Luke Devenish - Nest of vipers

The tubas blew the same long note again and again, like the drip of a water clock. The sound was sombre now, ominous, and a hush began to fall across the arena. When the huge mob became silent, the tubas stopped their noise. His hand high in the air where all could see it, Castor drew the first two tokens — on which were written names — from deep inside a shining silver bowl.

'Hylas and Adonis!'

The mob screamed with delight and Flamma blocked his ears to it. Castor drew more tokens and read out more names, and the mob continued to roar its approval at the exciting combinations of fighters selected by chance. Flamma continued to doze and only vaguely stirred when his own name was read out. He missed the name of his opponent but was unconcerned; he would learn it soon enough.

One by one the combats started, in the order of their selection. Heavy Samnites with their oval shields and plumed, visored helmets fought hard against the nimble, near-naked Gauls. Bare-headed, net-throwing retiarii dodged the relentless pursuit of the 'chasers' — the lance-wielding secutores — hurling their nets at them when they could. The tuba blasts were replaced by trumpets, and harmonic trills from pipes and flutes. The choir sang songs of love and romance, happy songs, comic songs. Trainers shouted from the sidelines, hounding the men on. Slaves wielding nail-barbed whips and irons heated in coals rushed about, lashing and goading any man who lagged. The mob screamed obscenities and encouragements at the fighters, begging them to maim and blind and kill.

Whenever a man fell, the musicians blew their trumpets long and hard so that no one missed the climax. The mob called out 'He's fucked!' and the broken man, if he had any strength, laid down his weapons and raised a single finger of his left hand in a plea for mercy. The decision fell to Castor, in the Emperor's place, but he deferred to the wishes of the mob. The fate was always the same for men who valued their lives too dearly: the mob disapproved and Castor made the gesture of doom with his thumb, pointing it in the air and making the downward motion as if he held a stabbing sword. The fighter was pierced in the neck by his opponent.

One by one the selected fighters fought; one emerged victor and one met his death. Young African slaves raked the bloodstained sand. Bodies were dragged to the Porta Libertinensis, the Gate of the Goddess of Burials, by arena slaves dressed as Mercury. Other men, wielding hammers and dressed as Rhadamanthus, made sure the dead were truly dead.

At last it was Flamma's turn. He stood up slowly, tightening the broad leather greaves he wore around his thighs. Satisfied, he collected his weapons. He had no helmet to wear, being designated a 'Thracian', but he picked up the small, square shield that came with his rank and the long, curved scimitar that was his sword. He walked all the way into the very centre of the arena before he bothered even looking at his opponent. The fighter was younger than Flamma by at least ten years, lithe and quick-footed. Flamma met the man's eyes for only a moment before his opponent lowered his visor, blocking his face from view.

In the final seconds before Castor raised a handkerchief in the Imperial box to signal the commencement of combat, Flamma looked up at the mob. They were baying for his blood like jackals.

Flamma smiled, happy for them. Soon enough, his blood would be theirs.

My domina 's eyes widened in shock as Lygdus and I guided the cloaked Martina into the room. She let her hood fall to her shoulders so that Livia could see her fully.

'You never thought you'd see this old witch again, did you, domina?' I smirked. 'Well, here she is, and now our plans can progress.'

I imagined that Martina would find amusement in Livia's paralysed state. 'I used one of your own potions on her,' I told the sorceress. 'Well, it was one you'd given to her many years ago and she'd forgotten about. But I hadn't, thank the gods. I remembered it when I needed it most.'

Martina was unsmiling, peering into Livia's eyes. 'How long has she been like this?'

'More than two years now. Since she learned about Germanicus — and learned that Sejanus was behind it too. She was his secret lover, you know — she wanted to kill him in revenge. But I couldn't allow that to happen.'

Martina's eyes glazed over.

'The prophecies,' I whispered. 'They had to come first — something the domina had forgotten.'

Martina yawned — but kept her eyes on Livia's face.

'I feed her, of course, and massage her limbs.'

'Why didn't you just kill her?' she said.

I was shocked. 'But I love the domina more than the whole world. You know that better than anyone.'

Lingering at the door, Lygdus looked ready to run from the room.

'What's the matter with you?' I hissed.

'Her face,' he stammered. 'In the shadows she's so beautiful — but when she steps into the light…'

Martina looked at him with a sneer and Lygdus went white. 'What are you?' he whispered.

'I am Martina,' she said, 'and I'm here for my own delight, no one else's.'

I tried to pretend that Lygdus had nothing to be concerned about. 'We're old friends,' I told him.

'Very old,' said Martina. 'The only one missing is Plancina. What's happened to her?'

I replied with truthfulness that I didn't know. I assumed she was dead. Livia's eyes narrowed as they flicked briefly to mine before returning to Martina's.

'Well, you've seen the domina now,' I said, 'just as you asked, so let's get to business. Will you help me?'

Martina pulled her eyes away from Livia and fixed me with a stare to freeze oil. 'I help no one, slave — you should know that very well. Martina only looks out for herself.'

Years of rich experience had taught me how to respond to her provocations. 'It's yourself you'll be helping most of all.'

Martina waited.

'Tiberius has banned the musica muta — and here you are starting a whole new life with the best pantomimus in Rome. But how will you have any amusement if you can't perform at the Ludi, and if the best houses on the Palatine are closed to you?'

Martina continued to wait.

'It's time for Tiberius to go,' I whispered. 'He's no good for Rome — he's making it a joyless place. Did you know you can now be convicted of treason if you accidentally break a bust of his image?'

Martina's tongue ran across her lips. 'You're not persuading me.'

I raised the stakes. 'We need to kill more of them — it's as simple as that.' At the door, Lygdus conquered his fright and leaned forward to catch my words, his eyes glowing. 'It's time to get things ready for the second king,' I said. 'We already know who it is, you see — Thrasyllus confirmed it.'

I saw her eyes glazing over again. The merest reference to the prophecies always caused her to lose interest. 'Look, it's someone who'll immediately restore the musica muta,' I said, omitting to add that Little Boots had never actually been allowed to attend such lascivious diversions, although I was confident that he'd enjoy them when the time came.

I saw her weighing this up in her head. Again her weakness for Roman entertainments would prove to be my Trojan horse. 'Please, Martina,' I whined, although I could already see her weakening.

She reached into her stola and Lygdus's eyes went as wide as bowls. Her hand emerged, fingering a blue glass vial. My heart raced at the sight of it but I knew not to ask how it was that she always travelled bearing poisons. I saw that the breath had quickened in my domina 's chest too.

'This one is very slow,' said Martina.

'Good, good — it'll creep up over time, just like the one you gave my domina 's first husband.'

Her look held disdain that I should dare to refer to her past successes.

'A drop of this in the cena?' I suggested. 'A drop in every evening's meal?'