Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate (11 page)

Not near the front at the centre of the arc, though. A space some twelve seats wide and four rows deep had been kept clear and, as they arrived and Pompey gestured to the seating, Fronto noted with interest the general's name inscribed into each of the seats.

"Reserved in perpetuity?" he enquired, lowering himself with his favoured knee first and brushing the chiselled name with his fingertips. Pompey, sitting next to him, shrugged. "If I plan to attend, these seats will be kept for me - one of the benefits of having built the thing. If I have no interest in the entertainment on offer, those seats can be sold to the better classes and I will redeem the money."

"Smart." Fronto watched with some surprise as Lucilia walked on, almost entirely ignoring him, barring a brief flick of the eyes, and seated herself several spaces along, next to Julia, where they continued their apparently riveting conversation. He noted with interest they had left two seats vacant between the men and women. For Galronus and Faleria, presumably.

"Keeping the women out of earshot eh? Most sensible. I love Lucilia dearly, but sometimes she goes on like Aeschylus monologue."

Pompey smiled happily. "I like to give Julia her space and time with her friends. She is in a delicate way these days and needs to be indulged. Besides, we can make more of the sport, the wine and possibly even a wager when the ladies are not overseeing our actions, eh?"

Fronto grinned. "I'll drink to that."

Almost as if in response, a cup of wine was proffered from the side. The older man's guards had taken the perimeter seats, creating a wall of muscle between the ever growing crowd and the party of nobles. Within, other than the four of them, two servants attended with trays of food and jars of wine, the girl serving the ladies while the boy served the men.

"Thank you." Fronto looked into the cup, somewhat disappointed at the minimal level of the wine inside as the jug of water was proffered to top it up. Fronto nodded and then jerked his hand across to signal a cut off, barely making the mix equal. The boy looked surprised but said nothing as he went on to pour a four-to-one mixture for Pompey.

"You're a fan of the games, I understand?" he asked, by way of casual conversation.

"I have had the privilege of seeing true contests of skill as far afield as Asia, Africa and Hispania. Each game I attend presents new fascinations. Every nation produces a different kind of fighter and they all have their interest for me. There are gladiators lined up for today from three different ludi, all chosen and paid for by my own eye and hand. I particularly like the look of the two Numidians and the Cretan from the school of Cornelius Vatia in Capua. Most surprisingly, one of the Numidians has been trained as a Murmillo and not the usual retiarius or the natural horseman that most Lanistas seem to think necessary for the desert-dwellers."

"I shall keep an eye on them, then. I trust you're not expecting death matches?"

Pompey raised an eyebrow. "Largely, no… it plays havoc with the purse-strings. But it will be necessary to offer the crowd the occasional death. You of all people should have no qualms about death in the arena, Fronto?"

"Not especially. When it's deserved. A fool or a coward deserves what he gets. A good man should always be nurtured, though. That's one thing commanding a legion for far too many years has taught me."

An uncomfortable silence descended on the pair at the unfortunate reminder of Fronto's previous patronage. The former legate glanced to the side and was surprised to see just a flicker of something on Pompey's face that passed in half a heartbeat and was replaced by a serene calm.

Just for that tiny flickering moment, something had twisted the man's face and it surprised Fronto so much he had not known what to make of it. Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage, carefully controlled and concealed, but there nonetheless. Rage presumably brought on by the thought of Caesar. It occurred to Fronto that, were it not for the beautiful, pregnant young woman who sat a few seats further along and who created a bridge between two of the most powerful men in the Republic, there was every possibility that Caesar and Pompey would have drawn blood from one another by now. Well… Julia and the shared knowledge that Crassus loomed in the east as a threat to them both.

According to Fronto's tutors when he was a young man, a tripod was the most stable base for any structure. Picturing Caesar, Pompey and Crassus together holding up the state in their quivering, blood-stained hands, he was inclined to doubt the truth of that statement.

Suddenly the pleasant host Pompey was back, reaching out to Fronto and tapping his cup.

"You're empty. Demetrios? Attend!"

"Yes, Dominus."

