The Dacian War (Book 6 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  Passing the Senate House and the Temple of the Vestal Virgins, the crowds swept Marcus and Petrus up the Sacred Way, straight towards the Colosseum and, as they made it to the top of a small rise the great cream coloured, limestone Flavian Amphitheatre appeared before them in its full, magnificent splendour. As he caught sight of it Marcus grunted in disbelief and a tingle of excitement ran down his spine. The oval shaped Colosseum was vast, easily the largest building that he had ever seen and from every access street, crowds of people were streaming towards it. Rising about 160 feet into the air, the three stories of elegantly painted stucco- decorated arcades were surmounted by a podium and an attic. Above the attic hundreds of mast corbels supported a retractable canvas roof. The mass of people assembling around the building was easily in the tens of thousands and the tension and excited buzz was unmistakeable. A series of individual stone posts formed the outer religious perimeter of the building and Marcus could see that people were already queuing to enter the Colosseum through the eighty entrance gates. Squads of soldiers from the Urban and Praetorian guard units were stationed around the entrance and exit gates, their armour, helmets and shields glinting in the morning sunlight.

  Grouped directly to the east of the Flavian Amphitheatre, just a short distance beyond the outer perimeter, the proud banners of the gladiator training schools were fluttering in the gentle, cool breeze. Beside the entrance gates to the Ludus Magnus, the Ludus Matutinus and the Gallic and Dacian gladiator-training schools, teams of town criers were standing on top of barrels, shouting out the schedule of the day’s games and the name of the benefactor who was paying for it all. Their voices however were barely audible amongst the noise of the surging crowds.

  “Remember entrance gate 22, Marcus,” Petrus called out as he struggled to stay on his feet amongst the frighteningly-packed mass of moving people.

  Marcus wrenched his eyes away from the gladiator schools and turned to stare at the long snaking queues. The four main axial entrances seemed to be reserved for the elite and the wealthy and many of the upper-class citizens seemed to have brought their own chairs and cushions to sit on.

  As they approached the outer religious boundary a disappointed and angry cry rose amongst the vast crowds.

  “No bread, no free bread. No bread.”

  The cry spread through the vast crowds of spectators and with the flick of fingers the mood seemed to change slightly from excitement to disappointment.

  “Arseholes,” a man beside Marcus cried angrily, directing his fury at no one in particular. “They fucked it up again. No free bread handouts, again. What am I supposed to eat today then? It’s a disgrace.”

  Passing the religious boundary, Marcus and Petrus struggled through the crowd until they finally caught sight of the number ”22” chiselled into the stone above an entrance gate. When it was their turn to pass through the gate they showed their numbered pottery shards to a slave, who checked the tickets without saying a word. Then they were being pushed up the stone steps towards a passageway. Another flight of steps followed and then another, until they came out onto a long curving passageway with multiple entrances that led out onto the different sections of the stadium. Marcus paused suddenly, unsure of what to do. Pushing past him was a continuous stream of people anxiously looking for their section. More slaves, checking people’s tickets and directing them to their seats, were standing beside each entrance that led out onto the terraces. Finally spotting section 9, Marcus beckoned for Petrus to follow him. Showing the numbered pottery shards to one of the slaves Marcus ducked through the short passageway and as he emerged out onto the open terraces, he gasped in amazement. Extending out before him was the interior of the Colosseum and what a sight it was. Stretching for 600 feet in length and 500 feet wide, was a vast open space, with the tiered terraces rising before him, packed with tens of thousands of spectators. Covering most of the top of the amphitheatre, the Velarium, the retractable canvas roof was at its full extent shading the spectators from the sun. Inside the stadium, the noise was already deafening as more and more people streamed out onto the terraces to take their seats.

  “Are you going to move or what?” an annoyed voice behind Marcus snapped jolting him into action.

