Night had fallen by the time Carbo and Vespillo stood quietly outside the fullery. This was the place that Philon had informed them was Elissa’s main temple. It was hardly a military operation, a dozen thuggish-looking men in scruffy uniforms, carrying clubs and coshes. Only Carbo and Vespillo carried edged weapons, both having gladii in their hands, the short stabbing swords they were used to from their time in the legions. Carbo winced as one of the watchmen bumped into another, causing him to drop his club with a loud thump. They argued in a loud whisper until Vespillo shushed them. Fortunately, the sounds of chanting from within covered the noise.
Carbo wondered if they shouldn’t have called the urban cohorts. This sort of action, against a group of people threatening to disturb the peace of the city, was really their job to deal with. He didn’t trust them, though, not after the way they had done Elissa’s bidding by storming his tavern, trying to catch Rufa and Fabilla, killing the vigiles protecting them. He knew that the vigiles were furious as well. There had been some name-calling, even some scuffles between the two groups, and one member of the urban cohorts had been badly beaten, which the vigiles innocently claimed to know nothing about.
Philon’s story still seemed unbelievable. Elissa’s plan seemed insane, but then the woman was clearly not rational, with her belief in ancient Carthaginian gods, the omens that had marked Fabilla out for sacrifice, and her hatred of Rome based on a war fought over two centuries before. Even so, Carbo had not believed her plan could possibly work, until he had seen the look on Vespillo’s face as Philon spoke.
Vespillo had seen enough fire in Rome to know how devastating it could be. The city had grown, even since Carbo was a boy, and its winding congested streets were lined with shoddily erected structures made of flammable materials. The vigiles had been formed by Augustus to combat the frequent fires, and for the most part they did a good job at quenching the outbreaks caused by accident and negligence.
Deliberate arson was another matter, though. Starting a conflagration would be easy, with the right planning. Select a house in the middle of a packed area, fill it with incendiary materials such as kindling, tinder, straw and oil, and one torch could start a fire that would devastate a region, or even the whole of Rome.
Vespillo’s face had whitened as Philon had spoken, revealing everything he knew in his terror of torture. They knew the date now, the climax of the Ludi Romani on the thirteenth day before the Kalends of October. The population of the city would be out of their homes, thronging the Circus Maximus and the hundreds of satellite events that would be happening at the same time. The urban cohorts would be out in force, keeping the crowds under control. People’s homes would be empty, few around to extinguish a fire before it had taken hold. Elissa’s plan, insane as it was in purpose, was sound in planning. It would work.
Or, it would have worked if they hadn’t found Philon, reflected Carbo. If he hadn’t told them everything. Even if Elissa hadn’t been so obsessive about having Fabilla as a sacrifice. If she had let the slaves go, Carbo and Vespillo would never have got involved, and Rome would never have known about the act of destruction she was planning.
Now, though, they could stop the plot dead. Carbo looked around him. The vigiles appeared to have finally got themselves in some sort of order. Vespillo looked to Carbo, who nodded, and then he gestured to two watchmen. The two men brought up an improvised ram, a delicately carved wooden beam, charred by fire, which had been a souvenir from some previous house fire, kept at the station. They would not be waiting to be invited in this time.
Vespillo pointed at the door and the two men drove the ram into it with force, knocking it off its hinges at the first blow. Carbo drew his sword and was through first, Vespillo and the vigiles close behind.
The entrance first led into a short corridor. One of Elissa’s followers stood there, mouth agape at the sight of the charging men. Carbo clubbed him in the side of his head with the hilt of his sword, not pausing to watch the unconscious man slide to the floor. He burst into an open area, crowded with vats of stinking urine in which togas and tunics were dunked for the fulling process. Two of the cultists stood at the top of stairs leading down. Carbo and Vespillo were on them before they could react, hurling them aside for the following vigiles to deal with. They hurtled down the stairs, taking them three at a time, and emerged into a cavernous cellar, lit by smoking torches.
