Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (42 page)

‘I’ll have to get the armourer to fix this.’

‘Surena of the
Ludus
Palmyra and Flamma of the
Ludus
Pompeii. The
editor
demands your presence in the arena.’

I heard the voice of one of editor’s assistants and looked in alarm at Surena. I glanced at Drenis who shook his head. I went to remonstrate with the official but Drenis pulled me back.

‘You are a gladiator, Pacorus, if you make a scene there will be severe ramifications. There is nothing you can do.’

Arminius was also shaking his head and I felt helpless. But Surena was busy wiping the shaft of his trident and ensuring his
galerus
was securely in place. He caught my eye and grinned triumphantly as a man I assumed was Flamma walked nonchalantly towards the stone steps.

‘The gods be with you, Surena,’ I said as he followed the Pompeian.

He turned and grinned. ‘I do not need the gods, lord, only my skill and my weapons.’

Flamma was a
Secutor
, ‘the chaser’, who wore a smooth, full-face helmet, a
manica
on his sword arm and greave on his left leg. Additional protection was provided by his large, rectangular shield that had small tridents painted around its edge. His weapon was a
gladius
.

‘What do those tridents on his shield signify?’ I asked Drenis.

‘The number of
Retiarius
fighters he has killed in the arena,’ he answered.

My spirits sank. The sadistic lust of Timini Ceukianus that had been aroused when he and Surena had met aboard
The
Cretan
had come back to haunt the latter and now he would die. With a heavy heart I walked to one of the windows to observe the proceedings below. I saw a small army of slaves pulling the bodies of the slain into the stage building to clear the arena for the coming bout. I looked at the crowd and heard the intense chatter that was taking place in anticipation of the fight that the announcer had just proclaimed. There was no attempt to cover the blood-covered surface with fresh sand as Surena walked out of the stage building in the company of Flamma and a referee who carried a short stick to administer the fight.

The crowd began clapping as the two fighters halted in front of the high priest and the governor and raised their weapons in salute.

Drenis appeared by my side. ‘He’s not dead yet. If he remembers his training the bout might end in a draw, which will mean both will leave the arena alive.’

I was not convinced. Surena believed himself to be invincible and though he was brave and strong his self-belief might work against him. I looked at the large figure of Ceukianus lounging in his chair and giggling like a small girl. How I would have liked to slit that blubber-covered throat. The referee held his stick between Flamma and Surena and looked up at the governor, who nodded. The referee removed his stick and stepped back and the duel began.

Gladiators crowded at the windows to see what most believed to be a formality: the death of this upstart from some unknown eastern place called Palmyra. The crowd cheered and roared as Surena crouched low, sweeping his net on the ground in front of him. He pulled it back and then tripped as it got tangled around his left ankle. My mouth opened in horror as he crumbled to the ground and Flamma raced forward to finish him off.

And stopped suddenly as Surena spun round and sprang forward to drive the prongs of his trident into Flamma’s exposed belly. It happened so quickly that at first I thought I had imagined it. But as the crowd fell silent and Surena leaped back, Flamma’s helmeted head flopped forward as blood began oozing from his guts on to his red loincloth. Everyone in the crowd seemed stunned, unsure of what had just happened.

Surena held his trident at the ready as Flamma fell to his knees and then collapsed face-first on the sand. Surena turned to face the crowd and raised his trident and net.

‘I am Surena of the Ma’adan.’

There was a moment of silence and then the crowd saluted its newfound hero, clapping, cheering and shouting ‘Surena, Surena’ as the focus of their adulation walked around the arena, basking in the acclaim. He stopped in front of the dignitaries, pointed his trident at the
editor
and spat on the sand. Flamma’s life ebbed away as Ceukianus, a face like thunder, signalled to the referee that Surena should leave the arena immediately. A slave carrying a large mallet came from the stage building as the referee pointed at Surena with his stick, then towards one of the doors to indicate he should depart the arena. The slave stood astride the body of Flamma, removed his helmet and then struck the corpse’s head with a heavy blow of the mallet to ensure he was dead and not faking injury. I laughed and slapped Drenis on the arm as Surena gave the crowd one more salute with his trident before disappearing into the stage building. Behind him the theatre reverberated with the chant ‘Surena, Surena’.

Burebista walked over to me, his hair matted to his skull after his exertions in the arena.

‘The crowd has its hero, lord. Where did you get him from?’

‘I first met him when I was a prisoner in a vast area of marshland. He saved my life. And now he is an officer in my army.’

‘And a gladiator making a name for himself,’ added Burebista.

I looked beyond him to ensure we were out of earshot.

‘I will arrange for a representative to approach your
lanista
tonight with a view to purchasing both you and your wife.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘It would have to be a generous offer, lord. Lentulus Vatia is above all avaricious.’

Surena returned to the second floor in an ebullient mood, accepting the grudging congratulations of many of the seasoned gladiators from the other schools. The crowd was still chanting his name when an official appeared to declare that the day’s festivities were over and that we would be escorted back to our quarters. Alcaeus also returned to inform me that twenty-three gladiators had been killed in the mass bout that I had taken part in, with Flamma an additional fatality. There were ten fighters lying in cots on the floor below, none of whom would be taking any further part in the games. A quarter of the gladiators that had been brought to Ephesus were either dead or incapacitated.

We required an armed escort back our accommodation, not because we were in danger but because hundreds of people, mainly women of various ages, wanted to either touch or speak to Surena. The legionaries became increasingly short tempered as they tried to clear a path in front of us. The duty centurion also snapped at Surena not to dally and to ignore his fans.

