Rome in Flames (6 page)

– chapter xi –

Lessons

 

Before sunrise, I set out with Manius and Theon for the mysterious place called school. Theon was there to teach me how to do his job. He carried a candle to light our way, while I held Manius's bag of school things. Manius, of course, carried nothing at all, yet he walked very slowly – slower than the ox carts that lumbered through the city in the hours of darkness.

‘I don't want to go to school,' he muttered. ‘It's so boring.'

We came to a room that opened onto the street, as if it had once been used as a shop. Inside, a dozen young boys sat on wooden benches. Manius joined them. A tall, stern-looking man was talking, and the boys were repeating each thing he said. This went on for a long time.

‘You should listen,' Theon whispered to me. ‘He's teaching them to speak Latin clearly. Pay attention and you might lose that ridiculous British accent.'

All morning, Theon and I sat on the steps outside the entrance. There were some other attendants there too, but most of them were old men. Manius was right, I decided – school
was
boring.

After the speaking lesson, each boy took out two flat pieces of wood covered in a layer of wax. The boys made marks in the wax with thin metal rods. The teacher looked at their work, praising some boys, shouting at others. When the wax was covered in little marks, it was smoothed out and the whole thing started again. Why?

When I asked Theon, he stared at me in disbelief. ‘They're learning to write. Those little marks – they all have a meaning, a sound. Put them together and they make words. Are you telling me there's no one in Britain who can read or write?'

‘I think some of the druids can,' I said. ‘But not the ordinary people. Why would they need to?'

Theon said, ‘If you can read and write, you don't have to memorize everything. You can read what other people have written. You can send messages to the ends of the empire.'

‘I still don't see why a little kid like Manius has to learn it.'

‘He'll need it when he's older,' said Theon. ‘Look around you. There's writing everywhere.'

It was true. I had never really noticed, but the little marks were carved into the bases of statues, painted above doorways and scrawled on walls.

‘Can you read and write?' I asked Theon.

‘Of course. That's why the master bought me to be Manius's attendant. What
you're
meant to teach him, I can't imagine.'

‘Read something, then,' I challenged him. ‘Read that.' The wall opposite the school was marked in several places with those mystical signs.

‘
Vote for Marcus Casellius
,' Theon said. ‘And that says
Beware of the dog
. Oh, and this one might interest you:
Twenty pairs
of gladiators will fight on the eighteenth of March, with a full pro
gramme of wild beast shows and British captives
. You should go along to see that. Wild beasts and barbarians – it might remind you of home.'

I ignored this. ‘But how did you learn to read? You're only a slave, after all. Did you go to school?'

‘No – my father taught me.'

‘Was your father a slave too?' I asked, curious to find out more about Theon's past life.

‘Yes, but he was an important one. My father was very clever. He took care of the master's business affairs – my old master, I mean.'

‘What happened to him?' I asked, for it sounded as if his father was dead.

‘He set off with the master on a voyage to Aegyptus. They never got there. The ship ran aground in a storm . . .' His voice tailed off.

For the first time ever, I felt sorry for Theon. I knew what it felt like to lose your father.

‘Is your mother still alive?' I asked.

‘As far as I know, she is. After the shipwreck, the master's brother inherited all his wealth. He kept some of the slaves and sold the rest of us. I don't know where my mother is now.'

Exactly like me! I didn't know where my mother was either. ‘That's bad,' I said. ‘You must miss her.'

‘Not really.' Theon's voice was cold. ‘She was a foolish woman, a typical Celt. Even after twenty years in Rome, she was still a barbarian. Wherever she is now – even if it's the Emperor's palace – she's probably complaining that it's not like Britain.'

I decided I could never be friends with Theon. We spoke the same language, and similar things had happened to us, but that didn't mean we were alike. Just the opposite, in fact.

I gave up the effort to be friendly. We sat in silence as the long morning dragged on.

