his grave without a stain on his reputation. A man Rufus did not trust an inch.

  Fronto was testing him, and he believed he knew why. The shrewd trader was giving him his opportunity to prove himself in front of the men who might one day call him master. He looked again at the monster, which seemed to have grown even larger. The question was, would he survive the test?

  With more confidence than he felt, he grinned cheekily and said: 'Of course.'

  Titus, one of the slaves who formed Fronto's welcoming party, held the gate open for him, then, as he shut it again, whispered: 'Watch his ears.'

  Rufus walked slowly into the enclosure. The tension made his heart race, but the world seemed a clearer place and his stomach tightened with anticipation. He saw that the walls of this paddock, although built like the others of wooden planks about the height of a tall man, were strengthened by horizontal beams. In places, raw white patches stood out clearly as if the wood had recently been splintered.

  The heat of the sun beat on his back like a hammer as he marched further into the enclosure. Where the monster waited.

  After about twenty paces he noticed what might have been a flick of movement at the side of the animal's head. Yes, there it was again, an almost imperceptible twitch of the left ear.

  Never taking his eyes off the beast, he subtly changed direction. Now, each step took him diagonally across its front, rather than directly towards it.

  He couldn't believe something so big could move so fast. One moment the monster was motionless, its small eyes staring unseeing into the middle distance. The next its short legs were a blur of speed and it had covered half the distance between them with its head lowered and that lethal scimitar of a horn pointed directly at his groin.

  To turn and run directly towards the fence was pointless. He would never outpace this animal. But his change of direction had taken him slightly out of its path and that gave him a fraction of a second to sidestep the charge.

  He waited until he could have touched the lower horn with his outstretched hand before he dived low and to the right. With one movement he was on his feet again and his long legs flew as he sprinted towards the fence.

  As he ran, he could hear the beast's thundering hooves close behind and knew it had turned its huge bulk in an instant and was pursuing him. He could see the gnarled knots in the wood of the fence and the rusty heads of the nails which held it together. Behind him, the explosions of breath from the animal's nostrils told him it was closer still.

  One moment of hesitation and he was dead. He picked his spot on the fence, kicking up one leg and pushing with the other, so that for the final two paces before he hit it he was in the air. His front foot met one of the horizontal bars and he used every muscle he possessed to turn forward momentum into an upward leap that would carry him safely over. Another inch and he would have made it. Instead, the knee of his trailing leg smashed into the top plank, generating a fiery stab of pain and turning a controlled jump into an untidy, somersaulting flight. While he was airborne, he distinctly heard the thundering crash of something enormous and fast-moving hitting something even more solid and unyielding. Half a second later he landed with an impact that knocked the breath from his body, loosened several teeth and left him wondering how many bones he had broken.

  He lay, stunned, with the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth and dust clogging his nose.

  'You show a fair turn of pace for a baker, but your vault could have been more elegant.'

  Rufus opened one eye. Fronto was standing over him, his bulk blocking the sunlight.

  'Come on, get up and let's see what you've done to the poor old monster.' He gave Rufus his arm and pulled him to his feet.

  Wincing with pain, the boy limped to the fence, which now sported a splintered hole the size of a man's fist. Rufus looked through the gap and flinched as he stared into the angry eye of the monster. It gave a shake of its head before trotting back towards the centre of the paddock.

  'She'll have a bit of a headache, but she should be fine,' Fronto said proudly.

  'What about me?' Rufus demanded. 'She could have killed me. You said I could pat her like a dog.'

  'I may have exaggerated a little,' Fronto admitted. 'But that is lesson number one for you, boy. You've proved you're not frightened of animals, but you must learn to respect them. Next time you go into a paddock or a cage, study what is in it first. These animals are all dangerous in one way or another. Even the small antelopes will knock you into the middle of next week if they're protecting their young.'

  He picked up a piece of dung that lay at his feet and held it up to Rufus's face.

  'See? It's all about profit. It doesn't matter whether it stinks like shit or smells of perfume – if it makes a profit it smells sweet. Now, we'll start you at the bottom. Titus, show him how to muck out the wild pigs.'

  II

  The bottom made Rufus's previous existence seem a positive paradise.

  Then, he had smelled fresh bread every day. Here, he was assaulted by a dozen different kinds of animal dung. But every moment he spent with the animals he learned.

  He learned how to feed and water them. Each species had a carefully planned diet to ensure it was kept in the peak of condition. Too much meat and the cats would become fat and lazy. Too little and they would lose their great strength.

