Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (39 page)

‘Lysander, where is the location of the accommodation holding the gladiators from the
Ludus
Capua?’

He looked in confusion at me and then at Domitus, the latter realising I had made a mistake.

‘That’s enough, Nikephorus,’ snapped Domitus, ‘you forget yourself.’

‘My apologies,
dominus
,’ I said meekly.

‘Lysander,’ said Domitus, ‘I would like to know where the gladiators from Capua are accommodated so I can pay my compliments to my fellow
lanista
.’

‘I shall find out for you, sir,’ replied Lysander.

Domitus allowed the Greek slave to fill our silver cups and then waved him out of the room. He dismissed the other two slaves who had been standing immobile near the doors and closed it.

‘You must be more careful, Pacorus,’ Alcaeus admonished me, ‘we are not at Dura.’

‘He’s just a slave,’ sneered Surena.

Alcaeus turned on him. ‘Don’t be a fool. Slaves know everything that goes on in a household and they gossip more than old women in the market place.’

‘Even if we know where Burebista and his wife are located,’ said Drenis, ‘we still have to get them out of their quarters, which are no doubt guarded as ours are.’

‘I have heard that an especially brave gladiator can be awarded his freedom in the arena,’ said Surena, ‘by being given a wooden sword.’

Arminius nodded. ‘It’s called a
rudis
.’

‘Perhaps Burebista can win his freedom, then,’ suggested Surena, ‘and leave Ephesus a free man.’

‘Except that he is dangerous criminal condemned to the games,’ said Drenis, ‘which means that he can never be given his freedom. His fate is to be a gladiator until he is finally killed in the arena.’

Gallia curled her top lip. ‘How typical of the Romans to think of such a cruel fate.’

Domitus shrugged. ‘Burebista was one of the commanders of the Spartacus rebellion. Rome never forgets its enemies so Burebista will never be given his freedom. It would set a bad precedent.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘If we know where he and his wife are being kept we can rescue them. We shoot down the guards and any gladiators that offer resistance and then escape on board Athineos’ ship.’

‘Or,’ offered Domitus, ‘we could infiltrate the
Ludus
Capua and smuggle them both out without alerting the guards, thus giving us a greater chance of getting to the harbour and aboard Athineos’ vessel.’

I sat down beside Gallia. ‘I will decide on the exact strategy tomorrow, after the games. But whatever happens we will make our move tomorrow evening.’

I felt very pleased with myself but Alcaeus suddenly stood, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bulging.

‘Are you mad, Pacorus? Have you all taken leave of your senses?’

I looked at Gallia who merely shrugged, while Drenis and Arminius looked bemused. Now Alcaeus began pacing.

‘This afternoon I made a sacrifice to Asklepios.’

‘Who?’ said Surena, who obviously had not been listening to the doctor earlier in the day.

Alcaeus glowered at him. ‘The God of Healing, obviously. After prayers at the sanctuary the priest sacrificed a pair of hens that I had purchased. When he killed the second one blood spurted out in all directions, including on his robe. He told me that he had never seen such an effusion of blood and that it was an omen of bloody days.’

He pointed at me. ‘It is a sign that Ephesus will see much blood in the coming days.’

‘Hardly an omen, doctor,’ remarked Domitus casually, ‘seeing as the games are about to begin.’

Alcaeus regarded him coldly. ‘I asked Asklepios to give me a sign regarding our group only, not the games in general. My blood ran cold when the priest interpreted the omens.

‘So I ask you, Pacorus. I beg you,’ his voice was loud and laced with emotion, ‘abandon this insane project. Let us leave Ephesus tonight and return to Dura. Burebista is meant to be here, in the arena as a gladiator. It is his destiny; it is not yours.’

I stood and walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

‘I cannot do that, my friend.’

Alcaeus went to bed in a bad mood but as I lay beside Gallia I was excited not only because I had spoken to Burebista but also about the prospect of fighting in the arena. I lay on my side and began stroking the soft skin of my wife. Gallia turned to face me.

‘It will be hard for me to watch you on the sand,’ she said.

I traced a finger along her cheek. ‘Alcaeus was wrong. It is my destiny to follow in Spartacus’ footsteps.’

I let my hand follow the contours of her lithe body, caressing her breast and continuing on down to her buttocks. I kissed her tenderly on the mouth and moved my hand towards her inner thigh. She grabbed my wrist.

‘Not tonight, Thracian. You must conserve your strength.’

As per usual I awoke before dawn, thin shafts of sunlight lancing through the closed wooden shutters beyond which was the small balcony that overlooked the courtyard. Already slaves were sweeping it as I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on my leggings and tunic. I looked under the bed and checked my
spatha
in its scabbard was still there. Of course it was, but old habits die hard. Mine and Gallia’s bows were in their cases on the chairs by the table, Gallia’s quiver of silver arrows beside our others carrying ordinary missiles underneath the chairs. Our bedroom was like a small armoury.

Gallia opened her eyes and began to pull on her clothes.

‘I hate covering my head and face,’ she complained.

‘We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, you know that. In any case, you won’t need to wear your Agraci robes after tonight. We will be sailing back to Cyprus and then Syria.’

She stood, her naked body framed in the light seeping through the shutters. She was so beautiful and I wanted to make love to her. She saw me making my way towards her.

‘You have no time, Pacorus, and you will need your strength. Now go and eat some breakfast.’

My ardour disappeared. ‘I sometimes think that the Gauls can be as cruel as the Romans when required.’

‘Far crueller if need be.’

