The Sacrifice Stone (23 page)

‘There are gladiator bouts first,’ Lucullus said. ‘It’s rumoured that The Hook’s going to fight!’

‘Can’t wait,’ I muttered, not loud enough for him to hear. The Hook was an ex-slave who had clawed his way to the upper branches of the gladiatorial tree. His real name was lost in the past; they called him The Hook because his favourite weapon, used to devastating efficiency, was a heavily barbed trident.

I set out for home wishing I was still in the Legion, with nothing worse to face the next day than a few hundred shrieking tribesmen to dispatch.

And my headache was back.

22

If I’m honest, I have to admit that I used to be as keen on the games as the next man. In the Legion, you went along without thinking, and once inside the arena, the atmosphere got to you. I don’t like the picture of myself yelling and bawling with the best of them, but nevertheless it’s an accurate one.

We had an amphitheatre in Eboracum, and there was a small wooden one at one of the forts up on the wall. They got some good acts for us in Eboracum, knowing full well that legionaries back at the base fort after a spell on the wall required top-quality entertainment. (They also knew that if they didn’t supply it, the men were quite capable of brawling in the streets and providing their own fun.) We didn’t have any Christians to chuck in the ring there, and exotic beasts were in pretty short supply; this resulted in the development of a particularly ferocious school of gladiators. There was a chap from Syria, a great hulk of a man with skin like seasoned wood; he used to anoint himself with oil so that he gleamed, and, although he maintained it was to prevent his opponents getting a grip on him, we all reckoned it was to make his muscles look good for the women. Women, incidentally, could be as wild in their appreciation of a good fight as men. Carmandua came to a show with me in Eboracum once, and waved her arms so enthusiastically that she blacked my eye. I told her the fighting was meant to be confined to the arena, but she didn’t care.

I’d gone off the games long before I left Britannia. It was largely to do with my trouble; the loss of so many of my men, by such barbarous methods, took away what was left of my taste for witnessing people suffer and die. I was still a soldier, so I had no choice but to fight when I was ordered to. But I didn’t have to mix with death in my leisure time.

When I came to Arelate, I realized very quickly that the people supported every single show put on in their magnificent amphitheatre; most events were a sell-out, and there was a thriving black market in tickets. And the games here weren’t restricted to two men slugging it out, each with a chance of winning; here they also had beasts versus beasts, beasts versus armed men, and beasts versus unarmed victims, often bound so that they couldn’t even raise a hand to defend themselves.

The Procurator, who amongst other commodities procured fighters, beasts and human animal-fodder, regarded it as a handy and highly economic means of execution to throw criminals into the arena. For one thing, he didn’t have to pay for gladiators to fight the animals; for another, he could pocket a good slice of the box-office receipts since he was providing the passive half of the competition. Don’t think this made him a particularly callous man: it was common practice throughout the Empire.

The only problem was that bound, prison-weakened criminals — among whom were the hapless Christians — didn’t put up much of a fight; sometimes the crowd threatened to become bored. Then they’d send on a pair of gladiators, or a gladiator and a beast — we had bulls, lions, bears, even crocodiles once, although the arena had to be flooded for them and the crowd were disappointed since the hot sun made the crocodiles too soporific to offer more than token resistance.

*

I awoke on the day of the games feeling depressed. I didn’t want to go, and I was going to have to: enough to make anyone depressed.

I got into town in the late morning, and already the amphitheatre was packed. People liked to make a day of it, and take the whole family along; they’d settle in their seats hours before the first event, often taking a large picnic lunch and plenty of wine. There was an atmosphere of cheerful holiday, the women showing off new gowns or elaborately dressed hair, the men in their best togas. The brilliant light sparkled off the jewellery of the rich; it was hot today, and there’d probably be the usual quota of heatstroke patients in the cheap seats in the full sun. Still, the majority of cases wouldn’t prove fatal.

