Jupiter Myth

XLII

The arena lay in the northwestern sector of town. It was brand-new. Around it was a bare area where nobody yet lived or worked. On rough land on the town side stood a row of market-style stalls, their counters mostly covered at present, though when there was a show they would undoubtedly all be manned by conniving peddlers. One or two doggedly offered light snacks and statuettes of gladiators, even though today there were only a few casual sightseers milling about. A bear on a chain, probably nothing to do with the arena beasts, was being sadly paraded near an entrance gate. His teeth had been drawn. No self-respecting organizer would put him in the ring. Deprived of his fangs, he was starving to death.

A janitor was letting in the curious to "see the arena" for a small tip. Word must have circulated that the girl gladiators were practicing. The usual sex-mad men with no work to do and no shame had ambled up for a squint at the muscles and short skirts. It looked as if these oddballs came to drool on a daily basis.

Dear gods, there were even tourists. We needed to clear these people. No chance. The strollers would refuse to leave, once they sniffed out that an official operation was in train. People are nuts. They forget their own safety and want to gawp. And it would be obvious we had the place staked out. Oh Hades. Oh double Hades. Florius wouldn't come anywhere near if he noticed a reception party.

This Londinium amphitheater was nothing compared with the massive monument that Vespasian was creating as his personal gift to the people of Rome. The Emperor had drained the lake of Nero's Golden House and was planning the largest place of entertainment in the world. At home, we had four teams of masons working flat out. A whole quarry had been opened on the road to Tibur; two hundred ox carts every day blocked the city highway as they hauled in the Travertine marble for cladding. The southern end of the forum was chaos, had been since the Emperor's accession, would be for years yet. All the slaves captured in the pacification of Judaea were being worked to death.

By contrast, Londinium's toy arena stood in a bleak spot and was made of wood. I expected it to look as if it had been knocked together by a couple of leisure-time carpenters, but it was an expert job. These sturdy hewn timbers were no doubt a treasure-house of the single dovetail corner and the spiked half lap joint. We Romans had taught Britain the concept of an organized timber trade; we introduced decent sawyers, but also brought prefabricated building frames that could be rapidly assembled on site. The army started it; some forts came as kits-precut timbers and their fixing nails-ready to be thrown up in the face of the barbarians, seemingly overnight. A permanent armed force of any significance acquired its arena to keep the lads happy. This edifice signified that Londinium was now a legitimate part of the Empire and definitely on the up.

I had arrived from the forum direction. After crossing the stream, I picked my way through an approach road strewn with mule dung and stood in the shadow of the east entrance as I considered the locale. To my surprise, someone had imported and planted a Roman stone pine, twenty feet from the way in. So far from home, the tree had established itself and must provide cones for ritual purposes.

The smelly hangdog who was seeking gratuities from sightseers took one look at me, spat, and decided not to demand a ticket price. I glared at him anyway. He made to slink off. I called him back.

"Run to the barracks. Tell them to send a detail urgently. Tell them there's a riot."

"What riot?"

"The bloody great big one that's going to start while you're running to the troops."

I walked through the arch, passing into the dark passage below the seating tiers, ignoring the audience approaches. Pedestrians had their own stairs up to the seats and were denied access to the ring. I could see the arena ahead through great ceremonial double doors, which currently stood open. Alongside them to the right-hand side was a small wicket gate with a well-trodden approach, no doubt used discreetly by attendants when they stage-managed events. That was closed. The arena looked the standard oval shape. It was maybe a thousand paces long on this, the greater axis, which ran west to east. Before I went in, I checked around the gloomy entrance interior. To either side were antechambers, both empty. One, which was probably used as the fighters' rest room prior to bouts, contained a small shrine, currently lit by a single oil lamp. The other must be the holding chamber for wild beasts; it had a massive sliding panel to give admittance to the ring. That was down. I tested its pulley, which moved with silken ease for rapid operation. Single-handedly, I raised it a few inches, then let it fall back.

I returned to the main passageway and passed through the huge open gates. They were set on a monumental wooden threshold, which I stepped over cautiously.

