Lindsey Davis - The Jupiter Myth

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 recognised – 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 armoury. 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 towards 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 centre, 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 labelled 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 amphitheatre. 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 armoured beneath his tunic. The other men stood motionless.

'You fight well. I'm impressed by the demonstration. But you need organisation behind you and I want to supply it!' announced the hopeful manager. His tone stayed harsh, yet somehow unconvincing. Still, he had plenty of back-up. 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 pretence 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 stand-off.

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 be 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 outmanoeuvred 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 towards 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 recognised 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.

My good friend Petronius Longus had many fine qualities. He was tough and shrewd, an amiable crony, a valued law and order officer, and a respected man in any neighbourhood he graced. He always sneered at my dog, but had himself harboured flea-bitten kittens for his children and I had heard him speak with devotion of an elderly three-legged tortoise called Trident, his own pet when a lad. Still, I had no reason to suppose he could handle a huge, bad-tempered, only partially tamed Caledonian bear. And I was right. He may have taken a swift lesson from the owner before he strode into the arena, but the bear had already seen a chance to assert its unpredictable character.