Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) (180 page)

I looked heavenward. ‘And now a whole household of slaves will die. Roman justice!’

‘No!’ Alexandros jumped to his feet. ‘There must be something we can do.’

‘Nothing,’ whispered Olympias, reaching for his arm and grasping at thin air when he drew away.

‘Perhaps . . .’ I squinted at the edge of sunlight that blazed along the scalloped tile roof. Time was fleeting. The games might already have begun. ‘If I could confront Crassus directly, with Gelina as witness. If Alexandros could see him and identify him for certain—’

‘No!’ Olympias interposed herself between us. ‘Alexandros cannot leave Cumae.’

‘If only we had the cloak – the bloodstained cloak from which Crassus tore his seal before he discarded it along the road! If only I hadn’t lost it to the assassins last night. The assassins . . . oh, Eco!’

And then the cloak appeared, wafting out of the dark shadows of the house into the bright sunshine, held aloft by the outstretched arms of Eco himself, who smiled and blinked the sleep from his eyes.

XXIV

‘But I thought you knew,’ Iaia kept saying. ‘I thought that Olympias must have already told you.’ She was forgetting that on the night before, before Eco had come breathlessly beating on her door, Olympias had already slipped down to sleep with Alexandros in the sea cave and so had no way of knowing, as I had no way of knowing, that all the while we debated and deduced on the terrace, Eco was fast asleep within the house, clutching the filthy, bloodstained cloak he had saved from the assassins.

‘How foolish I feel, Gordianus. Here I’ve sat, trying to impress you with my deductions, when all along I should have been telling you what you most wanted to know – that your son was safe and sound here under my roof!’

‘The important thing is that he’s here,’ I said, swallowing to clear the sudden hoarseness in my voice and blinking back the tears that made Eco’s beaming, dirt-smudged face swim before my eyes. I squeezed him tightly in my arms and then stepped back, sighing from a sudden shortness of breath.

‘When he came to me last night I could see that he was frightened and exhausted but not hurt,’ said Iaia. ‘He was frantically trying to tell me something – I had no way of understanding. I gave him a special brew to calm him. At last he mimed using a wax tablet and stylus; I went to fetch them but when I came back he was fast asleep. I roused two of the slaves to carry him to bed. I looked in on him once or twice; he slept like a stone through the night.’

Eco looked up at me. He gingerly touched the bandage around my head.

‘This? Nothing at all; a little bump to remind me to be more careful in the woods.’

The smile abruptly faded from his lips. He averted his eyes and looked deeply troubled. I could guess the root of his shame: he had failed to warn me of the assassins’ approach, failed to rescue me last night, and instead of sending aid to me in the forest he had fallen asleep against his will.

‘I fell asleep myself,’ I whispered to him. He shook his head gloomily, angry not at me but at himself. He grimaced and pointed to his mouth. His eyes brimmed with tears. I understood as clearly as if he had spoken:
If only I could speak as others can, I could have shouted a warning to you on the precipice. I could have told Iaia that you were hurt and alone in the woods. I could say all that I need to say at this moment!

I put my arms around him to hide him from the others. He shivered against me. I looked over his shoulder and saw that Olympias and Alexandros were smiling warmly, seeing only the joy of our reunion. Iaia smiled, but her eyes were sad. I released him, and while Eco turned towards the empty sea to compose his face, I pulled the bloodstained cloak from his trembling fingers. ‘The important thing now is that we have the cloak!’

‘That changes nothing,’ protested Olympias. ‘Tell him, Iaia.’

Iaia looked at me sidelong and pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure . . .’

Alexandros stepped forward. ‘If there
is
any way to stop Crassus from killing the slaves—’

‘Maybe,’ I said, trying to think. ‘Maybe . . .’

‘I would never have stayed in the cave all this time had I known what was happening,’ Alexandros said. ‘You shouldn’t have deceived me, Olympias, even to save me.’

Olympias looked from his face to mine and back again, at first desperately and then shrewdly. ‘You won’t leave me behind,’ she quietly insisted. ‘I shall go with you. Whatever happens, I must be there.’

Alexandros moved to embrace her, but now it was she who shrank back. ‘If it’s to be done, we should move now,’ she said. ‘The sun is getting higher. The games will have already begun.’

The slave who fetched our horses gave me an odd look, puzzled at the bandage around my head. When he saw Alexandros he let out a gasp and turned pale. Iaia and Olympias had managed to deceive even their household slaves. Iaia did not bother to bind the man to secrecy; soon all the Cup would know that the escaped Thracian was still among them.

‘Iaia, are you coming?’ Olympias asked.

‘Too old, too slow,’ Iaia insisted. ‘I shall go on to the villa at my own pace and wait there for news.’ She stepped beside me and gestured for me to bend down from my mount, then spoke softly into my ear. ‘Are you sure of yourself, Gordianus? To challenge Crassus like this . . . to box the lion’s ears in his own den . . .’

‘I think I have no choice, Iaia. It is how the gods made me.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, the gods give us gifts, whether we ask for them or not, and then they give us no choice but to use them. We can blame the gods for many things.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I think you should know that the gods did not make your son a mute.’

I frowned at her, puzzled.

‘Last night I looked in on him a number of times, to see that he slept soundly. He kept calling for you.’

‘What? Calling? In words?’

‘As clearly as I speak to you now,’ she whispered. ‘He said, “Papa, Papa.” ’

I sat upright and looked down at her, baffled. She had no reason to deceive me or to delude herself, and yet how could such a thing be? I turned and glanced at Eco, who looked gloomily back at me.

