Date: 2017-11-14 05:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Schlock! Publications

The Games of Hadrian

The Gladiator Gambit

GAVIN CHAPPELL

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2017

Cover art by Curiosito

All illustrations provided under license from Wikimedia.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2017

ISBN-13: 978-1979083003

ISBN-10: 1979083002

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

The Hadrian Legacy

Our Man in Alexandria

And by the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

Prologue

Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 25th August 124 AD

The sun blazed down upon the burning sands of the arena.

The gladiators strode out from the darkness to meet a roar of acclaim from the mob. In the shade of the imperial box sat the prefect of Egypt, Haterius Nepos, with his coterie of imperial bureaucrats, austerely watching the four men and one woman as they advanced into the harsh sunlight. The sands were strewn with gory debris from the venators’ beast fights of the morning and the public executions at noon. The rank copper stink of blood hung in the air, blowflies buzzed around pink and scarlet heaps of viscera.

The gladiators’ sandaled feet crunched in the grit, the light of early afternoon glanced from their brassy helmets and armour, beat down on their tanned flesh. One man, a murmillo, clad in visored helmet with a wide flaring neck piece, was a Nubian, his skin black as if burnt by the suns of the desert. In his left hand he held an oblong shield, a sword in his gauntleted right; otherwise he was naked except for a brief white kilt and high strapped sandals. The roar of the crowd grew as he lifted his sword.

Next was an olive-skinned Greek in the gear of a retiarius, a trident in one bare hand. The other, clad in a gauntlet, gripped a fisherman’s weighted net. His youthful face was handsome and feline, and he wore his black hair in ringlets. As he brandished his trident in greeting, catcalls and wolf whistles broke out from the cheap seats at the back. He stumbled suddenly, and had to use the trident butt to stop himself from falling flat on his face.

The cries increased as the next gladiator joined them, this one a secutor, clad similarly to the murmillo with a helmet, holding an oblong shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Although this gladiator was as tall as the rest, the helmet was forged in the form of an Amazon’s face. Bare breasts made it clear that this was a gladiatrix—a female gladiator.

The roars of applause reached fever pitch as the second to last gladiator stalked forward. This was a man older than the rest, in his mid-thirties; no longer a boy but not yet running to fat, he carried a small buckler in his left hand and a curved sword in his right. On his muscular calves he wore greaves, on his sword arm an armguard and gauntlet, and on his head a visored helmet with a plume. The crowd grew wild with enthusiasm, flinging down flower petals as this Thracian advanced towards the imperial box. Now the gladiators, all but one, stood in a crescent, facing the prefect of Egypt.

The last of them took his place and the applause ebbed away as if he was a newcomer, an unknown quantity. Like the Thracian he wore a plumed helmet, and carried a circular shield, but instead of a sword he held a long spear. On his right arm and his legs he wore the mail of a hoplomachus.

As the five gladiators raised their weapons towards the imperial box, the sun flashed from their blades. They roared out the traditional words, ‘Those about to die salute you!’ and at a flourish of trumpets, turned to face the great archway on the other side of the arena.

With a screech of metal, the gates swung open. In galloped ten horsemen wearing scale mail, carrying oval shields and lances, their helmets ornamented with feathers.

As the arena echoed with the drumming of hoofs the hoplomachus stood in line with his comrades, awaiting the inevitable attack. He peered anxiously through the eyeholes of his helmet, biting his lip.

The sun beat down on his tanned flesh, on the tattoo on his chest. It was hard to breathe inside this visored helmet. He was indeed a newcomer, having replaced a gladiator recently lost by the impresario Apuleius Victor. This was by no means his usual line of work, and he dreaded what was coming. He lifted an armoured gauntlet to brush sweat from his brow, then halted, realising the futility of this gesture.

As the roar of the crowd grew and the horsemen thundered across the sand, lances glittering, Gaius Drusus Flaminius, imperial agent, commissary tribune of the Twenty Second Legion, gripped his spear in nervous anticipation.

—1—

Patrol Station Isideion, The Thebaid, Province of Egypt, 20th July 124 AD

Flaminius’ armour shone in the bright desert sun, his horse’s hoofs drummed on the rock as he rode past the running robber. His longsword descended. A shock travelled up the sinews of his arm as the blade sank into the muscles of the man’s back. The robber dropped to the rock. Blood soaked into the grit as his heels drummed out a final tattoo.

The rest of the robbers had vanished into the shadows of the rocks at the head of the defile. Turning in his saddle Flaminius shouted to the Arab auxiliaries: ‘After them! Bring at least one back alive!’

The Arabs rode past, white robes flapping about them. Flaminius dismounted and, leading his nervously snorting stallion by the reins, went to inspect the robber he had cut down.

The man was dead. Flaminius rolled him over with a sandled foot, peering at the masculine features beneath the black wig of long, sleek, womanish hair. All Egyptians, male or female, wore kohl, but few men affected cosmetics as whorish as this one’s. A long linen dress and cheap bangles on his arms completed his bizarre, effeminate ensemble.

The Egyptian robbers who infested the edge of the arable districts practised magical rites darker than the worst superstitions of the druids. It was believed that by dressing as a woman, a man could make himself invulnerable. Being neither man nor woman, neither one thing nor another, he effectively ceased to exist, and so could not be harmed. Such was the crazy logic that inspired these men. The man had not been invulnerable to Flaminius’ cavalry longsword. Someone should have suggested armour. It was too late for the dead man—but what was this?

Incongruously, on his right arm the man wore a heavy bronze armguard, the kind worn by gladiators. And the curved sword that lay a few feet away, where the robber had dropped it, was the sort carried by the class of gladiator known as a Thracian.

Flaminius went over to examine it.

The rocky defile resounded to the clatter of hoofs. Flaminius looked up to see two of the Arabs riding back in a cloud of dust. They reined their steeds a few feet away, the decurion of the troop and another.

The decurion panted, ‘We found their camp, sir. There was a fight. We killed them all.’

Flaminius straightened up. ‘Did you not leave any alive?’

The Arab met his gaze imperturbably. ‘My men wanted to kill them all when they found…’ He faltered, looked away and spat into the sand. ‘You must see for yourself.’

Flaminius mounted his horse. ‘Take me there!’

The Arabs led him back up the defile. They crested a rise and a small plateau opened up before them. The rest of the mounted Arabs clustered round the base of a large rock. The bodies of the robbers were scattered about the sand. Beneath the rock was the remains of a campfire. As he reined his horse, Flaminius saw bones lying in the cold ashes. His gorge rose. A human rib cage…and three skulls.

‘It’s true, then,’ he muttered. ‘The rumours are true.’

The decurion swung down from his horse and went to the firepit. ‘Show the tribune,’ he barked. One of the auxiliaries knelt down and lifted up a charred gobbet of flesh from the embers. It was a half chewed human heart.

‘They think that if they eat the hearts of their enemies, they will gain their enemies’ strength,’ the decurion said.

‘Thank you, I’ve read the reports,’ Flaminius muttered. He dismounted and inspected the fallen robbers. ‘What’s this?’ he said suddenly.

The decurion came to join him. Flaminius was pointing at a dead robber. The man wore the highly elaborate helmet of a gladiator—a murmillo.

‘Shades of Spartacus and all his kind,’ Flaminius swore. The decurion looked blankly at him. ‘I’m going back to the patrol station.’ The tribune picked up the helmet. ‘The legate will want to hear about this. Remain on patrol. If you encounter any more of these robbers, try to take at least one alive. We’ll want to question them.’

He strapped the gladiator helmet onto his saddle then remounted and rode away in a whirlwind of dust.

‘Gladiators?’

Avidius Pollio, legate of the Twenty Second Legion, gazed up at Flaminius in concern. His eyes turned in perplexity to examine the helmet.

‘Gladiator armour, yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘The first one I killed was wearing a Thracian armguard and gauntlet.’

‘Pity you didn’t bring any of them back alive,’ the legate mused. ‘The best way to get to the bottom of this would be to ask a few probing questions.’

He rose and went to the map table. Carrying the gladiator helmet under his arm, Flaminius joined him. Together they examined a chart that showed the Thebaid, the southern administrative divisions, or nomes, of the Roman province of Egypt.

‘These attacks have been growing in boldness,’ said the legate. His finger stabbed at a spot on the map. ‘Here’s Isideion, slap bang in the middle of this turbulent region. We’ve had attacks all along the eastern border, even some on the edges of the Memphite Nome. But they’ve been focussing on our forces in the Thebaid, and so we’ve been concentrating our efforts here. Are these just the usual raids for food and plunder, or by all the gods is it the beginning of a concerted campaign? A wholesale rebellion?’

The native Egyptians were subject to swingeing taxation. Many were unwilling or unable to pay, and in their extremity, these tax evaders took to the desert or the inaccessible parts of the Delta, to live as robbers and river pirates. It had been this way since long before the Romans took over the running of this most ancient of countries, since the days of the Pharaohs; in Flaminius’ private opinion, it was high time there were changes.

‘And where do gladiators come into it? Where’s the nearest amphitheatre?’

Avidius Pollio grimaced, and ran fingers through his sparse grey hair. ‘There are very few in Egypt. The country is entirely too barbaric. We’re having to open the legion’s own private amphitheatre outside Alexandria to the public just to celebrate the Games of Hadrian next month. That’s two weeks’ journey downstream.’

Too many Greeks and not enough Romans, that was the problem with Egypt. The civilised Greeks turned up their nose at the professional violence of the arena, preferring gang warfare and rioting at the races in the hippodrome.

‘In which case, what is gladiator armour doing in the Thebaid?’ He placed the helmet on the map table and studied it closely, tracing out a short inscription. ‘Are these fugitive slaves, joining the robbers? Or has the armour somehow wound up on the black market?’ He peered closely at the elaborate visor.

Avidius Pollio sat down on a camp stool. ‘I don’t need to remind you, tribune, that this is the worst possible time for us to face another uprising. You weren’t stationed here when the Judaeans were on the rampage. I was; it was my introduction to the country.’ He shook his head. ‘A terrible time. Corpses clogged the canals and irrigation channels, the cities went up in flames. His imperial majesty tried to tidy up after the rebels were crushed, but it’s not the same country anymore.

‘What’s more, security has been stepped up. Travel about the countryside is subject to any number of checks. Patrols of legionaries are everywhere; every town and village has its native guards, and out in the desert are any number of patrol stations like Isideion. And yet the border with the desert is permeable. Unless we were to build a wall like the one his imperial majesty has begun in Britain, it will be thus until the world ends. All the same, we can pursue raiders and fight nomads whenever they make their incursions. We are ready for that. What we cannot face is another rebellion like the Judaean Uprising.’

‘The Judaeans are in no position to rise again,’ Flaminius pointed out, ‘not in Egypt.’ He’d met some of the Judaeans still living in the suburbs of Alexandria; a quiescent lot, they were eager to keep the peace.

‘Nevertheless,’ said the legate, ‘this is a dangerous country. You and I know the secret of the empire.’

Egypt was a rich province. Its arable land, fertilised by the inundation of the Nile, produced much of the grain that kept the Roman mob fed—and the emperor in power. But as rich as it was, as vital as it was to the entire empire, Egypt was vulnerable. Only the most trusted men in the Senate, such as Avidius Pollio, were permitted to enter the country, and it was under strict lockdown.

People still remembered how Vespasian of Divine Memory seized Egypt and blockaded it, cutting Rome off from its grain supply, and using this position of power went on to make himself emperor. He replaced a tyrant, and ruled wisely for the most part. But any man with enough influence could achieve the same coup, and the stability the empire was now enjoying would be threatened once again. Nobody wanted that—nobody except ambitious senators who would benefit from chaos.

Rising, Avidius Pollio beckoned Flaminius to follow him.

The courtyard was hot and dusty. The sun was over the ramparts where Arab auxiliaries stood in armour that glittered in the receding light. The legate went to the nearest ladder and Flaminius followed him up into the watchtower. Here two auxiliaries stood looking out across the desert.

Both saluted on seeing the legate’s approach. ‘Nothing to report, sir,’ said the senior of the two. ‘It’s quiet.’

‘At ease, men,’ said Avidius Pollio crisply. Going over to the bulwark he gazed out across the endless sands. Flaminius joined him. Nothing could be seen except the shimmering heat haze, and high up in the sky, a single dot. It must be a hovering hawk.

‘It’s quiet,’ said Avidius Pollio. ‘Too quiet? Seems to me that something is going on. Out there,’ —he gestured ominously at the barren sands— ‘something is brewing.’

He turned to Flaminius. ‘You know that next month the province is celebrating the Days of Hadrian?’

Flaminius nodded. This was a ten-day festival celebrating the province’s liberation from the Judaean rebels. Sacrifices were offered in the temples, feasts and banquets were held, plays were performed in the theatres, there were chariot races every day in the hippodrome and the gladiatorial Games of Hadrian were fought in the amphitheatre.

‘Not a time, surely,’ he said, ‘when people’s thoughts turn to rebellion.’

Avidius Pollio shook his head. ‘What better time for disruptive elements to strike? Out there’—he indicated the desert again— ‘forces are gathering, mustering their strength against us. Out there are Libyans, Nubians, Egyptian renegades and more. All with their eyes on the riches of the province. What better time to descend than when the people are celebrating?’

‘The Libyans hate us, the Nubians hate us, the Egyptians hate us,’ Flaminius said. ‘The Judaeans hate us! Who in this land doesn’t hate Rome?’

The legate shrugged. ‘The Greeks, perhaps, can be trusted. They don’t hate us like the barbarians do; they know that they can patronise us, because we idolise their culture. Besides, they’re too caught up in their loathing for the Judaeans to resent our rule—it’s a failing in them that we’ve encouraged. Divide and rule, eh, young man? But perhaps even they could become enemies.’

‘We certainly seem to have an enemy within.’ Flaminius tapped the helmet he had brought from the legate’s office.

Avidius Pollio nodded. ‘It’s about time I shared with you something that is known only to myself and the prefect. His imperial majesty is coming.’

The emperor had been proceeding through Asia Minor. Egypt lay to the south of his route. Five days’ sail would take him from Smyrna to Alexandria. Two years had passed since Flaminius had last spoken with Hadrian, and they had not parted amicably. ‘Why is he coming here?’

‘He intends to appear at the height of the celebrations,’ said the legate. ‘A surprise visit will be the crowning glory; an appearance in the imperial box of the amphitheatre. It will be a statement of his power over the province, a reminder that Rome rules in this country.’

‘But…’ Flaminius began.

The legate nodded. ‘Yes, young man,’ he said. ‘If he arrives in the middle of an uprising…’

Flaminius looked out over the baking sands, and a chill stole over him. He lowered his voice. ‘You don’t think… they know?’ he said. ‘Whoever it is. Whoever is behind these attacks. You don’t think they know that the emperor is coming to Egypt?’

Avidius Pollio shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Absurd. Only the prefect, myself, and now you, my trusted intelligence officer, know of his plans.’ He shrugged. ‘No doubt his own circle is also aware. But no, d’you see, it’s coincidence, young man. But a nasty one. Potentially, a very nasty one.’

Flaminius gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’ He might be a young man in Avidius Pollio’s eyes, but he had seen a great deal while working as an imperial agent.

The legate shook his head again. ‘In your line of work,’ he said, ‘you must see plots everywhere. No, this isn’t a conspiracy. But it will be very inconvenient if the imperial visit coincides with a revolt on the scale of the Judaean Uprising. We’ve got to find out who is at the back of it all. We need to stifle this rebellion in its cradle.’

‘That’s obvious,’ said Flaminius. ‘But how?’

Avidius Pollio tapped smartly on the gladiator helmet Flaminius still carried in the crook of his arm. ‘Every beginning is difficult,’ he said. ‘But this could be the clue to lead you through the labyrinth.’

Flaminius had almost forgotten the helmet. He held it up in both hands. ‘I noticed an inscription,’ he told the legate. ‘Abbreviated, but as far as I can make out, it says “The Family of Apuleius Victor”. Do we know where the Family of Apuleius Victor is to be found?’

Avidius Pollio turned away. ‘That’s for you to learn,’ he said, ‘but I would suggest you start in Nicopolis, the amphitheatre. Once you have identified this gladiatorial family, find some way to infiltrate them. I’d recommend that you do it alone. Agents can’t be trusted. Nobody can be trusted with what I’ve told you. If you must employ agents, you will keep the facts in the dark.’ He looked back at Flaminius. ‘But I don’t need to tell you your job. It’s time you joined the gladiators, Gaius Flaminius Drusus.’ The legate grinned sardonically. ‘Your dear old mother will be so proud.’

—2—

Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 25th August 124 AD

Steel rang out from the towering walls, undercut by the roar of the mob and the drumming of hoofs. A horseman rode straight at Flaminius, lance aimed at him. The Roman caught it with his shield then thrust with his own spear, sliding it beneath the man’s shield so it sank into his guts like a hot knife into wax. The horse galloped past Flaminius, and he was struck in the face by a trailing bridle but even as he staggered back, wincing in pain, the rider hit the sand, dropping his lance and shield, clutching at his guts.

Blood ran into Flaminius’ eyes but he blinked it away, dropped his shield and gripped his spear in both hands, standing astraddle over the prone rider. The man was a Gaul, he guessed, or even a Briton. A memory of Drustica and her people flashed into his mind.

He looked up at the imperial box. In all the fighting, nobody seemed to have noticed what he had done. The crowd was yelling, the prefect was intent on the combat—but it wasn’t Flaminius’ fight that was attracting attention. The arena was an embarrassment of riches for the discriminating slaughter lover. Flaminius lowered his spear, turning away from the prone rider, and looking about him. Who was centre of attention?

‘Of course,’ he muttered resignedly. It was Petrus.

The Thracian, four and a half cubits tall and two and a half cubits at the muscle-rippling chest, was under attack from four riders. They galloped up, lunging at him with spears that he dodged or bashed aside with his shield, then circled round for another attack. His helmet glittered in the sun, his tanned, muscular body glistened with oil and sweat as he fought. He sheathed his sword and seized one man’s lance by the haft, hauling its owner kicking from the saddle.

Rising from the sand, the rider received a kick in the face that knocked him sprawling. Even as his opponent fell, Petrus seized hold of the passing horse’s mane and bounded up into the saddle, kicking it in the ribs and hauling at the reins. Another rider attacked, lance aimed straight at the gladiator’s unprotected chest.

As a military man, Flaminius thought the gladiator’s armour absurd: they had arm protectors, shields and helmets, yet the fighter’s chests were left bare. Very aesthetic, particularly in the case of gladiatrices, but not very practical. Petrus ducked in the saddle, and the lance passed harmlessly through the air above him. The Thracian drew his sword, reaching out negligently as he passed the rider, and sliced the man’s spear arm in two at the bicep.

Petrus galloped on as the rider fainted, falling back over the horse’s crupper, spraying blood in a fine mist into the August air.

‘Tiro!’ A shrill scream caught Flaminius’ attention and he wheeled round.

It was the gladiatrix Camilla—Tiro was the name they had given him on joining the family. Some way from him, standing over a fallen horseman and his dead steed, she had seen that the Gaul had got up while Flaminius was distracted by Petrus, and was now advancing, sword drawn. Flaminius gritted his teeth.

