by Ben Kane
He could not block out the terrible sounds of distress as the deserter was torn apart half a dozen paces away. Or the delirious shouts from the people sitting overhead. While Romulus had no sympathy for men who would run and leave their comrades in the midst of a battle, he didn't think that they deserved to die like sheep, or deer. Crucifixion was brutal beyond belief, but this was worse. To the rabid citizens above, however, this was justice being done.
It was a long while before all the shrieking stopped, but the men's deaths did not bring silence to the arena. Instead the screams were replaced by the growls of wolves arguing over their prey, and the noise of bones being cracked by powerful jaws. The spectators began to lose interest and soon, the predators were forced out of the arena by dozens of slaves. While some banged drums and cymbals to cause confusion, others carried shields and flat pieces of wood. Walking close together in a long line, they herded the wolves back through the open grilles and into their cages.
During this interlude, Memor reappeared in the corridor. With a cruel wink at Romulus, he picked the second trio of soldiers and sent them out to face two bears and a pair of wild bulls. Still giving the friends no clue as to what they'd face, he disappeared again. Romulus' stomach clenched into a tight knot, and he sat down. He was damned if he'd watch another spectacle like the previous one. Besides, his fear was threatening to overcome him. Although death had been omnipresent in his life since Gemellus had sold him into the Ludus Magnus, some tiny chance of survival had always appeared. He'd beaten an older, more experienced gladiator; he'd survived the slaughter at Carrhae to be taken prisoner; he'd escaped the almost-certain annihilation of the Forgotten Legion by a vast Indian army. Now, with his ears ringing with the dying howls of his fellow captives, his life seemed to have come to a complete dead end.
He glanced at Petronius, who was sitting beside him. The veteran's eyes were closed, and he was muttering a prayer to Jupiter. He's more composed than I am, thought Romulus with surprise, and the poor bastard shouldn't even be here. He could have walked away and left me to it. A true friend, he didn't. Shame filled Romulus. How could Petronius face death like a man when he was acting like a scared child? His comrade deserved more respect.
'Time's up,' Memor's voice broke in.
Romulus looked up. Hands on hips, the smirking lanista was standing a few paces away. Only the metal of the cage separated them. 'What I'd give for a chance to rip your throat out,' he said from between gritted teeth.
Memor grinned. 'Sorry,' he said. 'If that happened, my guards would kill you. Then the good people of Rome wouldn't get to see the final spectacle of the morning. Can't have that, can we?'
Romulus got to his feet.
Deep in his own world, Petronius stayed where he was.
Dusting his hands off, Romulus moved right up to the bars. All he was going to show from this moment on was steely determination. 'What have you got in store for us, you old shitbag?' he demanded fiercely.
Surprised, Memor took a step back. He was quick to recover his poise, though. 'An Ethiopian bull,' he replied. 'Some call it a rhinoceros.'
Studiously ignoring the lanista, Petronius stood up and watched the guards opening the exit. The only sign of his inner tension was his jaw clenching and unclenching. The wilder rumours in the ludus had included an armoured beast with the colloquial name of 'Ethiopian bull'. They had been terrifying.
Trying to protect his friend, Romulus had denied all knowledge of it. A pointless gesture, he now saw. He gripped the bars tightly, remembering the capture of a rhino he'd witnessed when working for Hiero. It had taken nearly a score of slaves with ropes and nets to subdue the giant two-horned creature enough to get it in a cage. More than one slave had died in the process. Plenty of others had been hurt in the weeks and months that followed. Irritable and aggressive, the rhino had been Hiero's prize capture. It could even be the same beast, Romulus reflected. How ironic. He closed his eyes and sent up a prayer to Mithras. Grant us a swift death.
Memor chuckled. 'You should never have run away,' he said, almost regretfully. 'Might have even won a rudis by this stage. Made me a fortune in the process. Now look at you.'
There was a clunking sound as the heavy planks of the exit were lifted and then placed on the ground. Blinding sunlight poured into the cage, making it difficult to see out into the arena. As usual in breaks between bouts, the audience was largely silent. All that could be heard were the voices of mobile food vendors hawking their wares of sausages, bread and watered-down wine, and bookmakers offering odds on the gladiator fights which would take place later in the day.
