Lindsey Davis - The Jupiter Myth

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 which 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 centre, 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 opposite 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 inwards on great metal hinges and pivots. Nervous combatants, their stomachs 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 amphitheatre 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, bunting with colourful 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 amphitheatre 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 parody 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 armoured. 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 colour. (According to Helena, I would have noticed the size of her bust.) At any event, Chloris had that distinctive long dark plait. And I recognised 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 spirit out there in the practice. Those were genuine grunts of effort. I saw teeth bared with exultation after each successful manoeuvre. 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 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 centre, 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 centre – 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 back-up 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 speeded up, still on the perimeter, heading that way. The two girls in the centre 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 towards them.