‘I should have finished you when I had the chance,’ he muttered. The spear was still in his hands. He ran, holding the weapon like a lance, and the man turned to flee but Flaminius caught up quickly, plunging the spear into his undefended back.

The man dropped his sword, flung up his hands, and fell with a thud. Flaminius heard a pounding of hoofs and another rider came thundering towards him across the sand. The Roman’s mouth went dry. He was directly in the path of the rider, who had lost his lance but was brandishing a longsword.

Flaminius flung himself to the ground as the blade passed like a storm wind, grabbed a fallen sword and sheathed it, and leapt to his feet again as the horse passed. Copying Petrus, he seized hold of the saddle with his left hand and heaved himself up onto the back of the horse. As the rider turned his armoured head in bafflement to see what had happened, Flaminius wrapped his forearm round the man’s throat. Then he grabbed the helmet—that metal was scorching! —and fumbled under the visor to find a bearded mouth, seized hold and twisted. There was a cracking sound of bone breaking and at once the rider was a dead weight. Flaminius let go and the corpse slithered over the side like a landed fish. He swung himself forward to sit fully in the saddle then snatched the reins from where they dangled.

The roar of the crowd grew, and he realised they were calling out ‘Tiro! Tiro! Tiro!’

Flaminius rode past Petrus, who was pursuing another two riders. Now two fifths of Apuleius Victor’s family were mounted, but Petrus was out of his element and was struggling to stay mounted.

Flaminius swung himself down, ran alongside the horse then sprang back into the saddle just in time to draw his sword and meet the attack of one of the men Petrus was pursuing. The crowd yelled in appreciation at this showy feat. Flaminius got a brief glimpse of Haterius Nepos, prefect of Egypt, holding his belly as he laughed and laughed.

Felix the Retiarius was running; with good reason, since two riders were trying to skewer him with their lances. He was running erratically although he was not yet wounded. Camilla sped across the sand towards him, intent on fighting at his side, her long, tanned legs pounding, but she was too far off. Flaminius shook his reins and sank his heels into his horse’s flanks, and the beast set off at a gallop, passing the gladiatrix, bearing down on Felix’s pursuers. Flaminius cut one man down but even as he fell from his horse, the other rider’s lancehead found its mark between Felix’s shoulders. The running retiarius was lifted high into the air then dropped to the sand, run through. His net and trident landed beside him.

A moan throbbed from the spectators, mixed with shrieks of delight. Flaminius spurred his horse and rode at Felix’s killer, who sawed at his reins and circled round, bloody lance levelled. Flaminius stood up in the saddle, and flung himself over the gap, knocking the rider from his own horse. Flaminius hung on as the beast tried to shake him from its back, seized the flapping reins, and yanked on them. The horse turned in a tight circle and rode on as its former rider got to his knees. Remorselessly, Flaminius rode him down.

The snapping and popping of bones was audible even over the roar of the crowd. Now only two riders remained horsed; Petrus and Flaminius were still both mounted. Riderless horses stampeded across the arena. Spots and flecks of red spattered the sand, fresh blood surrounding fallen horsemen.

There was a flourish of trumpets. The prefect had called a close on the proceedings. Slaves entered the arena, carrying off the dead and rounding up the snorting horses. The crowd subsided into a disapproving mutter; they had smelt blood and they wanted more. Flaminius didn’t envy the gladiators that came on next, but he was glad that his own fight was over until tomorrow. He dismounted and went to join the others. Felix’s body was carried past by slaves.

A tall, well-built man in his fifties, dressed in toga and laurel wreath, came to inspect the retiarius’ limp form. Tutting in disapproval, he directed the slaves to remove it then joined the other gladiators, slapping backs, shaking hands. This was Apuleius Victor, impresario and owner of the family of gladiators that Flaminius had joined.

‘Good work, everyone,’ he said. ‘The banquet in your honour will be splendid. Shame about Felix,’ he added with a frown. ‘It wasn’t his day to die.’

The murmillo Syphax grinned like a jackal, revealing his teeth, which had been filed into points. ‘Did you hear the audience?’ he said. ‘A few men made a lot of money, I think; but a lot made big losses.’

Apuleius Victor glared. Gambling was illegal by Roman law—except at Saturnalia[1], when it was a religious duty—but it still went on at most gladiatorial games or chariot races. It didn’t interest Flaminius, though. All he wanted to know was how armour and even men from the Family of Apuleius Victor was reaching the rebels in the Thebaid.

Camilla wrenched off her helmet, revealing the face of a girl with long, lustrous dark hair. She ran a hand over her face and took a water skin from a passing slave, drank from it, then upended it over her massive body. ‘He didn’t look well even before we went on,’ she said meditatively as the water splashed off her armour. ‘I think someone had drugged him.’

‘Now, now, Camilla,’ boomed Petrus. ‘Why would anyone want to do that? Felix was unlucky, that’s all. We’ll all meet Nemesis one day in the arena.’

‘Bloody stupid way to make a living.’ Flaminius laughed half-hysterically as Apuleius Victor led the gladiators from the arena. It was the same nervous reaction he’d experienced after any number of battles. Relief—and guilt—that he had survived.

‘But you’re a free man, Tiro,’ said Camilla. ‘No one’s forced you to join the family. You can leave whenever you want to.’

Gladiators were either free or unfree; the former for one pressing reason or other had volunteered to take up a trade more dangerous than that of legionary; the latter were prisoners of war or slaves.

Felix, the dead retiarius, had also been a free man. After a dishonourable discharge from a Cretan auxiliary troop, he had joined the Family of Apuleius Victor in the hopes of finding forgetfulness. No doubt he would discover the absolution he sought beyond the Styx.

Flaminius kept quiet. No point in drawing undue attention to himself. They were taken down into the cool, dank gloom of a holding pen beneath the amphitheatre. There they were to remain until guards took them to the gladiator school where they had their sleeping cells. As they entered the pen, they could hear distant howls of lust and shouts of acclamation as another gladiatorial family entered the arena. Flaminius wondered if the new family had any link with the rebels in the Thebaid.

Camilla seemed distraught. Flaminius went over to her. ‘Why do you think someone drugged Felix?’ he asked.

She would have been an attractive woman if it hadn’t been for her size and her broken nose. He knew a little of her history: sold into slavery as a young girl in Cyrenaica, she had proved so violently insubordinate that her master sold her as a gladiatrix. Now a freedwoman, she knew no other life. She had been three years with Apuleius Victor, which was a record. Sparring with her, Flaminius had found her a tricky opponent.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘You’re always asking questions. I don’t want to talk.’

‘As you wish.’ Flaminius affected nonchalance.

The gladiatrix looked up again, eyes narrowing. She beckoned him closer, glancing surreptitiously at the others. Petrus and Syphax were picking at the bean stew the slave had brought them, in glum silence.

‘Things have been going on in this family,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got a reputation for invincibility. We’re not, fair enough. But men have been lost.’

‘Lost?’ Flaminius queried. ‘You mean they were killed, like Felix? You think they were drugged?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Though that’s happened as well. No, men leave in the night. I… don’t know where they go. The man you replaced; Capricorn, they called him. He vanished. But he wasn’t the first.’

‘What’s she telling you? More scare stories?’

Petrus was looming over them. ‘Camilla’s telling me men go missing,’ Flaminius said calmly. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘Are you some kind of snoop?’ the gladiator growled. ‘Slaves run away when they can. The woman is full of foolish ideas, like any woman—though I’ll agree, she’s stronger than many. Gladiators run off when they can, die in the arena when they can’t. Camilla finds mysteries where there are none.’

Syphax joined them. ‘Why the interest, Tiro?’ he asked. ‘You can leave at any time. You’re a free man like me. The men who left, they were slaves.’

Flaminius cursed silently. Already he’d drawn attention to himself, almost blown his cover. They’d naturally be suspicious of a new boy asking questions. He’d been clumsy. He needed an agent who could make enquiries. Someone these people trusted and respected. Not a novice.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Camilla. ‘He thinks it’s important that men go missing. So do I. So should all of us. But also that men die in the arena.’

‘Occupational hazard?’ suggested Flaminius.

She shook her head. ‘You’ve been a gladiator for what, a week? You really are a novice. It’s all fixed, you fool. No one dies unless it’s been agreed.’

—3—

Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 25th August 124 AD

‘What are you saying?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I killed men today. Was I not meant to? No one said.’

Petrus sat down next to him. ‘There are professional gladiators,’ he explained generously, ‘and there are condemned slaves. We fought slaves. They’re supposed to die, so who can blame them if they run away, given the chance? But we’re not, it’s true. Not unless it’s been decided. The woman’s right for a change.’ He shook his head. ‘But it’s a dangerous profession. Accidents happen. I don’t know why she makes such a mystery of it all.’

‘I make no mystery,’ the gladiatrix said. ‘The mystery is there for anyone with eyes to see. You’re blind, Petrus. Tiro sees better than you do.’

Petrus shook his head. ‘I don’t believe in mysteries,’ he said dismissively.

Then the slave entered and told them that it was time they were taken back to the gladiators’ school.

As they swaggered into their dining chamber their sombre mood was brightened by the sight of couches and tables laid out on the mosaic floor. Plates filled with meat in piquant sauces, bowls of fruit, massive loaves, and amphoras of expensive vintages, all were scattered about. They had had a last supper of equal munificence the previous evening, prior to their first appearance in the arena, which had made a nice change from their usual gladiator’s stodge of beans, wheat, and barley, but it seemed that it was only the first of many. Flaminius guessed that normal eating would be resumed after the end of the games. Whooping, Syphax bounded over to the nearest table, lifted up an amphora and put it to his mouth. Petrus snatched up a whole ham and began gnawing. Camilla helped herself to a glass of watered wine and offered another to Flaminius. The slave looked on censoriously.

‘Master said you’re to wait until the guests arrive,’ he said with a cough.

Petrus dropped the ham and swung round. ‘We’ve got guests?’ he boomed.

‘Of course you have,’ said Apuleius Victor, striding through the doors on the opposite side. ‘So you can put the amphora down, Syphax, you barbarian, and wait until Gabinius Camillus and his friends arrive.’

Flaminius nudged Camilla. ‘One of your relatives?’ he asked.

She put down her drink and shook her head. ‘Camilla’s not my real name,’ she confided. ‘Apuleius Victor name me after the Volscian warrior queen in the Aeneid. My real name is Dido.’

Flaminius raised his eyebrows. ‘Another of Virgil’s characters. So you’re a Carthaginian?’

‘I was brought up in Cyrenaica, but my family is Punic, yes. Does that upset you?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’m a Roman,’ he said. ‘Does that upset you?’

She spat on the mosaic. ‘It means nothing to me,’ she said. ‘We’re gladiators, and that’s all that matters.’

‘All this camaraderie is very touching,’ said Apuleius Victor, ‘but I’d like you a little bit more presentable to welcome our guests. Go to your cells and get into your best clothes.’

Flaminius and the other did as he commanded. In his own cell Flaminius found his smartest kilt and sandals, and a pair of studded bracers of pigskin—best clothes for a gladiator was quite brief—and changed into them. On the way back they’d stopped off at a bathhouse, ridding themselves of the grit of the arena, after having their wounds cleaned and tended to by a Greek medic the amphitheatre employed. Despite the bath, Flaminius ached all over.

He sat down wearily on the bunk and considered his cell. He’d seen worse sleeping chambers in the legions. Although it was small, it was lavishly appointed with mosaic floors and fresco-painted walls, it had furniture of the best pine and cedar, and his wardrobe while filled with costly silk and linen and leather clothes. The life of a free gladiator, off duty at least, was one of privilege.

He heard the guests arriving in the atrium, their chattering Roman and Greek voices overcut by Apuleius Victor’s eager greetings. Flaminius wondered quite how many drachmas the impresario was raking in for this little get together. Apuleius Victor never did anything unless money was involved.

With a guilty start, Flaminius remembered his mission. Was Apuleius Victor implicated? Camilla—or Dido—said that men had been lost, had gone missing. Left to join the rebels in the Thebaid? That would explain the gladiatorial arms and armour he had found. Was some latter-day Spartacus amassing an army?

The slave scratched at the door to tell him that his presence was requested in the dining chamber. Passing through the atrium he encountered Camilla and Syphax, and together they strode into the room wearing laurel wreaths provided by the slave. Petrus was already there, his wreath askew on his broad skull, his massive oiled body standing out amidst toga- and chiton-wearing Romans and Greeks. Musicians played in one corner, a family of dancing girls writhed sinuously in the middle of the room. But Petrus and his fellow gladiators were the centre of attention for the guests. Men and women of the richer class, these provincials would have been thought too gauche in Rome. But they had money, which must be what interested Apuleius Victor.

‘Take your places, please,’ the impresario said in his best master of ceremonies voice.

Flaminius found himself occupying the other side of a couch from a heavy-set woman in her early forties. Her folds of fat reminded Flaminius of a sculpture of wax left out too long in the sun. ‘My apologies, ma’am,’ he said affably, about to rise. ‘Your husband will wish to recline with you.’

She laid a hand on his arm and pressed him back, then helped him to a dish of soft boiled eggs in pine nut sauce. ‘My husband,’ she told him, ‘is over there, talking with one of your colleagues.’

Camilla was laughing with a burly, bearded Roman who looked as if he might be a senior official of the prefect. ‘They seem happy enough,’ Flaminius observed.

‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘She’s a good girl, that Camilla. Very polite, for a gladiatrix. Of course, my husband is boring her rigid, but she doesn’t show it. The excuse is, he thinks they’re distant relatives. Distant enough, but apparently kissing cousins,’ she added as Camilla brushed the man’s lips with her own. Flaminius surprised himself by feeling a stab of jealousy.

She kneaded his arm. ‘But you’re the new boy in the Family of Apuleius Victor,’ she said, her eyes shining admiringly, hungrily.

Swallowing, he looked away. Petrus was surrounded by several women, all younger than his current companion, one teasing him with a grape. He looked petulant and bored by their attentions.

‘Tell me a little about yourself, Tiro,’ the woman added. ‘What possessed you to become a gladiator?’

Was she a spy? Had someone set her on him, to find out his real identity? At Flaminius’ evident confusion, she smiled and gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Have I strayed onto a sensitive topic?’ she breathed warmly. Flaminius helped himself to more wine. ‘Don’t worry, I’m the soul of discretion.’

‘My life before I became a gladiator is nothing for me to be proud of,’ he said. ‘Nothing a high-born lady such as yourself would want to hear.’

She moved closer. Now her right breast was resting on his forearm. ‘Don’t be coy,’ she murmured. ‘You’re not the first gladiator of my acquaintance.’

Flaminius looked away again. Syphax was now the centre of the feminine attention, Camilla was openly caressing a younger man. The lad had a family likeness to this woman’s husband, and the husband himself was sitting very close to Petrus. He took another swig of wine, starting to get a good idea of how Apuleius Victor made a bit on the side with his Family. Or would “stud” be a more appropriate word?

The woman moved closer. ‘I hope we haven’t offended you,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want to offend a gladiator. You could turn quite savage, I’m sure. A lusty satyr!’

That sounded like wishful thinking. If not an invitation. Was this banquet to degenerate into an orgy? And the sun god not yet in the underworld?

Apuleius Victor rose to his feet, swaying slightly, a full winecup in his right hand. ‘He’s drunk!’ laughed a Greek dignitary. From his flushed face and wine stained clothes he was in no position to criticise.

‘Let me…’ Apuleius Victor slurred, ‘let me propose a toast. To the great men—and the great woman—who made this banquet what it is: to the gladiators!’

‘The gladiators!’ cried the guests, winecups lifted high. Flaminius’ companion—he still didn’t know her name, but her husband was Gabinius Camillus—lifted her winecup to his own lips and encouraged him to drink deep. He hadn’t drunk such rich vintages since he was in the Praetorians, and his head was beginning to spin.

‘And of course,’ Apuleius Victor went on, ‘none of this would happen today if it was not for He in whose name we hold these ten days of celebration: to his imperial majesty, the Emperor Hadrian!’

‘Hadrian! Hadrian! Hadrian!’ everyone chorused loyally.

Flaminius struggled to keep a clear head. He peered round him at his feasting companions. They all seemed sincere enough. No one scowling or refusing to join the toast. Apuleius Victor had proposed it, so that was a point in his favour. But it could all be a bluff. Camilla was too busy kissing a flabby Greek youth to join the toast. His eyes narrowed. And where was Petrus, all of a sudden? Not to mention Gabinius Camillus.

The woman said, ‘You don’t look well.’

He glanced up, and brushed sweat off his brow. It was hot in here, hotter than inside gladiatorial armour, he told her. She laughed.

‘We should find somewhere cooler,’ she said. ‘To... talk.’

He thought he knew exactly what she was angling for, but a breath of air would be refreshing. ‘Won’t they think it rude, though?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘Us slipping away like that?’

She laughed again. ‘You’re so witty, Tiro,’ she told him, her eyes starry as she caressed his upper arm. ‘No one will care, except those who don’t have a virile young gladiator to themselves.’

‘But your husband,’ Flaminius protested.

‘Oh, him!’ She rose, pulling him after her, and they slipped out of the heat and noise of the dining chamber—Syphax was jigging now with the dancing girls and several respectable Roman maidens—and out into the cool air of the peristyle. Apuleius Victor gave him a grin as they left.

They walked for a time along a colonnade. The moon had risen, but otherwise it was quite dark. Cicadas chirped monotonously. Flaminius had no idea which of the watches of the night it might be. Box hedges lined a gravel path leading to a small laurel grove in the centre, where a fountain played and the air was scented. Here they sat on a curved marble bench. Such luxury in a gladiators’ school. Flaminius had chosen the wrong career when he joined the legions.

Out there he could see the small arena where they trained daily, lined with marble, its wall topped with statues of gods and emperors.

‘My husband doesn’t understand me,’ the woman confessed after a spell of companionable silence. She nestled her head against his brawny chest. He’d heard that line too many times before; it always led to trouble.

She looked up at him, lips slightly parted. Crow’s-feet etched the skin beside her eyes, too deep for even gum Arabic to soften. Her nipples were poking through the fabric of her dress. Well, it was a cold night for Alexandria in August.

‘I know I’m older than you,’ she added with a sigh. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m too old for you. That’s what it is.’ She wept. The Nile crocodiles wept like that as they devoured their prey, Flaminius understood. Did she intend to eat him?

‘Not at all,’ he protested. ‘You’re a very handsome woman. It’s just…’

‘My husband?’ The tears on her cheeks glinted in the moonlight. Either she was a consummate actress or she really meant what she said. ‘He doesn’t care. He’s got his own pleasures. Leaving me lonely and… aching.’ She laid her head on his chest again.

Flaminius swallowed uncomfortably, remembering his earlier suspicions. No, she wasn’t a spy. Just a lonely woman. Her children had grown up and she had nothing to do except run the household and get under the slaves’ feet. He was surprised to realise he was feeling sympathy for her. Surely he had hardened his heart to such blandishments long ago.

He remembered Nitocris. Then Medea. He pushed that thought away as too painful. He remembered Drustica…

He had been hoping to be in Britain by this point, living with her in her hut. Or had she finished building her villa by now? He remembered her cry, “I’m a Roman citizen!” as her eyes flashed with such barbarous fire. Nothing like this bored and lonely Roman matron, with nothing to live for except affairs with strapping young gladiators. ‘It’s cold,’ he said at last. ‘Too cold. Let’s go to my cell and warm ourselves.’