When school was over, Theon showed Manius the writing on the wall. (What were
gladiators
? I didn't ask because I was tired of Theon making me feel stupid.) Manius got quite excited.

‘I must ask Father if we can go. I'd love to see the British warriors. Bryn, have you ever seen gladiators in combat? It's great! They fight and fight until one of them gets killed.'

‘Not as good as a real battle, though,' said Theon. ‘And Bryn has actually lived through one. You should ask him about it.'

How did Theon know that? I hardly ever talked about the battle – I hated to remember it. Theon must have overheard one day when Clemens asked me how I was taken captive. I told Clemens a little about the day my father died. Clemens understood, and stopped asking questions.

But not Manius. He wanted me to tell him all about the battle. What sort of weapons did the British use? What were their chariots like? If the Romans were outnumbered, how did they win the battle? How many dead bodies did I see? Manius was too young to understand my feelings – or perhaps a slave's feelings didn't count.

Theon smirked, and I saw he'd done this on purpose. He hadn't forgiven me for taking over his job. From tomorrow, he would be running errands for Pallas, the master's secretary. ‘It's a step up for me,' he boasted. ‘Secretary's assistant; I might be the secretary myself, one day.' But I guessed he would have to work a lot harder than he was doing now.

All the way home, Manius pestered me with questions. When I didn't answer he got angry. ‘Don't be insolent, boy,' he warned me. ‘If I tell my father, he'll have you whipped.'

The next day, when I took him – or rather followed him – to school, Manius was in a better mood. ‘I asked Father, and he said that after school you can take me to see the British warriors in training,' he said. ‘They're at the gladiator school of Decimus Lucretius Valens. Do you know where that is?'

I hadn't a clue. I still did not know my way around the city. We had to ask several people before we found our way to the gladiator school.

The training arena was a high-walled wooden structure with a few tiers of seats around the sides. We sat down among a small crowd of onlookers. Below us, in the sand-floored arena, two men were practice-fighting with wooden swords. They had helmets with protective face masks, and one wore body armour. The other fought in the Celtic way, with only a sword and small shield.

Watching them, I could see why my people had lost that final battle. The Briton swung his sword wide, slashing with the edge of the blade, while his opponent – probably Roman – stabbed with the sword point. On a crowded battlefield, the Roman method was better. But here, in the open, they seemed equally matched, and the Celtic fighter was very quick on his feet. Even with wooden swords, it was exciting to watch.

Obviously, I wanted the Celt to win. So did Manius. ‘Come on, Briton!' he yelled. ‘Kill him! Kill him!'

Someone shouted an order, and the fight ended. It was hard to tell who would have won if the weapons had been real. But Manius shouted, ‘Well done, Celt! You slaughtered him!'

The British warrior took off his helmet and face mask. He looked up at the small crowd of onlookers. Then his mouth opened wide in surprise. A huge smile spread across his face.

It was Conan! I had found my brother at last!

– chapter xii –

In the arena

 

In the months since I had seen him last, Conan had grown taller and stronger. He was almost as tall as our father had been, though not as broad-shouldered. He had also become much more skilful with his sword.

‘How did you learn to fight like that?' I asked him.

‘They make us practise every day. In a few days, I'll be doing it for real.' At this thought, the smile left his face. ‘But tell me, Bryn – are you all right? What's been happening to you?'

I wanted to touch him, to hug him, so that I could feel sure this was reality and not a dream. But he wasn't allowed to leave the arena. I leaned over the wooden parapet and we had a hurried conversation.

He told me what had happened since the day when we were sold. His first master, a farmer, had been a cruel man.

‘We couldn't understand his orders at first. It wasn't our fault – but we got punished every time we made a mistake. Once, Andreas cut a tree down when the master just wanted him to trim it a bit. He got a terrible whipping for that. What's your master like?'

‘He's all right. This is his son,' I said warningly, although of course Manius couldn't speak our language. ‘I have to look after him.'