  Hastily he turned and finding row 6 he and Petrus edged along the wooden bench until Marcus spotted their numbered seats, 12 and 13. On the plain wooden bench someone had scratched two phallic symbols. Sitting down, Marcus turned to look around him. The section he was in seemed to already contain a couple of hundred people and as he glanced at the faces of the people around him, he knew it would be impossible to pick out Abraham. But the Christian priest must be watching. By now he would know what they looked like. Twisting his head Marcus turned to gaze up at the top of the Colosseum. There was another ring of sections above them but it seemed to be reserved for the poor and for the women, for there was no seating space and the spectators were all standing up.

  “This is absolutely amazing,” Petrus hissed as he took his seat beside Marcus. “How did they ever manage to build this place?”

  Marcus did not reply. Instead he leaned forwards and peered down towards the open central arena below him. The sandy space was completely empty and there was not so much as a hint at what the coming spectacle was going to contain. Switching his gaze to the fifteen feet high wall that enclosed the arena, Marcus could see that the elite of Rome had the best seats, closest to the arena itself and that the sections above them seemed to reflect the social class hierarchy of Rome.

  “This will be a story to tell the brothers back in Reginorum,” Petrus gasped as he stared at the arena, his cheeks blushing with excitement. “I, Petrus, have actually sat in the Colosseum in Rome.”

  “Remember why we are here,” Marcus growled as once again he turned to glance at the faces around him but amongst the hundreds of spectators, no one was paying him any attention. The people’s eyes were firmly fixed on the sandy arena below and as the seats slowly filled up the sense of expectation in the crowd continued to grow.

  When the games finally began, it was to a loud cacophony of trumpets and as the noise died away the crowds grew quiet. Marcus leaned forwards so that he could get a better view, as a man in a white toga appeared below him in the emperor’s personal viewing box and in a loud voice, started to address the crowd. But despite the respectful silence Marcus could barely hear the man.

  “Is that the Emperor Trajan?” Marcus asked nudging his neighbour and gesturing at the speaker.

  The spectator beside him jutted out his chin. “No, Trajan has left the city for the Dacian frontier,” the man replied annoyed at the interruption. “There is a war on, don’t you know. That man down there is Gaius Avidius Nigrinus. He’s a close friend of the emperor and one of the wealthiest men in Rome. He gets to speak because he is paying for today’s show.”

  For a moment, Marcus studied the distant figure. Then abruptly he turned to glance around at the crowd but he saw no one watching him. And yet Abraham had to be here. Irritably Marcus shook his head and slowly raised his hand in a rude fuck-off gesture. He didn’t like not being in control.

  Down in the arena the crowds suddenly cheered as through one of the side gates a stream of exotically-clad hunters appeared. The roars of the crowd grew as the animal hunts reached their climax with the ritual slaying of a huge black bull. Marcus sighed and once more turned to look around as the heralds announced an interval to allow slaves to rush into the arena to remove the carcasses of the slain animals. Along the aisles that separated the sections of the terraces, food sellers swiftly appeared and began to do a brisk trade with the hungry and excited spectators. Marcus was staring up at the sections higher up the stands when the whole Colosseum, some sixty-five thousand or so people suddenly erupted into a huge ecstatic roar. Startled he turned to see what was going on.

  In the arena, an opening had appeared in the sand and from the depths below the Colosseum a lift suddenly appeared. Standing on the square elevator as it slowly rose, surrounded by
three armed men, was a solitary bearded figure, clad solely in a white loin-cloth. His arms and legs were shackled in iron chains. As Marcus stared down at the scene, the three guards pushed the prisoner out onto the sand and towards the centre of the sand-covered arena and as they did, the roar of the crowd grew. Marcus frowned as he gazed at the man, then slowly his mouth opened, as he understood what was happening. The prisoner was about to be executed. With a final push that sent the man crashing to his knees in the sand, the guards left him and hastily beat a retreat to one of the gates in the side of the arena wall. And as they did the roar of the crowd rose to another pitch as, at the far end of the arena, another gate opened and several lions came bounding into the Colosseum. In the arena, the hapless, solitary, chained prisoner staggered to his feet and turned to face the wild animals. Around Marcus the crowds were going wild, their arms raised above their heads and the noise was deafening. The lions, catching sight of the man lowered their great maned heads and slowly began to advance on the prisoner and as the animals closed with their prey the man calmly stood his ground and raising his shackled arm he made the sign of the cross. At Marcus’s side, Petrus suddenly gasped.