Carbo took in the scene. Around twenty cultists were here, men and women, and they jumped to their feet from their prayer stances as the vigiles entered. The cellar had many side rooms and Carbo caught glimpses of piles of wood and amphorae, similar in design to the ones he had seen in Elissa’s house.
Shafat stepped forward.
‘How dare you interrupt this sacred ceremony?’ he said, in Syrian-accented Latin.
Vespillo spoke up. ‘You are all under arrest, for conspiracy to commit treason.’
‘Treason?’ laughed the man. ‘This is a simple religious meeting. There is no conspiracy here.’
Carbo regarded the tall man before him. ‘Shafat. We know exactly what you are planning. We know what that wood and oil in those rooms is for. We know what you intend to do to Rome. You are all coming with us, to face trial and punishment. Where is your mistress?’
Shafat half-turned, gesturing to the cultists with one arm. ‘This is a peaceful gathering,’ he said. ‘Tell them, Dahia.’
A Numidian woman stepped forward from the crowd. ‘Please, sir, leave us to worship in peace.’
Carbo turned back to Shafat and saw that suddenly there was a dagger in his hand. With a quick step, faster than Carbo would have credited the steward for, Shafat lunged for him. Carbo dodged to one side, so the knife thrust just passed him, and then stepped forward to trap the knife arm against his body. Close up to Shafat, he couldn’t use the blade of his gladius so he aimed the hilt at the back of Shafat’s neck. Shafat, with a desperate twist, freed himself from Carbo’s grip and avoided the blow.
Dahia threw herself at him, landing on his back. Her fingers sought his eyes and Carbo cried out, dropping his sword as he groped for her. He reached back to grip her arm and then, dropping his shoulder, he threw her forwards. She landed heavily, remaining still, her breathing showing she was out cold but alive.
Carbo looked around. The cultists had all drawn knives and the vigiles charged into them with a yell. The dark room was soon a chaotic brawl, the dim lighting adding to the confusion, screams and the crashes of clubs and knives ringing out, finding targets, or missing and hitting walls and furniture. Shafat closed with Carbo and they wrestled, faces close together. Shafat’s strength surprised Carbo, religious zealotry adding power to the slender frame. The steward sought to bring his knife to work and Carbo gripped his wrist to keep it at bay. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Carbo jerked his head forward, his forehead smashing into Shafat’s nose, causing the steward to stagger back. Carbo kept a grip on his knife arm, though, and with a twist, made him drop the blade.
Carbo turned to see his sword on the floor, within near reach, but as he bent to retrieve it, Shafat’s knee caught him full in the face. Tiny sparks of light appeared, dancing at the edge of his vision. He shook his head, then ducked just in time to avoid a two-handed blow that Shafat had aimed at the side of his head. Putting his head down, he charged into Shafat, thrusting him back into one of the small side rooms. Amphorae toppled over as they crashed through, spilling their oil onto the floor, which was soon slick. The fight took on a comical aspect, as all the combatants slipped and staggered, waving arms to keep their balance, many tumbling to the floor.
Shafat grabbed Carbo by one arm and swung him around. He crashed into a pile of dry kindling that splintered beneath him with a crunch. Carbo tried to regain his feet, pushing himself upright with his hands, but the brittle wood split under his weight and he fell back. Shafat jumped on top of him, his face distorted with fury. The steward had found his knife again, and was pressing it down towards Carbo’s throat.
Carbo was the stronger man, but he found it difficult to get leverage and the weight of the man above pressing downwards put him at a disadvantage. His hands were slippery now with the oil that had spread everywhere and he couldn’t gain a firm grip on the knife hand. The dagger pricked his throat. He couldn’t even attempt a headbutt for fear of skewering himself.
Desperately, he let go of Shafat’s arm with one hand, feeling the pressure increase as his other hand tried to keep the steward at bay, panicking that the blade would sever a vital vessel. He scrabbled blindly for anything nearby and his hand closed around a thick wooden branch. With desperate strength he brought the branch round in a wild swing that connected with the side of Shafat’s head.