As the Greek boy filled the cup, Fronto moved the vessel along with the jar as the boy tried to take it away, doubling the intended quantity of wine in it. He grinned.

"Your health." With an exaggerated flourish, he tipped the tiniest drop of water into the cup and lifted it to take a pull of the heady, rich liquid within.

"I note" Pompey said with casual interest, "that you arrived on foot today? And unescorted too. Brave, given the crowds and the ugliness of the streets in these times."

Fronto shrugged.

"Lucilia fancied the walk. To be honest, we don't keep that many guards or slaves in the house. More down in Puteoli, of course, 'cause it's a working estate, but not here."

"You don't have a full complement of slaves?" Pompey asked with genuine and earnest concern. "How does your house function? I could honestly give you half a dozen of ours. I seem to buy them monthly and I have trouble even remembering how many I have, let alone their names and functions. I could give you a dozen and not even notice they'd gone."

Fronto shrugged. "It was my father's doing, really. He used to keep plenty of slaves, but then there was the uprising down in Capua and all the trouble - well of course you remember it better than most." Pompey nodded quietly. He had been one of the generals involved in ending the rebellion of Spartacus a couple of decades earlier. "Well", Fronto went on, "father came to the conclusion that unless a slave had proven his value, he couldn't be trusted. And those that he considered valuable, he tended to give their freedom anyway. By the time I came back from my first tour with Caesar, a few years after the slave war, there were only half a dozen slaves left in the villa and father had replaced them with paid servants, or kept on those he'd freed."

"There is no danger of such a thing ever happening again, Fronto. I assure you. The keeping of slaves is only right and proper for a Roman."

"Oh I have a few and I'm not against it. But I agree with my pater in that a trusted man with pay in his pocket is worth ten bound men. And besides, you say it'll never happen again, but that uprising you put down was hardly the first time it's happened. To be honest, I'm happy with the way we have it."

"Things may have to change now that you’re a married Roman gentleman, though, Fronto. You're no soldier now. The senate next, I presume?"

"Can't see myself lasting long in that august body without swatting someone. I'm still sort of finding my feet as a civilian and contemplating what to do about the future."

Pompey smiled and Fronto was worryingly put in mind of a crocodile.

"Then we must have a long and frank conversation about your future, my friend. But another time. Look, the gates are opening."

As Fronto peered into the orchestra and then up onto the stage, he saw the ornate bronze doors in the façade opening. The D-shaped orchestra had been ringed with raised boards and had sharpened stakes pointing inwards to protect the audience from the dangers in the arena, though the view was magnificent over the boards that sat at knee height for Fronto and his companions. Horns were blaring a fanfare as men of all shapes and sizes trooped out of the bronze doors and onto the stage where they stood and posed for the admiration of the crowd. From there they would be sent down into the orchestra for the individual bouts.

Pompey raised his voice to be heard by Fronto over the fanfare and the general hubbub of the excited crowd.

"Time for the man who paid for this to say a few words. But when this is over, you must come to the house for a chat."

Fronto nodded, his mind turning over this strange progression of events. In fact, he was so deeply involved in his own thoughts that he almost jumped as a hand touched his shoulder and he turned, his heart thumping, to see that Faleria and Galronus had arrived.

* * * * *

The thraex gladiator leapt back out of the reach of the raking tines of the retiarius' trident. The idiotic Syrian net-man had overreached as he tried to lunge with the long pole-arm and, as he stumbled forwards into a charge that met only with thin air, the thraex jammed his sword between the tines, twisting the trident and forcing it downwards. The now hopelessly-off balance retiarius, already relieved of his net earlier in the bout, found himself falling forwards with the shaft in his hands and let go reluctantly, aware that unarmed he was as good as lost, but knowing that holding on to the shaft he would end up prone, which was worse.

His life-saving decision turned out to be immaterial. The crowd were going wild and the swordsman, knowing that his success rested as much on the mob's whims as on his own skill, took advantage of the surge of blood-lust and, his sword still entangled with the discarded trident, turned his small, square shield on its edge and swung it at the still approaching, half-falling man, catching him in the neck just beneath the chin.

