The Wadjet Eye (7 page)

Clutching his side, the fisherman warded off the attacks of the fish with his other arm. Even wounded, his skill was great. He pinned his opponent's sword with his trident and flicked it out of reach. Artemas clapped his hands and whistled. Damon felt sick. What was he doing here?

The fisherman was growing weaker, and slower. The fish had lost his sword, but he just switched to the longer javelin and pulled a knife from his belt. With the javelin, the fish twisted the trident up and back and moved in close to the defenseless fisherman. He plunged his knife into the fisherman's side. The fisherman fell forward onto his knees, his face in the dirt. The murmillon stood over him. The crowd's crazed cheers formed a chant. Although Damon heard one or two weak shouts of "
Mitte
" to save the life of the wounded retiarius, the crowd's chant grew into a crescendo of "
lugula
" and the fish, bowing to the crowd's demands, slit the fisherman's throat. How could Artemas consider this entertainment? Damon glared at him. Artemas stared straight ahead.

Damon looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd. They all clapped and whistled, many jumping from their seats to watch the dead gladiator being dragged out of the arena. This was supposed to be the center of the civilized world?

Artemas still leaned forward. But his shoulders sagged, and he no longer cheered. He rubbed his hands together, over and over.

Damon punched his shoulder. "Is this what you wanted to see?"

Artemas didn't turn.

Damon hit him again. "Brave warriors! Illustrious combat! Is this what you want to be? Take a good look. This is what it looks like for one man to kill another."

Through clenched teeth Artemas said, "This isn't what I want to be."

Damon had had enough. But before he could suggest they leave, a lone juggler walked to the center of the arena, tossing five flaming clubs high in the air. Her head was tipped back to follow the clubs, so from where they sat, Damon and Artemas could see her young face locked in concentration. Her hair was loose and flowed down over her shoulders in spirals. Damon released a deep breath. They would watch the juggler. He would take deep breaths and get rid of his anger. Then they would leave.

The crowd laughed when the juggler had to reach out far to catch a club that strayed from its normal path. She struggled to regain the steady flow of clubs. After a moment or two of teetering, she had them back under control and spun around, catching them behind her back. A flickering of applause scattered through the audience.

Damon was so mesmerized by the tilt of her chin and the flow of the torches that until Artemas tensed he noticed nothing in the ring but the juggler. The rhinoceros seemed to come out of nowhere, as if it rose from the floor itself. It shook its head, adjusting to the bright light. Damon remembered reading that the rhinoceros is almost completely blind. But even with such poor sight, how could it miss the torches whisking in front of it? The juggler had her back to the rhinoceros, and Damon, watching the upturned face, realized with a sudden wave of nausea that the girl knew her fate. Her jaw was set as if preparing for the impact.

The rhinoceros pawed the ground with one hoof, snorting. The crowd was again frenzied. Damon rose to leave, tugging at Artemas, but Artemas pulled away. The rhinoceros dropped its head, its horn scraping the floor, and, to the increasing roar of the crowd, began to charge. Damon watched the girl close her eyes and the torches fall one by one to her feet. The horn of the rhinoceros pierced her back. The beast raised its head, and the girl, run through by the horn, was lifted off her feet. The rhinoceros trotted around in circles, tossing its head back and forth, trying to free itself of the burden. The girl, lifeless, hung from the horn, her arms and legs flopping up and down with each jerk of the beast's head.

Damon turned his back to the arena. A group behind him stood, waving him to sit so they could see. They yelled, but he stared over their heads. Damon looked from Artemas to the crowd to the arena. He pressed his palms to his ears, hard. But the mad roar of the crowd penetrated. Penetrated everything.

Artemas spit on the ground of the Circus and half ran out, leaving Damon to follow as best he could. The crowd didn't part when they saw Damon coming, and he had trouble wedging himself between the spectators.

The cheering reached another pitch, and Damon, unable to help himself, looked back. The girl lay contorted in the dirt, a leg buckled under her body. And the beast was being slaughtered by a dozen armed guards whose spears had difficulty piercing its tough hide. The crowd was cheering the trampling of one guard.