Now Conan noticed Manius, who was gazing at him with hero-worship. ‘Looks like real hard work.'

‘Oh, it is. But what happened to you? How did you end up here?'

He said, ‘At Saturnalia, when everyone got drunk, Andreas and I ran away. We made it as far as that big port – you know, where we first landed. We wanted to find a ship sailing for home. But it was wintertime and people looked at us as if we were mad. Very few ships set sail in winter. We never thought of that.'

After several days of living rough, they were captured and sold again, this time to the owner of the gladiator school. He was always on the lookout for new slaves, for obvious reasons.

‘And it's not such a bad life,' Conan said. ‘At least they feed us well, and look after us if we get sick.'

‘Yes, and then make you fight to the death,' I said. I could hardly bear to think about it. I had found Conan, but in a few days I might lose him again – for ever.

He grinned at me. ‘You only get killed if you don't win the fight. I'll have to make sure I win, that's all.'

Manius was tugging at my arm. ‘Talk in Latin, not your foreign language,' he ordered me. ‘Who is this? Is he from your tribe?'

‘He's my brother.'

Manius was impressed. ‘I never knew you had a gladiator for a brother.'

‘Neither did I, until just now.'

Before we had time to talk any more, Conan was ordered away by his master. The following day, we went back, but he wasn't allowed to talk to us. Perhaps his owner thought we were planning to help him escape.

Two days later, the Games began. No more time to practise – the next fight would be for real.

* * *

Holding a fan in case Manius got too hot, and a cloak in case he got too cold, I waited for the show to start. The arena below me was not much bigger than the one at the gladiator school, but the rows of seats mounted up high on all sides. Every seat seemed to be filled. Instead of sitting far back among the other slaves, I was near the front with Manius and his father. I would be close to the action, close enough to see Conan's face – maybe for the last time.

I tried not to think about that. Conan was not going to die, I told myself. He would fight well, win the combat, and make everyone cheer. He would be a hero.

Yes, and afterwards? He would have to fight again soon, then again and again. Manius had told me that a few gladiators – the very skilful or very lucky ones – managed to fight on for years and earn their freedom. But most of them got killed.

Before the gladiators came on, there was a wild beast show. Several strange animals were driven into the arena, hunted down and killed. There was a massive beast with a tail at each end, a striped horse, and a cat almost as big as a man. Normally I would have been curious about these weird and wonderful beasts. But I couldn't think of anything except the gladiator fight.

Then came some men who fought with wooden weapons. Manius looked impatient. ‘This is just to get the crowd warmed up,' he said. Two women hacked at each other using real swords, but they weren't particularly skilful. As their combat dragged on and on, the crowd grew tired of it and started shouting, ‘Gladiators! We want the gladiators!'

At last, in single file, the gladiators marched into the ring. There were several Britons among them. Although all their faces were covered in war-paint, I spotted Conan at once – it was something about the way he walked. Behind him, I thought I recognized Andreas.

There were forty men altogether. If Manius was right, by nightfall only twenty of them would be left alive.

I had a sick feeling inside me. Conan could fight well, but so could the others. They had all been in training, most wore armour of some kind, and each one would be fighting for his life.

The fighters lined up facing a high seat with a canopy over it. The man who sat there, dressed in purple, must be the Emperor Nero. He was supposed to be a god. To me, he seemed like an ordinary man, youngish and rather bored-looking, as if he'd been to hundreds of these Games.

‘Hail, Emperor!' the gladiators chanted. ‘Those who are about to die salute you!'

They marched out again. A trumpet sounded, and Manius sat up. ‘This is where the real fun starts,' he said.

Two gladiators entered the arena. One had a large shield, a sword, armour and a helmet. The other carried only a net and a three-pronged spear.

‘That doesn't seem fair,' I said to Manius. ‘They should give both men the same armour and weapons.'