She raised her head, trying to hide a victorious grin. Rising, he led her from the peristyle.

By the time they reached the passage to his cell, the mood had lifted. They giggled like two children when he fumbled for his key only to find that the door was still ajar. He lit a lantern that sat on a shelf by the door, gripped her firmly by the wrists while holding it in his other hand, and led her inside.

There was a startled grunt from the bunk. The lantern light exposed two naked forms. One crouched down while the other gripped from behind. The latter halted mid thrust, lifting a hairy arm to cover his eyes.

‘Get your own room, Pluto curse you,’ said a refined Roman voice. His bed companion looked up and Flaminius’ eyes met his with a flash of recognition.

The woman shrieked. Gabinius Camillus lowered his arm. And Flaminius almost dropped the lantern when he recognised the other occupant of the bunk, bent over like the most servile of catamites, muscular body slick with sweat, a blush of shame mantling his handsome features. Gabinius Camillus’ lover for the night was not the gladiatrix Camilla, as Flaminius had expected, but Petrus the Thracian.

—4—

‘So sorry!’ said Flaminius heartily. He reached out to shut the door, then paused. ‘This is my cell, you realise.’

There was a thump from the floor beside him. The woman had fainted. Grumbling, her husband got up from the bed and went to revive her. Flaminius and Petrus exchanged embarrassed expressions. On reviving, the woman began screaming. Gabinius Camillus struck her. Petrus leapt up and hit him. Flaminius grabbed the muscular Thracian by his arms to restrain him, finding his oiled and sweaty flesh difficult to keep hold of.

‘In the words of the poet,’ he said to Gabinius Camillus, ‘I think you’d better hop it, chum.’

Holding her cheek, Gabinius’ wife wailed, ‘What were you doing with that gladiator?’

Her husband gave a hunted look. ‘What was I doing? What were you doing with this youth?’ He gestured at Flaminius.

‘We were looking for you, sir,’ said Flaminius glibly. ‘Your wife was concerned about your absence and asked me to accompany her while she searched the building.’

Gabinius looked incredulous. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

His wife gaped at him, then collected herself. With a glance at Flaminius, she said, ‘Yes! Yes, that’s right. This fine young gentleman kindly agreed to help me look for you. And we certainly found you!’

‘Gentleman!’ Gabinius sneered. ‘Gladiators aren’t gentlemen, they’re the sweepings of the gutter!’

‘Excuse me!’ Petrus had seized his tunic and pulled it on hastily. Clothed, he seemed to recall something of his manhood and squared up to Gabinius. ‘Would you like to repeat that?’ he said unpleasantly, flexing his muscles so they rippled.

‘I’m a Roman citizen!’ Gabinius exclaimed. ‘You’d dare lay your hands on me? The magistrate will hear of this! Call the civic guard…!’

‘What exactly is going on here?’

Apuleius Victor had appeared in the doorway. Seeing him, Gabinius recollected his nudity and snatched up his clothes and his precious Roman dignity. ‘Nothing is happening here!’ Fussily his wife helped him wrap himself in the folds of his toga and then he took her arm. ‘We were just leaving.’ He looked Petrus up and down, then Flaminius. ‘Gladiators!’ he said with a sniff, and snapped his fingers. ‘Come along, my dear. The stink in this sty is altogether too much.’

‘I agree, husband!’ His wife put her head back. ‘Let us be gone. Bid the slaves call us a litter and we shall return to our villa. What a night this has been…’ Grumbling to each other, they departed.

Apuleius Victor stared after them until they were out of sight. Then he looked quizzically at first Flaminius then Petrus.

‘Gabinius Camillus is on the prefect’s staff,’ he said reprovingly. ‘An influential man.’

‘I’m sure you were well paid in advance,’ said Petrus bitterly.

‘Enough of that!’ Apuleius Victor said. ‘Or you’ll be sent back to the quarries! As for you, Tiro’—he looked at Flaminius— ‘I don’t know what your background is yet, but no one becomes a professional gladiator without some kind of past.’ He pointed at Flaminius’ forehead. ‘Brand of Mithras, eh? A military man. Desertion, was it? Or dereliction of duty?’

Flaminius didn’t reply, but examined the floor as if ashamed. What conclusions the impresario had drawn from the British horse tattoo on his chest? Neither brand nor tattoo were ideal for a career in Hadrian’s secret service. He looked up sullenly, noticing as he did that the impresario had a similar scar in his brow. Flaminius wondered what his own story was.

Apuleius Victor wagged his finger. ‘I’ll expect better from both of you in future.’ He turned to go. ‘You’ve got the best cells and the best food and the best conditions of any gladiatorial family in Alexandria. Don’t throw it away with your foolishness.’

‘But Gabinius Camillus…’ Petrus began, then flushed red, and went silent. Apuleius Victor studied him, then walked away.

‘Silence is golden,’ Flaminius said. ‘Apuleius Victor doesn’t need to know the details.’

Petrus whirled round. ‘You saw…?’ he said in a choked voice. ‘You saw what Gabinius Camillus was…? What I was…?’

‘I saw,’ said Flaminius drily. He went to a low table holding an amphora on a stand and two winecups, and poured them both some watered wine. Elsewhere in the school the sound of the festivities was dying away. He wondered whose arms embraced Camilla tonight. Those of a man or a woman?

Petrus was busying himself making up Flaminius’ bed. Flaminius showed him to a stool and handed him the wine, then sat on another and drank his own. They gazed at each other unspeaking.

‘Silence is golden,’ Petrus mused. ‘Well said, Tiro. Who was it who also said, “It is but a small merit to observe silence, but a grave fault to speak of matters on which we should be silent”?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘A wise man,’ he said.

Petrus put down his winecup and gripped Flaminius’ hand. The Roman pulled away from him.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Petrus pleaded. ‘You’ve got to keep quiet. It would ruin me if it got out.’

‘I’d have thought it would just add to your reputation with the mob,’ Flaminius said with a roguish wink, ‘as a dangerous man. It gives you an edge. To know that you enjoy… Greek love. That you’re a sphincter artist.’

Petrus winced at the term. ‘But you know it’s not like that,’ the gladiator said awkwardly. ‘You know, and Gabinius Camillus’ wife knows…. that I like to take the woman’s part. If the mob knew, it would bring me nothing but shame.’

‘And Gabinius Camillus knows,’ Flaminius added, ‘but a man on the prefect’s staff wouldn’t want to involve himself in scandal, nor would even the gossipiest of wives want this to get out. You can rely on their silence.’

‘But can I rely on you?’ Petrus was pleading. ‘When you said silence is golden… do you want money? Is that it? I have money!’

‘I’m not going to blackmail you for money,’ Flaminius assured him. ‘Who do you think I am? Don’t worry yourself, Petrus. Your secret is safe with me.’

Petrus rose and hugged him to his chest. ‘Thank Bacchus! Tonight I’ve found a true friend.’

Flaminius disengaged himself gently. Petrus sat down again and they both drank for a while in silence.

When he finished his glass, Petrus rose heavily but uncertainly to his feet. ‘It’s late,’ he declared. ‘I’d better be finding my own bed. Unless you want me to share yours…?’

‘No!’ Flaminius waved Petrus to sit down and poured him another glass. ‘It’s not too late yet,’ he said. ‘We can talk.’

‘Talk?’ Petrus repeated the word as if it was a far more unnatural act than passive homosexuality.

‘Yes, talk,’ said Flaminius. ‘You’ve been in the Family of Apuleius Victor much longer than I. I’m the novice. You’ve been with Apuleius Victor for what, two years?’

‘Two years this Saturnalia.’ Petrus nodded. ‘A year and a half. Before that…’ He broke off.

‘You were in the quarries?’ Flaminius probed.

Petrus nodded shamefacedly. ‘Life was hard, up in Thrace. It was easier to become a thief. I was caught and sold into slavery.’

‘You’ll have to meet my old friend Ozymandias…’ said Flaminius. ‘So you ended up in the quarries… Here? In Egypt?’

Petrus shook his head. ‘In Greece. That was where they gave me my new name. Sitalkes is what the Thracians called me. In the quarries I was Petrus—the rock! Because I was as big and strong and unyielding as any of the rocks we hewed. They got me to wrestle, and people came to see me, bet on me—all in secret, of course. But word got out, and it happened that Apuleius Victor was passing through the province. He paid my manumission on the stipulation that I join his family and fight for him.’

He shook his head. ‘I hated it in the quarries. I was treated like a beast. Here, I’m treated like a god. I don’t ever want to go back to that life.’ His eyes glistened, just like the woman’s, but something told Flaminius that these weren’t crocodile tears. ‘He’d send me back to the quarries if word of tonight got out, I’m sure of it.’

‘Word won’t get out,’ Flaminius assured him.

He’d seen the weal marks on Petrus’ back, faint beneath his tan, assuming they were wounds from previous fights, but this man had been a quarry slave, one of the lowest of the low. No wonder he was so keen to cling to this dangerous life as a gladiator.

‘Thank you,’ said Petrus frankly. ‘You’re a true friend, Tiro. If there’s ever anything I can do in return…’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Flaminius. He took a long swig of wine, studying Petrus all the time. ‘Well,’ he added in a wheedling tone, ‘there is just one thing…’

‘Name it,’ said Petrus quickly. ‘Anything I can do for you, friend.’

Flaminius looked away. ‘I have another friend, an old man,’ he said, ‘a philosopher. You know the type. Fascinated by absolutely everything, researches it, writes about it. He’s at the Museum, you know, with all the Greek scholars…’

Petrus nodded slowly, frowning. Flaminius was describing an alien world.

‘He wanted to know all about the life of the gladiator, would you believe it?’ Flaminius laughed. ‘Wants to write a book on the subject. I know, crazy. That’s what these philosophers are like. But he’s a decent old bore in his own way. I’ve told him all I know, but I’m new to the life.’

Understanding dawned in Petrus’ eyes. ‘You want me to tell him about it? Of course, Flaminius, I thought you were going to ask me to do something difficult. Is that all?’

‘Well,’ said Flaminius, temporising. ‘That’s all for now. Just tell me all about yourself, and everything you know about the other gladiators. And Apuleius Victor. And anything… juicy. Even philosophers don’t want it all to be dry as the desert sands!’ He laughed, but it sounded hollow in his own ears.

Petrus scratched his chin. ‘Juicy,’ he mused.

‘Or mysterious,’ Flaminius added. ‘Like those scare stories of Camilla’s that you dismissed so readily.’

Petrus bristled. ‘About men going missing, you mean?’ he said. ‘The woman’s full of silly ideas, like all women. If you want to know about them, you ask her!’

Flaminius made no reply.

‘Sorry,’ said Petrus contritely. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so…’

Flaminius drank. ‘When I asked about it before, you accused me of being a snoop,’ he commented.

Petrus nodded hastily. ‘And I’m truly sorry I spoke to you like that,’ he said. ‘It was just… you’re new. We don’t know if we can trust you. There are so many snoops about. Trust no one, Tiro, that’s my advice. Oh, except you can trust me, lad, trust me to the death.’ He patted Flaminius’s leg.

‘Don’t do that,’ said Flaminius, and Petrus apologised.

‘But I can understand why you might have reacted like that,’ Flaminius went on. ‘Thought me a spy. Here’s someone you don’t really know, just joined the family, asking strange questions.’

‘Yes,’ said Petrus. ‘I didn’t know about your friend in the Museum back then. You should have said.’

‘Still, people are more likely to trust you, Petrus,’ Flaminius said.

‘Trust me?’ Petrus asked.

Flaminius nodded. ‘If you were to ask questions like that, of people like Syphax and Camilla and even Apuleius Victor… they’d never think you were a spy. Would they?’

Petrus fell silent, deep in thought. Several times he stirred as if to speak, but then went quiet again. Flaminius let him think it over. It took a long time.

‘Are you working for the prefect?’ Petrus said finally.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘I don’t work for the prefect.’ This barbarian was brighter than he seemed.

Suspicion twisted Petrus’ face. ‘Who are you working for, then?’ he asked.

‘I’m working for Apuleius Victor, same as you,’ Flaminius said blandly, but cold sweat trickled down his back. ‘Oh, and I’m doing a favour to my friend in the Museum.’

Petrus grunted. ‘Oh. This old man. Yes, you said.’

He did some more deep thinking. Flaminius hoped it wouldn’t take all night; they were back in the arena tomorrow afternoon, and they would spend much of the morning in training.

‘I don’t know who you’re working for,’ the gladiator said after a long while, ‘But you know things about me that can’t become public. You want to know about these disappearances. Well, I think it’s just slaves running off.’

‘But no one’s a slave in this family,’ Flaminius said. ‘Are they? You’re a freedman, and Camilla is a freedwoman. As for Syphax…’

‘He’s an outcast from his Nubian tribe,’ said Petrus. ‘He joined because he likes to fight and he likes women flocking round him,’ he added disapprovingly. ‘He’s like a wild stallion, they say, not that I’ve had the pleasure.’ He nodded. ‘Very well, none of us are slaves. You’re not either, though I don’t know what you really are…’

‘So when the previous hoplomachus ran off,’ Flaminius began, ‘the man I replaced… what was his name again?’

‘Capricorn,’ Petrus said.

‘When Capricorn ran off,’ Flaminius went on, ‘or vanished, or whatever happened—he hadn’t been running away from slavery. So what did happen? And then there’s Felix’s death. We all-star gladiators aren’t supposed to die. Was he drugged? If so, who by? And why?’

Petrus shrugged his mighty shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But I want you to find out,’ said Flaminius. ‘Won’t you do that?’ he added softly. ‘For a friend?’

Petrus gave him a suspicious glare.

—5—

The Library, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

The Library was a vast, echoing, vaulted hall, lined with stout pillars of porphyry like those in an Egyptian temple, with occasional skylights that shone down on a marble floor where dignified bearded figures in chitons walked in ones and twos, carrying piles of scrolls to marble reading tables, some talking soberly in muted voices. On either side of the two rows of pillars, shelves rose up to the roof containing row after row of pigeon holes in which sat the papyrus scrolls that made up much of the Library stock.

As Flaminius walked up to the main desk, the cool and the gloom was as welcome to him as the hush after the heat and the light and the noise outside. The Library was situated beside the Museum, that temple of the Muses where Greek philosophers, geometers, geographers, medics, mystics, engineers and architects came to study and to lecture—even during a public holiday like today. The Museum was part of the palace complex that sprawled across half the Brucheium, the Greek Quarter of Alexandria. The only serious rival of the famous Academy in Athens, it looked out onto the busy Great Harbour, where the Pharos Lighthouse, that wonder of the world, towered over a bustling scene of ships and shipping.

Flaminius had left the gladiators’ school early that morning, partly to avoid the heat of the day, partly so he would not encounter Apuleius Victor. As free men, the gladiators of the impresario’s family could come and go as they pleased, but they would be expected to spend the morning in training, in preparations for the Games that afternoon. Flaminius had woken early, despite a late night with all its debauchery, donned a tunic and sandals, and hurried down to the harbour.

‘Do you have anything by Aristides of Miletus?’ he asked the shaven headed Egyptian behind the desk. The man glanced up. His kohl rimmed eyes narrowed.

He gave Flaminius a withering look, and made a show of consulting a scroll that the Roman gathered was a catalogue. Then he rose from his seat and came around the desk, pausing to speak to another Egyptian man who came over to take his place.

‘You’d better follow me,’ the Egyptian said in an undertone.

He led Flaminius across the wide marble floor between two stacks to a small door at the end. Glancing darkly at Flaminius, he unlocked the door and led them into a small chamber, half stacked with old furniture and scroll cases. The Egyptian sat cross legged on the floor. Flaminius had to kneel.

‘It’s been quite a while, Ozymandias,’ he said.

‘What do you want this time, Roman?’ the Egyptian said. ‘I’ve got work to do here, remember?’

Flaminius sat down with his back to the wall. ‘Is this room safe?’ he asked. ‘No eavesdroppers?’

Ozymandias nodded. ‘No one’s listening,’ he assured the Roman. ‘This is a library. Get on with it. They’ll be missing me at the desk.’

‘Just remember who got you this job,’ Flaminius said sharply, ‘after your last employer fell on his sword.’

‘And whose fault was that?’ Ozymandias asked angrily. ‘Paulus Alexander wasn’t just my employer, he was my patron. He freed me from slavery and gave me Roman citizenship, with exemption from the poll tax. Without a job I would have ended up in the gutter, my sister with me.’

Flaminius flinched. Ozymandias’ sister—also his wife; incestuous marriage was an ancient Egyptian custom—was still a painful memory. They hadn’t spoken since last year.

‘So I got you this job to keep you out of the gutter, Nitocris too,’ he said. ‘A nice cushy number. A lot of ex-slaves and former tomb robbers would jump at the chance. Paid good money to sit on your backside all day.’

‘I got good money as a scribe,’ said Ozymandias. ‘It was much the same kind of position. Get to the point, Roman. This wasn’t a social call, or you wouldn’t have given the password.’ He shook his head. ‘The Library stocking Milesian fables indeed!’

Aristides of Miletus was an old Greek author of scurrilous tales who had inspired Flaminius’ favourite writer, Petronius Arbiter. ‘You get well paid for your other job, too,’ Flaminius reminded him. ‘Few assistant librarians can afford the sort of villa you and your sister live in.’

‘So you want information,’ Ozymandias said. ‘I’ve got information, more than I know what to do with. What kind are you after?’

‘Gladiators,’ Flaminius said mysteriously.

‘Gladiators?’ Ozymandias said. ‘You’ve been lounging round the amphitheatre while I’ve been shelving scrolls? I thought you were down in the Thebaid with the legate, anyway.’

‘I was in fact down in the Thebaid,’ Flaminius acknowledged, ‘but now, yes, I’ve been in Nicopolis amphitheatre. But not lounging round. Topping the bill, my friend, topping the bill.’

Ozymandias put his head in his hands. ‘Sarapis! You’ve become a gladiator?’ he said, his voice muffled.

‘That’s right,’ said Flaminius in mock pride. ‘The Roman matrons swoon when they see the size of my muscles, and ponder the ineffable mystery of what a gladiator wears under his kilt.’

Ozymandias looked up. ‘I suppose there’s a reason for this lunacy,’ he said.

Flaminius had been enjoying himself, but the Egyptian was right; there wasn’t much time. Ozymandias had to get back to work before the chief librarian caused an uproar, and of course Flaminius had to return to the gladiators’ school. He explained.

Ozymandias looked pensive. ‘I’ve not heard anything about any gladiators’ rebellion,’ he said. ‘Can’t help you there. I can see that it would be a problem if this rebellion spreads, especially during the Days of Hadrian. But that’s Egypt. Rebellions; they happen.’

He tapped his chin. ‘River pirates are a different basket of Nile perch, of course. I’ve kept a few contacts from my younger days, my days as a tomb robber. The Delta swamps are still a haven for robbers of every kind, despite the prefect stepping up the river patrols. The Bucolics of the marshes turn from herding to river piracy at a whim.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sorry not to be much help, but I’d better be getting back to my post. The chief librarian’s been making a big fuss ever since one of the Museum scholars discovered that most of their copies of Archimedes of Syracuse and Sostratus of Cnidus have gone missing...’