'Burn in Hades, Memor,' Romulus spat. Without waiting for a response, he trotted out on to the sand. It was the only gesture of defiance he could make. That, and dying like a man.
Casting dreadful aspersions on the lanista's parentage, Petronius followed.
Memor did not reply. Instead the planks were replaced, leaving the friends stranded in the arena. People noticed the activity on the sand, and turned from their conversations. 'Deserter scum,' shouted a portly figure in a ragged tunic. 'Cowards,' cried another. Their accusations were infectious and soon insults were pouring down on the pair.
The fact that desertion was not their crime was irrelevant, thought Romulus. Place anyone in this circle of death and the citizens would assume that they were guilty. And he was, technically. Although he'd been press-ganged into the Twenty-Eighth, Romulus had joined Crassus' army as a slave. Yet, even facing this most brutal of ends, he was glad that he had. What momentous things he had seen in only eight years — and what friends he'd made in Brennus, Tarquinius and Petronius. His only regret now was not being able to speak with Fabiola for just a few moments. That, and being reconciled with the haruspex.
'This Ethiopian bull,' said Petronius. 'Does it really have a horn as long as a man's arm?'
'Yes.' Romulus could still picture the slave he'd seen being gored by Hiero's rhinoceros. His had been a lingering death. 'At least that length.'
'It's twice as big as any bull?'
'Or more,' Romulus admitted. 'Aggressive too. One small help is that it's half-blind.'
'So what? We can't hide anywhere.' Fear surfaced on Petronius' face at last, but he did not panic. 'What do you think we should do?' he asked, his deferential tone giving Romulus the leader's role.
Romulus scanned the perimeter of the enclosure. There were no spikes to prevent animals jumping out, but at regular intervals stood spearmen and archers. Any attempt to escape would win them the same fate as the deserter a short time previously. He looked up at the sky, hoping against hope to be given a sign. A clue. Anything at all. He wasn't. It was just another glorious autumn morning. 'Don't know,' he said heavily. 'I can't think.'
Petronius barked a derisory laugh. 'Me neither,' he said. 'Still, it was good knowing you.'
'Aye, comrade,' answered Romulus. 'It was.'
Ignoring the shouts of the crowd, they gripped forearms.
A short delay followed. Initially, Romulus thought it was a cynical ploy by Memor or the master of ceremonies to increase their fear and terror. He caught sight of the lanista making his way to the seating area just to one side of the dignitaries' box, which was protected from the hot sun by the velarium, a large cloth awning. As the man responsible for providing the deserters, Memor had to be on hand if the editor, or sponsor, wanted to quiz him. Today of course, this was none other than Caesar himself. The great general's seat was empty, though. The box was occupied only by the announcer, a short figure with oiled hair and a self-important manner, and a couple of bored-looking senior officers. Caesar probably wouldn't turn up until much later in the day, thought Romulus. What interest would he have in watching men being torn apart by beasts? There was no martial skill in that.
'Why haven't they sent the damn thing in?' asked Petronius uneasily. 'I just want it to be over.'
Without answering, Romulus studied the crowd.
Even it had fallen silent.
Romulus cocked his hea
d and listened.
A moment later, bucinae blared from outside the amphitheatre. An expectant air fell over the waiting citizens, and the master of ceremonies jumped to his feet, self-consciously patting his pomaded hair. Memor looked over his shoulder, and Romulus gasped. 'It's Caesar,' he whispered. 'He's come to watch us.'
Petronius managed a laugh. 'Us losers? He'd want to see the Ethiopian bull far more.'
Romulus smiled lopsidedly. 'True enough.'
A party of legionaries led by a distinguished-looking centurion emerged into the box, giving it a quick once-over. When the officer was happy, the announcer was given a nod.
Raising his hands to attract attention, he stepped forward. 'Citizens of Rome. Earlier than expected, we are to be graced by the presence of the editor of today's games!' He paused.