The pressure instantly eased on his throat. He gasped deep ragged breaths, still feeling that his airway was not fully open, but feeling the blood start to rush back to his head, his lungs inflating. The darkness that had nearly overwhelmed him receded. Sounds that had been fading started to come back, the cries and shouts of fighting still continuing in the main room.
He managed to struggle up to his knees, still panting for breath. Nearby, illuminated by the flickering light from the one torch in this side room, he saw Shafat groaning, bleeding from a gash in the side of his head, also just starting to regain his feet.
With an immense effort of will, Carbo stood. Shafat had his back to the wall, Carbo his back to the door. They stared at each other for a moment. Behind them the sounds of battle were starting to die down. He heard Vespillo shout.
‘We’ve got them, vigiles. Bind those that surrender. Kill those that don’t.’
Shafat looked past Carbo, dismay written on his face as he realized the fight was ending, the cultists defeated by the brutal savagery of the thugs that were Rome’s watchmen.
‘Give up, Shafat,’ said Carbo. ‘Elissa’s followers are defeated. As soon as she is found, she will be executed. It’s over.’
Shafat looked down for a moment, shoulders drooping. Then he looked up, and a feral grin crossed his face. Before Carbo could react, he ripped the torch off the wall and thrust it into his chest.
The oil that had soaked into his clothes ignited instantly, the flames shooting up the steward’s body, turning him into a human torch. He spread his arms wide, looking upwards.
‘Accept me as your sacrifice, O Lord and Lady,’ he cried. ‘May your vengeance be born in me.’
Carbo watched aghast as the flames enveloped Shafat. For a moment, the cultist maintained his pose. Then he started to scream as the pain took over. He beat at himself, staggering from side to side, knocking over more oil-containing amphorae. Then he slipped on the oil and fell into a pile of dry kindling. The oil-soaked wood ignited with a roar, and flames spread across the floor, lighting the oil that permeated the whole cellar.
Carbo yelled as loud as he could over the din of battle. ‘Fire!’
He turned and rushed back into the main room, repeating his cry. He saw Vespillo turn, his shocked face illuminated in the firelight, and then Vespillo screamed orders to the vigiles.
‘Out now, all of you! Run for your lives.’
The stairs were only wide enough for two at a time, and Vespillo hung back as the flames advanced, making sure the vigiles were following his orders. Carbo saw a watchman wrestling with a cultist, unable to break free. Carbo grabbed the cultist and threw him bodily into the flames, hearing his cry as the oil on his body caught fire. The watchman shot him a grateful look and ran for the stairs. Another watchman was lying against a wall, a knife in his leg, moaning in terror as he watched the flames approach. Carbo picked him up, throwing him over his shoulder. He looked around, seeing that behind him only cultists remained. Lying on the floor, just starting to stir, was Dahia. The approaching flames reached her, caught her oil-soaked clothes, rapidly ignited her. Shocked back to consciousness, she started to scream.
Carbo hesitated, then heard Vespillo yelling his name. The tribune was at the foot of the stairs, beckoning Carbo, and Carbo ran for the exit. He gave one last glance back. Several cultists were lying wounded, others were clearly dead. The rest made no attempt to flee. Instead they held hands and started to chant.
‘Lady Tanit, Lord Ba’al Hammon. Accept us as your sacrifices. Your vengeance come. Let Rome burn.’
The flames followed Carbo and Vespillo up the steps. Two vigiles relieved Carbo of their wounded colleague. From the cellar the chanting turned into high-pitched screaming. Vespillo and Carbo looked at each other and shook their heads.
Vespillo gave quick orders to summon firefighting equipment. Within minutes, buckets were being commandeered from nearby houses, chains formed to dowse the fire. Reinforcements from the local excubitorium, the fire station outpost, soon arrived bringing heavier equipment. Carbo and Vespillo stood back, letting the little bucket boys do the job they were formed to do. The flames licked higher, consuming the fullery, but the urine-filled vats had been made use of to reduce the spread to nearby houses. The fullery itself was not as close to other dwellings as most other buildings in Rome were, probably because of the smell, and so, with the continued efforts of the vigiles, the fire was prevented from spreading.