Flaminius rose, scowling. He had not shared the news of the emperor’s imminent arrival, but surely the assistant librarian could see the significance of a rebellion in Egypt.

‘I’m looking into a possible uprising,’ he said, ‘and you’re more concerned about a few missing library books! For Jove’s sake,’ he added, following the Egyptian from the little chamber, ‘this is important…’

His words echoed as they came out into the main Library. Bearded heads turned his way with expressions of disgust. Ozymandias put his finger to his lips.

‘Don’t make so much noise,’ he hissed. ‘Some imperial agent you are! Always drawing attention to yourself! If you get me in trouble with the chief librarian…!’

But he broke off. Louder shouting had broken out from the imposing Library entrance, sending a storm of echoes down the hall that made Flaminius’ expostulations sound like the merest zephyr.

‘Fire! Fire! Fire in the harbour!’

The dignified Greek scholars did nothing more at first than turn their opprobrium on the scruffy little figures silhouetted in the high doorway. But as the echoes resolved themselves into words, one and all they looked at each other in horror and their stoic reserve vanished.

‘Fire!’ Philosophers and engineers, literary scholars and geometers all took up the cry.

‘What’s got into them?’ Flaminius asked Ozymandias. Talk about a disturbed ants’ nest!

‘Can’t you guess?’ the Egyptian said. ‘Fire! Papyrus! Parchment! The Library is in danger!’

Flaminius followed him out into the nave. Dignified scholars rushed about in a frenzy. ‘But the fire’s in the harbour,’ he complained. ‘It won’t get here.

A tall Greek with a snowy white beard heard his words. ‘Do you Romans know nothing of your own history?’ he boomed in a lecture hall voice. ‘It was a fire in the harbour that almost destroyed the Library in Caesar’s day! Ships were set ablaze by Caesar, the fire spread to the wharf, and soon the Library warehouses were burning!’ He hobbled out, beard shaking with emotion.

‘We’d better see what we can do,’ said Ozymandias.

Outside, the sun shone down on a scene of confusion. The steps of the Library led down to the water’s edge, where stone warehouses stood along the wharfs of the Great Harbour. The causeway known as the Heptastadion joined the mainland with the island of Pharos, where the famous lighthouse’s mirror reflected the sunlight in a beacon that could be seen for miles out to sea.

Out in that glass floored bay, a trireme was on fire.

The scholars lined the steps, staring in anxiety at the burning ship. The wharfs were a scene of great activity, with men rushing back and forth. A boat had been requisitioned, and legionaries of the harbour guard were preparing to row out.

A centurion stomped up the steps.

‘You Greeks,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got a fire aboard that ship. Clever buggers, aren’t you? Magicians, they say. Well, it happened like magic. One minute it was sailing towards the straits, next the sails were on fire. I saw it with my own eyes. Not that I’m blaming you lot though, not without evidence. But can’t you do anything to help?’

An imposing figure pushed his way through the gathered scholars. ‘Enough of these wild tales of fire from heaven. Have you no water pumps, officer?’ A tall, spare man, he had a short, jutting beard and cold eyes. Flaminius gathered that this was a senior member of the library staff, perhaps the chief himself.

‘That’s just the problem, chum,’ the centurion explained. ‘The pumps are too big to get aboard that boat. We could requisition a larger vessel, but in the time that it would take, the ships nearby would have caught light. Is there no way you can put the fire out from here on land?’

The librarian shook his head. ‘We are merely scholars, centurion,’ he said, ‘not thaumaturges! Perhaps you should ask at the temple of Sarapis.’

Shaking his head irritably, the centurion turned away. But as he was departing, another Greek, a younger man with an enthusiastic expression, hurried forwards.

‘Where’s Hero?’ he called. ‘This is his kind of thing! He’s been developing a new force-pump, you know. If we set it up on the wharf, we could hit that ship from here.’

‘Where is this force-pump?’ the centurion said excitedly, turning back. ‘That’s exactly what we need! Get it, man, get it before your Library goes up in flames a second time.’

The enthusiastic young Greek’s face fell. ‘It’s only a prototype,’ he admitted. ‘It’s in the Museum, but we’d need people to carry it. Two big men, maybe… Oh, where is Hero?’ He wrung his hands.

‘You, civvie!’ the centurion bellowed at Flaminius. ‘You’re a likely looking lad. You’re coming with me!’

‘But I…’ Flaminius began. He hunted in his tunic for his lancehead brooch—the insignia identifying him as an imperial agent—only to realise that he had left it in the gladiators’ school.

‘Never mind that now,’ the centurion boomed. ‘You’ve been conscripted! You’re in the legions now, under my orders. Follow me! At the double!’

He turned back to the young Greek. ‘Take us there!’

They hurried across a plaza, flanked on all sides by colonnades. Ozymandias ran alongside Flaminius. The young Greek led them, holding up the folds of his chiton. The centurion followed grimly behind him.

The Greek took them to a pair of doors. He banged on them but there was no answer.

‘I really don’t know where Hero is today.’ He wrung his hands again. ‘He’s usually in his workshop. Wonderful man. True heir of Ctesibius and Philo Mechanicus…’

‘The squirter’s in here?’ the centurion barked.

‘I, er, beg your pardon? Oh, the force-pump! Yes, it should be in there…’

The Greek broke off as the centurion shoulder-barged the door. On the second attempt, with Flaminius and Ozymandias helping, he burst the door open and they stumbled into a workshop. Its benches were littered with bizarre engines and mechanical contrivances. Half unfolded on a lectern was a scroll depicting a blueprint of the Pharos Lighthouse. Flaminius picked up another scroll to read the words The Method of Mechanical Theorems… Ozymandias glanced over the scroll on the lectern.

‘I think we’ve found our missing library books,’ he remarked. ‘Archimedes, Sostratus…’

The centurion was impatient. ‘Never mind books,’ he said, ‘where’s the squirter?

The Greek pointed out a large bronze tank with a pump handle on one side and a hose pointing out from the top. ‘That’s it,’ he said, his enthusiasm returning. ‘We’ll have to fill it at the water’s edge, but…’

The centurion seized one side, Flaminius the other. Ozymandias lent a shoulder and even the Greek did his best to help. As they rushed back, the gathered scholars raised a ragged cheer. Black smoke was boiling up into the blue sky from the burning vessel. Two more were now ablaze. Under the young Greek’s instructions, Flaminius, the centurion, and the harbour guards filled the tank with water and started working the pump.

A jet of water sprayed from the nozzle, drenching the gathered scholars as Flaminius and the centurion struggled to aim the pump. The jet described a wide parabola across the harbour, sending more water fountaining upwards. They got the range, and for one glorious moment the jet hit the first ship, almost quenching the fire. Then the tank ran dry.

‘Fill her up again,’ the centurion barked.

It took three refills before they put out the fire aboard the first vessel. The crew had jumped ship long since, and most of the superstructure was charred beyond repair and the hold with its cargo had also been burnt out. A blackened hull bobbed there, half sunk. But the nearest ships had been saved, and what was most important, as the chief librarian said himself when he gave a little speech from the Library steps, centuries of learning had been saved.

Flaminius shook hands with the centurion, then with Ozymandias and the young Greek. ‘It’s been fun,’ he said drily, ‘but now I really must be getting back to my boring old job. Farewell.’

As he walked off to the cheers of the assembled scholars, he overheard the centurion ask Ozymandias, ‘What does that feller do for work? I could do with a lad like that in my century.’

‘Oh,’ said Ozymandias airily, ‘he’s only a gladiator.’

—6—

Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

Rubbing his eyes blearily, Petrus shambled from his cell. It had been a bad night. When he remembered exactly what had happened, a chill gripped his heart. The Roman official lusting after him—the new boy, Tiro—scandal, intrigue. What was he to do? Things were desperate.

For want of anything better, he went to get something to eat.

In the dining chamber, he found Syphax spooning up a breakfast of beans, wheat, and barley. The slave appeared and silently handed Petrus a similar meal, and the Thracian went to sit down with the murmillo.

‘Looking rough!’ Syphax commented. ‘Good night, was it? Thought I heard a ruckus in the wee hours.’

‘You get to bed early, I suppose,’ said Petrus, poking unenthusiastically at the contents of his bowl.

‘Healthy mind, healthy body,’ said Syphax, patting his flat belly as Petrus started eating. ‘It’s going to be another busy afternoon for us,’ the Nubian added. ‘We’d better get training right away.’

‘Where are the others?’ Petrus inquired. ‘And where’s the impresario? Are we getting a replacement for Felix?’

Syphax gave him a cold look. ‘No one could ever replace Felix,’ he said. ‘As for the others, who knows? Camilla sleeps like the dead. And Tiro, well, maybe you’d know better than me.’

Petrus wondered what exactly the murmillo meant. He pushed the bowl away, half eaten. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Time to get training. The others can join us when they get up. If Apuleius Victor finds out, though, they’ll be in trouble.’

‘That’s their problem,’ said Syphax callously.

They both went outside, through the peristyle and to the small ring beyond it. This was where they trained, an arena the size of a smallish townhouse, surrounded by a single row of seating, where training arms and armour were kept. Syphax handed Petrus his armour, and the Thracian strapped on his greaves, armguard and gauntlet, donned his visored helmet, then picked up his buckler and a specially blunted training sword. Syphax equipped himself with his own helmet, armguard, and shield. He ritualistically clanged his training sword on his shield rim and went to stand in the middle of the small arena.

‘They might have gone missing, of course,’ Petrus said thoughtfully, as he came to join the Nubian.

Syphax aimed a sudden blow at him and Petrus deflected it with his buckler. ‘Who’s gone missing?’

Petrus made a thrust at Syphax, who evaded it skilfully with a circular parry. ‘Camilla and Tiro. They wouldn’t be the first.’

Syphax swung his blade. Petrus lifted his shield hastily and the sword smashed a scallop out of it. Petrus hacked a slice in Syphax’s own, larger shield and the clang rang out through the whole arena.

‘You think they’ve run off together?’ The Nubian lunged at Petrus’ throat and Petrus leapt aside to land with a thump in the sand, swinging his sword low at Syphax’s legs. Syphax copied his leap, lifting his sword as he did, and as he came down he brought it smashing on Petrus’ helmet.

The noise echoed through the Thracian’s brain and he staggered, temporarily blinded as the helmet slipped forward. With his shield hand he tilted the helmet back, pacing backwards as he did.

Vision returned and he found himself facing the blunted point of Syphax’s training sword.

‘You’re dead,’ the murmillo said darkly. ‘If this had been a real fight, that would have killed you. You eat and drink too much. Apuleius Victor spoils his gladiators.’

Petrus took off his helmet, sheathed his sword, and brushed back his sweat draggled hair with his gauntleted hand. He went to the side of the arena and drank deeply from an amphora of cheap, watered wine.

‘They might have run off,’ he said. ‘They’re both young and fit. They’ve got more life ahead of them than you or I.’

Syphax was stung. He pushed back his helmet. ‘Speak for yourself, Thracian. There’s plenty of life left in me. I don’t think they’ve run off. They’ve just overslept. Good that Apuleius Victor’s not around or he’d have them whipped, slave or free. He’s not that indulgent.’

Petrus replaced his helmet and his voice boomed out. ‘Maybe they’ve overslept. But if they’d vanished, they wouldn’t be the first.’

‘You said it yourself,’ Syphax replied, replacing his own helmet. ‘Gladiators run off. It’s a dangerous business,’ he added with a leaping lunge that would have done Petrus a mischief if the Thracian hadn’t dodged at the last second.

Petrus nodded. ‘We know it’s a dangerous business,’ he said. ‘Or Felix would still be here today.’

Syphax swung a blow at him but Petrus parried it. ‘Felix,’ the Nubian said. ‘He was always a bit of a pretty boy. Showy. The crowd loved him, of course. But he wasn’t a real gladiator; not like you or I.’

‘Don’t speak of the dead with such disrespect!’ Petrus parried Syphax’s attack and dealt him a glancing blow to the shoulder. If he hadn’t been wearing his armguard, Syphax would have a broken collar bone now. ‘The crowd loved him, you’re right. They mourned his passing—and the passing of a few drachmas too.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Syphax hissed sullenly.

‘Good question.’

Camilla was standing in the gateway, clad in kilt and sandals. Yawning, she sashayed across the arena to equip herself. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ she added.

Petrus looked hunted. ‘All I mean is, someone made a lot of money,’ he said.

‘People were laying bets on Felix’s survival?’ Camilla strapped on an armguard and gauntlet and reached down her Amazonian helmet.

Petrus looked from one gladiator to another. Had he said the wrong thing? ‘Everyone knows it happens,’ he said. ‘It may be illegal, but…’

Syphax swung a sudden blow at him and Petrus only caught it by instinct. Fighting back, he drove the murmillo across the ring. Camilla joined in the fight and Petrus found himself embattled on both sides.

‘I wouldn’t go around talking like that,’ Camilla warned. ‘Someone might hear.’

Petrus gritted his teeth. It was all the fault of Tiro. Who was he, really? The lad had denied being the agent of the prefect, but he was a spy of some kind, that was clear.

‘Where’s Tiro?’ he asked, and they both paused in their assault.

‘Another good question,’ said Camilla thoughtfully. ‘He must have overslept.’ Somehow her helmet radiated pious shock, as if no one else had ever missed the start of training.

But Flaminius had returned. The drama on the wharf had tired him out, and he went straight to his cell to pour himself a cup of wine. The morning had run away with him. On entering the school he had heard the ring of blade on blade from the training arena. He’d have to join them quickly before they suspected something. But…

He slipped out of his cell. The door to Felix’s old cell stood open. He listened carefully. All he could hear was the far-off sound of combat and the din from the street. The slave must be around, but there was no sign that Apuleius Victor was in the building. Flaminius crossed the marble floor and paused on the threshold.

He looked up and down the passage. No sign of anyone. Why had the dead man’s door been left open? Was it a trap? But who could be trying to trap him? He’d have to risk it.

The cell was small and Spartan. An amphora stood on a stand beside an unmade bed. Flaminius padded over and lifted the vessel to sniff at the contents. This must be the last thing Felix had drunk before going to the arena. It smelt like normal watered wine, rather vinegary. He tried a sip. Nodding, he placed it back in the stand. A slight aftertaste, but he didn’t recognise it. The wine had been drugged, the gladiator’s reactions had been slow, he had died—entirely against the expectations of the crowd. Who had poisoned such a skilled gladiator as Felix, though, and why? He heard a noise from the doorway and turned.

Camilla stood there. She wore armour and carried her helmet under her arm. How had he not heard her coming?

‘You creep like a cat,’ he said.

Her brows lifted. ‘You’re snooping round the cell of a dead man and you compare me with a cat, Tiro?’

‘They worship cats in this country.’ Flaminius crossed over to her. ‘It’s a compliment. I didn’t hear you’—he reached out and tapped her helmet— ‘and you’re carrying a heavy burden.’

Camilla’s face darkened. ‘What are you doing in Felix’s cell?’ she demanded. ‘Have you no respect for the dead? You’re supposed to be in training. We’ve got a game this afternoon.’

Flaminius looked shamefacedly at the floor. ‘My curiosity got the better of me,’ he told the gladiatrix. He’d have to play the innocent here; he had no hold over her, so he could hardly hope to make her an agent as he had with Petrus. He jerked a thumb at the amphora. ‘I think someone drugged his wine.’

Camilla sniffed at it, but shook her head. ‘Smells like wine to me,’ she said.

‘Taste it,’ said Flaminius.

‘You want me to taste wine that might be drugged? Just who are you, anyway, Tiro? Why are you snooping around all the time?’

Flaminius did his best to look innocent. ‘Hardly all the time,’ he protested. ‘I was curious. Felix was a good gladiator.’

‘By Celestial Juno he was; one of the best,’ Camilla grunted. ‘The mob loved him. I never dreamed he would die like that.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘And from what you say, professionals like us aren’t meant to die.’

‘It happens at times,’ she quibbled. ‘Hard to avoid, in a risky job like this. But I would never have expected Felix to die…’

Flaminius led her from the cell. ‘Don’t mention this to the others, will you? They might not be as sympathetic.’

‘Who says I’m sympathetic?’ she said. ‘I don’t like snoops.’ But he caught her smiling to herself.

‘You’re worried about the gladiators who’ve been lost,’ Flaminius said. ‘So am I. It’s natural, isn’t it? Self-preservation. I just want to know why Felix died so I can avoid going the same way myself.’

Camilla nodded as they went down the passage towards the peristyle. ‘Makes sense,’ she grunted. ‘But in return, you’ll have to do something for me.’

Flaminius smiled insincerely as they came out into the sunlight. ‘Name it,’ he said, inwardly cursing himself for putting himself in this position.

Camilla gave him a smile in return, and at once her grim face was that of a young girl in springtime. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said playfully, ‘when the time comes. Now we’d better go to the training arena. You’re lucky that Apuleius Victor’s not here. Lazing around in bed until all hours.’

As they walked, Flaminius said, ‘Tell me about the missing gladiators.’

She glanced at him. ‘You’re worried about them, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Scared for your own pretty skin? Or is this more snooping?’

Flaminius grimaced. ‘I wonder if this job isn’t more dangerous than I thought at first, that’s all.’

She laughed. ‘You thought being a gladiator was going to be an easy life? Even free gladiators don’t choose this life willingly. It chooses them. Life is short, and love never lasts. Brutus was first to go.’

‘Brutus?’

She nodded seriously. ‘He was the senior gladiator when I joined Apuleius Victor. Petrus was already with us, but he fawned on Brutus like a whipped cur. Brutus became my lover in secret, came to my cell in the middle of the night. I didn’t have much of a say in it. He was like a satyr in heat. Even Apuleius Victor was afraid of him, you could tell, though he hid it. Brutus lorded it over us gladiators until one day he just wasn’t there.’

‘He didn’t die in the arena?’

She shook her head scornfully. ‘Brutus didn’t die, not him. One night he didn’t come to my cell, that was all. I was relieved at first; it meant that I could get a night’s sleep. But when I knew he had gone without telling even me, I was heartbroken. I’d loved him too, in a way. Though he was well named, that brute.’

‘He didn’t tell you he was planning to leave?’ Flaminius asked.

She shook her head. ‘He would have taken me with him, I’m sure. He loved me. Even if he gave me this.’ She prodded her broken nose. ‘He had a temper, sure enough. But he wouldn’t have gone without telling me first. Would he?’

‘Gone where, though?’

She shook her head. ‘All I know is that once, in his sleep, he spoke about someone called Arctos.’

—7—

By now they had reached the gates to the small arena. Before Flaminius could speak with her further Camilla walked away down the little passage. He followed and they came out into the arena where several people awaited them.

Apuleius Victor stood beside a strange gladiator, a retiarius who held his helmet under one broad arm and his trident over his shoulder. Petrus and Syphax were looking him up and down as if he was a prime piece of horse flesh. As Flaminius entered with Camilla, Apuleius Victor turned to greet him.

‘Ah, here he is at last,’ he said, ignoring Camilla. ‘I’ve heard all about your exploits of this morning.’