The central area must have been dug out for several feet, drainage installed, and a heavy layer of sand brought in; there would be a deep hard-rammed base, with a few inches of looser material on top that could be raked over. Around the ovoid, supported on massive wooden posts, ran maybe fifteen to twenty tiers of wood-planked seats. I didn't count. A crowd barrier held back spectators in the first row of seats. Below that ran a bare walkway all around the interior. Inside it stood a high square-cut wooden palisade. This entirely enclosed the center, so neither raging beasts nor human fighters could escape and nor could show-off madmen from the crowd leap in.

The only access to the arena itself was here where I stood, or right op-

posite through the far end. That looked very far away. Its gates were closed, as far as I could tell. That was probably the way they dragged out the bodies. With no performance, the far end would not be in use today.

Above me now towered the eastern gateway. The fighters would parade into the arena through these two mighty gates, which folded open inward on great metal hinges and pivots. Nervous combatants, their stomaches churning, would pass through the dark entrance into a dazzle of light and noise.

A shiver ran through me. Last time I set foot in an amphitheater had been on that dreadful day when I had watched my brother-in-law, Maia's hapless husband, being torn apart by the lions in Lepcis Magna. I did not want to remember. Standing here on the sand, I could hardly forget: the yells of the arena staff encouraging the animals, the lions' roars, the crowd baying, Famia's outrage and incomprehension, then his ghastly screams.

Today was hot, though not so hot as the North African sun beating on open countryside. That arena, bursting with colorful characters, had stood outside the city, on a baking, bright seashore against the glinting blue of the southern Mediterranean. Today, unusually, the atmosphere at Londinium was more uncomfortable and sultry, with a storm approaching to break the weather, probably this evening. Sweat trickled down inside my tunic, even while I stood in dense shade under the gatehouse. Three feet ahead of me the sand looked blistering hot. Forget the golden glint of mica; there were dark, sordid patches. Attendants may brush away the blood, but foul traces of the past always linger. Heavy sunlight brings out a rank smell of recent and not-so-recent butchery.

Far across the sand two figures moved. I turned my attention to the action.

The measured clash of swords echoed within the hollow oval. Without the roar of the crowd, any amphitheater sounds odd. Here at ground level, looking straight down its full length to the closed gates at the other end, I was awestruck by the immense distance. You could shout to the other side at present, just about; if all the seats filled up, it would be impossible.

Amazonia and her friend were circling. They were dressed in a par-

ody of male gladiatorial gear: high-sided short white skirts, with wide waist belts that came up right under the bust. With a full audience, they would probably be bare-breasted, for titillation. Today, legs, shoulders, and forearms were armored. Was it usual for practice? They must sometimes exercise in the full weight of greaves and a breastplate. I could not tell who one of the girls was; she had a full face-helm. Of the two remote figures, Chloris seemed unmistakable. I maintain that if I had been closer, and had she not been hidden behind a slit-eyed bronze face mask, I would have checked her eye color. (According to Helena, I would have noticed the size of her bust.) At any event, Chloris had that distinctive long dark plait. And I recognized the boots I had seen being pulled off while she was threatening to ravish me.

They swung, clashed, and swung: with real blades, not wooden practice swords. Sometimes one turned her back. Waiting until she sensed a blow coming, she would swipe up at an angle behind her, or spin suddenly to parry full face, laughing. There was a spirit out there in the practice. Those were genuine grunts of effort. I saw teeth bared with exultation after each successful maneuver. They were good, just as Chloris had boasted. They enjoyed the sport. They were operating as a team, of course. Professionals work for display. Programmed in pairs, their art looks more dangerous than it is. Their skill is to choreograph enough for effect, while also improvising to cause excitement. Blood, but no death. In performance they know each other well enough to stay alive-on the whole.

I wondered if they had fought others for real. Must have done. They would be seen as second-rate otherwise-and these girls were clearly popular. The public accepted them as professionals. I wondered if my light-footed, lithe ex-girlfriend had ever killed anyone. I wondered if anybody on her team had died.

Chloris had set Florius a task here. At present she was protected by sheer distance. The only way in to get to her would be by entering through a gate. Shinning up and over the safety barrier would be impossible; besides, there was no point. Out there in the center, she would see anyone coming, whichever direction he chose. Had she noticed me? If she was looking out for Florius, she should have done. I could not tell.