  “He’s a Christian,” Petrus exclaimed with bulging eyes as he finally realised what was going on.

  Marcus did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the Christian down in the arena. The man was about to be torn to shreds by the lions and the crowds were loving it. As he stared at the man’s approaching death, Marcus’s eyes widened in shock and his cheeks broke into a fierce blush as suddenly the unexpected happened. Around the stadium, the tone of the cries and screams of the sixty-five thousand spectators changed, as down in the arena three young men and one woman suddenly appeared from nowhere and leapt over the wall and into the sandy arena. Ignoring the big starving lions, the four of them ran across the open space and as they reached the martyr they knelt, making the sign of the cross and then reached out to grasp hold of the condemned man’s body. On his seat, Marcus abruptly rose to his feet, his eyes suddenly moist and his chest heaving with a strange, unexpected emotion. The four youngsters seemed to have chosen to die with their master. They seemed to be praying. Only once before, many years ago, during the fight to break out from Tara in Hibernia had he seen such devotion to one’s comrades and the rawness had awoken something deep inside him. Around Marcus the crowds were screaming at full pitch as the starving lions charged and threw themselves at the disciples. Marcus forced himself to watch the scene as the starving beasts tore the five people to shreds, and as the animals wallowed in their blood and tore chunks of flesh from their bodies, the stadium erupted in an ecstatic scream of approval.

  When it was all over and the screams and yelling of the crowd had started to subside Marcus slowly sat back down again, his face ashen. In his seat, Petrus was staring at the gory, bloody scene in stunned, horrified silence. The execution was followed by several gladiatorial fights but Marcus no longer seemed interested in the spectacle. As the crowds around him roared out their approval he turned to gaze at the faces around him, lost in thought. It was only when the games had come to an end and the spectators were rising from their seats and heading for the exit that Marcus seemed to return to his normal self.

  “Let’s get this done as quickly as possible,” he hissed turning to glance at Petrus. “I am sick of this depraved town.”

  Slowly the crowd dispersed and Marcus was watching them depart when a man suddenly appeared and sat down behind them. Hastily Marcus and Petrus twisted around in their seats and looked up at him. The bearded, simply clad man was studying them with a calm, intelligent expression. He looked around Marcus’s age. Then before anyone could say anything he turned his attention towards Petrus and with his hand he made some strange secret signs. Petrus blushed as he quickly repeated the signs with his fingers.

  “You must be the Petrus who is so eager to meet me,” the man said with a satisfied nod. He spoke in a strange accented Latin. “I am Abraham and you have my attention. So, talk.”

  Petrus stammered something incoherently and then hastily glanced across at Marcus and as he did, Abraham calmly switched his attention to Marcus studying him with a hint of interest.

  “My name is Marcus,” Marcus said as he sized up the Christian priest, “Thank you for agreeing to meet us. An unusual place to arrange a meeting but effective. We need your help priest. That is why we are here.”

  “Many people need help,” Abraham replied with a gentle smile. “Some I can help, others I cannot. Why do you come to me?”

  Marcus sighed and turned to look away.

  “If you don’t trust me,” Abraham said quietly, “then why do you come to me for help?”

  “All right,” Marcus growled raising his hand in an annoyed gesture, “That’s not what I meant. We need your help, priest. The situation is as follows. We have a woman with us, a pious Christian woman. She used to be a slave but now she is no longer a slave, if you know what I mean. She needs to vanish, disappear. She needs a new home here in Rome, a place where her former master will not be able to find her. Petrus here, believes that you can provide her with a new life amongst your community. That’s why we need your help, priest.”

  For a moment, Abraham said nothing as he took in what had been said. Then calmly he scratched at his beard and fixed his pale eyes on Marcus.

