Steven Saylor - Arms of Nemesis

I rode back to Alexandros. Above us, on the rim of the arena, a movement caught my eye. I looked up but saw only a face that quickly disappeared.

I dismounted, and almost fell to my knees. In the mad descent down the hill and the race through the camp I had felt no pain or dizziness, but as soon as my feet touched the earth my knees went weak and the throbbing returned to my temples. I staggered and steadied myself against my hone. Alexandros, already bounding up the steps, turned and ran back to me. I reached up to my forehead, touched the bandage, and felt a spot of warm wetness. I pulled my hand away and saw something red and viscous on my fingers. I was bleeding again.

From somewhere behind me, between the pounding drumbeats in my head, I thought I heard a boy calling, 'Papa! Papa!'

Alexandros clutched my arm. 'Are you all right?'

'Just a little dizzy. A little nauseous…'

Again I heard an unfamiliar voice calling, 'Papa, Papa,' louder and closer than before. I turned my head, thinking I must be in a dream, and saw Eco riding toward us, pointing to the sky. 'There!' he screamed, above the trampling hooves of his mount. 'A man! A spear! Watch out!'

I looked upward, over my shoulder. Alexandros did the same. An instant later he tackled me and we tumbled onto the ground. I was amazed at his strength, alarmed at the jolt of pain that ricocheted through my head, and only vaguely aware of what I had glimpsed above us — a man with a spear leaning over the arena wall. In the next instant the spear came plummeting down with a whistling noise and planted itself in the earth, missing my horse by less than a hand's width. Had Alexandros not pulled me to safety the spear would have entered the back of my neck and exited somewhere below my navel.

It took only a moment to vomit. The yellow bile left a bitter taste in my mouth and a mess all over the front of my tunic, but I felt vaguely better afterwards. Alexandros impatiently grabbed one shoulder while Eco grabbed the other. Together they pulled me to my feet.

'Eco!' I whispered. 'But how?'

He looked at me, but did not answer. His eyes were glassy and feverish. Had I only imagined it?

Then they were pulling me up the steps. We came to a landing and doubled back, came to another landing and doubled back again. We stepped onto thick red carpeting and emerged into bright sunlight filtered through a red canopy. I saw Crassus and Gelina seated side by side, flanked by Sergius Orata and Metrobius. I heard the slithering noise of steel unsheathed as Mummius stepped from behind Crassus and bellowed, 'What in Jupiter's name!'

Gelina gasped. Metrobius grasped her arm. Orata gave a start. Faustus Fabius, standing behind Gelina's chair, gritted his teeth and stared down at us with flaring nostrils. He lifted his right hand and the rank of armed soldiers at the back of the canopy took up their spears. Crassus, looking at once unpleasantly surprised and resigned to unpleasant surprises, scowled at me and lifted a hand to keep everyone in place.

I looked dizzily around, trying to orient myself. Red draperies hung from the canopy overhead, hiding us from the spectators immediately on either side, but beyond the edge of the draperies I could see the great circling bowel of the arena, jammed with people from top to bottom. Nobles sat in the lower tiers while the common people were crowded into the seats higher up. To separate them a long white rope circled the arena, running from one side of Crassus's box back around to the other.

Directly before the canopied box, down in the arena, huddled on the sand amid pools of blood, were the slaves. Some were in filthy rags; others, the last to have been taken from the household, still wore tunics of clean white linen. They were male and female, old and young. Some stood as still as statues while others listlessly turned and turned, looking about in fear and confusion. Each held a blunt wooden sword. How must the world have looked from where they stood? Blood-soaked sand beneath their feet, a high wall surrounding them, a circle of leering, laughing, hateful faces staring down at them. They say a man cannot see the gods from the floor of an arena; he looks up and sees only the empty blue sky.

I saw Apollonius among them, his right arm encircling the old man he had comforted in the annexe. I searched the crowd for Meto and did not see him; my heart skipped a beat and for an instant I thought he must somehow have escaped. Then he stepped into an open space near Apollonius, ran to him, and hugged his leg.

'What is the meaning of this?' said Crassus dryly.

'No, Marcus Crassus!' I shouted and pointed into the arena. 'What is the meaning of this?'

Crassus glared at me, as heavy-lidded as a lizard, but his voice was steady. 'You look quite terrible, Gordianus. Does he not look terrible, Gelina? Like something spat up half chewed by the Jaws of Hades. You've hurt your head, I see — from banging it against a wall, I imagine. Is that vomit on your tunic?'

I might have answered, but my heart was beating too fast in my chest, and the throbbing in my head was like thunder.

Crassus pressed his fingers together. 'You ask me, what is the meaning of this? I take it you mean: what is happening here? I will tell you, since you seem to have arrived late. The gladiators have already fought. Some have lived, some have died; the shade of Lucius is well pleased, and so is the crowd. Now the slaves have been ushered into the arena — armed, as you can see, like the ragtag army they are. In a moment I shall step out onto that little platform behind you, so that the crowd can see and hear me, and I shall announce a most splendid and sublime amusement, a public enactment of Roman justice and a living parable of divine will.

'The slaves of my household here in Baiae have been polluted by the seditious blasphemies of Spartacus and his kind. They are complicit in the murder of their master; so all the evidence indicates, and so you have been unable to disprove. They are useless now, except to serve as an example to others. In the spectacle I have planned, they shall represent — they shall embody — that which the crowd most fears and despises: Spartacus and his rebels. Thus I have armed them, as you see.'

'Why don't you give them real weapons?' I said. 'Weapons like the swords and spears I found in the water off" the boathouse?'

Crassus pursed his Lips but otherwise ignored me. 'A few of my soldiers shall represent the power and glory of Rome — ever vigilant and ever conquering under the leadership of Marcus Licinius Crassus. My soldiers are readying themselves, and as soon as I have made my announcement they shall enter through that gate opposite, with blaring of trumpets and banging of drums.'

'A farce!' I hissed. 'Useless and monstrously cruel! A bloody slaughter!'

'Of course a slaughter!' Crassus's voice took on an edge like flint, cutting and brittle. 'What else could transpire, when the soldiers of Crassus meet a band of rebellious slaves? This is only a foretaste of the glorious battles to come, when Rome grants me supreme command of her legions and I march against the rebel slaves.'

'It's an embarrassment,' muttered Mummius in disgust. His face was ashen. 'A disgrace! Roman soldiers against old men and women and children with wooden toys! There is no honour in it, no glory! The men are not proud, believe me, and neither am I-'

'Yes, Mummius, I know your sentiments.' Crassus's voice burned like acid. 'You allow yourself to be blinded by carnal lust, by decadent Greek sentimentality. You know nothing of true beauty, true poetry — the harsh, austere, unforgiving poetry of Rome. You understand even less about politics. Do you think there is no honour in avenging the death of Lucius Licinius, a Roman killed by slaves? Yes, there is honour in it, and a kind of merciless beauty, and there shall be political profit for me, both here and in the Forum at Rome.