The Far Arena Read online

Now came the question of which arena would be best. Sponsors often did not understand, and it was my responsibility to help them, if they could be helped.

  'I would suggest the Flavian amphitheatre,' I said. It sets off a single match much better ... The arena at the Vatican is too large. It's better for animals. Races even. It does not make a gladiator look good.'

  'It makes the sponsor look very good,' said the woman sharply. The son, who had been watching his political career hang on his mother's nods, agreed.

  'The Vatican,' he demanded.

  Each arena had its points. The Flavian was smaller, had awnings, and was better for a single match, but it lacked a direct escape route for the emperor should the mobs become uncontrollable. The Vatican had a tunnel to the palace.

  And the Vatican did not remind Domitian, a Flavian, how the family's generosity had been wasted. They had paid for and built the ampitheatre at the square of the Colossus of Nero, a statue of the Claudian.

  But instead of calling the Flavian ampitheatre the Flavian amphitheatre, they kept the familiar name of the Colossus, calling it the Colosseum, and Domitian resented that.

  'I would recommend, once again, against the Vatican,' I said.

  'Gladiator, to your swords, if you please,' said the mother.

  I should have known. Perhaps it was negotiating at a latifundium, which I hate, which let me become careless. Demosthenes had done what he was supposed to do. I should have done what I was supposed to do. We should never have taken so much money from them before the match. If I had known we had broken them, I would have loaned them money or even returned it for the financing of the game.

  But on the day of the festivities, it was too late. And it was a hot day. And the Vatican arena had no awnings.

  The promised lions mounting prostitutes turned out quite naturally to be a farce. They failed to couple with the women, who had been heavily drugged. Women could do it with bulls and asses, but no conscious one would ever think of surviving a lion, much less induce it to mate. The prostitutes stumbled and the lions yawned, and then the master of the games, undoubtedly under the orders of the patrician aedile who was drinking his way through his day of glory just as undoubtedly with unwatered wine, ordered bestiarii into the arena. And this might have saved the day if they had killed the lions, but the aedile was saving money, and they slaughtered the drugged prostitutes and merely goaded the lions back toward their pens. Laughter turned quickly to anger, and there were no elephants. The patricians had spent their wealth, assuming I would save their games. They were broke.

  There were convicted criminals in armour. When things go bad, they go bad without end. This crew must have violated some laws of commerce, for weapons seemed strange in their hands. They quickly reached some form of mutual truce, whereby sword met shield and shield met sword and a harmless clanging ensued, which further aggravated the crowd. And worst of all and most unforgivable of all was the slowness with which events followed one another, so what might have served as reason for mirth now became that ominous rumbling of one hundred and fifty thousand people, larger than most cities and some nations.

  This was the sort of danger that only three well-equipped and seasoned legions might thwart. But by law as ancient as the kings before the Roman Republic, no emperor except Sulla dared bring a full armoured legion inside the city walls. Available were only the praetorians who protected the emperor; three urban cohorts, who were supposed to defend the city in emergencies but actually protected the emperor like the praetorians; and the vigiles, who were supposed to subdue armed gangs and fires but only subdued their own swords and staffs for the hand that offered coin.

  If the mob got its head, there was nothing in Rome to stop it.

  Two men in plebeian seats started their own exhibition with fists, and the crowd cheered them until eight of the urban cohorts assigned to the arena without weapons got between them. The cheering was an especially dangerous sign. It showed the crowd had lost interest in what was happening on the sand.

  'They're fighting, and he's still there,' said Plutarch. He was a big round man and stood on a firm table in my cubicle looking out of a small vertical hole which was at the level of the sand. From there he could see the emperor's seats. When he said 'they're fighting', he meant the crowds. When he said 'he's still there', he meant the emperor.

  There was no further explanation necessary. In this cubicle his word was supreme. He was a slave, and yet none of my patrician guests were allowed to interrupt him. He could tell by sounds what crowds were thinking. He knew my weapons, what they should be kept in, when they should be given, who should give them, who should rub my muscles, when the oils were ready.

  He had been trained as a gladiator, and I had bought him as that, but his real talent was servicing my arena needs and understanding that the most crucial element was timing. The empire consumed thousands of gladiators each year, most of them better than Plutarch had been.

  None was better at servicing a gladiator, yet at times Plutarch would mention how he wished he could have taken to the sand to win his freedom and wealth. And yet at other times, he mentioned he was glad he had not killed, which might have been because of some strange Eastern cult he had joined.

  'These games are gone,' he said.

  ‘Nothing?' I asked.

  ‘Nothing they can do.'

  'And he's still there?'

  'Waiting for you, dominus.’

  Plutarch's large frame alighted clumsily on the floor. I rose from the small couch where I was being oiled. Everyone looked to me.

  Plutarch shook his head slowly. The games were doomed. I looked to a solid patrician friend who understood a bit of politics.

  'He should know better,' I said to Marcus Quintus Varro, a former officer in the thirteenth Gemina and an owner of land near Herculaneum. I asked that he go quickly through the arena tunnels to the emperor's seats and tell Domitian to leave. Nothing was going to save these games, and he should not be associated with them.