The two girls seemed completely absorbed in their practice, and I knew better than to call out. Attracting their attention when they were working at that pace would be asking for a sword stroke to shear accidentally into flesh.

There were too many people sitting in the tiers of seats. Apart from the men, there were couples and even a small group of silly school-age girls-eyeing up the men, of course. High in the presidential box I spotted one woman entirely on her own, wrapped closely in a stole; she could not be cold in this baking weather so it must be for anonymity. She seemed intent on the couple in the center-perhaps a would-be colleague longing to join their group, or maybe just lost in lesbian love for one of them.

I decided to move from the gates. If Florius should come in behind me, I did not want to put him off. Everything was quiet. I set off around the interior, and kept walking.

I caressed the pommel of my own sword reflectively. I wore it in the military way, high on the right, under the arm, ready to be extracted with a rapid wrist-swivel. The point was to keep free of your shield, but of course I was carrying no shield. Even coming overseas, I had not brought protection of that sort on what I thought was a trip to audit building works. Besides, a sword could be discreet but a shield was too obvious. In Rome going armed in the city would be illegal. Here in the provinces, personal weapons were tolerated by default (Mars Ultor, you try making a German or a Spaniard leave his hunting knife at home), though anyone acting suspiciously in the streets would be stopped by the legionaries and stripped of their blades, no questions asked.

Well, anyone except enforcers, who bully or bribe their way into tooling up without hindrance. If money talks, bad money sings.

It buys a lot of backup too, as I was soon to find out.

Movement caught my eye. A far gate had partially swung open.

At first it was impossible to make out what was happening or how many newcomers stood in the shaded entrance. I sped up, still on the perimeter, heading that way. The two girls in the center continued their practice, but turned their stance slightly, so both could observe the far gate.

"Amazonia!" a man's voice yelled. The girls stood still; she of the plait made a welcoming gesture, encouraging him to join them out in the arena. There seemed to be no response. The two of them waited. I left the wall and started off gently toward them.

A male figure finally emerged from the gateway. I could see he was lean, tanned, and shaven-headed. He wore natty dark brown leather trousers and navvy's boots; he had bare arms tightly tied with rope bracelets to make the muscles stand out. He looked like any tough nut from the Suburra, and that's a scary look.

He was nobody I recognized-or so I thought at first.

Behind him, by a few paces, came about five others. They strung out in a line sideways, walking casually. The odds seemed acceptable, so far. Two each, if I joined the women. The heavies were dressed up like anyone in the street, though even from this distance I could tell they carried an armory. They had swords and daggers stuffed in their belts, and a couple held staves in their fists. They sauntered in, behaving like some rich man's train of unruly slaves who would cause trouble just because they could get away with it. It did not fool me. These men knew exactly what they were about, and it was mean business.

I moved out fast across the ring. Chloris and her friend had shifted on light feet. They closed together, fully on guard and swords up, ready to make a stand.

The man in leather trousers stopped, within easy call. The heavies fanned out either side of him and moved up. They remained some distance from the two female gladiators, but if the girls made a run toward any part of the perimeter, they would be easily chased. I slowed down, not wanting to precipitate anything I could not control.

The nearest heavy was eyeing me up. He was about twenty strides from the couple at the center, half that from me. No point attacking him; well, not yet. He was a snotty brute with thrusting calves who had never learned to bathe. I could see the dirt ingrained on his skin, and his lank hair was as thick with natural grease as some old sheep's stinking Wool.

"Amazonia!" Repeating her name, the shaven-headed autocrat shouted a little more appeasingly. His accent labeled him: Rome. Born there and taught corruption there. It was a light, troublingly weak voice. It still sounded contemptuous and arrogant. This had to be Florius.

He had walked only as close as he needed, protected by his men. If the girls tried to reach him, they would certainly be stopped. They did not try. Nor did they answer. An intense silence filled the amphitheater. Everything lay so still, I could hear a faint chink of ringed mail as one of the bodyguards shifted his weight unintentionally The casual daywear was a disguise; the brute was professionally armored beneath his tunic. The other men stood motionless.

