The Far Arena (9 page)

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 ha
ve paid him first. 'We had an agr
eement.'

'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.

"The helmet is mine,' I said.

'Would you make a loan of it to me?' said the lanista.

"These new families that dare to use the word "Greekling" are an abomination,' said Publius. 'And how laughable that it should be used on one adopted into the Aurelii by Lucius Aurelius himself, by whom Eugeni was personally given his names. Yes, Eugenianus is a Greek name, but Eugeni is the most Roman of them all,' said Publius.

'I can repay it in your service,' said the lanista.

'Your service is worthless, the proof of which lies outside on the sand, unless of course it has been torn apart.'

The thundering mob had been launched in a single roar, and now the sounds were scattered into shrieks and moans as it turned on itself. For some reason, mobs raped, and one could hear the screams of the women which excited the assaulters more.

'We, the Flavia,' said Publius, 'do not even allow the word "Greekling" to be used by our slaves.'

'I am ruined,' said the lanista.

'How can one as low as you be ruined ?' asked Publius.

The lanista took a cup of wine, I had water, and we all waited for the mob to dissipate itself. Even now Publius wore a smile.

Why did I like Publius? In most things, he was nothing I admired. In an age when it was said people had almost forgotten how to speak for fear of Domitian's spies, Publius' mind was at his tongue. He had only to think something to feel free to express it.

He believed in everything. No god came to Rome without Publius' worship or rejection first. At one time he even said there were no gods. If it was new, Publius had done it, worn it, or eaten it. He was even celibate for an afternoon and attempted to get everyone to join him, until he had a cup of wine and saw an attractive breast bob. By morning he had written four scrolls proving with finality that long-term celibacy caused lunacy and was a danger to the empire.

He had been an officer of the Third Cyrene legion fighting in Judea. Others saw blood, baking heat, and fanatics' daggers, living with the fear of fighting those who do not value their lives. Publius discovered a new wine.

He was on the tribune's staff but begged to bloody his sword instead of his stylus. It was said, but Publius denied it as a vicious rumour, that, unauthorized, he had led a wedged formation against an empty cave. Insulted by the tribune, Publius left Judea and returned to Rome without permission - a breach of discipline that normally would bring death. His family, far relatives of the Flavia who ruled Rome, interceded. It cost them half their estates to save his life. He stopped talking to his father because of the complaints over the size of the enormous bribe.

He married into a fortune, slept one night with his wife, who conceived, and found domestic life did not suit him. After a week he compared it to endless slavery and wrote an ode likening it to eternally rolling a rock up a hill. This, after he had written an ode to the married life as the strongest stone in the empire's walls.

Why did I like Publius?

Perhaps he could live with a freedom I could not survive. Perhaps it was his innocence of the hardness of the world. Perhaps it was his enthusiasm for everything. Sometimes, even after his life brought me ruin, I still smiled when I thought of him.

We were quiet in the cubicle, not because at this point the mob could hear us in its own screams, but because men waiting to fight for life do not have much to say. Except Publius.

'Better to wait,'
he said.

'Of course, none of us could get out now,' said Varro.

'I mean later for the feast. Everyone in my family, all my friends are coming, except my cheap father. I didn't invite him.'

A body suddenly blocked the slit to the arena. I ordered the lamps put out, for now the cubicle would become stuffy if they remained lit. We stood in darkness.

'They will be so disappointed that you are late for the feast,' said Publius. He was talking to me.

'Shhh, Publius,' I whispered. "There is a riot. If any of your guests are foolish enough to attend, I am not one of them.'

'That is the lunacy of the mob. They do not realize how important your feast is,' said Publius.

It was dark, and the dark made the quiet seem more necessary, as though all ears became stronger when the eyes were not in use.

'Eugeni
...'
said Publius.

'Shhh. I want to go home, Publius. To my wife. To my son. I want to protect them. Shhh.' 'Now, Eugeni,' he whispered. 'Everyone knows mobs always attack only what is immediately in front of them. And we know they always veer towards the Capitoline. Everyone knows that. This is not a time to lose our heads, correct ?'
‘
Correct, Publius. Shhh.'

'No. Just a moment for reason to overcome mindless panic. Now you, above all, have a house designed for protection against mobs. The streets leading to it are narrow, your walls well fortified and manned by slaves trained by you personally. Personally by you. There is no better training in the world. Correct ?'

'Shhh. Yes.'

'The safest place
in Rome is your house, yes ?' ‘
Yes. Shhh.'

'Then gracious Miriamne and bright and sturdy Petronius are safer than any of us, yes?' 'Shhh.'

'Against that certain safety lingers my life, but it rests secured on your word. Because I know you, least of all, will never surrender to panic and illogical action.' This Publius was sure of and he had no worry, he said firmly.

'Publius, how was your life staked on an evening of drinking and eating?'
I asked.

That was not the point. The point was my word. And he had no doubt that I would lay down my life for my word, just as any real patrician would.
Varro laughed, and the ruined l
anista ignored us. The slaves concealed their mirth, knowing that to laugh at Publius was to risk a blow.

'The problem today is that some families are very new,' said Publius, the remark being intended for Varro, who thought this more amusing.

'Publius, this may shatter your perception of me, but I have been known to lie. The arena is the greatest lie of all. How many times have I refused the wooden sword, saying I would rather die gloriously before my beloved Romans than accept the serenity of a retired life? Do you believe that ?'

'That's for the mob. Every sane Roman coddles the mob, although I think a stiff dose of Roman steel would be better. Yet that is another thing. A Roman's word to a Roman is what I talk about.'

'You want to hear a Roman's word to a Roman, Publius ?'

‘
Yes,'hesaid. 'No, I
said.

That's incredibly Greek,' said Publius.

We hea
rd yelling close outside in the passageway. Several hard raps came at the door. No thud of a ram. The men sat in a semicircle around the door. Sh
ould it be rammed successfully,
we did not wish to be thrown into chaos by our own men being hurled backwards into the rest of us. We could use this semicircle as a barrier and a successful one at that. For this, I wore a light chest of armour. Varro stood to my left, and Publius, with a short sword, wedged his way to the right side of the door, where he assumed there would be the most action.