‘What are we waiting for?’ said Olympias. Having made up her mind, she was determined to begin. Alexandros, on the other hand, seemed to be having second thoughts. A shadow of doubt crossed his face, then his features resolved themselves into a mask of perfect acquiescence to the will of the gods, such as any Stoic would have envied.

With a last wave to Iaia, the four of us set off.

From the Avernine woods we emerged onto the high, windy ridge overlooking Lake Lucrinus and Crassus’s camp. The plain was dotted with great plumes of smoke that rose from spit-fires and ovens; a crowd must eat. Through the haze I saw the great bowl of the wooden arena filled with spectators who had come to gawk and thrill at the funeral games. No faces were discernible at such a distance, only the mottled colours of the spectators dressed in their brightest clothing to enjoy the holiday and the perfect weather of a crisp autumn day. I heard the clash of swords against shields. The vague, general murmur of the crowd rose to roaring shouts that must have been heard across the water in Puteoli.

‘The gladiators must still be fighting,’ I said, squinting and trying to make out what was happening within the ring.

‘Alexandros has strong eyes,’ said Olympias. ‘What do you see?’

‘Yes, gladiators,’ he said, shielding his brow from the sun. ‘There must have already been several matches; I see pools of blood on the sand. Now three matches are being staged at once; three Thracians against three Gauls.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Olympias.

‘By their arms. The Gauls carry long, curved shields and short swords; they wear torques about their necks and plumed helmets. The Thracians fight with round shields and long, curved daggers, and wear round helmets with no visor.’

‘Spartacus is a Thracian,’ I said. ‘Crassus no doubt chose Thracians so the crowd could vent its anger against them. They can expect no mercy from the spectators if they fall.’

‘A Gaul is down!’ Alexandros said.

‘Yes, I see.’ I squinted through the haze.

‘He’s thrown his blade aside and lifts his forefinger, asking for mercy. He must have fought well; the spectators grant it – see how they pull out their handkerchiefs?’ The arena was like a bowl filled with fluttering doves as the crowd waved their white handkerchiefs. The Thracian helped the Gaul to his feet and they walked towards the exit together.

‘Now one of the Thracians falls! See the wound in his leg, how it pours blood onto the sand! He stabs the ground with his dagger and holds up his forefinger.’ A resounding chorus of catcalls and boos rose from the arena, a noise so full of hatred and blood lust that it caused hackles to rise on my neck. Instead of waving handkerchiefs the crowd pointed upwards with clenched fists. The defeated Thracian leaned back on his elbows, exposing his naked chest. The Gaul dropped to one knee, gripped his short sword with both hands and plunged it into the Thracian’s heart.

Olympias turned her face away. Eco watched in glum fascination. Alexandros still wore the look of stern resolution with which he had departed Cumae.

The triumphant Gaul walked once around the perimeter of the ring, holding his sword aloft and receiving the accolades of the crowd while his opponent’s body was dragged to the exit, leaving a long smear of blood across the sand.

The remaining Thracian suddenly bolted and began to run from his opponent. The crowd laughed and jeered. The Gaul chased after him, but the Thracian outdistanced him, refusing to fight. There was a commotion in the stands, then a dozen or more attendants entered the ring, some carrying whips and others wielding long, smouldering irons, so hot that I could see the glow at their tips and the little plumes of smoke that trailed after them. They poked at the Thracian, searing his arms and legs, making him jerk and clutch himself with pain. They lashed him with the whips, driving him back toward his opponent.

Olympias gripped Alexandros’s bare arm, sinking her nails into the flesh. ‘This was a mistake!’ she hissed. ‘These people are mad, all of them. There’s nothing we can do!’

Alexandros wavered. He stared down at the sickening spectacle, his jaw clenched. He gripped the reins so tightly that his arms began to tremble.

In the arena the Thracian finally began to fight again, running towards the Gaul with a high, mad scream that rose above the murmur of the crowd. The Gaul was taken unawares and retreated, tripping over his own feet and falling on his backside. He recovered enough to protect himself with his shield, but the Thracian was relentless, banging his shield against the other’s and stabbing again and again with his curved blade. The Gaul was wounded; he threw his blade aside and frantically waved his forefinger in the air, signalling for mercy.

Handkerchiefs and clenched fists filled the air, together with a thunderous roar. At last the fists began to outnumber the handkerchiefs, and the crowd began to stamp and chant: ‘Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’

Instead, the Thracian threw down his dagger and shield. The attendants came after him again with their whips and irons, lashing and poking him from all directions, compelling him to perform a hideous, spastic dance. At last he picked up his dagger. They drove him back toward the Gaul, who was already covered with blood from the wounds on his arms. The Gaul rolled onto his stomach and pressed his hands to his visor, steeling himself. The Thracian dropped to his knees and drove the dagger into the Gaul’s back again and again in time with the chanting of the crowd: ‘Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!’

The Thracian stood and held his bloody dagger aloft. He began to perform a strange parody of a victory strut, lifting his knees comically and rolling his head on his shoulders, mocking the crowd. A great chorus of hissing, catcalls, booing, and raucous laughter echoed up from the arena; within the walls the noise must have been deafening. The attendants came after the Thracian with their whips and pokers, but he seemed not to feel the pain and only grudgingly allowed them to drive him toward the exit and out of sight.

‘Do you need to see more, Alexandros?’ whispered Olympias hoarsely. ‘These people will tear you apart before you can utter a word! Crassus is giving them exactly what they want – there is nothing you can do, nothing Gordianus or anyone can do, to stop it. Come back with me to Cumae!’