It took most of the night to bring the fire completely under control. The wood and oil had burned to create an intense heat that made it impossible to enter the building, but official firefighters and volunteers from the surrounding community worked sleeplessly, beating out sparks where they landed, soaking all the nearby buildings in water, tossing bucket after bucket of water into the burning fullery.
When Vespillo was happy that the fire was not going to spread, he put a hand on Carbo’s shoulder.
‘We’ve done it.’
Carbo nodded grimly.
‘It looks that way.’
‘It is that way. Elissa is a fugitive now. I’ll inform the Urban Prefect’s office. The cohorts will arrest her, and she will be tried and executed. When her properties are confiscated and audited, no one will know there are two slaves missing. We could even claim they died in this fire. They can start new lives as free Romans.’
Carbo looked doubtful, not sure whether to believe it. He looked at the flames, feeling the heat on his face, watching the failure of Elissa’s plan. Then he nodded wearily. ‘I hope you are right.’
Vespillo clapped him on the back.
‘I am. Now let’s go home and get Severa to cook us a good meal. I think we have earned it.’
The two friends walked stiffly away as the roof of the temple to Ba’al Hammon and Tanit collapsed.
Carbo and Vespillo stood in Elissa’s atrium, awaiting the arrival of the urban cohorts. Two watchmen restrained the priestess with tight grips on her arms. Her face was white with fury. Vespillo had stationed three of his troops near her house, waiting for her return home, before news could reach her of the raid on her domus or the fire at the temple. Two had arrested her, while the third summoned Vespillo. He in turn had summoned the cohorts, explaining to Carbo that criminality of this magnitude was out of his league. As they waited, Carbo and Vespillo had had the pleasure of informing Elissa of the destruction of her temple, the death of Shafat, the arrest of Glaukos and the ruination of her plans. Carbo couldn’t help a gloating sense of satisfaction at the shock and anger on her face.
When the cohorts finally arrived, they were led by Tribune Pavo himself. His red face betrayed irritation at the disturbance, and the hue deepened when he saw Elissa restrained.
‘Tribune Vespillo. You have gone too far this time. I don’t know what your problem is with this lady, but if she wishes to prosecute you for your harassment, I will fully support her. Mistress Elissa, I am so sorry for the inconvenience. Vespillo, have your men release her at once.’
‘Shut up, Pavo, you old fool, and listen.’
Pavo opened his mouth, but said nothing, and merely stood with an expression like a surprised fish.
‘We have just foiled a plot by this lady to burn down Rome,’ said Vespillo.
Pavo looked aghast. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What possible evidence could you have for such a far-fetched notion.’
‘We found fire-starting equipment in her house here, we arrested cult members who confessed to the plan, we went to a temple which was packed with incendiary material, and during a fight with our men, this lady’s steward burned the temple down, immolating a large number of her followers.’
Pavo stared at Vespillo, looking like he was expecting a punchline. He turned to Elissa, who returned his gaze with contemptuous silence.
‘But… it… she couldn’t…’ Pavo seemed to remember his position, and composed himself. ‘Well, there will obviously be a trial. But if you speak the truth…’
Vespillo raised an eyebrow at this and Pavo hurriedly continued. ‘I mean, when all the evidence is gathered and sifted, then suitable punishment will be administered.’ He motioned to two of his legionaries to take Elissa and Vespillo nodded to his men to release her into their care. As they led her out, she kept her gaze fixed on Carbo until she was out of sight.
‘Well,’ said Pavo. ‘If all this is tr—, um, that is to say, this seems on the face of it, hmm, well, a commendation may be in order for you, Vespillo.’
Vespillo inclined his head with a wry smile.