The crowd's wild cries reached an ear-splitting crescendo as the disarmed net-and-trident fighter was swept from his feet with the force of the blow and collapsed on his back on the sand and temporary boards that covered the elegant, expensive marble floor.

Fronto nodded in approval.

"I think you owe me five."

Pompey leaned across to be heard above the roar.

"I'd say the thraex overstepped the mark there. That looked an awful lot like an intentional killing blow without awaiting approval."

Fronto shrugged. "I'd say that whatever the intention, that
was
a killing blow. I know the retiarius just looks winded but I'll tell you for nothing that blow crushed his windpipe and his throat apple. The man's a goner in less than a dozen heartbeats."

Pompey raised his brows in surprise. "I defer to the expert opinion of a man who's probably dealt such a blow. What to do with the victor then?"

"Congratulate him. It'd be a waste to discipline him for that, and the crowd are behind him."

Pompey nodded. "Expedient. I agree."

Standing, the editor raised and lowered his arms several times in a motion for silence. At the third gesture, the horns blared and quietened the crowd.

"Victory to the Thracian. A noble end for the vanquished. See how he dies even now!"

The crowd surged their appreciation while the prone form of the retiarius shuddered several times. As the thraex inclined his head to the editor and then spun and issued theatrical bows to the rest of the crowd, two attendants rushed into the orchestra from the small wooden shed that protected them in the corner, a third man behind them in a long black cloak and with a huge fake beard, hefting a giant-sized mallet over his shoulder. The victorious gladiator was lifted from the arena onto the stage, where he went to stand with his fellow survivors, blood and sweat spattering the floor beneath them all. In the arena, the figure of Dis Pater, lord of the underworld, raised his hammer over the head of the fallen retiarius. He paused. He was supposed to make sure the fallen were not faking their death, but he was no executioner and he could still see the choking man's legs kicking spasmodically. He looked across at Pompey, who nodded.

Fronto watched with distaste as the enormous hammer smashed open the dying man's skull, smearing his life's essence across the sandy boards. It was no way to go, but at least it was fast. Faster than choking to death with a crushed throat.

"You have an interesting sense of morality Marcus Falerius Fronto" Pompey noted, watching his companion's sour look with interest. "Unconventional, to say the least. I think I would appreciate your opinion on a personal matter. Perhaps, instead of visiting me tomorrow, your dear wife could spare you for an hour when the day's events have ended?"

Fronto shrugged. "I expect she'll be happy to stay in the company of your wife and my sister. The three of them are as tight as the Vestal sisterhood now." He glanced across to the three women who were talking in conspiratorial tones and occasionally issuing a burst of laughter. As far as he was aware not one of the women had even looked at the arena in an hour of bouts. Such a waste of good entertainment. Galronus had managed somehow, after an initial exchange of pleasantries, to slip away to find Galba, leaving Fronto with the statesman.

"Ah," Pompey said with a self-satisfied smile, gesturing at the temporary arena on the theatre floor. "This should be a good one. I do like to watch a dark-skin in action. They seem so much more lithe and energetic than the rest of us."

Fronto turned his attention to the stage once more to see two more gladiators being lowered down to the orchestra on the wooden platform suspended by ropes.

On the right, an unusual sight: a scisor gladiator. His pale skin spoke of a Gallic or Germanic origin, though little of it could be seen. His torso was encased in a mail shirt, his head in an egg-shaped bronze helm, undecorated apart from two circular eye-holes. His arms were covered with padded leather sheathes and his legs protected by bronze greaves. But the speciality of the scisor lay in his weapons. A short, straight blade in his right hand was paired with a fearsome engine on his left. His forearm was encased in a steel tube, at the end of which, instead of a hand, was a wide, fan-like semi-circular blade, glinting evilly in the sun.

On the left, paying him no attention, stood a dark-skinned Numidian equipped as a Murmillo. Along with a heavy, ridged and decorated crested helm that bore a grilled face-guard, his only defences were a ridged leather protector on the arm that bore his short sword, and a rectangular shield on the other. His chest was bare, as were his legs. It appeared a hopeless match.