Damon let Artemas get far ahead. His friend needed time alone. This wasn't what Artemas had expected. Rome was not what either of them had expected. Damon longed for the gentleness of the Egyptian people—the peace of Alexandria. He studied the contorted faces of those in the crowd. Was his father like these men? A chill passed through him, and he hurried to catch up with Artemas.

It was as if the bust of Cicero that stood on a pedestal in the foyer of Damon's home, back in Alexandria, had come to life on the Forum steps. The beefy, balding man with prominent nose and deep creases along his cheek and jaw so resembled the bust Damon had passed hundreds of times that the real Cicero now seemed familiar to him—as if Damon were seeing an old friend.

Cicero shrugged his cloak off one shoulder. He spoke to a man who Damon guessed was his servant, since he did not have on the toga worn by citizens of Rome. Cicero's waistband, Damon noticed, was purple, a color supposedly reserved for senators. When Cleopatra had dressed in purple to attend the theater, Cicero had criticized her at length. It seemed he paid no attention to his own words—or he thought himself worthy where Cleopatra was not.

Cicero pointed out several in the crowd to his servant, then turned and climbed the Forum steps, taking two at a time. When he reached the top step, he shouted, "A good day's wage for those who are interested. See my man, Tiro."

A crowd began to form around Tiro, who shouted, "No work required!"

A man dressed in rags shouted back, "You think it's not work to listen to those long-winded jackasses?" The crowd laughed, but still more joined the group.

"You, the one missing the foot. Yes, you." Tiro gestured to a lame man to come forward. "We're in need of your kind." Several beggars joined the group.

A legless man used his arms to swing his torso up the steps. "Worked for Cicero before. Decent man," he hollered to the crowd.

Tiro motioned to them all. "Follow me."

They followed him to a chamber in the courthouse. The others seemed to leave space around Artemas, who stood a head taller, but Damon had to elbow and wedge himself through the flow of Romans, just as he had at the Circus Maximus.

Damon wondered how they would all fit into this small room. Why did Tiro need so many? The room was packed. He seemed to have favored the blind, deaf, and crippled. Would he and Artemas get picked? If they weren't chosen, how would they get close enough to Cicero to learn anything useful to the Pharaoh? Damon found himself limping, then scolded himself for the deception. He'd never make a spy. He wished he hadn't agreed to this.

Cicero entered through a side door and stood at a podium. "The case you are about to hear will be painful for many of you. Who in Rome has not suffered the landlord's greed?"

Around the room men grumbled and nodded.

"My client lived in the attic of a tenement near the cattle markets. One evening, while his family slept, the roof collapsed. The rubble caught fire from a brazier that had been lit to take off the night chill. My client had been working late. He rounded the corner to see his building in flames. His whole family burned to death. His and many others." Cicero swept back his cloak. "They were killed because the landlord had hired an architect known to cut costs by using inferior materials and insufficient supports. How long are the people of Rome going to stand for this shoddy construction that takes the lives of our people?"

The grumbling grew louder. The man next to Damon thumped his crutch on the floor. Even Damon found himself swept up in the passion of Cicero's speech.
How dare the wealthy get richer at the cost of human life?

"Will you join me in battle against them?"

The group shouted agreement. Damon joined them, raising a fist and shouting, "We are with you." Artemas glared at him.

"Good. I want the jury to see how high rents force ten into a space meant for two. 1 want them to understand that when a building crumbles, hundreds are injured and homeless. You will show them. You will fill the galleries. Together we will put a stop to the human sacrifice. Are we one?"

"Yes!"

"Many of you already have afflictions. Good. Those of you who need a little something extra, see Tiro. He will provide you with bandages and crutches."

What? What was this? Had Damon heard right? He looked to where Cicero had gestured. Tiro stood behind a pile of soiled bandages. A dozen crutches leaned against the wall behind him.

Cicero raised his fist. "You are crusaders against injustice!"

How had he let himself be fooled so easily? Cicero didn't care about the poor. Damon whispered to Artemas, "I'll not put on some filthy bandage and pretend I've been injured."

"But how else do you expect to get close to him? You want those horses, don't you?"

"But this is all a sham!"

Artemas rolled his eyes. "What did you expect? Don't you see that this is just one way to show the jury the truth?"