‘Anyway, you can leave it with the cohorts and the Urban Prefect’s office now. We will be in touch to collect your testimonies.’
Pavo swept out with the rest of his legionaries. Vespillo turned to Carbo and grinned.
‘A commendation?’ said Carbo. ‘Won’t that be nice?’
Vespillo made a face. ‘Pavo will undoubtedly turn this around so it reflects best on him. The most I will get is some of his reflected glory.’
‘But you don’t care, do you? It’s your own honour that is most important to you, not how others view you?’
‘Maybe,’ admitted Vespillo. ‘Now let’s go back to your tavern to spread the good news, and celebrate with some fine wine.’
Carbo clapped him on the back, and with a feeling of profound relief, he left Elissa’s home.
Carbo and Rufa sat together, high in the wooden seating of the temporary arena that had been constructed for the Ludi Romani, the biggest and best of the annual games, which ran for much of September. The sun was nearing its zenith, and although autumn was approaching, it was still uncomfortably hot. Carbo summoned a drink seller and bought a drink for Rufa and himself. Rufa sipped at her cup, then put an arm round Carbo, and despite the heat, moved closer to him. Carbo downed his drink, gave his cup back to the drink seller, and held her close.
It felt strange to be out in public now, without having to hide. Vespillo had assured him that all they needed to do was wait a few weeks, claim Rufa and Fabilla as his own slaves as they had no owner, then manumit them. She would be free again, albeit with the status of freedwoman, not quite the same as a free Roman citizen. All Romans were beholden to someone, though. Even Sejanus, the Praetorian prefect who ran Rome, answered to the Emperor Tiberius, although little was seen of the Emperor in Rome these days, and Sejanus had a free hand.
Carbo stroked Rufa’s arm gently. They had made love last night, every night in fact for the last few nights, since Carbo and Vespillo had limped home from the fire at the temple to tell Rufa that she was going to be free. Although sometimes the familiar feeling of dread started to rise in his gut, Rufa’s calming presence always soothed it away, and he could enjoy her body and his own pleasure now, like he did in his youth. Even more so, maybe, now that he realized what a gift it was.
He leaned over, kissing Rufa gently on the cheek, and she turned to flash him a smile, before she turned her attention back to the arena. The morning’s entertainment was drawing to a close. It had been a mix of mock gladiatorial contests, a warm-up for the later fights to the death, and some animal displays. The crowd had clapped at the display of a crocodile from Egypt, and a fight between a boar and a bear which had ended with the boar dead, but the bear so badly gored it had to be killed.
Currently an ostrich was being chased around the arena by a lion. The crowd laughed and hooted but time dragged by, and the lion’s initial enthusiastic attempts to bring the bird down waned. Eventually it gave up, lying down on the arena floor with its head on its paws, while the ostrich stood at the far side of the sand, eyeing it reprovingly. The crowd started to boo and after a while a guard was sent on with a trident to try to prod the lion back to work. The lion roared and swept at the trident, causing the guard to jump back in fright, but it would not return to the chase. After a few attempts, the guard gave up, and someone in authority must have become concerned about the growing derision from the crowd, as soon after a hail of arrows into both animals cut that part of the show short.
Carbo watched the two animals being dragged away – sand brushed over the bloody trails they left. He wondered what his future held now. Maybe he could actually begin his retirement. He could manage the tavern, go to the baths, drink and eat, and enjoy the company of Rufa. For a moment he almost felt overwhelmed at the thought. A lifetime of service, boredom and threat, the horror of the Teutoberg massacre, the anxieties of the last few days, and the sudden freedom from it all, came crashing in on him. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, his muscles tensing round his back and chest as tears sprung in the corners of his eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
With an effort he composed himself, then sat up. Rufa was looking at him with concern. He wiped the moisture from his eyes.
‘Dust from the arena,’ he said. ‘Gets in the eyes.’