Petrus looked up from his inspection of the retiarius’ armour. ‘Exploits? Tiro? What’s he been up to now? I thought he was still in bed.’

He met Flaminius’ eyes briefly, and the Roman saw that the gladiator had something to tell him. But it would have to wait. What was Apuleius Victor talking about? This morning?

‘Seems our new gladiator went for an early morning stroll,’ said the impresario. ‘Without permission, may I add. While wandering alongside the wharf, looking out for sailors no doubt, he stopped off to help the harbour guard put out a fire aboard a ship!’

Flaminius wished he had half Apuleius Victor’s intelligence network. ‘I did that,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t realise it was known throughout the city. I didn’t realise anyone would recognise me, either.’ Had he been watched? Who by?

‘Did you do that?’ Petrus asked. Everyone started talking. The mysterious retiarius shook Flaminius by the hand. Even Syphax clapped him on the back.

‘There were fears the fire would spread to the Library,’ Apuleius Victor added.

‘I couldn’t let that monument to the greatness of this city burn a second time,’ Flaminius told them all with a grin. ‘Really, though, I was just recruited by a centurion. I don’t even know the man’s name. He didn’t know me, either. He was in charge of things, I just helped him get hold of a new fire engine, a machine invented by one of the philosophers at the Museum.’

‘Modest as well,’ said Apuleius Victor sardonically. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners.’ He indicated the retiarius. ‘This is Maccabeus, the gladiator. Formerly of Gaius Aurelius’ family. He’s taking the place of the late lamented Felix.’

Maccabeus clapped Flaminius on the back, then knelt and kissed Camilla’s hand. Rising again, he flexed his broad muscles, and said in a voice like rock grating on rock, ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘You didn’t tell me what you’d been up to this morning,’ Camilla grunted to Flaminius, unconsciously wiping her hand on her short leather skirt. ‘I thought you’d just got up.’

‘I went for a walk early on,’ Flaminius explained as they got kitted up and Petrus and Syphax began to spar with the new retiarius. ‘I just got dragged into things.’

They went to join the others. Apuleius Victor took a seat on the side of the ring and under his watchful eyes they spent much of the following morning in training.

During a lull when only Camilla and Maccabeus were fighting a duel, Petrus approached Flaminius. The latter was drinking from an amphora at the side of the arena. The Thracian hissed urgently, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

Flaminius almost choked on the wine. He wiped his lips clean, and without turning in Petrus’ direction said, ‘Don’t look so conspiratorial, for Jove’s sake.’

Petrus swallowed visibly, and brushed sweat from his brow.

‘I’m not used to this,’ he muttered. ‘You must be familiar with it, being a prefect’s agent, but…’

‘I told you.’ Flaminius placed the amphora in its stand, ‘I don’t work for the prefect.’ He looked into Petrus’ eyes. ‘Let’s go for a little walk.’

They ambled round the little arena, eyes on Camilla and Maccabeus. Syphax was talking quietly to Apuleius Victor, who was also watching the gladiatrix test the new acquisition.

‘So what have you found?’ asked Flaminius.

‘First tell me who you work for,’ Petrus said defiantly. ‘For all I know, you’re part of a syndicate.’

‘A syndicate?’ Flaminius didn’t know what he meant.

Petrus nodded vigorously. ‘You know, criminals, gamblers,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Or you could be working for a rival impresario.’

Flaminius shook his head sadly. ‘I thought you were going to help me. As a favour to a friend.’ He looked meaningfully at Petrus. ‘I’ll never betray you, you know that.’

The small arena echoed with the ring of steel on steel. Camilla had had the upper hand for some time, but now the new gladiator was fighting back. They started walking again.

‘I spoke with Syphax,’ Petrus said.

‘Syphax?’ Flaminius schooled himself against looking over at the murmillo, but glanced over involuntarily. The Nubian was oiling his sword. He looked up and their eyes briefly met. Flaminius looked at Petrus. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘Nothing much,’ Petrus said. He looked shamefacedly at Flaminius. ‘I can’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m no good. I tried to sound him out but I got nowhere.’ As he described his conversation with the murmillo during their earlier training session, Flaminius listened with interest. All intelligence was good intelligence, if only you knew how to sift it.

‘He didn’t rate Felix highly? Everyone else seems to have thought him a good gladiator.’ Had Syphax been jealous? Could that be the motive? Jealousy? Had Syphax drugged Felix’s pre-show drink? Was there no link between Felix’s death and the rebels? Flaminius considered what he had gleaned from his conversation with Camilla.

‘You see?’ Petrus said hopelessly. ‘I can’t do this. Anyway, what am I getting out of it?’

‘For that?’ Harshness was the answer. ‘Nothing much. My continued friendship, of course.’ Flaminius hated having to do this, but he needed someone who would work for him. He had no budget for more agents, so coercion was the only method he could use. Blackmail… a dirty word. But the end justifies any evil, as Sophocles said.

Petrus gave him a haunted look. ‘I’ll try to do better in future,’ he promised. ‘And I won’t ask you whose agent you are. You might be working for the emperor himself, or for his worst enemy. I don’t care. But don’t expect too much of me.’

‘We can’t speak again,’ Flaminius instructed him. ‘Not like this. After the games I’ll introduce you to some of our ciphers and codes…Now we’d better start sparring.’ He put his helmet on and Petrus copied him.

Camilla and Maccabeus had stopped fighting, and they were laughing and relaxing as they passed an amphora one to the other. Apuleius Victor watched disapprovingly.

‘Don’t get drunk,’ he said. ‘Carrying on like barbarians! You’ve got a show to put on after midday.’

As he spoke, Petrus swung his sword at Flaminius. The clang of blade on blade as the Roman parried drowned out anything else the impresario might have to say. Apuleius Victor stood there mouthing until he gave up. As he walked out of the arena, Syphax rose and went to join him.

Flaminius sparred with Petrus for some time, but his mind was elsewhere and Petrus managed to get past his guard several times. The weapons they used might have been blunt but they were still solid metal, and Flaminius was nursing several incipient bruises when he cried quarter. He got the distinct impression that Petrus was wreaking a covert revenge.

‘Enough!’ he laughed.

His muscles were aching and his body was bruised. It was getting close to noon, and the arena was a suntrap. This being Alexandria in the dog days, that was no very good thing, and it was a relief to sit down on one of the seats in the shade at the side. Camilla and Maccabeus were already there, talking like old friends. Flaminius fanned at his hot face and rubbed his aches and bruises.

Camilla turned to him. ‘Maccabeus knew Brutus!’ she said excitedly. ‘They fought together in Carthage.’

‘Those were the days,’ said Maccabeus. ‘Me and Brutus, we were last men standing in the games to celebrate the emperor’s accession. We were both freed, but decided to stay on. Fighting was the only life we knew! Good days. What, eight years back?’

Camilla nodded. ‘We’ll never see his like.’

Petrus sat down, grumbling. ‘Time for lunch. Where’s Apuleius Victor? He should do a better job of looking after his gladiators.’

This inspired Maccabeus to launch into a long diatribe about the banquets he had attended in Carthage. The retiarius proved fond of reminiscences like these. Flaminius listened in silence for a while, then rose.

Maccabeus glanced inquiringly up at him.

‘I’m going to see if I can find Apuleius Victor,’ Flaminius said. ‘Or at least the slave. I’m starving.’

Leaving his helmet on the bench, he walked from the arena. Maccabeus’s receding drone was echoed by that of blowflies buzzing about the peristyle. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky. He was glad when he reached the cool of the colonnade and could walk in the shadow of the fresco painted ceiling.

No one was about. The silence of noon was eerie. He had grown up in Italy, where the siesta was also observed, but he had spent enough time in the cold North, in Britain and even Caledonia, to find the heat and quiet of noontime strange. He missed Britain’s rain, and its murderous inhabitants; some blue with woad, others with cold…

Where was the slave? Or the impresario, for that matter? Or Syphax? Were they all asleep? Or had they gone somewhere else? The gladiators were going hungry due to their neglect.

Entering the school Flaminius paced the long, silent corridors. He heard a susurrus of sound from somewhere up ahead. Voices speaking in hushed tones. He went in search of their owners.

Outside the door to Apuleius Victor’s office he paused. This was the source of the sound. The door was built of thick holm oak, ornamented with cameos of the impresario’s ancestors. Flaminius put his ear to the wood, frowning as he strained to catch what the speakers were saying.

He could only make out two voices. One was a deep rumble, the other lighter, but male, like the first. The second voice was imperative and domineering despite its lightness, the second defensive, conciliatory. But what were they saying?

Flaminius grunted to himself in frustration, then clapped a hand over his mouth. He really didn’t want to be found here.

The deeper voice was that of Syphax, he was certain. Was the other voice Apuleius Victor? There was a hectoring note to it characteristic of the man. The pair of them had left the training arena together. Now they were deep in conference. But about what? The wood was too thick! And crouching here, Flaminius was beginning to develop cramp.

Who’d be an imperial agent?

He got a grip on his temper and concentrated. Gradually, he began to pick out words that he recognised. It was Syphax’s muttering that he first decoded. As he listened, his eyes narrowed, and his fist unconsciously clenched.

‘…can’t abide snoops,’ Syphax seemed to be saying, followed by some indistinct murmuring which included, ‘…dealt with…threat…syndic—’

At the last word Flaminius bit his lip. Syndic? Syndicate? Petrus had mentioned crime syndicates. Flaminius made lightning deductions. The river pirates of the Delta and the rebels from the desert…crime syndicates in the cities... could there be a link? He’d have to discuss it Ozymandias next time he got the chance.

Apuleius Victor was talking now, but try as he might, Flaminius couldn’t make out his words. After a pause, Syphax replied, ‘…know a way…people I know…get it for you…blade…’

And again Apuleius Victor was speaking, and this time Flaminius heard, ‘…not in the…’ followed by a word that could have been “arena.” There was a padding of feet from behind him. Rising and spinning in one movement, he saw the slave plodding down the passage.

The slave stared at him. Cold sweat broke out on Flaminius’ brow. He covered his disconcertion with bluster.

‘There you are!’ he said, approach. ‘Where’s our food? The gladiators are starving, and we’re almost due in the amphitheatre!’

The slave gave Flaminius a questioning look. Had he seen him eavesdropping? But he just trudged away, with a ‘Yes, master,’ flung wearily over his shoulder.

Flaminius heard sounds of movement from behind the door, a chair being pushed back across a stone floor, followed by footsteps. As the door began to open, Flaminius hurried away in the direction of the training arena. He had to prepare himself for the coming fight.

—8—

Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

As he stepped out onto the arena sands, the heat and the light and the roar of the crowd hit Flaminius. It was like walking into a stone wall.

Seeing rank upon rank of faces twisted by bloodlust and exhilaration, he felt his legs seem to give way under him. It was an illusion. He kept walking purposefully towards the imperial box, side by side with Camilla and Petrus, while Syphax and Maccabeus marched on either flank. He glanced left and right. Camilla flashed him a soft smile before lowering the visor of her Amazonian helmet and striding on, the sun striking highlights from her sleek, well-oiled flanks and her brief armour. Petrus wouldn’t meet his gaze, but hid behind the remorseless faceplate of his helmet. Fear grasped hold of Flaminius. He had felt like this yesterday, too; stage fright. Actors were said to get it. He felt more terrified than he had ever been waiting to go into battle. And perhaps he had good reason to fear for his life.

He wished he had been able to hear more of the conversation between Syphax and Apuleius Victor. What he had discerned had not sounded good. The word that had stood out most had been ‘snoop.’ Had his cover been blown? Apuleius Victor had his own spies everywhere, it seemed. Had he learnt Flaminius’ identity? And now they were going to do what, kill him? While the gladiators had eaten their midday meal he had tried to dream up an excuse not to participate, but nothing came to him. Finally, he had decided to meet his destiny with courage and see where that got him. Fortune favours the brave.

‘Looking a bit peaky, Tiro,’ Camilla grunted. ‘Lower your helmet. It’s not the Lemuria[2]. The Roman ladies don’t want to see a dead man walking.’

Flaminius wasn’t one to believe in omens and suchlike superstition. But the gladiatrix’s words seemed particularly inauspicious. He lowered his visor, and sweat ran down his face. Cold sweat.

They reached the cool sand that lay in the shadow of the imperial box. Petrus brandished his sword, the others copied him, and Haterius Nepos gazed down censoriously. Flaminius wondered if the great man guessed that one of the gladiators beneath him was the imperial agent he had met last Saturnalia at the legionary camp .

‘Those about to die salute you!’

Flaminius supressed a shudder at the traditional words. The gladiators fanned out across the sands of the arena. This time, it was a fight between individual members of the family. Maccabeus and Syphax fought on one side, Petrus defended himself against Flaminius and Camilla on the other. Blades rang, sparks flew. Flaminius’ heart raced. At least he was not yet fighting Syphax. Syphax had been ordered to kill him, he was certain. Apuleius Victor was part of the conspiracy, and he had identified Flaminius as a spy. This was the tribune’s final fight in the arena. At least he hadn’t been drugged.

He brought his blade up to parry a blow from Camilla then leapt back. The sand crunched beneath his feet. Was this what had happened to Felix? Had he learnt too much?

Camilla whipped into him with a series of savage cuts, while Petrus attacked from the other side. Flaminius felt afraid. Had he misjudged the situation? He fended off blow after clanging blow with sword and shield. The people he had counted as his closest comrades were conspiring against him. Were they all implicated? His breath came faster as he retreated, wheeling desperately to parry each attack. He could understand why Petrus might want to kill him. That was the main drawback with blackmail; the blackmailed were forced into a corner, and the only way out was death—for blackmailer or blackmailed.

Flaminius wouldn’t be backed into a corner, not in this arena. The crowd was booing and giving the thumbs down, trying to influence the prefect into sealing his doom. He collided with the wall so rapidly that the impact rang through his helmet, slipped in the sand and fell.

Petrus and Camilla stood on either side of him, their swords dazzling in the harsh afternoon sunlight. Painfully, Flaminius turned his helmeted head towards the imperial box. He wasn’t wounded but he was down. It could be enough to condemn him. He noticed the tiny figure of Haterius Nepos, remembered how the old bore had patronised him at that little get-together in headquarters last Saturnalia. The man’s arm was outstretched. He glanced at one of the other people in the box with him. Flaminius’ heart sank. It was Apuleius Victor.

But the impresario shook his head and the prefect gave the thumbs up. Petrus and Camilla lowered their swords, and the gladiatrix extended a hand to help Flaminius to his feet.

‘What are you doing, you clown?’ she hissed. ‘Running away? If the crowd wanted a race, they’d go to the hippodrome. If they wanted a farce, they’d go to the theatre. They came to the amphitheatre to see a fight.’

The gladiators returned to the open space beneath the imperial box. Syphax’s bare chest was scored with fresh cuts that dripped blood in the sand. But Maccabeus was unwounded.

‘Time for a change.’ Petrus indicated the crowd, which was showing its customary disapproval of mercy. ‘We don’t want them to get bored. Camilla, I want you fighting Maccabeus. Pity we don’t have any other gladiatrices; the mob loves a catfight. But you two get out there and draw blood, got that? Tiro, you fight me, understood?’

Syphax pushed back his visor. ‘Come off it, Petrus. The new boy won’t give them a good show today. You and me, that’s what the mob wants to see. Tiro can give the woman some backup.’

Petrus nodded and patted Syphax’s brawny black arm.

‘Good thinking, Nubian,’ he said. ‘Right, spread out.’ He stalked towards the centre of the arena, followed by Syphax.

Maccabeus and Camilla fought fiercely and brutally, Flaminius hovered on the edges feeling useless. At least he was still alive. They had had their chance and not taken it. Of all people, Apuleius Victor had persuaded the prefect to give him the thumbs up. So had Flaminius misread the situation? Or were they saving him for some worse fate?

Maccabeus swung a blow at Camilla and Flaminius darted in close, cutting low at Maccabeus’s ribs. His blade sliced though the retiarius’ flanks and blood clouded out the sweat and oil on his hide. Snarling, Maccabeus swung round, and Flaminius leapt high to evade a thrust from the retiarius’ trident. Camilla lunged in, her blade slicing into Maccabeus’s broad back.

Growling, laughing, roaring, the retiarius swung round, whirling his net. He flung it, and as he did Flaminius aimed a cut at his thigh. The net swooped down on Camilla as she was turning to run and she fell flat to the sand, enmeshed in its weighted folds. Maccabeus felt Flaminius’ blade slice into him, and turned away from the prone Camilla to clout Flaminius across the helmet, wielding the trident like a bludgeon.

Flaminius staggered backwards, unable to see, his helmet twisted so the eyeholes were askew. He tripped over his own sandaled feet and hit the sand hard again. The helmet snapped back into place. Maccabeus was looming over him, trident uplifted so he resembled an image of Neptune. Flaminius struggled to rise but he somehow felt paralysed. It was all a terrible dream, the kind of nightmare where you try to move but for some reason are incapable.

The trident whistled as it plummeted down, but even as it did, a figure hurtled into Maccabeus and sent him sprawling. The trident sank into the sand beside Flaminius’ helmeted head. He rolled over, all paralysis gone, and leapt into a crouch.

Camilla stood over Maccabeus, the folds of the net in the sand beside her. She looked appealingly up at the prefect’s box. Flaminius rose and followed her gaze, and yet Haterius Nepos’ attention was not on the three-cornered combat, but on the fight between Petrus and Syphax in the middle of the arena.

They had been fighting hard. Syphax’s shield had been battered, his helmet was dented. Petrus had nothing more than a long cut across his breast. The crowd was shouting out the Thracian’s name, ‘Petrus! Petrus! Petrus!’ chanting it like votaries of some barbaric faith. Blades clashed, fighters grunted, blood dripped onto the sand.

Now the prefect’s attention was drawn away from the duel. Camilla still stood over the prone Maccabeus. Again Haterius Nepos was prevailed upon to be merciful. This fight was to whet the appetite of the crowd; the next family to come on would be fighting to the death. Petrus downed Syphax, and again the prefect gave the thumbs up, Flaminius realised that the fight was over. He had survived. Somehow, he had survived.

The crowd was booing and yelling. It had hardly been the best of fights, but as the gladiators cleaned their weapons in the bloody sand and limped back towards the gates where even now Apuleius Victor had come to meet them, Flaminius felt nothing but relief.

Petrus groaned, and fell forward to hit the sand with a thud.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Camilla cried out. Maccabeus crouched at Petrus’ side, then scrambled away as Petrus vomited copiously.

Apuleius Victor took charge. ‘Two of you, get him inside. He’s clearly unwell.’

As Maccabeus took Petrus’ shoulders and Flaminius his feet, Petrus vomited again. His face was white, tinged with green. By the smell wafting from his kilt, he had soiled himself. Flaminius and Maccabeus carried him into the cool gloom of the holding pen where they laid him down on a stone bunk. Everyone bustled round until Apuleius Victor shoved them to one side, with the exception of Maccabeus and Flaminius who held the gladiator down as he writhed.

Petrus vomited again, this time over Apuleius Victor’s sandaled feet. The impresario gritted his teeth. ‘Call the medic,’ he commanded. ‘This man is a valuable investment.’

