The Gladiator Gambit Read online

  Avidius Pollio shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Absurd. Only the prefect, myself, and now you, my trusted intelligence officer, know of his plans.’ He shrugged. ‘No doubt his own circle is also aware. But no, d’you see, it’s coincidence, young man. But a nasty one. Potentially, a very nasty one.’

  Flaminius gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ He might be a young man in Avidius Pollio’s eyes, but he had seen a great deal while working as an imperial agent.

  The legate shook his head again. ‘In your line of work,’ he said, ‘you must see plots everywhere. No, this isn’t a conspiracy. But it will be very inconvenient if the imperial visit coincides with a revolt on the scale of the Judaean Uprising. We’ve got to find out who is at the back of it all. We need to stifle this rebellion in its cradle.’

  ‘That’s obvious,’ said Flaminius. ‘But how?’

  Avidius Pollio tapped smartly on the gladiator helmet Flaminius still carried in the crook of his arm. ‘Every beginning is difficult,’ he said. ‘But this could be the clue to lead you through the labyrinth.’

  Flaminius had almost forgotten the helmet. He held it up in both hands. ‘I noticed an inscription,’ he told the legate. ‘Abbreviated, but as far as I can make out, it says “The Family of Apuleius Victor”. Do we know where the Family of Apuleius Victor is to be found?’

  Avidius Pollio turned away. ‘That’s for you to learn,’ he said, ‘but I would suggest you start in Nicopolis, the amphitheatre. Once you have identified this gladiatorial family, find some way to infiltrate them. I’d recommend that you do it alone. Agents can’t be trusted. Nobody can be trusted with what I’ve told you. If you must employ agents, you will keep the facts in the dark.’ He looked back at Flaminius. ‘But I don’t need to tell you your job. It’s time you joined the gladiators, Gaius Flaminius Drusus.’ The legate grinned sardonically. ‘Your dear old mother will be so proud.’

  —2—

  Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 25th August 124 AD

  Steel rang out from the towering walls, undercut by the roar of the mob and the drumming of hoofs. A horseman rode straight at Flaminius, lance aimed at him. The Roman caught it with his shield then thrust with his own spear, sliding it beneath the man’s shield so it sank into his guts like a hot knife into wax. The horse galloped past Flaminius, and he was struck in the face by a trailing bridle but even as he staggered back, wincing in pain, the rider hit the sand, dropping his lance and shield, clutching at his guts.

  Blood ran into Flaminius’ eyes but he blinked it away, dropped his shield and gripped his spear in both hands, standing astraddle over the prone rider. The man was a Gaul, he guessed, or even a Briton. A memory of Drustica and her people flashed into his mind.

  He looked up at the imperial box. In all the fighting, nobody seemed to have noticed what he had done. The crowd was yelling, the prefect was intent on the combat—but it wasn’t Flaminius’ fight that was attracting attention. The arena was an embarrassment of riches for the discriminating slaughter lover. Flaminius lowered his spear, turning away from the prone rider, and looking about him. Who was centre of attention?

  ‘Of course,’ he muttered resignedly. It was Petrus.

  The Thracian, four and a half cubits tall and two and a half cubits at the muscle-rippling chest, was under attack from four riders. They galloped up, lunging at him with spears that he dodged or bashed aside with his shield, then circled round for another attack. His helmet glittered in the sun, his tanned, muscular body glistened with oil and sweat as he fought. He sheathed his sword and seized one man’s lance by the haft, hauling its owner kicking from the saddle.

  Rising from the sand, the rider received a kick in the face that knocked him sprawling. Even as his opponent fell, Petrus seized hold of the passing horse’s mane and bounded up into the saddle, kicking it in the ribs and hauling at the reins. Another rider attacked, lance aimed straight at the gladiator’s unprotected chest.

  As a military man, Flaminius thought the gladiator’s armour absurd: they had arm protectors, shields and helmets, yet the fighter’s chests were left bare. Very aesthetic, particularly in the case of gladiatrices, but not very practical. Petrus ducked in the saddle, and the lance passed harmlessly through the air above him. The Thracian drew his sword, reaching out negligently as he passed the rider, and sliced the man’s spear arm in two at the bicep.