  'He would know himself, would he not ?' said Varro.

  'He should,' I said; and he knew it was of great import because I never spoke to my companions before a match.

  'I'll go,' said Vergilius Flavius Publius, a young patrician of such catholic earnestness that a refusal of anything to him became an affront to his dignity. Publius was delicate, with a soft face, and a voice that squeaked when he got angry, which was often, and I could see him ignored or halted by some arena slave, happy to safely affront a patrician toga. Arena slaves have great authority over things like gates and locks and little passages, and they exercise it wantonly at these times.

  'I can do it' said Publius, forgetting no one is allowed to speak to me first.

  'Publius,' called Varro, but Publius was through the body slaves and armoured slaves at the entrance before Varro could stop him, and I was in my own thoughts where I meticulously strip all distractions before an event. I only realized Varro had not gone when I heard the mob begin the low rolling chant of my name. 'Eugeni, Eugeni, Eugeni.'

  Plutarch climbed on the table again.

  'He's still there,' said Plutarch. I should have been in the tunnel before the portal to the arena sand, but my slaves had not led me there. ‘What?'

  'Domitian remains,' said Plutarch. 'We're keeping you here so that he will know to leave.' 'Do they riot ? Only riot would stop Varro.' 'I'm here,' said Varro. 'Oh,'I said.

  'Domitian has not been informed,' said Plutarch. 'He will know to leave when you do not appear. We keep the master of the games outside. When Domitian leaves, you go.'

  All was well. I have good slaves, and everyone crucial to my survival knows that freedom and wealth follow jobs well done. In a few moments I felt the touch on my shoulder and followed my men to the portal.

  I could feel the stamping of feet on seats outside in the very stones near my head. There is a sweet smell of mountain air in the fetid tunnel, where I feel I am young and can run all day. There is no darkness or sun, and every sound is clear.
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  'Blade's sharpened,' said a slave into my ear, which meant the secutor had added recent sharpness to his weapon, which would have been unneccessary if he intended just a display.

  We walked into the sun on the sand. As the light came full to me, my slaves stripped off my unfastened robe and put a spatha, a long sword with a point more like a spear than a sword, into my right hand and a shield into my left hand. The shield is soft wood, the size of a child's bowl, reinforced with steel that can block, parry, and punch.

  The secutor wore a yellow helmet of solid gold, carried a short sword and a shield, and was girdled with gold and bronze. His sword arm had leather wrapping. Domitian was not in his box, and the secutor, not thinking, went to the empty seat for the formal obeisance. I went to the aedile, whose mother's face boiled red. The aedile, too drunk to realize he had financed a farce, smiled at me. I made great comic motions to the crowd, and the mother yelled down at me that she would litigate over a breach of contract, meaning that I was not fulfilling my obligations to the games by making mockery before them. It was not the worst of all possible threats, since not only did I already have the property, but several magistrates in the patrician's seats were smiling with me. I did not circle the arena to let the people examine my body as usual. I gave a cursory salute to the aedile, who waved in return, until his mother slapped down his arm forcefully. She knew the danger of the riot and, were she not a patrician, undoubtedly would have fled discreetly from this seething crowd. But patricians tend to throw their lives after fortunes and consider the fear of death some inferior instinct to be suppressed. While I, raised as a slave, know better and only disguise my fear.

  So I pretended boredom there under the hot sun, and careful I was to make my gestures gross, because subtlety is invisible to one hundred and fifty thousand pairs of eyes.

  The secutor finally offered a longer formal salute to the aedile, and the mother graciously accepted it. The crowd hooted and made gestures. And I, very casual in appearance, got a large stain of blood between me and the oncoming secutor, who also tried to salute me. I did not return it, and the crowd applauded and chanted, 'Eugeni, Eugeni, Eugeni,' which sounds like Scythian drums when it picks up rhythm. It appeared as though I were leading the crowd in contempt of the games.

  Even on the sand, blood can be slippery, although not as slippery as on earth or rock or wood. There, blood is like oil, which is why sand is so necessary for the games. The secutor, trying to avoid the stain, appeared unwilling to close on me, and I, in my casual, circling shuffle, appeared bored and above it all. Yet any discerning eye would have noticed that the spatha, hanging limply from my right hand, never touched the sand, and the small punching shield, while seeming to dangle casually at the end of a relaxed arm, always stayed waist high and facing the secutor. Just as he set to show that it was really I who ran, I turned my back on him. If he had allowed this act to continue and had then engaged me in a performance of some duration, whereby we could seduce the attention of the crowd, a small possibility would have remained that we might save some glory of the games that day. Although I could not see such a dissatisfied arena allowing a loser to live.

  I turned. He closed and gave me that planted foot, and my spatha was in and out of his throat like the snapping of a catapult before he got his ponderous shoulder and full body into his sword.

  His thrust came anyhow, weaker and slower for having been mortally struck, and I slapped it away with my shield and wrested off his gold helmet as his head went by.

  To the stands it looked as though I had just touched him gently with the tip of my weapon to keep him away and that removing the gold helmet was the greater labour. He struggled around on his hands and knees like a cow waiting to be mated, and I trotted with the helmet against my chest towards the 'Portal of Life' as though nothing were wrong.