  He learned to look for the symptoms that would tell him when an antelope was sick with
one of the wasting diseases which plagued their kind. One sign of sores around the mouth or hooves and the entire herd might have to be slaughtered.

  He learned to spot the slight swelling which showed that a doe was pregnant and needed to be moved from the paddock.

  And he learned what happens to a man who gets careless in the company of lions. He would never forget the rags of torn flesh and splinters of bone that were all that was left of poor, slow-witted Titus after he failed to recognize a lion's growls of pain from a broken tooth. The other slaves did not hear his screams until it was too late and the overseer decided it was more economic to allow the animal to devour him – he was already dead – than to bury him. There was no question of killing the lion. Its value was ten times that of Titus and, as Fronto pointed out, its destiny was to kill men.

  Day by day and week by week, his respect for Fronto grew. The animal trader had an unquenchable thirst for life that made even his competitors like him, and Rufus was sucked along on a tidal wave of enthusiasm which often left his head spinning. But when Fronto returned from his next trip to Africa to purchase stock to replenish the pens and paddocks, the grin that normally split his face was replaced by a weary frown.

  'It's getting worse,' he complained, as they leaned together on a fence watching two gazelle bucks butting heads in a mock test of strength. 'Always our buyers look for something bigger, something better, something more spectacular, something more exotic, and each time I see my suppliers they claim that the animals are scarcer or the herds and the packs that feed on them have moved further south, and they put their prices higher. I'd say they were holding out on me but I know from other traders that it's the same wherever you go. The only consolation is, I can pass on the costs, but for how long, only Jupiter knows.'

  'Can't you breed them?' Rufus asked.

  'Breed them? I'm a trader, not a nursemaid. Buy cheap and sell at a profit. Anyway, most of them won't breed. It's been tried. You can do it with the antelope if you're careful and give them a bit of space and peace and quiet. But the rare ones, the ones where the real profit is? Never. Those big cats? In their own territory they breed like rats. No predators apart from their own kind. But put them in a cage and it's as if they forget how it's done. Come with me.'

  Rufus followed Fronto as he marched purposefully towards one of the far pens. 'They tell me you learn fast, boy. That's good.' He unchained the gate. 'This one arrived today, from Africa. From now on she is your responsibility. Feed her. Understand her. Win her trust. Gain her respect.'

  Rufus had his own leopard.

  The cat was about six months old, the spots already showing on her flanks through the fading down of her cub fur.

  'Her mother died on the passage from Africa. If I put her in a pen with a family of older leopards she'll be torn apart.'

  As yet, she had none of the pent-up violence and hatred of humans that characterized an adult leopard. Instead, she exuded a kitten-like playfulness as she wrestled and toyed with anything moveable. To watch her in her innocent pleasure gave Rufus a feeling of joy such as he had never experienced.

  He called her Circe.

  Circe was the first thing of value Rufus had ever owned and he vowed to form a bond with the cat which would never be broken. As Fronto conceded, he had learned quickly and learned well from the other animal handlers. He knew when to approach and when to leave well alone, when to pet and when to punish. He would tame the cub, turn her to his will.

  He didn't notice the sly smiles of his workmates as they watched him with the cat.

  A month later, when Fronto next returned, he looked at the leopard lying at Rufus's feet and slowly shook his head.

  'Come. It's time you visited the arena.'

  The animal trader dressed in his finest for the occasion, and master and slave travelled to the capital in a one-horse cart.

  'What are you gaping at, boy?'

  Rufus knew this journey well, but the approach to Rome never failed to awe him. At first, the world's greatest city was a gigantic mirage of orange and white shimmering in the heat, but, as they moved closer, the images took on structure and shape, and finally – unbelievably – solidity.

  The city rose before him, ridge after ridge like the craggy foothills of a mountain. Yet there was nothing natural about this magnificence. Every part of it had been created by human hands. There were buildings of such vast scale and splendour that they could only be the palaces of gods. Rows of huge pillars held up massive triangular roofs; great curved walls of stone rose like cliffs. And such colours: oranges and reds, silver and gold. The whole city glowed in the afternoon sunshine as if it was on fire.

  Rufus's errands between the bakery and the baker's villa had allowed him to explore the crowded alleys and wide avenues. He was fascinated by the great triumphal arches and pillared, monumental buildings. He looked enviously at the inscriptions. Of course he could not read them, but he knew they were dedicated to the great heroes of the past: Julius Caesar, Augustus, Crassus and Pompey. The vast palace complex on the Palatine Hill, which he studied from the Sacer Clivus, drew him like a moth to a flame. He never dared to approach the narrow stairway which would have taken him to its centre, but he knew in his heart that here was a paradise fit for Jupiter himself.