  Petrus galloped on as the rider fainted, falling back over the horse’s crupper, spraying blood in a fine mist into the August air.

  ‘Tiro!’ A shrill scream caught Flaminius’ attention and he wheeled round.

  It was the gladiatrix Camilla—Tiro was the name they had given him on joining the family. Some way from him, standing over a fallen horseman and his dead steed, she had seen that the Gaul had got up while Flaminius was distracted by Petrus, and was now advancing, sword drawn. Flaminius gritted his teeth.

  ‘I should have finished you when I had the chance,’ he muttered. The spear was still in his hands. He ran, holding the weapon like a lance, and the man turned to flee but Flaminius caught up quickly, plunging the spear into his undefended back.

  The man dropped his sword, flung up his hands, and fell with a thud. Flaminius heard a pounding of hoofs and another rider came thundering towards him across the sand. The Roman’s mouth went dry. He was directly in the path of the rider, who had lost his lance but was brandishing a longsword.

  Flaminius flung himself to the ground as the blade passed like a storm wind, grabbed a fallen sword and sheathed it, and leapt to his feet again as the horse passed. Copying Petrus, he seized hold of the saddle with his left hand and heaved himself up onto the back of the horse. As the rider turned his armoured head in bafflement to see what had happened, Flaminius wrapped his forearm round the man’s throat. Then he grabbed the helmet—that metal was scorching! —and fumbled under the visor to find a bearded mouth, seized hold and twisted. There was a cracking sound of bone breaking and at once the rider was a dead weight. Flaminius let go and the corpse slithered over the side like a landed fish. He swung himself forward to sit fully in the saddle then snatched the reins from where they dangled.

  The roar of the crowd grew, and he realised they were calling out ‘Tiro! Tiro! Tiro!’

  Flaminius rode past Petrus, who was pursuing another two riders. Now two fifths of Apuleius Victor’s family were mounted, but Petrus was out of his element and was struggling to stay mounted.

  Flaminius swung himself down, ran alongside the horse then sprang back into the saddle just in time to draw his sword and meet the attack of one of the men Petrus was pursuing. The crowd yelled in appreciation at this showy feat. Flaminius got a brief glimpse of Haterius Nepos, prefect of Egypt, holding his belly as he laughed and laughed.

  Felix the Retiarius was running; with good reason, since two riders were trying to skewer him with their lances. He was running erratically although he was not yet wounded. Camilla sped across the sand towards him, intent on fighting at his side, her long, tanned legs pounding, but she was too far off. Flaminius shook his reins and sank his heels into his horse’s flanks, and the beast set off at a gallop, passing the gladiatrix, bearing down on Felix’s pursuers. Flaminius cut one man down but even as he fell from his horse, the other rider’s lancehead found its mark between Felix’s shoulders. The running retiarius was lifted high into the air then dropped to the sand, run through. His net and trident landed beside him.

  A moan throbbed from the spectators, mixed with shrieks of delight. Flaminius spurred his horse and rode at Felix’s killer, who sawed at his reins and circled round, bloody lance levelled. Flaminius stood up in the saddle, and flung himself over the gap, knocking the rider from his own horse. Flaminius hung on as the beast tried to shake him from its back, seized the flapping reins, and yanked on them. The horse turned in a tight circle and rode on as its former rider got to his knees. Remorselessly, Flaminius rode him down.

  The snapping and popping of
bones was audible even over the roar of the crowd. Now only two riders remained horsed; Petrus and Flaminius were still both mounted. Riderless horses stampeded across the arena. Spots and flecks of red spattered the sand, fresh blood surrounding fallen horsemen.

  There was a flourish of trumpets. The prefect had called a close on the proceedings. Slaves entered the arena, carrying off the dead and rounding up the snorting horses. The crowd subsided into a disapproving mutter; they had smelt blood and they wanted more. Flaminius didn’t envy the gladiators that came on next, but he was glad that his own fight was over until tomorrow. He dismounted and went to join the others. Felix’s body was carried past by slaves.