Rufa gave a half smile, happy to accept his unconvincing explanation at face value, but she kept her hand on him. It was lunchtime now, but few attempted to leave the arena. A date seller awkwardly weaved between the seats and Carbo beckoned him over. He bought a handful of the fruits and shared them with Rufa.
‘Do we go and get lunch somewhere else?’
Carbo shook his head. ‘Only if you want to lose your seat. You have to make do with anything the vendors sell you at their inflated prices, or anything you bring with you from home. Only the Emperor gets to go home for lunch.’
The dead animals cleared away, an announcer came on and proclaimed that the climax would be the damnatio ad bestias of a slave who had conspired to kill her mistress, followed by a gladiatorial display. Next, though, was the execution of three deserters from the army.
Although the distance was too great to see the condemned men’s expressions in any detail, their slumped postures showed resignation and defeat. The prisoners were forced to their knees and bent forward, one soldier grasping the hair of the first victim and pulling so his neck stretched out. The nominated executioner stepped forward. He drew a long sword and held it up for the crowd to see. The crowd cheered and he brought it down in one rapid, smooth motion. The head separated cleanly, a huge spurt of blood shooting forth, then more arterial pulses, the body slumping forward to lie in a pool of crimson while the soldier held the lifeless head high. The crowd roared its approval.
Carbo glanced at Rufa. She had paled a little and was watching with her mouth tight.
‘Deserters,’ said Carbo. ‘They deserve it. Leaving their comrades to fight and die in their place. They are lucky – they are Roman citizens and so get a quick and honourable death.’
Rufa said nothing, and they continued to watch. The second victim was dispatched with similar aplomb. Whether the third prisoner moved at the last minute, or the executioner’s arm was tiring, Carbo wasn’t sure, but this time the sword did not slice through cleanly, instead wedging in the bones at the back of the skull and the top of the neck. They could hear the executioner’s curses as he tried to pull his sword free, one foot on the feebly struggling prisoner’s back. Finally it came loose and the prisoner slumped face forward on the arena sand. The executioner swung his sword again, but with the prisoner lying down the sword was stopped by the sandy ground before it had cut fully through.
To boos from the crowd, the executioner made his assistant hold the head off the ground, and he used his sword to slowly saw through the neck. The crowd grew restless and started to throw food and rubbish at the executioner, who gestured back at them angrily. Eventually the head came loose and the cheer from the crowd this time was dripping with irony.
Clowns and jugglers emerged, vainly attempting to raise the spirits of the crowd, while slaves came out to drag the bodies away and sprinkle more sand over the blood.
Carbo and Rufa munched their dates. The man next to Carbo nudged him in the ribs. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s my first games for a while. Does it get better?’
‘Tomorrow is the last day of the games and it should be spectacular. The whole of Rome will be out for that. Everything until then is just makeweight. I mean, look at those executions. Pretty poor showing, wasn’t it?’
Carbo nodded. ‘Can’t be easy, though, getting it right every time. A man’s neck can be pretty tough to slice through. I should know.’
The man looked askance at Carbo, digesting his words, then decided to change the topic. He stamped on the temporary structure firmly.
‘They seem to have built this one sturdily, at least. Not like the arena at Fidenae earlier this year.’
Carbo nodded. The disaster had claimed twenty thousand lives. An old man on the other side of them who had heard the conversation, though, leaned over and said, ‘They may have brought new laws in to prevent it happening again, but it’s an unlucky year. The Emperor has quit Rome, leaving us under Sejanus. The gods aren’t pleased. There are more disasters to come this year, you mark my words.’
The next prisoners brought out were two men and two women, slaves escaped from the mines. Dirty and emaciated, barely able to walk, they made a pathetic spectacle. Carbo reflected that if they hadn’t escaped, they probably wouldn’t have survived long anyway, the mines being notorious for their mortality rate.