Excitement rippled through the spectators, and suddenly all eyes were on the dignitaries' box. A few of the more enthusiastic in the crowd began to clap and cheer.
'He is the conqueror of Gaul, Britannia and Germania,' cried the master of ceremonies. 'Saviour of the Republic. The victor at Pharsalus, in Egypt and in Asia Minor!'
Always happy to hear of Roman military successes won in their name or otherwise, the audience yelled its approval. Thanks to Caesar's well-oiled propaganda machine, they were fully up to score with his awesome credentials, and loved him for it. Caesar had been immensely popular for years, and his recent victories over Pompey and the diehard Republicans were regarded by most in the same light as his previous triumphs. A man who lived by the same creed as his soldiers, who always won when it seemed impossible, Caesar embodied the stubborn nature of Rome.
'Descended from Venus herself, and the most important scion of the Julii clan,' bellowed the announcer. He waved his arms, stirring up the crowd even more. 'I give you the recent victor at Zela: Julius Caesar!'
This was met with the loudest roar of all.
A trio of slaves appeared in the arena. Each bore a placard upon which had been inscribed a single short word. The first read 'Veni', the second 'Vidi', and the last 'Vici'. Yet again, Romulus was impressed by Caesar's self-confidence. I came, I saw, I conquered. This succinct appraisal of the battle had swept through Caesar's celebrating army, and now it was being used to win over the Roman mob. Judging from their uproarious response, the move was a shrewd one.
Then the man himself appeared in the box. Clad in a white toga with a purple stripe running around its edge, Caesar acknowledged the peoples' cries with languid waves of his right hand. A good number of staff officers, senators and hangers-on crammed in behind him, eager to share in the glory. Of course the watching citizens did not give a jot for anyone except Caesar. The applause went on long after he'd taken a seat.
Meanwhile Romulus and Petronius stood on the hot sand, waiting to die.
After several circuits, the slaves bearing the placards disappeared from sight, and the self-important announcer waved for calm. There was a gradual reduction in the noise levels as the excited audience sat down, eager for the next part of the show to begin.
'In his generosity, Caesar has today arranged for an animal never seen before in Rome. Captured in the wilds of eastern Africa, it has been transported here for your pleasure. Many men have died to bring it to this arena. Now it will kill two more: the noxii before you.'
There was a deliberate pause, and the crowd shuddered with anticipation.
'Bigger than the largest of oxen, fiercer than a lion, and with an armoured skin tougher than the legionaries' testudo, Caesar presents — the Ethiopian bull!'
Romulus and Petronius exchanged a glance full of fear — and determination.
Moving silently on oiled pulleys and chains, a large iron portcullis opposite Caesar's position rose up. Soon a gaping black square was visible: the opening into a cage. Nothing emerged, and Romulus had a momentary fantasy that the creature within had already managed to escape. Loud shouts and the sound of weapons being dashed off bars deep inside the bowels of the amphitheatre soon dispelled this hope.
There was a series of annoyed grunts and then an immense brown-skinned animal trotted on to the sand. Hairless except for the tips of its wide ears and the end of its tail, it had a long, sloping head. From its nose projected two sharp, fearsome-looking horns. Its feet were large and three-toed, and there was a prominent hump of bone at the base of the skull, between the ears.
The rhino paused, its small, piggy eyes squinting as they adjusted to the bright light.
As one, the audience gasped with shock at the creature's outlandish appearance. This was stranger than the giraffe and zebras imported by Pompey, and more exotic than the elephants they were now used to seeing on a regular basis.
Romulus' heart stopped. It was bigger and more dangerous-looking than he remembered. 'If we stay still, it won't see us,' he whispered to Petronius.
'What damn good is that?' the other retorted.
Knowing that the two soldiers might try this ruse, Memor nodded at the archers, who loosed half a dozen arrows into the air. Aimed carefully, they smacked into the sand a few paces short of the pair's position. Their message was clear: move, or the next ones won't miss.
Romulus took a step forward, his mouth dry with tension.
Smirking, the bowmen relaxed.
The rhino's head turned at the movement. It snorted with suspicion.
