Ruso and the Root of All Evils

78

The games were over. The rows of seats were practically deserted apart from the slaves gathering up litter and lost children. Already three had been corralled near the east exit, where a plump and jolly woman was consoling them for their lack of parents by feeding them sausage fritters. Outside there were still plenty of people milling about, buying food and haggling over the price of souvenirs. Ruso made the mistake of catching the eye of a vendor. The little terracotta shapes rattled in the tray as the vendor scuttled forward to block their path and suggested that the young lady might like a little memento of her trip to the city.

‘I am trying to forget,’ said Tilla.

No, they did not want a bronze model of a gladiator waving a sword. Nor did they want any of the terracotta portrayals of execution victims being done away with in various gruesome fashions, even if they were an absolute bargain, and the man’s master would be furious when he found out he’d practically been giving the stock away.

‘I’ve got my own reminder, thanks,’ said Ruso, holding up his hands. He had pulled on a clean tunic to walk back to the gladiators’ barracks, but he had not had time for a thorough scrub. The vendor retreated with a look that mingled respect with alarm.

Tilla said, ‘I think I will see this place in bad dreams.’

Ruso put one arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘We should have caught that Stilo man.’

‘Somebody will. Tell me what happened in Arelate.’

After a moment she slid a hand around his waist. It was not the sort of thing one would normally be able do in public.

‘At least this wretched foot is a good excuse for something,’ he observed, leaning on her to limp forward.

By the time they reached the gladiators’ barracks the usual crowd had dwindled to a few subdued young women, two of them clutching babies. To Ruso’s surprise, both gates swung open as they approached. The women rushed forward, pleading for information, only to be beaten off by the gatekeeper, who shouted, ‘No news! Clear the way there!’ The opening of the gates was explained as the closed wagon in which Gnostus had travelled back with the wounded gladiators emerged. Ruso guessed it was returning to the amphitheatre to collect their dead comrades.

‘She’s with me,’ he informed the gatekeeper, leading Tilla inside before the man had time to object, then ordering her to wait by the gate. She had seen enough: she did not deserve to be put through whatever might be waiting in Gnostus’ medical room.

To his surprise, all was quiet. Gnostus was busy unloading the wooden boxes of medical supplies that had been piled on the back of the wagon.

‘Eight dead, seven badly wounded, five with minor injuries,’ observed Gnostus, slapping down the lid on an empty box and kicking it out of sight under a bench. ‘What a way to earn a living.’

‘Us, or them?’ said Ruso, glancing across the exercise yard to where one of the assistants was helping a wounded fighter wash himself over the water-trough. A slave emerged from the men’s quarters, carrying a chamberpot.

‘Both,’ said Gnostus. He indicated the drugged figure of Tertius, lying with his leg heavily bandaged on a bed in the side room. ‘Boss wants him out tonight.’

‘After what he did?’ Ruso was incredulous. The boy had run back to don his kit after hearing the announcement that, since one of the fighters had been unexpectedly withdrawn, the winner of the latest contest would stay in the arena to face the next opponent. No doubt that decision had been made by Fuscus. Ruso wondered how many people had noticed that a common gladiator had more moral sense than a magistrate.

Gnostus shrugged. ‘He’s a free man. He chose to fight. As far as the boss is concerned, the school doesn’t have to pay for his treatment. That’s up to the woman who bought him out.’

‘What woman?’

‘Just turned up, offered the boss a cash deal too good to refuse and disappeared.’

‘Yes, but who was she?’

‘Dunno. Never seen her before. She didn’t look the type who’d need to pay for it. Not like some of the dogs we get making offers for the men.’

Ruso was relieved. After Marcia’s performance this afternoon there was no doubt that Gnostus would have recognized her. It had never occurred to him that she might have a rival. He suspected it had never occurred to Marcia, either. ‘So where’s this woman now?’

‘Who knows? She probably won’t want him now he’s damaged.’

‘I’ll take him home if she doesn’t turn up,’ said Ruso. ‘But he shouldn’t travel tonight.’

Gnostus glanced across to where Ruso was leaning against the wall with his aching foot resting on his sound one. ‘You’re not looking too good yourself. Want to bunk down here for the night?’

Ruso explained that he had to take somebody home. ‘Just give me something to help get me there, will you?’

By the time the gatekeeper let Ruso and Tilla out of the gladiators’ barracks, the supporters had dispersed. Two small boys armed with wooden swords were chasing each other in and out of the shadowed doorways while their parents strolled down the street behind them.

‘Do be careful, boys!’ called the mother.

‘If you two don’t stop fighting,’ put in the father, ‘I’ll take those swords away.’

Ruso waited for the family to pass, then planted the heels of the borrowed crutches on the worn stone surface and swung forward. The pain was still there, but somehow duller around the edges. Or perhaps it was his mind that was duller. Either way, Gnostus’ secret painkilling potion was doing its job.