As non-citizens, these prisoners were not granted the kindness of a quick death by beheading. They were stripped, laid out on crosses to which they were bound wrist and ankle, and then nails driven through hands and feet. The four crosses were hauled upright and were stood in deep holes in the ground. All four prisoners were then scourged, hooks on the whip flaying the skin so blood streamed freely down their bodies. The crowd screamed and yelled, their disapproval of the clumsy beheading forgotten. The soldiers then withdrew and a lion and lioness were released into the arena. Their gaunt appearance suggested they had been deliberately starved and they instantly spied the crucified prisoners who were crying out in agony. The lioness approached the female prisoner who was screaming loudest, a little cautious from the noise, then with a speed astonishing for her size, slashed her claws across the woman’s throat, silencing her instantly. The other prisoners were soon killed, though the lion seemed more inclined to play with his prey before finishing it than the methodical lioness.
The lions were only given a short time to eat. Handlers with tridents, poles and whips arrived to herd them away from their meals. They resisted for a short time, growling and slashing at the handlers, but they eventually bowed to the inevitable and slunk away.
Carbo, whose eyes had been fixed to the spectacle, turned to Rufa and noticed she was trembling.
‘Are you well?’
‘They were escaped slaves,’ said Rufa simply.
Carbo thought about it, possibly for the first time, he realized. He knew that not everyone approved of what went on in the arena, but they were in a minority, and were generally thought of as effeminate or cowardly. Why the torture and humiliation, though, rather than a quick death? Was it as a deterrent? He looked around at the cheering, smiling faces in the crowd. They didn’t seem to be dwelling on the warning. It was obviously just entertainment to them.
The jugglers and tumblers reappeared as the carnage was cleared away, putting up with good-natured catcalls and jeers from the crowd. The announcer then returned, and the message came back up the crowds that the climax of the lunchtime entertainment had arrived. A female slave who had been convicted of conspiring to kill her mistress was to be executed in the manner of Dirce.
‘Who’s Dirce?’ asked Carbo of the man next to him.
The man looked at Carbo with annoyance, but obviously thought better of antagonizing him. He shrugged, but asked the woman next to him the same question. She leaned across to Carbo.
‘Dirce was the aunt of Antiope, who gave birth to Amphion and Zethus after Jupiter fucked her,’ said the woman. ‘Zethus and Amphion were brung up by a shepherd, and Dirce was an evil bitch to Antiope. One day she tried to get the sons to kill Antiope by tying her to a bull, but the sons recognized their mother, and tied Dirce to the bull instead. Ain’t you read your Euripides?’
Carbo shook his head, bemused. In the arena below, two young men, dressed in Greek-style clothing, led a huge, muscular bull by a head collar and a pole through a nose ring. A small sheepdog herded a half-dozen sheep around them. The bull snorted and pawed the ground, but consented reluctantly to be led into the middle of the arena.
Then two guards brought out the prisoner. She was dressed in a full-length loose-fitting robe, and was struggling desperately in the powerful grip of the soldiers. Grimly they dragged her forwards, and presented her to the two men holding the bull. The men nodded, and said some words, which didn’t carry to the back of the arena. Carbo presumed it was some lines from Euripides, although the men looked more like they had been picked for their animal handling skills than their acting abilities.
The soldiers ripped the robe from the woman, leaving her naked, and then tied a rope tight around her waist. With the bull still restrained, they tied the other end of the rope around its horns. The bull started to rear and was brought down by the strength of all four men, yanking on the ring and the collar. Working quickly, and ignoring the woman’s outstretched supplicant hands, the rope was fastened tight, leaving only a couple of feet of length between the woman and the bull’s horns. The bull bellowed its anger and reared again and this time the pole attached to the ring was yanked out of its handler’s hands. With a toss of its head, the rope on the head collar was pulled free as well. The two handlers and the two guards stepped back, then as the bull turned to face them, they ran.
The bull charged them and the woman was jerked along with it. The crowd cheered loudly, laughing at the woman’s attempts to try to gain her feet so she could run alongside it, laughing too at the fleeing soldiers and animal handlers. One of the handlers’ sandals came loose and he stumbled. He didn’t fall, but his flight was slowed enough that he fell behind the others.