  I did not wait for a signal of death from either the crowds or the vestal virgins, whose official responsibility it was to judge these matters, but who always followed the will of the crowd. They would pass their decision on to the emperor, who by tradition gave the final decision on life or death.'

  Domitian was not in his seats. No gaudy praetorian helmets with ornate plumes or brightly worked chest plates dotted the seething crowd where Domitian normally would sit. He had escaped through his tunnel, and the lack of praetorians there meant his retreat had been neat and successful.

  Already, the first to his seats to get his fruits and wines and any stranded goblets were having the life crushed out of them by those who followed for the pillage. There were no barriers to the crowds because an emperor's appearance at the games showed he was part of the people of Rome and, while a god, he was made of the same stuff as they.

  Three large men fell into the arena dragging a vestal virgin. Smiling broadly, I trotted waving from the arena, as though this were the grandest day of the empire.

  The mob shouted my name, but in moments they would tear at me to get an eyebrow for a souvenir or some other part they thought worth collecting. Mobs do not have leaders, even if they yell their names in praise. They only have objects in front of them, which they will either follow or destroy, depending on some mindless whim.

  This mob was larger than many city-states the empire had conquered. With a roar, the seats flooded out on to the sand, like a spring gusher down a dry riverbed. It was off, and I was through the Portal of Life just in time, where Plutarch had my armoured slaves ready and protective. They formed a wedge around me and moved me off down the arena tunnel, banging, pushing, and cutting.

  We passed the master of the games, screaming full lung that Rome, the sponsors, and he were being abandoned. If he survived this riot, he would be crucified at least. Officially, it was his responsibility to ensure that the games were successful and orderly. But he had undoubtedly accepted bribes not to complain.

  The patrician family had just as obviously reasoned that if a bribe cost them two and the elephants cost two hundred, therefore they would save one hundred and ninety-eight. That is, if they had the other hundred and ninety-eight to begin with.

  They had undoubtedly depended on the young secutor to kill me, thus making the games a success very cheaply. Like many brilliant, logical plans, it was more easily and swiftly put together unobstructed by the unreasonable block of what really happens in these situations. It was not hard to imagine them saying among themselves, 'Why hasn't anyone thought of this before, the fools ?'

  The master of the games should have known better but undoubtedly had succumbed to their logic and money.

  At my cubicle my slaves were already heaving vats of water at the heavy wooden door. They were wetting it down. Plutarch ordered the door shut behind us, saying if someone hadn't gotten here by now, it was too bad.

  'No,' I said. 'We'll wait.'

  We heard the mobs from the slit behind us where Plutarch had earlier looked for the imperial presence. The armoured slaves looked nervous to Plutarch. They understood how much safer they would be with the door shut. Plutarch, his massive, fleshy head unmoving, stared them down.

  Screams came from the tunnel outside, and we knew the mobs were near. Suddenly a slave, laughing, tumbled into our cubicle.

  'That's him,' said Plutarch.

  'Lock it,' I said. And with their bodies, three slaves heaved at once, and the door shut with a solid crack.

  'More water,' ordered Plutarch, and slaves splashed the dry inside portion with its reinforced iron latticework. Three stiff iron bolts went into place, as the slaves lashing them into place got wet from the slaves watering the doors.

  A slave had been saved, and his joy caught on. There was grinning. There was confidence. We had saved a life from the mob. We might save all.

  A watered-down door would not stop a determined fire. But, it would delay the success of flames and stop initial attempts. The mob, having very little patience, would most likely pass on to a more quickly gratifying object. I ordered wine for the slaves, told a little joke, and felt a hand on my shoulder. It was
Publius. He was demanding a slave be crucified. Not only did he not know the name of the slave, but he did not know the owner. Only that this slave had stopped him from reaching Domitian and - Publius had witnesses to this - had laid a hand on Publius' person.

  Now Publius was not necessarily for crucifixion, he said, and were it up to him he would have it outlawed. Yet, since there was crucifixion, this slave most assuredly deserved it if anyone ever deserved it. We all agreed that Publius was right and told him to take another cup of wine.

  'Of course, I was right,' said Publius.

  'My gold helmet,' said someone in a corner. During the panic, none of us had smelled him. But the lanista, who had so cloyingly assured me his secutor would only offer a performance, had apparently wedged himself in with me and my armoured slaves. It was a smart move. Perhaps his first.

  if we could open that door safely, I would throw you out'

  'That's all I have left after you killed my secutor.'

  'You lost. The helmet is mine,' I said, realizing I was still holding it. My hands were sticky. There was blood on the helmet. Not mine.

  'We had an agreement,' said the lanista. He wore a new toga, this one apparently quite fine. The family must have paid him first. 'We had an agreement.'

  'Which you and your secutor had no intention of keeping,' I said. 'What great fortune would have been on both of you had he slain me. You would have owned the greatest gladiator in the world, and he would have seen not only his freedom but great wealth in the future. You lost.'

  'Greekling,' he said, the worst thing a Roman can call another. He knew my mother was Greek.

  'How dare you, barely a knight, call the great Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus a "Greekling",' said Publius.