I made my way to the seats reserved for the Procurator’s staff. The high-ups had a special canopy over their little area — sheer exhibitionism, since they were in the shade anyway — and the rest of us sat on cushions supplied by the office. Slaves circulated regularly with trays of refreshments. I spotted Lucullus, who waved and beckoned: ‘We’ve saved you a place,’ he mouthed. Well, he was probably speaking aloud, but there was so much noise from the several thousands already amassed that I didn’t hear.

The entertainment started with a blast on the trumpet and a suitably rousing piece on flutes, pipes and percussion. The band contained a quartet of bucina players — the bucina was the sort of trumpet we used in the Legion, and it curves round the player’s body as if it’s a snake about to hug him to death — and they played a marching tune. It was one we’d put colourful words to in the army — there must have been a lot of old soldiers in the crowd, because I heard the words echoing from several sections of the arena.

Then the master of ceremonies strode into the centre of the arena and, to a mixture of cheers and shouts of ‘Get off and let’s see some fighting!’ announced the first item. They were kicking off in style — it was a bout between two renowned gladiators who fought with the sword.

They were good, both of them, and fairly evenly matched. The predictable roar went up at the first drawing of blood, but the wounded man rallied and fought back. The crowd was behind both men, with neither one the obvious favourite; for some time they slogged it out, and eventually, when it became clear that neither was getting the upper hand, the President called a halt and asked the crowd to vote on whether the fight should continue to the death or the men be spared to fight another day. With few exceptions, we lifted our fists with the thumb enclosed in the palm: to tumultuous applause, the two gladiators left the ring.

We had a dozen or so more gladiator bouts — no sign of The Hook, much to Lucullus’s disappointment — and then they brought on the beasts. For a couple of hours we watched a variety of creatures attack, defeat and slaughter one another; there was a preponderance of bulls, which suggested there hadn’t been a shipment of anything more exotic recently, and a rather weary bear which I was sure I recognized from an earlier games day.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the great gates that led down to the waiting pens below were opened again. A party of armed and heavily armoured guards appeared. As they broke ranks and dispersed, we saw that they had been escorting prisoners into the arena. Duty done, the guards stepped hastily back through the gates and up the steps to safety. Down in the dusty, blood-spattered arena, the six prisoners blinked in the sunshine.

There were four men, a woman and a youth of about sixteen. Their clothing, although dirty and ragged, looked as if it had once been good quality. They didn’t look like condemned criminals: they had to be the Christians from the hills.

Lucullus nudged me. ‘The Christians!’ he said eagerly. ‘Now we’ll see some fun!’

For some time nothing happened. The prisoners stood huddled together against the enclosing wall; it may have given them a fleeting illusion of safety to have something firm at their backs, although it was so high that they must have known there was no hope of scaling it. Not that there would have been anything more than a brief respite if they had, since the crowd would have thrown them straight back into the arena.

Then the gates opened again and a pair of lions came in, a third trailing them. The leading pair were both female, and looked mean and hungry. One had enlarged teats: she’d no doubt been selected because being a nursing mother would increase her hunger and her ferocity.

A moan rose from the woman in the arena. With pathetic gallantry, the four men and the youth closed round her. I saw her catch hold of the youth, trying to pull him close to her, but he shrugged her off. I guessed he was her son, and that her desire to protect him was equalled by his to defend her.

Piercingly, I was reminded of Theo and Zillah fighting to shield each other from Gaius.

The lions had noticed the cowering people, but made no move towards them. The crowd howled their disappointment, and the master of ceremonies hurriedly sent in a group of guards to ginger up the beasts, prodding at them with long spears, waving swords at them; soon the lions began to look angry. The guards got round behind the prisoners, thrusting them towards the lions. Then, job done, they raced out of the ring.

Once the attack was launched, the end came very quickly. Maybe the men had been coached, maybe they knew that it was better to hasten the inevitable by racing at the lions, screaming and punching at them so that they fought the harder. Or perhaps they had some vain hope that, if they put up a brave show, the crowd would vote to spare them.

Didn’t they know that never happened?