Damon folded his arms across his chest. "I won't do it."

"All right, have it your way. Sitting in a courtroom for days won't really help us learn anything about Cicero anyhow." Artemas raised his hand and shouted, "Excuse me?"

"Yes, you." Cicero pointed to Artemas.

"How long do you expect this trial to last?"

Now what was Artemas up to? They'd be found out, for sure. What did the Romans do to spies? Damon thought of the Circus Maximus—the juggler—and shuddered.

"You should receive several days' pay At least three. Those of you with natural afflictions can leave your names with Tiro. We will use you again. Crippling injuries go a long way in the courtroom." Cicero headed toward the door with a wave to the crowd.

Artemas raised his voice. "I'm afraid my friend and I can't spare that much time. We are going to Caesar, you see."

Cicero stopped midstride and turned. "Then let me speak with you before you go. Come."

Cleopatra was right, Damon thought. Cicero must be obsessed with Caesar to agree to meet with them, two young men he had never seen before.

Artemas and Damon followed Cicero through the marble corridor to a small chamber, bare except for a desk and a few chairs. Cicero was the first to speak. "There has been little news out of Spain."

"Yes, so we understand," Damon replied. "My father is there. I go to tell him of my mother's death. He serves Caesar."

"1 will double the wage you would receive in the court if you send me word of how the battle goes in Spain."

Artemas stroked his chin with one hand. "What kind of news are you hoping for?"

Cicero looked sharply at Artemas. "What are you suggesting?"

"It's common knowledge you have no allegiance to Caesar. Will you use our information against him?" So, Damon thought,
Artemas is expecting an honest answer. I'd sooner believe a viper.

"I swear allegiance to no man. My allegiance is to the Republic." Cicero put his foot up on the chair, tightening the leather straps of his sandal. "I only desire news on which way the battle goes."

Artemas kept Cicero squarely in front of him like the hunter who never turns his back on the beast. "It is said that Cleopatra has many men following Caesar's progress. Perhaps you should ask her how the battle goes."

"The Egyptian sorceress? She will be the downfall of the Republic." Cicero was doing nothing to hide his distrust of Cleopatra—but if such thoughts were treasonous, all of Rome would be arrested. "I am a man of honor: I will not humble myself by begging that pagan for information."

Damon laughed, then coughed behind one fist to cover the sound. When both Artemas and Cicero looked at him, he asked, "How is it that a man of honor deceives a jury?"

"Ah, that." Cicero waved it away as if he were fanning an annoying insect from in front of his face. 'That is merely throwing dust in the jurymen's eyes. It is the lawyer's calling."

"You are good at this?" Damon asked.

"I am the best."

"I shall remember to protect my eyes."

Cicero smiled. "Your ears as well, son. Especially your ears."

Damon could not help but smile in return. Cicero's voice was deep with resonance, soothing as a balm. How could he protect his ears against it? And something more—Cicero had called him
son.
Did he need to be someone's son so badly he was willing to be charmed by an enemy of his Pharaoh?

Artemas crossed his arms stubbornly. "I'll not betray Caesar."

Cicero shrugged. "I only ask news of the battle, no more."

Damon believed him. He knew he shouldn't. There was dust in the air, and Cicero was throwing it. But Damon knew that information was power, and the first to know could strut his importance. Cicero was someone who liked to strut, Damon was sure. This was not about Caesar—at least, not this time.

"How would we send word?" Artemas asked cautiously.

"Messenger. Tiro will supply you with funds, and extra for your trouble. Now, I'm afraid I am late for court." Cicero left without waiting for their answer. Did he read men so well that he knew they would send word? If so, he must also know they would choose those words carefully And that first their Pharaoh, Cleopatra, would hear.

"What are we going to do?" Damon asked Artemas after Cicero had left.

"I won't provide him with so much as a breath to use against Caesar—or Cleopatra."

Damon had been ready to collect payment from Tiro and send Cicero news of progress in Munda. All because of one word^son. Artemas had kept his head. Cicero was not to be trusted. He was a man who created illusions. And a lie was still a lie, whether you liked to call it dust in the eyes or not.