‘He’s got no chance,’ remarked Drenis as Surena kissed a pretty young woman on the cheek and then smiled as a legionary had to drag another women off him who had wrapped her arms and legs around him.

‘What it is to be a god of the arena,’ said Arminius.

When we finally reached the house we found a substantial crowd gathered around it, which broke into spontaneous applause when they spotted Surena. The centurion personally bundled him through the gates and then ordered the crowd to disperse and go back to their homes. Inside the entrance stood Lysander to welcome us back, the ever-present smile on his face. We went into the banqueting hall where Gallia and Domitus were waiting. My wife flung herself into my arms and clung to me tightly.

‘That was the worst day of my life,’ she whispered. ‘I have never experienced such torture, watching you fighting and being unable to help.’

I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘Shamash protected me, my love. He protected us all.’

We took off our armour and handed it and our weapons to slaves who took it to the storeroom where it was kept under lock and key, Lysander appearing and ordering them to be quick about it. Domitus clasped my forearm.

‘Glad to see you’re alive.’

Other slaves brought wine and water and Lysander told us that he had organised masseurs to visit the house

‘Very sensible,’ said Alcaeus.

‘Get Lysander to go to the docks and bring Athineos here,’ I told Domitus.

He called over our Greek guide and was explaining that he should go to the harbour and ask the captain of
The
Cretan
to pay us a visit.

‘I do not want you taking any further part in the games,’ Gallia suddenly said to me. Lysander looked at her in confusion. Why would the wife of a
lanista
be interested in the life of a gladiator?

‘Go now, Lysander,’ Domitus ordered him.

Lysander bowed his head and hurried from the room.

‘We must try harder to maintain the pretence that I am a gladiator and you are the wife of my master,’ I said to her.

She was not interested. ‘Domitus, you can report to the games’ organisers tomorrow that Nikephorus will be taking no further part in the organised butchery on account of an injury.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ I said, looking at Gallia. ‘I knew the risks when I came here and I will see the task through.’

‘This is not like war, Pacorus,’ she said, ‘it is slaughter, pure and simple. What chance do you think you have of surviving another four days of this butchery?’

She looked at Drenis and Arminius. ‘What chance for any of you?’

‘It is easy enough, majesty,’ said Surena, trying to be helpful.

Her blue eyes bored into him. ‘Silence! You forget yourself. You may be a hero to the deluded fools outside but in here I am your queen.’

Surena blushed. ‘Yes, majesty.’

‘What would you have me do, Gallia?’ I asked her. ‘Do you wish me to flee this very night like a gutless coward and leave Burebista to face certain death? I will not do it. This is the pledge of the King of Dura. I will leave this city with Burebista and his wife or not at all.’

Gallia fumed but knew that I would not budge so she said nothing, her face a mask of anger. Domitus relaxed on a daybed and sipped at a cup of wine, indicating that Drenis and Arminius should do the same.

‘Besides, if we depart now we will rob the city of seeing more of Surena in the arena,’ said Domitus mischievously.

Gallia sighed. ‘You are not helping, Domitus.’

I walked over to her and placed an arm round her waist. ‘Shamash will protect me, my love. Come, let us not argue after such a day. Let us give thanks that we are all still alive.’

Her hard mask dissolved and she smiled, though her eyes were filled with sadness. We sat down on one of the couches and I beckoned over a slave holding a tray of figs. Another slave entered the room and bowed before Domitus, informing him that the masseurs had arrived.

A leathery middle-aged man called Argos used oils and his fingers to massage the tightness out of my muscles and relax my whole body. Other lithe, olive-skinned men worked their magic on Surena, Drenis and Arminius. I lay on the couch, the aroma of pine incense lulling me into semi-consciousness as Argos kneaded the muscles in my back and shoulders. Because he believed me to be a slave his conversation was quite informal.

‘These are lash scars on your back.’

I grunted to signify he was correct.

‘The life of a slave can be hard and short. But perhaps not as short as that of a gladiator.’

‘We must use the skills the gods have given us.’

‘Indeed,’ he said. My body felt utterly calm and relaxed. ‘The young one of your school, Surena, has made a name for himself.’

‘He has talent, yes.’

‘He might cost High Priest Kallias a great deal of money.’

Kallias was financing the games and as such would compensate any
lanista
whose gladiators were killed in the arena.

Argos was clearly in a talkative mood. ‘I suspect the high priest would pay a huge sum if it meant embarrassing the governor and seeing his own gladiators triumphing over those who travelled from Italy.’

‘The high priest and governor do not like each other?’ I asked.

Argos laughed. ‘The governor dislikes Kallias because he has great influence in the city and among the worshippers who flock to the Temple of Artemis, whereas Kallias believes that Ephesus is his city and therefore regards the governor as a foreign upstart.’

‘They seemed tolerant of each other’s company,’ I said, thinking back to their behaviour at the games.

‘Appearances can be deceptive. For example, the governor would like to seize the criminals seeking sanctuary at the temple and crucify them but if he violates the temple’s rules he knows he may incite a riot. Kallias knows this and basks in the governor’s helplessness.’

‘I saw some of those criminals when I visited the temple.’

‘Cleon and his band of freedom fighters,’ said Argos derisively.

‘You do not approve of a fellow Greek wanting to be free from Roman rule?’

He pressed his thumbs hard into the tight muscles at the base of my spine.

‘Cleon believes he should rule in Ephesus. He has killed many Roman soldiers, or so he boasts, which has earned him the loyalty of a band of like-minded hotheads. Cleon’s notion of freedom is very limited to him and his band of followers.’