Reckon I lost him. Even Dera can’t keep up with me. The Canopic Way that cuts across the city and joins the East and West Necropolis seems bigger than usual. It’s so wide I reckon two ships could easy fit side by side across it. Tall marble buildings make me feel small. My bag strap’s too long, but not as long as it was last month. How tall will I grow? Tall as Dera? That would be top.
A boy-racer swerves as he charges past in his chariot. Thinks he owns the road, he does. Some honey-nose’s son. Dad told me to stick to the main roads. Look where caution got Dad? I’ll nip down this side street, away from the traffic.
I swallow the puky feeling that’s lodged itself permanently between my belly and throat. If I play at guessing smells that will keep my mind off Dad. Flare my nostrils and inhale. Incense, but which? Amber. No. Patchouli. Horseshit. Shit doesn’t count as it hides behind every smell in Alexandria. Rotting vegetables. Cabbage, that is. Fresh baked bread. Grilled meat… and honey… sweet-chicken sticks. Yum! Sweet-chicken brings back happy memories.
What’s that noise? I look up the street. The Khamaseen roughs up my hair as it speeds through the alley off the desert. Thousands of voices hurry past on the wild wind: I’ve sniffed my way to the games.
A cheer goes up from the stadium. Dad bought me sweet-chicken the last time he took me to the games. We’d sat with the other labourers on the marble steps, gawping at the rich on swanky cushioned balconies as exotic as the beasts and gladiators.
The sun’s low in the sky over the Western Necropolis. Didn’t Dad say something about tickets selling cheap for the last fight of the day?
Umm, sweet-chicken. My stomach groans. Food stalls skirt the huge walls.
‘Five chicken sticks please.’ Dad would call me greedy, but I’m my own man now.
The face of the chicken man shines with sweat, like he’s coated in honey too. He peers at me through the smoke from the grill, hands me the sticks and coughs. For a moment I thought it was Dad’s feverish face.
‘Sir – what about my change?’
‘What change?’ He bellows it. People push to be served, laugh and point at me. My cheeks burn. Reckon I’ve been conned, I do.
Drum rolls signal the last fight of the day. There’s the ticket man.
‘Lucky you are, lad. The Prefect of Alexandria’s got Saracen back on.’
‘Saracen!’ My gob goes limp like an idiot.
‘Chop, chop or you’ll miss him. I’ve got ten on him myself.’
I bite the chicken sticks hard between my teeth, and open my bag to get my purse.
‘Don’t worry about that, lad. Hurry up those steps or you’ll miss him.’
‘Thank you!’
The ticket man chuckles as I rush up the stairs to the cheap seats. Ten what? Surely he didn’t bet ten silver coins on Saracen. Ten silver coins is what I got for the ink, and now the chicken man done me over, I got nine.
Another drum roll; I’ll think about it later. I run through the arch and squeeze onto the back step of the top tier. The cheer of the crowd is one big, throbbing roar. My body thumps with the pulse of the stadium. Can’t believe I’m going to see my favourite gladiator in the flesh.
A huge man swaggers, sword and shield in the air, into the arena and stops in front of the Prefect’s balcony. He must be Saracen. From up here the gladiators and beasts look tiny, but I know Saracen’s shape from the toys in the Emporium. He’s not as tall as Dera, not as black either, but he’s wider. And his legs are bigger.
Dera don’t like the games – Alexandrians are a mob in the stadium, he’d nag. I think the games are the best thing ever.
‘SaraceEEEEN.’ My voice is lost in the wild cheers of the crowd. Hands above my head, I clap in time. The stadium vibrates with the thump of feet on marble. It’s like my little cheer is a small part of a huge pounding marble beast with a roar of a voice.
Round, flat pieces of bone are being exchanged for money on all sides of me.
‘Saracen. Never lost a match yet. Double or nothing,’ shouts the bet-maker next to me when the rush for roundels slows down.
Dad warned me against gambling: only hard graft brings a man wealth.
But I’ve got Serapis with me. I root around in my bag and pull out the little statue and clench it in my palm. Kiya said it’s powerful. ‘Double my money, Serapis.’
‘Last bets,’ shouts the bookie.
‘Five silver silikas’ worth, please.’
Saracen swings his sword around his body. The crowd’s cheer sounds like a roll of thunder.
I tug at the bookie’s tunic, hold up Dad’s old leather purse and shake it so the coins chink.
He gives me the once over. ‘Show me your money.’
The silver coins wink pink in the sun streaming through the huge arches of the stadium as I empty them into my palm. The bookie’s eyebrows rise and his brow wrinkles like one of the fat elephants parading around the circle below.
‘Only five? Saracen’s never lost!’
A sweat breaks out on my top lip. He’s never lost… and I’ve got Serapis.
‘Well, what’s it to be?’
Make some magic happen, Serapis.
‘Nine. Nine silver silikas.’
I drop them in his big open palm. He passes me a large bone disk and laughs. It’s got an X on one side and some letters on the reverse. I remember what Dad said they say: I promise to pay.
‘You’ll be a rich young man before the sun sets.’
I clench Serapis in one hand and the roundel tight in the other. Eighteen silikas, I’ll win. And I’ll spend them all on writing lessons, I promise, Dad.
The Prefect nods to signal the start of the fight.
Saracen’s muscle-bound opponent runs across the arena – exotically white, with hair almost as pale as his skin – mouth wide open towards him. They circle each other like animals. I chant with the crowd. The gladiators look like they’re shouting at each other, but it’s too noisy to hear them.