‘Oh, but that would be so dull. It's more interesting when the fighters have different skills. They have to use their own strength and their opponent's weakness. Just you watch – a good net-and-trident man will often bring down a chaser. Isn't that right, Father?'

The master smiled fondly down at his son. The boy was quite good company when he wasn't in a bossy, demanding mood.

The first fight was slow to get started. The gladiators circled each other warily, and the crowd grew restless. Several times the chaser, as Manius called him, dodged the thrown net. The net man gathered it in again, waiting for his chance.

‘Come on, you cowards!' Manius yelled. Some onlookers began booing and throwing rotten fruit. I wondered how those plump Roman shopkeepers would react if they were shoved into the arena for a life-or-death fight. I bet they would show what real cowardice looked like.

The net man threw again – too high, missing the chaser as he darted forward. The chaser's sword took the net man right in the stomach. He sank down onto the sand, blood pouring from the wound. ‘He's had it! He's had it!' people began to chant, holding out their hands in some kind of signal. ‘Kill him!'

The winner looked up towards the Emperor's throne. The Emperor made the same signal as the crowd. At once the winner slit his opponent's throat, and more blood stained the sand. The audience roared with delight.

I felt disgusted. Killing people in battle was one thing. Killing people for amusement, for pleasure – that was different. How dare the Romans call us savages? They were the savages. They were like a pack of ferocious wolves, thirsty for blood.

The winning gladiator bowed to the cheering crowd. The loser's body was dragged away, and clean sand was sprinkled over the place where he'd fallen. Two more fighters came in.

‘That's what we call a mermaid man,' explained Manius. ‘See the fishtail shape on his helmet? And the other, with the small curved sword, is a Thracian.'

I didn't really care. Neither of them was my brother. But as the fight went on, I got interested in spite of myself. It was an exciting contest between two swift, agile swordsmen. They were both wounded, but bravely fought on.

Then the Thracian stumbled and fell. He lay helpless in front of his enemy, holding up one hand as if to beg for mercy. This time, many people shouted, ‘Let him go!'

‘He fought well,' the master said. ‘He should be allowed to live and fight again.'

The Emperor must have agreed, for he gave a different signal this time. The winning gladiator sheathed his sword and helped his opponent to get up and walk way.

But that was unusual. I sat through several more fights, all ending in death. Sometimes, the winner was so badly wounded that two deaths seemed likely. In between contests, there were other acts – clowns imitating gladiators, a dwarf fighting a woman, and two men wearing helmets with no eyeholes, so they had to fight blindly.

When would it be Conan's turn? I was dreading it and yet longing for it. I wanted an end to the terror that made my heart jump each time the arena doors were opened.

If I was terrified, how must Conan feel? Down there, behind that closed door, he would see nothing. But he would hear the agonized cries of wounded men and the blood-crazed yells of the mob.

And he would have to walk out there alone. It wouldn't be like going into battle, surrounded by friends. Alone he would step out of the dark doorway to meet his enemy. I couldn't help him, no one could.

Suddenly I remembered another time when no one could help. Tiro had prayed to his god that day, and my leg had stopped bleeding. Would the god listen to me now? If only Tiro were here . . .

Tiro had told me that his god was like no other gods. You didn't need to stand before an altar if you wanted to pray – you could talk to him anywhere. And you didn't have to bring him offerings to make him answer you.

Silently, surrounded by the thunderous roar of the crowd, I prayed to Tiro's unseen god. ‘Are you there? Can you really hear me? Please help Conan. Please don't let him die . . .'

The trumpets were sounding again. The doors were opening. A heavily armed chaser stepped out, followed by a British warrior.

‘That's him,' I breathed.

‘Look, Father!' cried Manius. ‘That's Bryn's brother down there.'

‘What?' The master looked startled, then angry. ‘Is this true? You shouldn't have brought Bryn to see his brother getting slaughtered!'

‘He won't get slaughtered,' said Manius confidently. ‘He'll win – won't he, Bryn?'

I didn't answer. The fight was about to begin.