  And, as he explored, he made an important discovery. Rome was a slave city.

  It was true. Slaves outnumbered Roman citizens by a margin of ten to one and if the Romans ruled Rome, slaves ran it. Slaves or former slaves were doctors, lawyers and moneylenders. They managed businesses for their masters. They made things, bought things and sold things. Many slaves were enormously rich and many more were trying to be. It was rumoured that slaves even had the ear of the Emperor.

  Rome would be nothing without its slaves.

  At the city gates, Rufus and Fronto were forced to dismount from the cart, for only wagons carrying imperial couriers or transporting goods to the markets were allowed within the walls during daylight. The animal trader hired a curtained sedan chair carried by four muscular Syrians and directed them to the great Amphitheatre Taurus. They set off at a steady trot with Rufus running alongside, battling his way through the crowds.

  The babble of noise that accompanied the frenzied comings and goings in the city was an assault on the ears. Every Roman seemed to be talking at once and not all of them in the same language. Vendors shouted their wares from myriad stalls lining the street. The variety was mind-boggling. Within a few yards you could buy shoes, the leather they were made from and the knife you would use to cut it. In front of a spice shop, the air would be filled with the scent of cinnamon, pepper and frankincense. Mutilated beggars called for offerings of food from the entrances to narrow side streets while next door fat shopkeepers offered honeyed almonds at exorbitant prices.

  The Taurus was close to the Campus Martius, on the northern side of the city. Only its lower storeys were made of stone, while the upper part was wooden, unlike the monumental Circus Maximus and the crumbling but still impressive Magnum, the 30,000-seat theatre of Pompey.

  Taurus had been gifted to the city fifty years before. Now, it was showing its age like an old whore whose best days are behind her. Tiberius was rumoured to have plans for a new and even greater arena, but a building on such a scale would take many years to construct, if the notoriously frugal Emperor ever sanctioned the cost at all.

  The amphitheatre had forty entrances for the paying public, but Fronto led Rufus to a small, unmarked door which opened on to a narrow, torchlit wooden stairway descending into the bowels of the complex. As he followed his master, Rufus felt the same excitement he experienced when he entered the monster's paddock. Fronto led the way through a labyrinth of passages, large and small rooms, and animal cages, all cloaked in a fetid atmosphere that was rank with the odours of stale sweat, urine and excrement, animal and human. There was also another smell, which overwhelmed the others and made his nostrils twitch. It puzzled him, until he was struck by a vision of the white bone and scraps of r
ed meat which were all that was left of Titus after the lion had killed him. The smell was blood.

  The realization of where he was sent a flutter through his chest. During his years in the bakery Rufus had dreamed of the moment when he would sit in the stands above and cheer on the favourites whose names and careers he knew by heart.

  'When will we see the gladiators?' he asked, his voice betraying his excitement. Fronto turned to him, and Rufus was surprised at the intensity of his gaze.

  'You will see them in the arena and not before. Men – and women – pay good money to share their quarters with them before they enter the theatre of combat. There is an atmosphere, a tension, in that room, Rufus, unknown in any other place on this earth. I have seen couples with some of the finest bloodlines in Rome so overpowered by the stink of raw fear and excitement that they rutted on the earth floor before them.'

  He breathed heavily from his nose, as if he had just finished some hard physical labour.

  'Do you know what those men on the verge of their deaths did? They turned their eyes away and looked at the walls. There is more dignity and honour in the meanest condemned slave than in such socalled nobles.'

  They took a stairway leading upwards and came to a door that opened directly on to the killing ground. Rufus gazed across a flat earth-covered surface ringed with smooth planks to twice the height of a man. Whoever entered this trap would not escape by climbing its walls.

  'What you see here is nothing,' Fronto whispered, his voice suddenly cold, and Rufus felt a faint shiver run down his spine. 'This is an appetizer for the poor and the bored who have no money or nothing better to do. Remember. It is nothing.'

  From behind them came the distinctive clank of metal upon metal. Rufus turned to see three terrifying figures.

  III

  At first glance, they did not appear human. The leader wore a bronze helmet which covered his entire head, with slits for eyes and mouth, and strands of hair delicately woven in metal across the scalp. Otherwise he was clad only in a loincloth and a wide belt which cut diagonally across his left shoulder before running round his waist. In his right hand he carried a short-handled, wide-bladed axe, with a second in a loop attached to the belt.