A Greek physician appeared, and the impresario spoke with him urgently, voice inaudible. Flaminius was sure he saw money change hands. On the bunk Petrus spasmed violently, then fell back. His feet drummed on the stone, then with a long, drawn-out gargle of breath, he went still.

The medic knelt beside him and made a cursory check. He looked up, his olive face composed. ‘Dead,’ he said.

Flaminius shouldered him out of the way and checked Petrus’ pulse. He looked up, eyes focussed on nothing. The medic gave a moue of annoyance.

‘I am a fully trained physician, you know,’ he said frostily. ‘I know a dead gladiator when I see one.’

‘How did he die?’ Camilla demanded. ‘He’s barely wounded. A few scratches.’

‘Disease,’ said the medic. ‘The bloody flux. Have the body taken away and burnt.’

Amidst a chorus of unease, Flaminius bent over the corpse and sniffed at the wounds. One of them had a distinctive smell. He had met it before. Now where?

‘Out of the way, Tiro,’ said Apuleius Victor brusquely. ‘You heard the medic. Petrus’ body must be taken for cremation.’

Flaminius caught the expression on Syphax’s face and his eyes narrowed.

Camilla gave a little sob. It had all been so sudden. Flaminius bit his lip and cursed under his breath.

He had just lost an agent.

—9—

Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

When he heard the noise, Flaminius was lying on his bunk, staring up at the painted frescoes that adorned the ceiling of his cell, mentally comparing them with the wall paintings of a high-class brothel.

It was late. Everyone had returned long ago, dispirited and bedraggled, and no one had anything to say to anyone else. There would be no feasting tonight now, no singing or music. Petrus was dead, and he had not died the death of a gladiator, but a miserable one—of disease, the medic said.

There it was again. A distant sound from somewhere else in the building. Flaminius strained his ears. It sounded like the sound a small animal might make. A small animal in pain. He sat up.

Now he could hear nothing. Had he imagined it? Just as he was lying his head back down on the bunk, it came again.

This time he rose, strapped on his sandals, ensured his dagger was in its sheath at his side, and went to the door.

The passageway outside was cold as a crypt, and as silent. He turned his head first one way, then the other, trying to locate the noise. There it was; to his right, a little down the corridor. He followed it.

It grew louder as he was passing the door to Camilla’s cell. Glancing up and down the passage to make sure no one else was about, he pressed his ear to the door. Thinner than Apuleius Victor’s door, it made a less effective barrier to sound. Flaminius was sure he could hear Camilla crying.

That couldn’t be right. The tough, hulking, hard-bitten gladiatrix, victor of a thousand fights, sobbing her heart out like a little girl? He must be imagining things. Frowning, he put his ear to the door again.

Definitely, sobbing. He waited a moment, allowing the noise to subside, then knocked respectfully.

‘Go away,’ came the gladiatrix’s muffled voice.

‘It’s me, Tiro,’ he said, his voice filled with concern. ‘I…I wanted to talk to you. About Petrus.’

A pause. Then bolts were drawn back. A tear stained face appeared in the crack that appeared between door and door jamb.

‘Well?’ Camilla sniffed.

Awkwardly, Flaminius said, ‘Can I come in?’

She stepped back, opening the door as she did so, then led him in. At her invitation, he sat on the bunk and she curled up amongst cushions.

‘It’s just…’ she began. ‘It’s just it was such a bad death.’

‘Death is never good,’ Flaminius observed.

‘A bad death for a gladiator,’ she told him. ‘If Petrus had to die, he should have died fighting. Not of a disease that struck him out of nowhere! Was it the stars? Was he born under a bad sign?’ Flaminius shrugged. She added, ‘Do you believe in an afterlife? Do you believe the gods judge us for our sins?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Democritus and other sophists say that the gods shun this fallen world,’ he said. ‘What happens here is due to nature alone.’

‘It all seems so meaningless,’ she murmured.

‘Nature is chaotic by its own… nature,’ Flaminius finished lamely. ‘Everything and everyone is made up of atoms, high and low, slave and emperor, man and beast. There is no meaning to anything.’

She shot a glare at him. ‘Who told you all that?’

‘Philosophers,’ he said.

She growled. ‘I never listen to philosophers,’ she told him. ‘In Cyrene when I was a little girl I once heard some such marketplace sophistry. They said the only purpose in life was having a good time, and I liked that. But then they said the gods are elsewhere, and that death is the end.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t want everything to just stop.’

Remembering her manners, she leaned over to the table, and poured Flaminius some wine, and another cup for herself.

Flaminius sipped at the wine. ‘Would you rather that the gods did judge you?’ he said. ‘From what I’ve heard, all the things that make life bearable will have you consigned for eternity to the worst reaches of the underworld.’

‘You don’t believe that,’ she said with a scornful laugh.

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘I believe that life just ends.’

And so did the conversation. Flaminius wondered if he had been a little insensitive. It was always the way with women; speak the truth and they hated it. Lie, and they hated that too. She was crying silently.

He reached out to embrace her. She fought like a wild cat, but he persisted. At last she sank into his arms and sobbed against his chest.

She lifted her head. ‘I’m being disgusting,’ she told him. ‘Why are you letting me behave like this?’

‘Did Petrus mean very much to you?’ he asked.

She put her hand on his chest, looked downwards. ‘No,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘We worked together for a long time. A long time for gladiators. We knew that sooner or later we would both die. Professional gladiators don’t fight to the death as a rule, but they can die for various reasons. Accidents; very frequent, and not surprising considering the nature of our trade. Old age: not white haired and in your bed, just when you get too old to fight. Few gladiators die in their bed. But sometimes they die for other reasons. They’ve crossed someone—the impresario, for example. So the impresario gives orders, and in the next fight they die. That’s what the rumour is, anyway. I don’t know it for a fact. But I do believe it. Just like I believe that death is not the end.’

Privately, Flaminius thought that the former had a lot more to be said in its favour. ‘You think he was killed because he crossed someone?’ He licked his lips. His mouth was dry.

She looked up and peered into his eyes. ‘But that makes no sense,’ she said. ‘He died of a disease. Very suddenly. How did he get that disease?’

Flaminius returned her gaze. ‘I don’t think it was a disease,’ he said darkly.

‘You don’t?’ She examined him searchingly. ‘What was it, then?’

‘I smelt something,’ he said, ‘a smell from his wounds.’

‘His wounds were no more than scratches,’ she protested. ‘He didn’t die of them.’

‘I think he did,’ said Flaminius quietly.

She stared at him. ‘This smell…’ she said, ‘what was it?’

‘I was trying to identify it,’ Flaminius said, gazing into the distance, ‘but I was hustled away by the impresario. Still, I caught enough of it for it to trigger off some memories. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. And now I’ve got it.

‘What was it?’ she said urgently.

‘Asp venom.’

She went pale. ‘Asp venom?’

He nodded. ‘Concentrated asp venom can kill in no time,’ he said. ‘I knew a woman of the Marsi once…’ he went on.

‘The Marsi?’ Camilla looked puzzled. ‘Who are they? Some barbarian tribe?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘There is a Germanic people of the same name,’ he admitted. ‘But the Marsi of Italy live in the hills. They are experts in pharmacology. Good healers. They know about herbs and potions. They also have a reputation as witches. And as poisoners, if there’s any difference. She told me a thing or two.’

‘And she mentioned asp venom?’ Camilla asked. ‘You think Petrus was poisoned? That’s horrible; worse than death from disease.’ She shook her head. ‘But no, no, no. The medic identified it as the bloody flux.’

Flaminius turned away in disgust. ‘Medics,’ he muttered. ‘Poisoners worse than the Marsi! Besides, I saw Apuleius Victor press a drachma into the medic’s hand.’

She shrugged. ‘What of it? Medics want to be paid, same as everyone else.’

‘Before they examine the patient?’ Flaminius asked, and she made no reply. ‘I overheard a conversation at noon while I was looking for the slave,’ he went on.’

‘A conversation?’ she said. ‘Who was talking? What were they saying?’

‘It was Apuleius Victor,’ he said. ‘Speaking to Syphax. I couldn’t hear much through the impresario’s door, but what I caught was something about some mysterious people Syphax knew, who could “get it”, and something about a blade. Then Apuleius Victor said, “not in the arena”.’

‘The wood of that door must be half a cubit thick, Tiro. How could you have heard that? You must have had your ear pressed right up against the wood to hear half of that.’

‘I think Petrus was poisoned,’ Flaminius said. ‘I think Petrus was killed because…’ He halted.

‘Why?’ Camila said. ‘Why would anyone kill Petrus? And why not in the arena, if they wanted to? How was he killed, anyway?’ She poured herself some more wine, but didn’t offer him any. ‘If you’re so sure about this,’ she went on, ‘why don’t you just take your suspicions to the magistrate?’

‘Because I’m not so sure, for one,’ he said. ‘I have no real evidence. Not at the moment.’

‘Not at the moment! Do you mean to go eavesdropping at other doors?’ Camilla took a deep swig of her wine. Then her eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know I was upset?’

‘I heard you crying.’

She regarded him long and hard. ‘It wasn’t very loud,’ she said after a while. ‘I admit it, I shed a tear about Petrus. But I did my best to muffle it. I’m a gladiatrix. I don’t want people to hear me crying. Gladiatrices don’t cry. You hear me?’

He nodded. ‘I hear you.’

‘Were you listening at my keyhole?’

He shook his head. ‘I heard you from my own cell,’ he insisted.

She was silent a while longer. ‘And you think Petrus was poisoned, but you need more evidence before we go to the magistrate?’ Flaminius was cheered by her use of the plural pronoun.

‘Nice idea, Tiro,’ Camilla went on, refilling his winecup. ‘But what magistrate will care about the death of a gladiator? I know you’re new to this game, but we’re the lowest of the low. Slaves’ lives are rated more highly than our own.’

‘Don’t you want justice for Petrus?’ he asked. ‘If there is proof that he was murdered… well, it might help his case in the afterlife.’

She bit her lip, then shook her head. ‘I doubt that,’ she said. ‘But yes, I want justice. If someone murdered him, they should be publicly executed. I want to see them fed to the wild beasts in the arena. That would be just, wouldn’t it?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘All we need is proof.’

She rose to her feet, eyes flashing. She looked superb, magnificent. ‘We’ll confront them. No more of this snooping and spying and listening at other people’s doors, Tiro. You’ve picked up some bad habits. I’ll teach you how to act like a man. We’ll confront them. Apuleius Victor and Syphax. What will they be able to do then?’

Flaminius went to her, took her hand, and led her back to the couch. ‘Unless we had proof, we’d be accused of giving false witness. I don’t know how that’s punished in Alexandria, but in Roman law it receives the death penalty; to wit, flung from the Tarpeian Rock!’

She shuddered. ‘You Romans are such barbarians! Surely you don’t do that anymore?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘A man was flung from the Tarpeian Rock in my father’s youth. Very messy, he said it was. I’ve never seen it done myself. Maybe because it’s such an effective deterrent.’

‘We need more evidence?’ she asked him. ‘But how are we going to get it?’ She drew her hand away from his. ‘Not more snooping?’

‘How else can we find evidence?’ he said.

She gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘I don’t like it,’ she complained. ‘But if it’s necessary…’

‘I think it may be,’ he said. ‘It would be good if we could find asp venom lying around; in Apuleius Victor’s chamber, for example, or in Syphax’s. I would also like a look at Syphax’s sword, though I should think he got rid of any traces hours ago. Wiped them away in the sand of the arena, I expect. But one thing we could do is speak to the medic.’

‘The one Apuleius Victor bribed?’ Camilla asked. ‘According to you, anyway. Come on, Tiro, he’s hardly going to admit that he took bribes, now is he? Don’t be naïve. He’s the official medic for the legion’s amphitheatre, and that makes him an imperial official. It would be a real scandal if he was convicted for corruption. He’ll never squeal, Tiro.’

Flaminius gave her a dark smile. ‘We’ll just have to be persuasive.’

—10—

Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

Flaminius and Camilla found the Greek medic hard at work in his surgery beneath the amphitheatre. When they entered, he was washing blood from his hands in a bowl held by a slave. On the marble slab behind him lay a dead gladiator. A sword slice had cut the corpse open like a pig carcase in a butcher’s shop. A smell of singed flesh filled the air; a brazier lay nearby with hot irons lying upon its coals. Flaminius shuddered. He had seen similar scenes in torture chambers.

The medic gestured behind him with his thumb. ‘Have that taken for dissection,’ he told the slave. Another slave joined the first and together they lugged the brawny body from the cold, dank room.

‘No luck, eh?’ said Flaminius sympathetically.

The medic drew himself up to his full height, about chest high with the tribune. ‘Surgery, sir, is not a matter of luck,’ he told him severely. ‘It is a matter of science correctly applied.’

‘But in this case it wasn’t correctly applied,’ said Camilla, folding her arms, and leaning against the chamber wall.

The medic bristled. ‘Are you questioning my professional integrity? Every effort was made to save that gladiator’s life. However, I am not a miracle worker. I cannot revive the dead, nor can I preserve the life of a man who has been so savagely wounded.’

Flaminius inspected the brazier. ‘It looks to me more like you were torturing the poor devil,’ he commented. ‘What were the hot irons for?’

‘Do you know nothing of medical matters, young man?’ the medic asked haughtily. ‘The hot irons were used to effect cauterisation. Sadly to no avail.’

‘Do you lose all your patients?’ asked Camilla, still leaning against the wall, arms folded.

The medic looked her up and down. She towered over him, wearing her best gladiatrix finery: armguard, high sandals, brief leather skirt, and a jewelled belt from which her sword hung.

‘Of course not!’ he stammered. ‘Naturally enough, however, considering the nature of my work and that of my patients, fatalities are not uncommon. Less severe wounds are treated efficiently. Mortal wounds… well! By their very nature…!’

‘Did I hear you say you were sending the gladiator’s corpse to be dissected?’ Flaminius asked.

The medic went pale. He looked from one to the other, then began industriously wiping at the stained surface of the marble slab. ‘I’m heartened that gladiators of your calibre take such an interest in my profession,’ he muttered, ‘but I have work to do. I have no time to answer idle questions.’

Flaminius crossed over to the Greek. ‘Oh, but my questions aren’t idle,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I am Xenocrates of Rhodes,’ the medic replied proudly. ‘I’m sorry, but if you have anything pertinent to ask, I suggest you speak to me after my work is over. I have been toiling all night to save the life of that gladiator and I must seek my bed.’

‘You didn’t do a very good job of Petrus, either,’ said Camilla bitterly, ignoring the hint.

Xenocrates passed a hand over his brow, accidentally leaving a red streak of gore. ‘Petrus?’

Camilla pushed herself up off the wall and stalked towards him. ‘You don’t remember, do you? He was just another one of your failures, I suppose.’

Xenocrates looked in fright from one to the other. ‘I’ll be forced to call the guard,’ he warned them, and began rooting clumsily through a case of surgical instruments, ‘if you don’t leave me be.’

Camilla seized his wrist as he snatched up a slim, wicked knife. ‘What are you hoping to do with that?’ she enquired.

‘Defend myself!’ the medic said defiantly. ‘If necessary. You gladiators are all the same!’

‘Let the man go,’ Flaminius told her. Unwillingly she removed her hand from his wrist. ‘Now, Xenocrates of Rhodes, I realise you’re tired and you have been working all night,’ he added. ‘But we have questions for you. Answer them, and we’ll let you go.’

‘Very generous of you,’ Xenocrates sneered. ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort! You can’t coerce information out of me. Who do you think you are? You’re just common gladiators. You have no legal status…’

Camilla returned to the doorway, hand resting loosely on the pommel of her sword. Now Flaminius folded his arms. ‘Returning to my idle questions,’ he said, ‘did I not hear you instruct the slaves to take that cadaver to be dissected?’

The medic laughed nervously. ‘I think you misheard,’ he whinnied. ‘I told them to take it to be embalmed.’

Flaminius stuck a finger in his finger and waggled it solemnly. ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘Must be the echoes in this subterranean cavern of yours. But it sounded like “dissection” to me.’ He glanced at Camilla. ‘What did you hear?’

She nodded. ‘Definitely something about dissection.’

‘Dissection has been prohibited under Roman law,’ Flaminius lecture the medic, ‘for two and three-quarter centuries.’ He was pretty sure of the date, his distant ancestor Gaius Flaminius Nepos had been consul at the time. ‘I do hope you’re not practising illegal arts.’

The medic shook his head wordlessly. He put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. He dashed tears of frustration from his eyes and gestured dramatically at the bloody slab. ‘Few of my patients survive. You’re right. I only wish it was different! I swore by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygeia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses that I would treat the sick according to my ability and judgement. Do you know how difficult that is, when all your patients are gladiators?’ He gazed into the distance. ‘One day I shall find a rich master to work for, whose troubles are nothing more than groin strain from overindulgence, or the stone from overeating. But for now, I am severely hampered… by my ignorance!’ He cried the last word out so it rang from the stone walls, and slapped his hand down wetly on the slab. ‘Yes, my ignorance!’

Flaminius and Camilla exchanged glances. ‘Your ignorance, you say?’ Flaminius prompted. ‘Why are you working as a medic if you’re ignorant of your trade?’

‘My ignorance, and that of my fellow medics,’ the Greek told him. He grimaced. ‘I have so poor an understanding of anatomy.’ Seeing their unfamiliarity with the word, he tried to explain. ‘The way the body is put together? I know so little about this, and time and time again I fail to save wounded gladiators. All because of this superstitious Roman law against dissection. Only through dissection can the sacred truth of anatomy be found. And so, I have broken the law. But before you judge me, remember this! One day, sometime soon, it could be you on this slab,’ he pointed at Flaminius, ‘or you!’ he pointed at Camilla. ‘And your life will depend on my knowledge of my art.

‘I experiment on the dead. I dissect them, I go against all Roman law. I learn from my studies, and my surgery improves hugely as a result. The slaves who aid me are sworn to secrecy, and none other knows of it except perhaps a few impresarios, who are sympathetic, naturally enough.’ He looked appealingly at the two gladiators. ‘I hope I have explained my reasons for this lawbreaking, and I hope also that you will swear oaths of silence by all the gods.’

Flaminius raised his eyebrows.

‘Maybe that particular law has its faults,’ he said. ‘But the law is the law. I’ll have to think about this. Really, we should report you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is one of the impresarios you mentioned a man called Apuleius Victor?’

The medic swallowed. ‘He knows, yes. It is in his interest! Gladiators do not come cheap. And with such a rapid turnover…’

‘…he’s willing to cut corners and bend rules,’ Flaminius completed Xenocrates’ sentence. Presumably Apuleius Victor preferred to employ free gladiators since it kept down costs. ‘But he could report you, if he felt like it, to the magistrate.’

‘Oh, but he won’t,’ said the medic hastily. ‘Nor will you, if you give the matter some thought…’

‘Apuleius Victor has some kind of hold over you,’ Flaminius went on. ‘I assume that is why you are willing to take bribes.’

The medic looked horrified. ‘How did you…?’ He looked at them both. ‘I know you,’ he said, recognition dawning at last. ‘I remember you from earlier. Colleagues of my first patient. Another failure!’ he added bitterly.