"You fight well. I'm impressed by the demonstration. But you need organization behind you and I want to supply it!" announced the hopeful manager. His tone stayed harsh, yet somehow unconvincing. Still, he had plenty of backup. It would take courage to say no to him.

The helmeted figure with the dark plait took the risk, shaking her head. At her side, her friend showed by tiny movements that she was searching the heavies for any notice of surprise attack.

"Put down your weapons."

Neither girl reacted.

"Time to talk-" With the pretense that this was still a business arrangement, he was wheedling. Then he spoiled it: "You're outnumbered and outclassed-"

Not quite. The other girl touched Amazonia's arm and both glanced behind them. Through the gate where I had entered ran a small group of their colleagues, just three or four, but enough to even up the balance. Pausing only to drag closed the mighty gates, they raced across the sand, all wearing combat costume with either tridents or short swords. Soon they were fanning out either side of the central pair to give them cover.

Now we had a full standoff.

The man who must be Florius toughened up. "Oh, let's stop the games, girls. Lay aside your arms!"

Then a new voice rang out, showing real authority: "What-and he slaughtered, Florius?"

The woman's cry had resounded around the arena from some high point. It surprised us all. Heads turned. Eyes sought the source. The voice had come from the President's box. Its owner was standing, feet astride, right up on the balcony rail where banners would be draped on ceremonial days. She balanced there effortlessly, far out of reach.

This must be the woman I had spotted earlier alone, tightly wrapped in a stole. Now she had shed her coverings and I knew her to be the real Chloris. With the showmanship she had used all her career, she sported bare, booted legs beneath a breathtakingly short skirt. She too had her hair scraped back tight, then braided in a long thin tail.

"You can speak your lies to me," sneered the strong apparition.

"Oh, what's this?" rasped Florius, looking angrily from the decoy to the real group leader and back.

"You tell me." Chloris sounded coldly confident. She believed she had outmaneuvered him. "Why the troop of bullies? Why demand disarming? Why come heavy-handed and threaten my girls-if this is really a business meeting and you really want to work with us?"

He tried to bluff. "Come down and we can discuss things."

"I think not!" she scoffed. That was my Chloris. Succinct and resentful.

She was less safe up there than she had planned. There had been movement among the scattered spectators and now a couple of figures with evil intentions were weaving their way along the rows of seats toward the President's box. I waved madly to warn Chloris. She glanced quickly sideways, not too disconcerted.

"Oh, send in your runners to snatch me," she sneered, standing like the Winged Victory of Samothrace, but with better legs. Was she armed? I could not tell. She could have anything with her in the box. Being Chloris, it could be an ostrich-feather fan and a couple of white doves. Mind you, in this new violent career, the doves might be trained to peck eyes out.

"Oh, I want you," retorted leather trousers. "I'll get you too-"

"Have to catch me first!" cried Chloris.

She must have been well prepared for this. As the two came nearer, intent on entering the box, Chloris took a flying leap from the balcony. She had a rope, down which she slid with that swift chasing glide of a circus artiste concluding her trapeze act and returning to earth. Her feet were crossed to regulate her descent, and she held one gleaming arm high, straight above her head, brandishing a sword.

The rope ran right down into the walkway, out of sight behind the safety barrier. Chloris disappeared.

Enraged, Florius muttered something to his men. I knew the fight was about to start. I readied myself to join it in support of the girls. The men closed with them. As the first clash of swords rang out, there were new developments.

Florius was intending to withdraw. I saw him pull back behind his men as they squared up to the gladiator girls. That coward was keeping out of it, even though he was armed. I slashed aside a heavy's weapon and stormed past to rush after Florius.

He was heading off back to the western gate through which he had arrived. But someone else was coming in that way: someone who yelled triumphantly. It was another voice I knew, and so did Florius. He pulled up short. Facing him now, the trousered gangster with the shaved head recognized the tall, brown-clad figure of Petronius Longus. That might not have stopped Florius, but Petro-unaware that I would be here as his fighting ally-had found himself another friend. Restlessly fretting at its heavy chain, it was rearing up even above Petro's height.

"Hold it right there, Florius-or I loose the bear!"

There were still fifteen strides between them, but Florius faltered, then obeyed.