Romulus froze. So did Petronius, who was picking up an arrow.
The armoured beast squealed a few times, and then pawed the ground. It had seen them.
Closing his eyes, Romulus prayed with all the fervour he could muster. Let me die fighting at least, great Mithras. Not like this.
Lowering its head, the rhino charged.
Chapter XII: Romulus and Caesar
Within a few heartbeats, the rhino was thundering towards them at full gallop. Although the arena was large, it would be upon them in a few moments. Despite this, Romulus' feet felt anchored to the spot. His life was over. In slow motion, he scanned the watching crowds. The wealthy toga-clad nobles and the grimy poor in their threadbare tunics. Caesar, on his velvet cushion, with his followers and soldiers arrayed around him. The greasy master of ceremonies. Memor, who looked delighted now that Romulus' fate was sealed. The guards on the edge of the enclosure with their bows and spears.
A daring plan took root in his mind.
'Quick! Grab an arrow,' hissed Petronius. 'It'll be some kind of defence.'
'I've got a better idea,' muttered Romulus. 'You go left, and I'll go right.'
'Why?'
'The beast can only follow one of us. When it does, the second can try to grab a spear from a guard.' Romulus jerked his head at the nearest. 'Look. It's pointing downwards, in case he needs to use it quickly. A lot of them are standing like that. Jump up, give the shaft a hard yank and there's a chance of gaining a weapon which would actually be useful. Then the one who's armed can protect the other.'
'The archers will be ordered to shoot us down if we do that,' breathed Petronius. A fierce spark lit in his eyes nonetheless. 'Won't they?'
'Probably. It'll be dangerous for both of us.'
There was a heartbeat's pause as both considered the obvious: whoever the rhino pursued would die.
'It's worth a try,' said Petronius after a moment's consideration.
'Better than just dying like cowards.'
'It is.' Petronius took a deep breath. 'Ready?'
The ground was already shaking from the rhino's approach. Its head was down, presenting the most terrifying of sights: its long front horn, which could gore deep into flesh. If it missed, the creature's wide skull, backed up by the weight of fifteen men, would smash bones, crush ribs, or both. Helpless from any of these injuries, its victim would then be trampled to death.
'Go!' shouted Romulus. Arms and legs pumping, he sprinted off to one side. His fear gave him an extra turn of speed, but he dared not look around until he'd counted fifteen or twenty paces. Then, not having been run down, he glanced back. His heart rose to his mo
uth as he saw the rhino charging after Petronius. With a daring jink to one side, the veteran avoided its first attempt to gore him in the back. He was now running in the opposite direction to it. Not for long. The enormous beast turned remarkably fast and pounded after Petronius again. With nowhere to hide, it would only be moments before it caught up.
Romulus turned away. Every single instant was vital. If both of them weren't soon to be bloody corpses on the sand, he had to forget Petronius. The guard he'd seen slouching over the low side of the enclosure was about two dozen steps away. Gripped by the action, the man hadn't moved, and his dangling spear was just within arm's reach. Acting as if he was searching for an exit, Romulus ran along the brickwork, silently counting his strides. He was careful to keep his gaze averted from the spearman.
The air filled with insults as the nearby spectators showed their contempt for his perceived cowardice. 'Miserable dog!' 'Trying to save your own skin? Fool!' 'Spineless whoreson!' Romulus ran on regardless. In the distance, he could still hear the angry snorts of the rhino. There had been no screams however, which gave him heart that it had not yet killed Petronius. Ten steps. Fifteen.
Romulus gritted his teeth as he drew closer. The guard had to be watching whatever was happening to poor Petronius, or he was lost. Twenty paces and he risked a look up. The broad-leafed blade was pointing downwards, its dull-witted owner oblivious to his approach. Mithras, help me, he thought. One more step, and Romulus bent his knees, leaping high into the air. With both hands, he grabbed hold of the shaft just below the head and pulled downwards. There was a strangled cry of surprise as the guard followed his weapon into the arena. Landing awkwardly, he found himself staring up at his own spear, which Romulus had reversed to point at his heart. The man had enough sense not to reach for his sword.