‘Petrus was his name!’ Camilla grunted. ‘Was he taken to be cut up and poked around? Now he’ll come back to haunt us all!’ She dodged round the slab and seized the frightened little man by his neck.

Flaminius dragged her off and the medic fell back into the corner. ‘That’s not the way,’ he told the gladiatrix sternly. Physical intimidation came later, if required; that was what he’d learnt from Probus. ‘Get up,’ he told Xenocrates irritably.

The medic rose to his feet, dusting himself down and rubbing at his neck. ‘I accepted a donation of money from your impresario,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit it. He could easily expose me, as you say, to the magistrate. I might end my days on the cross, or be given a role in the morning show.’ That was when condemned prisoners were thrown to the beasts. ‘And I save the money, with the hopes of establishing myself in another city, retained by a rich patron, not as an imperial official working in the amphitheatre. Would you not do the same in my place?’

Flaminius nodded slowly. ‘I might,’ he said. ‘I can see your dilemma. But,’ and he pointed at Xenocrates accusingly, ‘Apuleius Victor bribed you to falsify evidence. To bear false witness. To say that Petrus died of disease, when you and I and the gladiatrix here all know he died…’

‘Of poison… yes,’ said Xenocrates, defeated, head down. ‘Why he was poisoned, or who by, I do not know. But concentrated asp venom was introduced into his blood stream, and he died of it.’

‘Who poisoned him?’ Camilla demanded.

The Greek shook his head. ‘I told you, I do not know.’

‘And how was he poisoned?’ Flaminius said. ‘Answer that and I think we can answer the first question.’

The Greek shrugged. ‘The poison was introduced into his blood stream by means of an incision into his flesh. The incision was made by a bladed instrument, a sword. I should think the asp venom was applied to the sword edge before the beginning of the fight.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘And it would have been removed, along with the blood, when the blade was cleaned in the sand. No chance of proving anything now, unless you’re willing to give testimony.’

The medic shook his head. ‘I have too much to lose,’ he explained. ‘Questions would be asked. I would be under oath. Speaking of which, I must ask you to swear by all the gods not to reveal my secrets.’

‘That do I swear,’ Flaminius said, and Camilla echoed him, but the medic insisted on a lengthier rigmarole, invoking the gods of high Olympus and the infernal gods below. Flaminius complied. When the oath swearing was over, he added, ‘And I’ll be asking you to swear much the same oaths.’

‘I?’ asked the medic, startled. ‘What must I swear?’

‘By all the gods of high Olympus and deepest Hades, and by the River Styx, an oath even the gods fear to break,’ Flaminius was making it all up as he went along, ‘you, Xenocrates, will swear never to speak of this matter to anyone, high or low, Greek or Roman, slave or emperor.’

‘B-by all the gods of high Olympus and deepest Hades,’ said the medic solemnly, ‘and by the River Styx, an oath even the gods fear to break, I, Xenocrates of Rhodes, swear never to speak of this to anyone, high or low, Greek or Roman, slave or emperor.’

‘Do you really think he’ll keep his oath, Tiro?’ Camilla asked as they made their way back up the torch-lit subterranean passages.

‘Oh yes,’ said Flaminius confidently. ‘He’s sworn an oath. He believes that if he were to break it, he would be pursued by the Furies to the ends of the Earth.’

They came out into the torchlit street. ‘Do you believe that?’ Camilla asked.

‘Not a word of it,’ said Flaminius with a smile, ‘but Xenocrates does. And that’s what matters.’

‘By Celestial Juno, you did that very well,’ Camilla grunted. They walked back to the gladiators’ school. ‘I’d have just seized the rat by the throat and shaken him until he squealed.’

‘You tried something like that,’ Flaminius commented. ‘Not very effective, was it?’

‘But you were cunning about it,’ Camilla grunted, giving him an admiring look. ‘You manipulated him. Clever. You used what weapons you had, and yet left him thinking he had won a victory. Now he won’t tell anyone about us and we won’t tell anyone about him.’

‘Unless we betray him,’ said Flaminius casually. ‘Or vice versa.’

‘You think he’ll betray us?’ she said.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Not after all those oaths. But we might,’ he said, ‘if it’s expedient.’

She halted, and he stopped, looking back at her. ‘My, my,’ she said, ‘but you are ruthless. Just who are you, anyway, Tiro? A new boy as gladiators go, and you’re pretty young. But it seems to me, you’re not so young in other ways. You… you’re…’ She covered her mouth suddenly. ‘You’re not working for the prefect, are you?’ she hissed.

Petrus had voiced the same fear. And again, with perfect honesty, Flaminius shook his head.

‘I want to find out how and why Petrus died,’ he said. ‘And who killed him.’

They started walking. ‘So do I,’ she said. ‘Then go before the magistrate with what we have found out, so justice can be done. But how can we hope to do that? The medic won’t testify, will he? He would be incriminating himself. You can’t ask him to do that.’

‘We can forget about Xenocrates,’ said Flaminius dismissively. ‘He’s told us what we wanted to know. He confirmed that Petrus was killed with concentrated asp venom. He also hypothesised how it could have been applied.’

‘By the sword,’ said Camilla. ‘Even one of those shallow cuts a gladiator gets in the fight, if the sword edge was smeared with poison, would be his death. But who applied it?’

‘Who fought Petrus?’ Flaminius asked.

Camilla grunted. ‘I did! You can’t be suggesting…’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you killed him. But he went on to fight against Syphax the Murmillo. And I heard Apuleius Victor talking Syphax in his office.’

‘I think we should also talk to Syphax,’ said Camilla after a pause.

‘As do I,’ said Flaminius. ‘As do I.’

—11—

Ozymandias’ House, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

‘And how was your day, dearest?’ asked Nitocris, sitting beside her brother-husband.

Ozymandias looked weary. He sipped at the crystal goblet of Greek wine a slave had brought him and gave a yawn. It was getting late.

‘The usual,’ he told her. ‘Shelving, cataloguing, answering inquiries. Oh, and some impromptu firefighting…’

Her eyes were wide. ‘Firefighting?’

Ozymandias grinned. ‘A ship was on fire in the harbour,’ he said. ‘It drifted close to the Library warehouses. Naturally, we did all we could to help the harbour guards put the fire out. One of the scholars at the Museum has been working on an experimental new squirter, you see, so we liberated it and put it to good use.’

‘Liberated?’

‘A military term. In other words, we stole it.’

‘Brother,’ said Nitocris reprovingly. ‘You’ve not gone back to robbery, have you? Look at this nice house, these nice clothes, this nice food. You might lose your job at the Library, and then’—she lowered her voice—’we would be back in the gutter.’

‘It was all in the name of public duty,’ said Ozymandias with a smug smirk. ‘The scholar was absent, so the centurion broke into the workshop and…like I say, liberated it. But you’re wrong.’ He shook his head.

‘Oh, I am, am I?’ His sister snorted.

‘I suppose it’s time I told you,’—Ozymandias indicated their opulent surroundings— ‘This doesn’t come from my meagre stipend as assistant librarian. No, it comes from… my other line of work. And that brings me to something else that happened today. It was during this outbreak of fire, actually…’

‘Other line of work? But what else happened?’ his sister said. ‘Don’t tease.’

Ozymandias’ mouth became a thin, cold line. ‘I had a visit from an old friend. Someone we both know. And love. A certain tribune.’

Nitocris flushed. ‘You don’t mean Gaius?’

‘Gaius?’ Ozymandias was outraged. ‘I mean Flaminius!’

‘He told me his name is Gaius.’

‘I bet he did,’ said Ozymandias savagely. ‘That’s his forename. All Romans have a forename, a family name, and usually a nickname too.’ He should know; he had received Roman citizenship after doing time as a slave to a Roman official. ‘My name is Gnaeus Flavius Ozymandias, as you ought to know.’

She giggled. ‘And the tribune is called Gaius Flaminius?’

‘Gaius Flaminius Drusus,’ Ozymandias corrected her. ‘But unless you’re very close to him, it would be more proper that you should call him Flaminius.’

Nitocris frowned. ‘He told me to call him Gaius.’

‘Did he now,’ muttered Ozymandias, and looked away. ‘Very familiar. A little bit too familiar.’

Ten months had passed since his first encounter with the imperial agent. Back then, he was living with his sister-wife in a one room hovel in the Egyptian Quarter and working as a scribe for the commander of the civic guard. Life had certainly improved in any number of ways, he told himself, considering the walled garden in which he and his sister-wife sat, with its lush foliage, tinkling fountains and sweet-smelling blooms. Their new home, too, was a well-appointed Roman townhouse, all porphyry and serpentine, mosaic floors and frescoed walls.

And as he had just told Nitocris, the money for all this did not come from his job in the Library, which Flaminius had secured when his job as scribe fell through after the commander committed suicide, but from his work as an agent. He had worked hard at this, creating his own network of informers and agents, using contacts from his days as a thief and tomb robber. But Flaminius had been out in the Thebaid with the legion, and their contact had been through coded reports sent via signal towers, using flags in the day and torches at night.

Nitocris was picking at a plate of figs. She had also been dragged into this murky world, firstly by Flaminius’ predecessor, Centurion Julius Strabo, then by Flaminius himself. She’d had contacts of her own in the sinister subterranean cult of Christianity; she and Flaminius had attended a meeting of some of the most perverted members of that religion when the imperial agent was investigating Strabo’s murder. He’d long suspected her of infidelity with the tribune, but had never been able to bring himself to accuse her. Knowing that Flaminius and Nitocris were even in the same city made him anxious.

‘So what did Gaius Flaminius Drusus have to say for himself?’ Nitocris asked. ‘Is he still working for the legion? You should invite him for dinner while he’s in Alexandria.’

‘He’s investigating links between robbers in the Thebaid and some people in Nicopolis,’ Ozymandias said shortly. ‘I don’t think he’s in town very long. He’ll be back in some desert outpost fighting off the barbarians soon enough.’

‘That’s not nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t like to think of him travelling up and down the country. Not during the inundation.’ Much of Egypt was under several cubits of water right now: this was the time of year the Nile waters rose. ‘He’s a good man, Ozymandias, and so are you, so you’ve got no reason to bristle so jealously.’ She frowned. ‘What was he doing when you were saving the Library stock from another holocaust?’

Ozymandias shifted. ‘Flaminius was there with me,’ he admitted. ‘He helped out, very valiantly, then hurried off as soon as the excitement was over.’

She looked dreamy. ‘How noble. He doesn’t court the acclaim of the mob, he does his duty and departs.’

‘I wouldn’t call the chief librarian and his cronies a mob,’ Ozymandias remarked. ‘Anyway, isn’t it time for dinner? I’ve worked up a real appetite today.’

He clapped his hands and summoned a slave, who informed him that the cook was putting the finishing touches to a minutal of perch and that dinner would be served in the dining room. Smiling, Ozymandias rose, extended his arm, and led his sister-wife inside.

Dinner that evening was a splendid affair in the lavish dining room lined with the busts of… well, they weren’t Ozymandias’ ancestors, they represented a job lot he’d picked up shortly after buying the house. As the two dined, the busts gave the couple stony expressions of Roman gravitas or perhaps indigestion, Ozymandias could never tell which. No doubt they disapproved of the master of the house’s incestuous marriage; an Egyptian custom hallowed by antiquity, it was looked upon with abhorrence by Roman citizens.

After dinner, they both sat in the atrium while a slave recited Virgil to them and Ozymandias drank until Nitocris reproved him for unbecoming drunkenness. All in all, it was a very Roman affair, although Ozymandias’ citizenship was only skin deep. He was an Egyptian at heart. Two spirits warred within his breast, one Roman, one Egyptian. But which would win?

They took to their bed soon after, and Nitocris went straight to sleep. No doubt she was worn out by her hard life of lounging in the atrium. Ozymandias, whose day had been much more strenuous, lay awake, deep in thought, for a long time. He had a tough decision to make.

—12—

Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

‘And where’ve you two sweethearts been? Walking in the moonlight, is that it?’

Maccabeus eyed Flaminius and Camilla sourly as they entered the dining chamber. He sat alone, drinking cheap Greek wine in a desultory manner, straight from the amphora and giving them a look that had something of envy in it, of jealousy.

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius curtly. He knew nothing about this gladiator, certainly not whether he could trust him. Maccabeus and Camilla had connections in Carthage, but for all he knew the retiarius was also linked with the rebels. He was growing certain that Syphax and Apuleius Victor were.

Camilla threw herself down on a couch and reached out to a table where another amphora of wine sat in its stand. ‘We were talking to the medic who treated Petrus.’

As she poured herself a drink, Maccabeus gave her an appraising look. ‘Why were you doing that?’ he asked.

Camilla took a swig, gulped it down, then opened her mouth to explain. Flaminius sat down heavily beside her, and put a possessive arm round her shoulders. ‘We wanted to thank him for doing his best to save our friend.’

Camilla scowled at him. He indicated Maccabeus with his eyes and gave a slight shake of the head. She glared meaningfully at his arm but he didn’t remove it from her shoulders.

‘Poor old Petrus.’ Maccabeus shook his head despondently. ‘I thought we’d give him a good send off, but nobody’s about.’ He was more than half drunk, and the pottery fragments of another amphora lay on the tiles beside his couch. ‘I know he didn’t die a gladiator’s death, but you’d have thought his comrades would mark his passing better than this.’ He gazed deep into the amphora. ‘Hope I get better treatment when it’s my time to pay the ferryman,’ he muttered.

‘Isn’t Syphax here to keep you company?’ Flaminius had hoped to find the murmillo when they got back, but there was no sign of him in the public rooms.

Maccabeus shook his head. ‘He went out a while back,’ he said, ‘during the first watch. You missed him, if he’s really who you were looking for.’ He studied Flaminius and Camilla, sitting together on one couch, Flaminius’ arm round Camilla’s shoulders. ‘I should be turning in,’ Maccabeus said, rising unsteadily to his feet. ‘Leave you two lovebirds alone.’

‘Sleep soundly,’ said Flaminius, and Camilla echoed his words. As the retiarius shuffled from the chamber, Camilla shrugged off Flaminius’ arm angrily.

‘Why did you do that?’ she demanded. ‘Pawing me so possessively…and us being seen together. It’ll be all over the city tomorrow that Camilla the Amazon Queen has a lover!’

‘That was the idea,’ said Flaminius tiredly. ‘Oh, not to fuel gossip,’ he added, thinking that Camilla had a high opinion of her importance in the eyes of rumourmongers. ‘But to give Maccabeus something to think about. So he wouldn’t suspect the truth.’

‘Oh, is that right?’ Camila snorted. ‘Next time you decide to give people the wrong impression about us, you can consult me first. I don’t want people to think I’ve taken a novice to my bed.’

‘Charming!’ Flaminius commented. He leaned forward. ‘Don’t you see? Someone murdered Petrus. They had a reason, didn’t they? You want to see them dragged in chains before the magistrate? Thrown to the wild beasts in the arena?’

She nodded seriously.

‘Then we need evidence against them,’ he went on. ‘And until we know who is and who isn’t in on the plot, we don’t want them to realise we’re investigating…’

‘It’s Syphax,’ she said. ‘He poisoned his blade, then used it to kill Petrus.’ She sipped at her wine complacently.

Flaminius supressed a desire to knock the cup from her hands. ‘We don’t know that for certain. And we don’t have enough evidence. Bearing false witness is a crime, remember…’

‘I remember!’ she assured him, ‘Punishable by barbaric death! If we want evidence against Syphax, what are we doing lounging around in here, drinking wine?’ Ostentatiously she banged the winecup down on a table and rose to her feet.

Flaminius did not point out that he hadn’t touched a drop. Heartened by her resolve, he got up. ‘Where do you intend to start?’ he asked. ‘I suggest we have a look round Syphax’s cell while he’s out.’

Camilla bit her lip. ‘I was thinking we could search the streets for him, follow him, see where he goes.’

Flaminius shook his head, and strode for the door. ‘You have no idea of where he’s gone,’ he said. ‘Or do you?’ He paused with his hand on the doorknob, eyes narrowed.

She shrugged. ‘There are wineshops that welcome gladiators, and our followers. We’ll try them if we get nowhere in his cell.’

The door to Syphax’s room was firmly locked. Flaminius cobbled together a lock pick from the wire that bound the hilt of Camilla’s sword, then tried to pick the lock, but the wire kept bending.

He glanced up at her. She was giving him a sour look. ‘Useless,’ she said. ‘And I thought you might be working for the prefect! Give that here.’ She snatched it from his hand and took his place at the lock. Flaminius watched admiringly for some time, but she was no more successful. He patted her on her brawny shoulder.

‘Let’s try the wineshop,’ he said. ‘We’re getting nowhere here.’ They might be found by the slave, or Apuleius Victor, and then explanations would be difficult.

Rubbing her cramped muscles, Camilla rose. ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ she told him. She led him to the door to the street. It was cold now, and they wrapped themselves in cloaks before venturing outside.

The streets of Nicopolis were thronged with Alexandrian citizens celebrating their liberation by Hadrian, but Camilla led Flaminius through them at a quick march. ‘No gladiator drinks in this part of town,’ she informed him. ‘Surely you know that? You really are a novice.’

‘Where do gladiators drink, then?’ he asked.

She gave him a wondering look. ‘The Egyptian Quarter, of course. I doubt you’ve even been down there. It’s the bad end of town.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I have friends who used to live in those parts,’ he told her.

Entering the walled city through the Gate of the Sun they hurried down the Canopic Street, Alexandria’s main east-west boulevard, a wide, torchlit thoroughfare lined with palm trees, temples and palaces. Halfway along, they turned south into the Egyptian Quarter. At this time of night, and during a public holiday, the streets were bustling, and it was sometime before they reached the wineshop where gladiators drank of an evening.

‘Free gladiators, of course,’ Camilla grunted. ‘Slave gladiators don’t leave their cells. I was like that once.’

She scanned the faces of the people at the bar, men mostly, although two other gladiatrices were amongst them. Even as she looked around, a dark-skinned man rose and turned. It was Syphax, who had been sitting with his back to them, talking to another man.

Furiously Camilla gestured for Flaminius to duck behind a palm tree. From its cover they watched the Nubian leave the wineshop and vanish down an alleyway.

‘I wonder where he’s going,’ said Camilla.

‘Come on,’ said Flaminius. ‘We’d better find out. This could be just the chance we’re looking for.’

They crossed the bustling street and halted at the alleyway beside the wineshop. It was unlit, and stank vilely, while rubbish was scattered along its surface. There was no sign of Syphax.

‘We’ll never find him in this gloom,’ said Camilla nervously.

‘Quickly,’ Flaminius said, ‘before we draw attention to ourselves.’ He took her arm and steered her up the dark alley.

Things crunched or squelched or burst beneath their feet as they made their way up the unsteady surface. At the back of the wineshop was a yard stacked with amphorae; beyond it the alleyway crossed another at right angles. At the junction Camilla and Flaminius looked up and down the crossway, but they still saw no sign of Syphax.

Camilla cursed as she walked into something that barked her shin. ‘Where could he have got to? I tell you, we’ll never find him. Let’s get back. These alleyways are dangerous.’

The gladiatrix had lost her customary poise. She sounded as if she was afraid. It was a new idea for Flaminius; a frightened gladiatrix.

‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘I’m here to protect you.’