The bull caught him. It didn’t slow, simply putting its head down and tilting it slightly. Its long horn punched through his back and protruded from the front of his chest. The bull raised its head, lifting the man, who struggled like a fly on a pin. He shook his head wildly, then tossed the man so he landed several feet away in an unmoving heap.
The other three men had reached safety now and closed the iron gates in the arena wall behind them. The bull looked at them in rage, then seemed to notice the woman attached to him, who was lying with arms gripping the rope, breathing heavily. It wheeled towards her and she rolled away from it as best she could. The rope was too short to give her any distance, however, and the bull’s charge had pulled the knots too tight to be undone, though she plucked at them desperately.
The bull spun again, getting frustrated as she clambered away from it again. It tossed its head, irritated by the rope around its horns, then made a maddened charge into the centre of the arena. The woman was dragged along behind it, screaming piteously. This time, when the bull stopped and rounded on her, she was too slow. The bull stamped on her and the crunch of the bones in her leg was swiftly followed by an agonized cry which carried round the arena. The bull stamped again, breaking ribs. Then he bent his head down and lifted the woman onto his horns, impaling her with both. He snorted and tossed his head as the woman was flung around like a doll, then he charged the arena wall.
The impact as he hit the temporary erection shuddered through every seat and the nearest of the crowd screamed as they thought they would be thrown into the arena. The structure held, though. The bull backed away, the crushed woman unmoving on his horns. He tossed her to the ground and bellowed his anger once more.
At a hidden signal, arrows flashed out from around the arena. Struck in a dozen places, the bull roared and reared, the dead woman flung from his horns. Another dozen arrows hit home and the bull staggered to its knees, then fell to its side. It breathed heavily for a while, until the surviving animal handler, looking visibly shaken, re-emerged into the arena and cut its throat.
The crowd went wild at the spectacle, as the slaves came out to clear away the bodies, and the acrobats, jugglers and musicians resumed their entertainment.
Carbo looked over to Rufa, whose face was set.
‘She was an attempted murderess,’ he said. ‘She deserved to die.’
‘Not like that,’ said Rufa quietly.
Carbo had wanted to see the gladiators. There was more of an honesty about them, especially to a soldier. A proper sporting contest, fought between equals, apart from those cases where criminals were sent out to fight armed men without a weapon or with their hands tied together. He saw the expression on Rufa’s face, though, and considered her feelings.
‘Would you like to leave?’
She turned to him, showing a look of gratitude. ‘But you had been looking forward to the gladiators, hadn’t you?’
Carbo shrugged. ‘I’ve seen plenty before. Let’s go home.’
He offered her his hand and they stood, their seats instantly being taken by people who had been standing at the back. It took a while to work their way out through the packed crowd and through the urban cohort legionaries who lounged around, annoyed that their crowd control duties kept them from watching the spectacle. Soon, though, they stood outside the arena, in the forum.
‘Is it always like that?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Carbo simply.
‘Oh,’ said Rufa, looking down at the ground.
‘You needn’t come again,’ said Carbo.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Can we go home now?’
They walked home in silence, Carbo feeling guilty for reasons he couldn’t explain. He had taken girlfriends to games before, they had all enjoyed it. They had all been free women, though, used to being allowed to see the games, raised as children on the blood and gore that the crowds loved. Maybe he should have realized that someone not used to such sights would have felt troubled by them.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her. ‘I should have realized…’
She took his hand and moved closer to him. He looked at her and she smiled, and he felt a relief that she wasn’t angry with him, followed by a realization that this woman’s feelings really mattered to him now. Not just because of some ancient oath. Because of her.
They turned a corner, two streets away from the tavern, and came face-to-face with Marsia. Her face was drawn with worry.
‘Marsia, what are you doing here?’
‘Master. Oh, thank Donner and Woden that you have returned. It’s Cilo and Manius. They have taken over the street outside the tavern. And they have an army!’