Saracen throws himself at his opponent.
The audience holds its breath.
He knocks the white man down.
We all gasp.
They’re on their feet.
We sigh, a huge, loud sigh.
Again and again they plunge at each other – charging, circling, striking, then falling apart. The audience breathes in time with their moves. It looks like a dance from up here, a violent mime. The crowd’s reaction is the only sound.
They throw themselves together again. This time they don’t pull back from each other. Saracen’s opponent throws him down. The white man holds the black man face-down to the sand, one knee into his back.
‘Saraceeenn. Get up. Saraceeeenn,’ we cry.
Like he hears us, he throws his opponent off. But the white man’s too quick, slicing his sword at Saracen’s ankles. Down Saracen goes. Sand sprays up with the impact.
He’s up again, with a cheer. He has a loyal following. Every time Saracen throws him off, his opponent throws him again. He’s fast and fights in a strange way, less with the sword, more with the body, like he’s wrestling. Sometimes Saracen fights from the ground, writhing around like a river crocodile, swinging his sword like the scaly creatures throw their tails. These are not men. They’re ferocious like animals, strong as gods. Perhaps they are gods.
Saracen loses his footing again. Are his ankles cut? He’s unstable on his feet, lurching like a drunk. I’m too far away to see the damage.
I clench Serapis.
‘Boooo!’ The crowd is losing patience with their favourite. Not me. I’m behind you, Saracen.
The white man’s lost his sword. His right arm’s limp, hanging like a dead chicken. Saracen’s on his knees, sword still in hand, he sways in the dust. Lifting a leg, he slumps, elbow on knee, head hung over.
His opponent stretches for his sword.
Their movements are slow and heavy.
Saracen collapses onto his hip and elbow.
The roundel is sweaty in my fist, nails pinch it into my palm.
Eighteen silikas. Come on, Saracen. Get up.
‘Saracen. Saracen. Saracen,’ I chant. My whole body wills him off his elbow and up onto his feet.
Saracen stumbles, but makes it to standing, takes slow swaying steps towards his opponent. The other gladiator desperately reaches for his sword again.
He gets hold of the hilt and sends his sword flying towards Saracen.
The crowd gives out an ‘ARHHH.’
My stomach clenches. My nails dig deeper into my palm around the roundel.
Saracen sways, but keeps his footing. He draws back his arm to plunge his sword. My thighs, calves and toes grip as he sways around, disorientating his wounded opponent. My body mimes his movements. I swing each blow with him. I feel the strength of the Saracen’s arms and legs. His huge back is mine. This is how it feels to be strong. My bulrush arms are solid muscle. My body obeys my will. And when Saracen thrusts the fatal stroke, we slay our opponent together.
The relief of survival roars from my lungs. ‘Saracen. Saracen,’ I chant with the crowd.
Panting, I sit back down on the cool, marble step, grin and look up at the bookie beside me.
He grins back.
I take a second look, although I know it’s not the man who I gave my money to.
Where is he?
I scan the crowd. He must be here somewhere.
Maybe he’s gone to piss. He’ll be back.
I wait.
The crowd starts to spill out of the archways leaving stadium seats empty.
Gone! But he can’t have gone!
The puky feeling’s back, along with a strange dizziness, like all that wasn’t real. I’m not really in the stadium. Didn’t really lose my money, did I?
I crouch down to look along the row of steps, past the crowds. Maybe he’s sitting down.
‘Get up you drunk.’ A sandalled foot kicks my arse.
I stand back against the marble columns to avoid the scrum shuffling and elbowing for the exit. My heart pounds. When the crowds are gone, and only a few men and women sit settling bets, I search the rows, running up and down, desperate to find the bookie.
My gut tells me the bookie’s shafted me, but I check the exits again to make sure.
Pink light sinks below the arches and I slump on the steps near the arena and sob. I’m broke! Cleaners sweep and pick up rubbish around my feet.
‘Stadium shuts soon, lad.’ A short Egyptian man looks down at me from the row behind. ‘You don’t want to be locked in. They say dead gladiators stalk the steps at night looking for their killers.’
Forehead on knees, I stare at my dusty big toes hanging out of my sandals.
‘Alright, I’m going.’
I walk down to the front row. Arena’s stained with huge patches of blood. Six cleaners drag away the last of the lions by his mane. What had he made of the stadium? His back’s singed black, flesh raw and hanging loose, his yellow mane soaked in black oil.
‘Why… didn’t you… train me up… on the bricks… Dad?’ I shout between sobs.
Stupid chunk of wood. ‘I hate you Serapis. I don’t believe in you.’
I chuck Serapis as hard as I can into the arena. The tiny statue disappears in the huge circle below – too light even to spray sand. Dad would say throwing Serapis is shameful. I slump down on the step and spew. Chicken splats my toes, still smelling like sweet-chicken, not puke.
If the gods exist, they don’t give a shit about humans. Greedy gods. You’ve taken my dad. We’re just like that lion to you.
I turn my back on the quiet, bloodstained arena. Still holding the bone roundel, I walk to the exit swaying like I’ve been mortally wounded.
The sweet smell of honeyed chicken hangs in the air. Got to spit to get rid of the taste on my breath.
Outside the stadium walls I stare into the faces of the stragglers milling around. Give it up. You idiot, Aeson. The only people left are slaves and labourers who pull on ropes to bring down the huge canopy that shielded the stadium from the Sun. The bookie’s well gone.