  A tall, well-built man in his fifties, dressed in toga and laurel wreath, came to inspect the retiarius’ limp form. Tutting in disapproval, he directed the slaves to remove it then joined the other gladiators, slapping backs, shaking hands. This was Apuleius Victor, impresario and owner of the family of gladiators that Flaminius had joined.

  ‘Good work, everyone,’ he said. ‘The banquet in your honour will be splendid. Shame about Felix,’ he added with a frown. ‘It wasn’t his day to die.’

  The murmillo Syphax grinned like a jackal, revealing his teeth, which had been filed into points. ‘Did you hear the audience?’ he said. ‘A few men made a lot of money, I think; but a lot made big losses.’

  Apuleius Victor glared. Gambling was illegal by Roman law—except at Saturnalia[1], when it was a religious duty—but it still went on at most gladiatorial games or chariot races. It didn’t interest Flaminius, though. All he wanted to know was how armour and even men from the Family of Apuleius Victor was reaching the rebels in the Thebaid.

  Camilla wrenched off her helmet, revealing the face of a girl with long, lustrous dark hair. She ran a hand over her face and took a water skin from a passing slave, drank from it, then upended it over her massive body. ‘He didn’t look well even before we went on,’ she said meditatively as the water splashed off her armour. ‘I think someone had drugged him.’

  ‘Now, now, Camilla,’ boomed Petrus. ‘Why would anyone want to do that? Felix was unlucky, that’s all. We’ll all meet Nemesis one day in the arena.’

  ‘Bloody stupid way to make a living.’ Flaminius laughed half-hysterically as Apuleius Victor led the gladiators from the arena. It was the same nervous reaction he’d experienced after any number of battles. Relief—and guilt—that he had survived.

  ‘But you’re a free man, Tiro,’ said Camilla. ‘No one’s forced you to join the family. You can leave whenever you want to.’

  Gladiators were either free or unfree; the former for one pressing reason or other had volunteered to take up a trade more dangerous than that of legionary; the latter were prisoners of war or slaves.

  Felix, the dead retiarius, had also been a free man. After a dishonourable discharge from a Cretan auxiliary troop, he had joined the Family of Apuleius Victor in the hopes of finding forgetfulness. No doubt he would discover the absolution he sought beyond the Styx.

  Flaminius kept quiet. No point in drawing undue attention to himself. They were taken down into the cool, dank gloom of a holding pen beneath the amphitheatre. There they were to remain until guards took them to the gladiator school where they had their sleeping cells. As they entered the pen, they could hear distant howls of lust and shouts of acclamation as another gladiatorial family entered the arena. Flaminius wondered if the new family had any link with the rebels in the Thebaid.

  Camilla seemed distraught. Flaminius went over to her. ‘Why do you think someone drugged Felix?’ he asked.

  She would have been an attractive woman if it hadn’t been for her size and her broken nose. He knew a little of her history: sold into slavery as a young girl in Cyrenaica, she had proved so violently insubordinate that her master sold her as a gladiatrix. Now a freedwoman, she knew no other life. She had been three years with Apuleius Victor, which was a record. Sparring with her, Flaminius had found her a tricky opponent.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘You’re always asking questions. I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Flaminius affected nonchalance.

  The gladiatrix looked up again, eyes narrowing. She beckoned him closer, glancing surreptitiously at the others. Petrus and Syphax were picking at the bean stew the slave had brought them, in glum silence.

  ‘Things have been going on in this family,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got a reputation for invincibility. We’re not, fair enough. But men have been lost.’

  ‘Lost?’ Flaminius queried. ‘You mean they were killed, like Felix? You think they were drugged?’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Though that’s happened as well. No, men leave in the night. I… don’t know where they go. The man you replaced; Capricorn, they called him. He vanished. But he wasn’t the first.’

  ‘What’s she telling you? More scare stories?’

  Petrus was looming over them. ‘Camilla’s telling me men go missing,’ Flaminius said calmly. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘Are you some kind of snoop?’ the gladiator growled. ‘Slaves run away when they can. The woman is full of foolish ideas, like any woman—though I’ll agree, she’s stronger than many. Gladiators run off when they can, die in the arena when they can’t. Camilla finds mysteries where there are none.’