  “So where is this woman? Why have you not brought her to me?” Abraham asked.

  “You like to take precautions, so do I,” Marcus snapped. “For all we know you could be a murderous rapist. We are not handing her over to just anyone. The woman is a good friend. If you agree to take her in, I will arrange for you to meet her tomorrow at a place of my choosing.”

  “If she is such a good friend, then why don’t you look after her yourself?” Abraham said with a slight frown.

  “She was born in Rome. She sees this as her home. This is where she wants to be and my home is far to the north,” Marcus replied.

  “She is able bodied and in good health,” Petrus interrupted hastily, “She is capable of working and she will not be a burden on anyone. I promise you. She is a good Christian woman. Her father was a Christian priest who lived here in Rome, many years ago, Nero had him crucified.”

  “Is that so?” Abraham replied with a sudden spark of interest as he turned to gaze at Petrus. For a moment, his eyes lingered, then slowly Abraham turned to stare at Marcus.

  “I was watching you when the wild beasts tore the prisoner to pieces,” the Christian priest said with a little smile. “Your reaction was different to that of the crowd. For a while I thought I even saw tears in your eyes. Could it be that you have Christian sympathies?”

  “The four disciples, sacrificing themselves so willingly. That was a rare noble act,” Marcus said as abruptly he looked away. “Such acts are very rare and should be treated with the respect they deserve.” Marcus fell silent. Then he turned on the priest. “You don’t seem so concerned yourself. He was one of your kindred after all, who was executed today.”

  In his seat, Abraham shrugged and turned to stare down at the arena. “There is nothing new in what you witnessed today. This is the life that we Christians must live and endure here in Rome. One gets immune to it after a while.”

  Then Abraham gestured at the Colosseum and the terraces that had emptied surprisingly quickly.

  “Petrus, I heard you ask how they could have built this place,” Abraham said in a calm voice. “Well the Colosseum was funded by the gold that Emperor Vespasian stole from the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem and much of the actual building was constructed by using the muscle power of over a hundred-thousand Jewish prisoners of war. That included my family, bless their souls. This place, this mighty building is nothing more than a symbol of theft and murder, an abomination in the eyes of God and yet,” Abraham sighed, “my fellow Romans love it so.”

  Slowly Abraham turned to look at Marcus.

  “If I am going to help you,” he said, “then I am going to need to know everything about
this woman. I have people who rely on me. I will not put them in danger for you. So, start telling me everything.”

  Hastily Petrus glanced across at Marcus and gave him a little agreeing nod.

  Marcus looked down at the floor. The request seemed fair.

  “Her name is Esther,” he replied, “And I spoke the truth when I said that she is a runaway slave.”

  “Why did she runaway? What was the name of her master? Why are you involved?” Abraham said quickly.

  Marcus hesitated. Beside him Petrus gave him another encouraging nod.

  “Her former master’s name was Priscinus,” Marcus muttered at last. “He was a wealthy citizen who owned a farm near to my own in Britannia. There was a land dispute between myself and Priscinus and during the dispute Esther murdered her master on the instructions of my sister. I thought the matter was resolved but now the Governor of Britannia has got involved. The Governor was a friend of Priscinus and he has employed a man, a former tax collector named Cunitius, to investigate the matter. That’s why we could not stay in Britannia. That is why we came to Rome. Esther needs a new home. A place where no one knows about her past. They will execute her if she is caught. You know what happens when they catch runaway slaves, especially Christian ones.”

  Marcus fell silent. On his bench above them, Abraham was looking thoughtful.

  “So, that is why you are so keen to come all this way and make sure that she is well looked after,” the Christian priest said at last, as a little smirk appeared on his lips. “You don’t really give a damn about the woman, you just want to make sure that your sister’s role in a murder is never revealed.”

  “That’s right,” Marcus said turning to face Abraham with a bitter face. “We all do things in life of which we are not proud. So, will you help us?”

  Abraham abruptly looked away and for a while he was silent. Then he turned to Marcus and nodded.