I wandered down to the banqueting room, slaves on their knees cleaning the stairs and hallway. The air was warm and fresh and the sound of the fountains in the courtyard created a calming effect. It was hard to believe that in a few hours the city would be witnessing large-scale organised bloodshed. The slaves did not stand when I passed them because they knew I was a gladiator, a Roman slave who shed blood for the amusement of the crowd. However, when Domitus appeared at the top of the stairs they stood as one and bowed their heads. He followed me into the banqueting room and sat on the edge of a daybed, a slave rushing from the kitchens with a bowl of barley porridge for him.

He took the bowl and began shovelling the food into his mouth with his hand.

‘You can take the Roman out of Rome but not Rome out of the Roman, it is true,’ I chided him.

‘Get some food in your belly, you’re going to need it.’

More slaves arrived from the kitchens with barley cakes, eggs, grapes, myrtle berries, figs and bread. Jugs of watered-downed wine were placed on the table to be poured into bowls so we could dip our bread into it.

‘This is going to be a strange day,’ he said after he had finished his porridge. ‘Myself and Gallia sitting in seats watching you and the others fighting for your lives on the sand below. Not sure I can hold with it.’

‘It’s too late for misgivings, old friend. Besides you know that highly prized gladiators stand a good chance of surviving a spectacle.’

He picked up a fig. ‘In Italy, perhaps, but you have seen the fat oaf who is the
editor
. He reeks of sadistic perversion and has a few tricks up his sleeve, you mark my words.’

A slave handed me a bowl of porridge. ‘I thought he just reeks. And what tricks?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Domitus. ‘But
editors
like to make their mark on the games, which usually means devising new ways of spilling blood before a baying crowd.’

I took a mouthful of porridge and when I looked up Lysander was standing next to Domitus, as usual in a pristine tunic and wearing a broad grin. His ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere unnerved me.

‘What is it?’ queried Domitus.

‘I have the information you requested,
dominus
, regarding the location of the
Ludus
Capua. It is next to a Roman barracks building.’

Domitus frowned. ‘Next to a barracks, why?’

‘Because the gladiators from Capua are all notorious criminals,
dominus
. All condemned to the games, so I was told.’

He looked at me. ‘Not free men.’

Domitus waved him away.

‘So much for your plan,’ he whispered to me.

‘It just makes our task more difficult,’ I told him. ‘Not impossible.’

I had no time to think about rescuing Burebista as the others came down for breakfast and a runner arrived from the
editor’s
offices with orders that all gladiators were to assemble in the
agora
four hours before noon. We spoke little as we changed into our fighting attire. Though I had trained with it many times my bronze helmet still felt heavy, whereas my
sica
felt ridiculously light, almost like a feather. A deadly feather.

Drenis was attired in an identical manner to myself and Arminius wore the armour of a
Provocator
, his head protected by a heavy bronze helmet. Surena seemed naked by comparison with his bare torso, right arm and legs, the bronze
galerus
his only item of armour. Domitus threw pairs of sandals on the floor and instructed us to put them on. Ephesus may have had marble streets but none of us were used to walking around barefoot, except Surena. My former squire looked remarkably relaxed as he lazily manoeuvred his net and jabbed the air with his trident. His large red loincloth and wide leather belt with dagger attached gave him the appearance of the prince of an underwater kingdom, but then that was the idea.

Domitus went to Arminius, Drenis and myself and attached red and blue plumes to each of our helmets. Issued by the office of the
editor
, red was a colour associated with Mars, the God of War. Blue, on the other hand, was considered by Rome to be the colour of barbarians and thus a reminder to everyone that gladiators were foreign heathens. Our other symbols were of Dura: the griffin motif that I carried on my shield and helmet and the engravings of the same beast on the armour of the others.

Alcaeus, a large leather bag filled with medicines and bandages slung over his shoulder, stood with Gallia as Domitus faced us all.

‘Time to go.’

The Romans called it the
pompa
, the march of the gladiators. It began in the
agora
, which was packed not only with fighters but also with jugglers, musicians, animal tamers, acrobats, young women with oiled arms and legs and obscenely short tunics and dwarves. I had to confess that the latter fascinated me, with their short legs and arms, oversized heads and stubby bodies. They were dressed in brightly coloured tunics and scampered around between the gladiators, issuing challenges, bending over and breaking wind at large, broad-shouldered fighters and waving their wooden swords in the air threateningly. The crowd that the Roman guards had difficulty containing loved it and cheered and applauded the little monsters.

The
agora
had a carnival air as flautists played and drummers banged their instruments. Double-jointed young women danced in front of the gladiators seductively, most of the fighters ignoring them as they had seen it all before. I looked around for Burebista but could not see him as I stood with Drenis, Arminius and Surena. The latter was loving the entertainment and raised his trident in response when a part of the crowd cheered.

‘They are not cheering at you, Surena,’ said Arminius from within his helmet, ‘half-naked young women are more attractive than you.’

I felt a jab on one of my buttocks.

‘Fight me, you coward.’

I looked behind me to see a dwarf dressed in a perfect replica of a legionary’s uniform, complete with tiny mail shirt, prodding a small wooden
gladius
at me.

‘Be gone, you pesky fly,’ I told him.

He jabbed the point of his toy sword into my other buttock.

‘Tomorrow I will still be alive whereas you will be food for crows.’

He ran forward, kicked my left greave and then scuttled away, laughing as he did so. It was all part of the colourful pageant that I was a part of, a garish, indulgent display of Rome’s power and the subjugation of its enemies. I prayed that Parthia would never be home to such spectacles.

Flustered, sweating officials rushed around checking the number of gladiators in each group, calling out names and nearly getting into fights when men wearing heavy bronze helmets that inhibited their hearing did not answer their names immediately. The officials began to berate the seemingly unhelpful gladiators, until the latter drew their swords and held the points at the necks of the former. An overweight Greek middle-aged man, beads of sweat on his forehead, appeared before us.