  Syphax joined them. ‘Why the interest, Tiro?’ he asked. ‘You can leave at any time. You’re a free man like me. The men who left, they were slaves.’

  Flaminius cursed silently. Already he’d drawn attention to himself, almost blown his cover. They’d naturally be suspicious of a new boy asking questions. He’d been clumsy. He needed an agent who could make enquiries. Someone these people trusted and respected. Not a novice.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said Camilla. ‘He thinks it’s important that men go missing. So do I. So should all of us. But also that men die in the arena.’

  ‘Occupational hazard?’ suggested Flaminius.

  She shook her head. ‘You’ve been a gladiator for what, a week? You really are a novice. It’s all fixed, you fool. No one dies unless it’s been agreed.’

  —3—

  Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 25th August 124 AD

  ‘What are you saying?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I killed men today. Was I not meant to? No one said.’

  Petrus sat down next to him. ‘There are professional gladiators,’ he explained generously, ‘and there are condemned slaves. We fought slaves. They’re supposed to die, so who can blame them if they run away, given the chance? But we’re not, it’s true. Not unless it’s been decided. The woman’s right for a change.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s a dangerous profession. Accidents happen. I don’t know why she makes such a mystery of it all.’

  ‘I make no mystery,’ the gladiatrix said. ‘The mystery is there for anyone with eyes to see. You’re blind, Petrus. Tiro sees better than you do.’

  Petrus shook his head. ‘I don’t believe in mysteries,’ he said dismissively.

  Then the slave entered and told them that it was time they were taken back to the gladiators’ school.

  As they swaggered into their dining chamber their sombre mood was brightened by the sight of couches and tables laid out on the mosaic floor. Plates filled with meat in piquant sauces, bowls of fruit, massive loaves, and amphoras of expensive vintages, all were scattered about. They had had a last supper of equal munificence the previous evening, prior to their first appearance in the arena, which had made a nice change from their usual gladiator’s stodge of beans, wheat, and barley, but it seemed that it was only the first of many. Flaminius guessed that normal eating would be resumed after the end of the games. Whooping, Syphax bounded over to the nearest table, lifted up an amphora and put it to his mouth. Petrus snatched up a whole ham and began gnawing. Camilla helped herself to a glass of watered wine and offered another to Flaminius. The slave looked on censoriously.

  ‘Master said you
’re to wait until the guests arrive,’ he said with a cough.

  Petrus dropped the ham and swung round. ‘We’ve got guests?’ he boomed.

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Apuleius Victor, striding through the doors on the opposite side. ‘So you can put the amphora down, Syphax, you barbarian, and wait until Gabinius Camillus and his friends arrive.’

  Flaminius nudged Camilla. ‘One of your relatives?’ he asked.

  She put down her drink and shook her head. ‘Camilla’s not my real name,’ she confided. ‘Apuleius Victor name me after the Volscian warrior queen in the Aeneid. My real name is Dido.’

  Flaminius raised his eyebrows. ‘Another of Virgil’s characters. So you’re a Carthaginian?’

  ‘I was brought up in Cyrenaica, but my family is Punic, yes. Does that upset you?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’m a Roman,’ he said. ‘Does that upset you?’

  She spat on the mosaic. ‘It means nothing to me,’ she said. ‘We’re gladiators, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘All this camaraderie is very touching,’ said Apuleius Victor, ‘but I’d like you a little bit more presentable to welcome our guests. Go to your cells and get into your best clothes.’

  Flaminius and the other did as he commanded. In his own cell Flaminius found his smartest kilt and sandals, and a pair of studded bracers of pigskin—best clothes for a gladiator was quite brief—and changed into them. On the way back they’d stopped off at a bathhouse, ridding themselves of the grit of the arena, after having their wounds cleaned and tended to by a Greek medic the amphitheatre employed. Despite the bath, Flaminius ached all over.

  He sat down wearily on the bunk and considered his cell. He’d seen worse sleeping chambers in the legions. Although it was small, it was lavishly appointed with mosaic floors and fresco-painted walls, it had furniture of the best pine and cedar, and his wardrobe while filled with costly silk and linen and leather clothes. The life of a free gladiator, off duty at least, was one of privilege.