One man was down, then two more. Once blood was spilt — a great deal of it, the mother lioness was an efficient killer and went straight for the throat, which she tore out with a couple of bites — more lions were sent in, a pair of males.

The youth went as he stood with his thin arms round his mother. She was the last: for a few moments she stood alone, her own arms wrapped round herself where her son’s had been. Then the lioness pawed at her, the force of the blow knocking her to her knees. Her eyes were closed, whether in prayer or a faint I didn’t know. I thought I saw her lips move, so it was probably prayer.

The lioness, apparently realizing that the other lions had noticed there was only one victim left, suddenly pounced. The woman screamed, cried out something — perhaps the name of her god — then she was down. There was a confused image of many lions with their jaws working on her, blood spurting on the dirty gown and the scuffed sand, then a stillness. The lions, satisfied, languidly made their way to the shady side of the arena and lay down, licking the blood from their muzzles, to digest their meal.

The roaring of the crowd trailed off. Other than the occasional desultory shout of derision, the vast amphitheatre was utterly quiet.

Guards sheltering behind heavy shields rounded up the now-docile lions, shepherding them out of the ring. The master of ceremonies sent the band in again, and the crowd rallied to the brassy music. While the musicians circled around in the centre of the ring, teams of attendants slipped in to clear the debris. The human remains were shovelled up, then the sand was raked smooth, a new layer strewn across the most heavily bloodstained areas.

When everything was once more ready, the master of ceremonies announced the last item: The Hook versus as many opponents as he could dispatch before the close of the day.

*

I didn’t wait to watch The Hook. Although Lucullus was highly disappointed in me — ‘You’ll miss the best bit! This is what we’ve all come for!’ — I’d seen more than enough.

I pushed my way along to the end of the row, but could get no further because of the throng of people clustering round the bookmakers. The Hook was the odds-on favourite, but one or two of the gladiators lined up to fight him had at least a chance of winging him; you could bet on things like who drew the first blood and who lopped off the first limb as well as who was the outright winner.

Unable for the moment to get out, unwilling to watch what was going on in the arena, I leaned back against the stone wall behind me and let my eyes roam around the packed tiers soaring up above me. Some move in the arena roused the crowd to scream their approval, and automatically I looked to see what was happening. I must have missed whatever it was: The Hook was standing lazily swinging his trident, his opponent circling him, his expression wary and his body tense. His barrel-chested body was clad in a leather tunic, and his short arms and legs were heavily muscled.

The way he watched The Hook, sizing him up., looking for the moment to pounce, reminded me of someone I’d seen recently. Someone who’d been doing the same thing to me.

He reminded me of Gaius.

As the realization hit, I thought with cold certainty: Gaius used to be a gladiator.

I don’t know why I was so convinced, but I was absolutely sure. It was as if I’d remembered a piece of information I’d long been aware of.

My eyes going back to the rows of spectators, suddenly I saw him: in among a bunch of men who all looked strangely like him sat Gaius. He was staring straight at me, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been watching me all day.

I sensed his antipathy, even from across the arena. I’d damaged him — there was still a dark bruise on his jaw — and wounded his pride. His eyes still fixed on me seemed to be rays of hatred.

You don’t scare me, I told him silently, staring steadily back. I felled you once; it’s I who won the howl of applause for drawing first blood.

He broke the hold. I liked to think it was because he had yielded, but it was far more likely he was responding to his neighbour digging him in the ribs to point out The Hook swinging into the offensive.

The way out was still blocked with optimistic punters desperate to be parted from their money. There was no option but to stay where I was till they cleared.

*

In the event, I didn’t leave until the day’s entertainment was over. While I was patiently waiting to get out, The Hook’s opponent got in a lucky blow and knocked the champion out. I don’t imagine he was seriously hurt, but he wasn’t in any condition to go on fighting. The master of ceremonies hastily announced there would now be bouts between the gladiators who’d been waiting their turn against The Hook, but he was the star, he was what the crowd had come to see, and most people weren’t interested in any lesser amusements.