She gave an unwilling laugh. ‘That’s a good one,’ she told him. ‘A novice like you, protect Camilla the Amazon Queen? Ha!’

‘Is Camilla the Amazon Queen afraid, then?’ he teased her. ‘I’ll go on alone in that case.’

‘I’m not afraid, Tiro,’ she said patiently. ‘I just don’t think this is going to get us anywhere. I’m going back to the gladiators’ school, and I suggest you come with me. We could have another try at opening that door, if you like. Or have a look round Apuleius Victor’s office.’

There was a sound of movement from down the left-hand alleyway. They exchanged glances. Flaminius picked his way through the clutter and Camilla hurried to keep up.

‘Do you think it’s him?’ she hissed, grabbing his arm.

‘We won’t find that out unless we look,’ he told her.

They advanced through the darkness as best they could, making slow progress. The alley opened out into a small, starlit court. A dark shape was making its way across it, in the direction of a narrow doorway. Flaminius motioned for Camilla to get into cover and they watched as the figure halted at the door, then rapped on it with a staccato series of knocks. Two long … two short … one short…two long.

Camilla hissed in Flaminius’ ear; ‘A code?’

He put a finger to his lips. The door creaked open and yellow lamplight flooded out. It was Syphax they had been following, Flaminius could see that clearly now, but he didn’t recognise the tall Egyptian who ushered the gladiator inside.

Syphax passed into the lamplight, pausing only once to scan the court. Camilla ducked down. Flaminius froze. He felt sure that the Nubian was staring right at him, but what could he see in this darkness? Syphax turned and vanished through the doorway, which closed with a slam behind him, and darkness returned.

Camilla raised her face. ‘It was Syphax. Who was that Egyptian?’

‘Nobody of my acquaintance,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Syphax has friends in low places.’

Camilla sniffed. The place stank, of human and animal waste as well as rotting fish. ‘He chooses strange places for a night out.’

Flaminius crossed the court. The doorway was very narrow, the door itself old and battered. He put his ear to it but heard nothing. Camilla joined him, standing so close he could smell her sweat.

‘Listening at keyholes again, Tiro?’ she taunted him. ‘Why not try picking the lock?’

He gave her a black look. Of course, she didn’t see it in the darkness. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

He stepped back and examined the house. It was a low, one-storey building of adobe, with a flat roof and no windows and no other doors on this side.

‘We know the secret knock,’ Camilla whispered, joining him. ‘Why don’t we try that?’

Flaminius was regretting lumbering himself with the gladiatrix. ‘They’d know we weren’t part of their gang the moment they saw us.’ He gauged the height of the building. ‘Help me up onto the roof.’

‘Aren’t we both a bit too old for all this?’ she grumbled, but she made a stirrup of her hands and when he placed his sandaled foot in it, she helped boost him up to a level with the edge of the flat roof. He grabbed a hold of the crumbling mudbrick. Abruptly she let go and he dangled there. Fastidiously she wiped her hand on her cloak. Looking down, he hissed, ‘Are you going to just leave me hanging around?’

The pale oval of her face turned upwards. ‘I really don’t want to know what it was you stepped in.’ She wiped more of it off on the wall, then went to lend a hand, or rather a pair of muscular shoulders, which Flaminius used to spring up onto the flat roof.

A gritty wind met him as he reached roof height, blowing from the south west, bringing with it half the sands of the Libyan Desert if he was any judge. He peered down at Camilla, then extended a hand. She jumped, grabbed his wrist with all her considerable weight, scrambled up the side and flung herself down beside him.

‘Are you trying to get us killed?’ he hissed. ‘They must be stone deaf if they haven’t heard the noise!’

Even as he spoke, he heard the door opening below. A light appeared, illuminating the court again. Flaminius peered over the edge to see the shadow of a man silhouetted in the pool of light. As it didn’t move, Flaminius very gradually shifted to a position where he could look straight downwards. The tall Egyptian stood there, scanning the court suspiciously.

A voice from within called something in Egyptian; the tall man replied over his shoulder in the same tongue, then retreated inside, closing the door behind him. The light vanished. Flaminius looked back at Camilla, who knelt in silence on the windswept roof. She caught his gaze, then rubbed at her bare arms.

‘Now what?’ she whispered. ‘How do we get inside now we’re up here?’

A sea of roofs and torchlit streets stretched southwards before breaking off abruptly. The wind now brought with it the stench of the Delta swamps, swollen with water from the mysterious sources of the Nile; a savage land, it was said, haunted by warrior pigmies and terrible saurians.

Above them, the stars leapt across a black sky. Flaminius saw Ursa Major to the north, Sirius low in the east. But he couldn’t see any way of entering the flat roofed mudbrick house.

—13—

The door opened again, and Flaminius heard several voices arguing in Egyptian. He wished Ozymandias was here; the assistant librarian have understood what they were saying. Flaminius had had little need to pick up more than a few words in Egyptian since coming to the province.

Camilla turned on her heel, sword half drawn. He laid his hand on her muscular forearm and pointed at something he’d seen on the far side of the roof.

‘Follow me,’ he told her, and took her to where the top of a rickety wooden ladder was visible. He peered down into an enclosed, cluttered yard, lit by a glow filtering from a small window in the side of the mudbrick wall. Another doorway led into the building on this side. He felt Camilla’s cool hand on his side.

‘What is it?’ he murmured, not turning to look at her. From the front came the sound of more people talking in Egyptian.

‘Do you think they’re looking for us?’ she asked.

‘Very likely,’ he said absently. ‘We’re not going to win any Olympic prizes for stealth. Look,’ he added, drawing her attention to the small window. ‘That might just be what we’re searching for. Get down that ladder before anyone comes up here.’

The sound of talking was moving away. Flaminius surmised that the people they had disturbed thought that the interlopers were elsewhere in the maze of alleyways. It hadn’t yet occurred to them that they might be above, on the roof.

He followed Camilla down into the small yard and she peeked in through the window.

‘What’s in there?’ he whispered.

She turned. ‘See for yourself. An empty, lamplit room.’

Flaminius pushed past her and looked in through the shutters of the window. Inside was indeed a bare chamber, void of furnishings except a basket against one wall and reed mats on the packed earth floor. On the far wall a door hung slightly open, revealing a starlit sky. He realised it was the same door he had seen from the far side of the building—and now it was opening wider!

An Egyptian entered the room, followed by several others, Flaminius ducked back. Just as he did, he thought he saw someone he recognised. And it wasn’t Syphax.

Camilla caught his eyes. ‘What…?’ she began.

He shook his head, motioning for silence, then gestured her to hide behind a stack of boxes. Just as they were both ducking down, the door into the court opened, and he heard voices and footsteps.

Someone clattered angrily up the ladder, then back down again. Someone—perhaps the same person—spoke in Latin. ‘You’re all imagining things. Get back in the house.’ It was Apuleius Victor.

‘He’s right.’ These were Syphax’s deep tones. ‘Back inside.’

The door slammed after them. Flaminius and Camilla exhaled in relief. The gladiatrix began to rise. Flaminius grabbed her shoulder. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We’ve made enough of a hash of things tonight.’

‘That was Apuleius Victor,’ she said urgently. ‘And I’m sure I heard Syphax.’

‘We followed Syphax here, remember?’ said Flaminius. ‘Apuleius Victor is here too. Interesting, though it’s hardly surprising. I told you that I heard them both talking in his office, before Petrus was poisoned. They’re both implicated.’

‘But implicated in what?’ Camilla breathed. ‘We’ll need more evidence before we can… approach the magistrate. More proof. I say we eavesdrop on their conversation.’

‘Do you speak Egyptian?’ Flaminius asked.

She shook her head. ‘Apuleius Victor wasn’t speaking Egyptian,’ she said. ‘Nor was Syphax.’

‘But the others were,’ Flaminius pointed. ‘I don’t know much more Egyptian than how to order a drink. An oversight on my part. But Alexandrian citizens all speak Greek, if not Latin.’ He shrugged, and rose. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘If anything goes wrong, get up that ladder, cross the roof, and then down again. Get back to the main streets as soon as you can.’

‘I’d rather fight,’ she said, eyes flashing.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘You’re strong,’ he admitted, ‘and a good fighter. But one gladiatrix against a gang of Egyptian thugs… Do you want to die that much?’

‘Gladiatrices face death every day,’ she hissed defiantly. Flaminius went to the shuttered window.

He peered in through a crack. The room was crowded. Syphax stood in the middle, and at his side was a figure swathed in a cloak, much like Flaminius and Camilla. The Egyptians wore loincloths and little else. Seemed they didn’t feel the night cold, or else they were too poor to afford more clothes… The next thing Flaminius saw inspired him to fling that particular theory where it belonged.

One Egyptian opened the basket by the wall, and began lifting out handfuls of coins. ‘This is the money we made,’ he was saying in Latin. ‘We brought it here and kept it under guard.’

‘And you, Nubian, let someone follow you here,’ said another, pointing at Syphax. Although he wore only a loincloth like his fellows, the weirdly ornamented staff in this tall Egyptian’s hand gave him a sinister air of authority.

The Nubian growled, and made as if to snap the Egyptian’s pointing finger. ‘We found no one in the alleys or on the roof. It must have been an animal, a scavenging baboon or suchlike.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Apuleius Victor impatiently. ‘The plan for tomorrow goes as follows. There will be a mass fight in the arena, Greeks versus Amazons is the theme. Then we will…’

He broke off, as the tall Egyptian ran his fingertip up the staff. Flaminius’ eyes widened. In the man’s hands was now an asp.

As the snake writhed in sinuous coils, the Egyptian thaumaturge fed it into the basket. Then he produced a reed flute from his belt and began to play, swaying from side to side.

The snake rose from the basket, following the Egyptian’s swaying, dancing with him. The tune was mesmeric. Flaminius felt his eyelids begin to droop. He had heard that the asp could stop its ears to the song of the snake charmer, but this one was under the man’s spell.

The thaumaturge lowered the flute, then reached out to the snake, gently lifting it. Another Egyptian came forward with a small pottery jar. The snake charmer held the asp above it and slowly stroked its jaws. Milky white fluid dripped into the jar. When it was full, the second Egyptian stoppered the jar and handed it to Apuleius Victor with a muttered phrase in Egyptian. The impresario had watched the conjuring with a sour expression. Flaminius leaned closer to see what would happen next.

He heard a splintering noise from the rotten wood of the shutter he was leaning on. To his horror it broke free. As he fell helplessly backwards, he saw faces glaring in his direction.

He hit the littered ground with a thud, fragments of wood cascading down around him, and caught a flash of white limbs as Camilla, in obedience to his word, dashed to the ladder. As Flaminius forced himself to his feet, he saw her silhouetted against the stars. Then she vanished across the roof.

The door burst open and out sprinted Egyptians, knives and axes in their hands, Syphax and Apuleius Victor at their back. They were between Flaminius and the ladder.

He remembered his words to the gladiatrix. He would die here, if he didn’t think of something. And quick.

He dashed to the boxes where they had hidden, Syphax on his heels, scrambled up them, then leapt for the wall, seizing hold of the top. Just as he was lifting his right leg up, the Nubian grabbed hold of his cloak and tugged him backwards.

Without halting, holding stubbornly onto the wall with his left hand, he snapped the cloak pin with his right so the garment dropped, enmeshing the murmillo in its folds as a retiarius might trap a secutor, then hauled himself astraddle the wall.

On the other side was another evil smelling alley whose filthy surface glistened unpleasantly in the sickly light of the stars. He glanced back to see Syphax was still struggling with the cloak. The Egyptian robbers rushed forward. Apuleius Victor helped free Syphax from the cloak. Flaminius flung himself over the wall.

Catching his shoulder on an out-jutting stone as he came down, he landed in what smelt and felt like a midden. Rolling over, he sprang to his feet and sprinted away down the alleyway. Things had not gone well. Camilla had proved an untrustworthy companion on this expedition.

He heard the Egyptians climbing the wall and jumping down into the alley. Sweat ran cold on his bare flesh. Even if he got back to the gladiators’ school, surely Apuleius Victor had seen him, recognised him. He had botched this mission. What would the legate say?

Turning a corner, he collided with a hulking figure. They were both bowled over. He forced himself up, scrabbling for his sword. The newcomer leapt to her feet and drew her own sword, which was when Flaminius recognised her.

‘Camilla!’ he hissed. ‘They’re after me!’

‘Run!’ she told him urgently. ‘The street is this way!’

Light was visible at the far end of the alley, a long way off. A glance backwards revealed the knife wielding Egyptians racing after them. As Flaminius ran alongside Camilla, he remembered that Roman patrols were a rarity in the Egyptian Quarter.

Reaching the street they found themselves only a short way from their starting point. Hurriedly sheathing their swords, they walked through the crowds of revellers as quickly as they could without attracting undue attention. This proved difficult; Flaminius was plastered with night soil, and he received some disgusted looks as they walked up.

‘I came back for you,’ Camilla told him, ‘circled round when I realised you were stuck in the court.’

Flaminius heard shouting from behind him, and turned to see Egyptians running out of the alleyway. They seized hold of the nearest passers-by and seemed to be threatening them. Others scanned the street.

‘Run!’ Camilla grunted.

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘In here.’ He pointed at the steps leading to an all-night bathhouse.

Camilla stared at him. ‘You could certainly do with a wash,’ she began, voice high, ‘but this is no time…’

‘If we run,’ Flaminius steered her up the steps, ‘they’ll see us and give chase. No one will suspect us if we act normally.’

‘I hope you don’t think I’m the kind of girl who frequents bathhouses with men,’ she said. They entered the vestibule, and the doorkeeper sniffed at them.

To Camilla’s evident relief, the bathhouse was the old-fashioned kind where the bathing was segregated. Typical of the provinces, Flaminius thought. When both had bathed and relaxed, they met again in the entrance hall.

‘That was a clever thought,’ said Camilla, peering out through the doors to the street. ‘There’s no sign of those robbers now.’ She turned to Flaminius. ‘But what do we do now? Go back to the school?’

Flaminius led her out into the street. It was quieter now as midnight was near.

‘I don’t know if Syphax or Apuleius Victor recognised me,’ he said. ‘I was cloaked like you until I tried to get over the wall; then Syphax grabbed at me. He didn’t get me but I had to sacrifice my cloak to get away. They could have recognised me then.’

‘What can they do?’ she said. ‘Have you prosecuted for trespassing?’

He gave her a cynical look. ‘They could have me murdered,’ he said simply. ‘What do you think happened to Petrus?’

‘Will you run away?’ she asked him as they walked on towards the Greek Quarter. ‘That might make them all the more suspicious. They would hunt you down.’

‘True,’ said Flaminius. And I’d be throwing away any hope of learning how gladiators are joining the rebel army in the Thebaid, he thought but did not say. ‘I think I’ll have to take a chance.’

‘Be careful,’ she warned him. ‘Just be careful.’

They walked on in silence. As the lights of the Canopic Street became visible up ahead, she added, ‘I’m sorry about running off without you. I didn’t realise you’d get into trouble.’

Thin lipped, he accepted the apology. ‘You were only doing what I’d told you. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.’

‘What do we do next?’ she asked. They followed the Canopic Street in the direction of the suburbs.

‘I’m going to bed as soon as I get in,’ Flaminius told her, ‘and before that I’m going to lock the door. I’d advise you to do the same. Take your sword, don’t check it back into the armoury. In the morning, there’s a little trip I’m going to take to a friend of mine who speaks Egyptian like a native. In fact, he is a native, even if he’s a Roman citizen. I caught some of what the Egyptians were saying, but I couldn’t understand a word. Maybe he’ll be able to translate it.’

‘I don’t know what good that will be,’ she said. ‘But you know best. We’d better lie low after this escapade. Tomorrow I’m going to spar with Maccabeus. We’d better not be seen together too much or people might suspect something.’ She scowled. ‘I wish you hadn’t given Maccabeus the idea that we’re lovers.’

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ Flaminius thought that might well be his epitaph. ‘But no, I’m not going to lie low. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. We know that Syphax and Apuleius Victor are both involved. Tomorrow, when I get back from my Egyptian friend, I’m going to do some more investigating.’

‘As you wish,’ she said, tired and dispirited. ‘Me, I’m going back to my cell to sleep the sleep of the just.’

Together they ascended the steps.

—14—

Ozymandias’ House, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 27th August 124 AD

When Nitocris awoke next morning, Ozymandias was gone. Light streamed in through the shutters, falling in bars upon the linen sheet, but the bed was empty except for her. She sat up, holding up the sheet to cover herself, and gazed at the depression in the bed beside her.

‘Ozymandias?’ she called. No answer. She reached out and touched the bed where he had lain. It was as cold as death.

‘Mistress?’ A eunuch appeared in the doorway.

‘Thales!’ she said. ‘Have you seen your master this morning?’

The eunuch shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen him since last night, ma’am,’ he told her in his high, fluting voice. ‘Should I search the house?’

‘Get me my garments,’ Nitocris commanded, ‘and get out. I’ll find my husband myself.’

She dressed hastily. As the respectable wife of a Roman citizen, she should have told the eunuch to dress her, but as a girl who had lived several years in the Alexandrian gutter, she hated slaves fussing around her. As soon as she was dressed, she hurried from the room to search the house. But there was no sign of her husband.

She questioned the porter, an elderly Syrian who sat dozing in his little niche in the vestibule.

‘Have you seen my husband?’

He blinked at her and shook his head. Then he struck his brow. ‘It must have been the second or third watch of the night. He came down here, very quiet, dressed like a common Egyptian and without so much as a lantern to guide his way. He told me to open the door quietly so as not to wake you.’

She tapped her foot. ‘Did he now?’ she stormed. ‘And you did as you were told?’

The porter looked apologetic. ‘It was the master!’ he said abjectly.

‘Did he not leave a message for me?’ she wanted to know. The porter shook his head.

Nitocris turned on her heel and without saying more, ran out to seek solace in the garden.

As on the previous morning, Flaminius left the gladiators’ school before anyone else had risen. The events of the previous night had disturbed him, but they confirmed in his mind that Syphax and Apuleius Victor had conspired to kill Petrus. Why, he did not know for certain, but it seemed likely that it had been because of the Thracian’s clumsy snooping.

Flaminius had chosen badly when he opted to use Petrus as his agent, and he would have to accept that the man’s death was his responsibility. Flaminius would have to round up the ringleaders of this conspiracy, learn who was supplying weapons and gladiators to the desert rebels, and what their ultimate aim was. With the emperor visiting the province in a few days’ time, it was imperative that the plot be dealt with quickly. Under those circumstances, whatever means he used could be justified.

He came out onto the wharf and approached the Library. The harbour was filled with ships as ever, and the Pharos shone far out to sea, but no ships were mysteriously on fire this time. As he passed through the colonnade leading to the Library portico, he wondered absently what had been the cause of that sudden drama. It was unusual for a ship to go up in flames like that. The crews of the vessels Flaminius had sailed on had always been especially vigilant when it came to fire, and with good reason.

He hurried up the wide steps. What had made him certain that Syphax and the impresario were behind Petrus’ death was the rigmarole with the asp and the snake charmer; they had milked that snake for venom. Perhaps it was the same creature that had provided the poison that was Petrus’ undoing. In which case, what mischief were they planning now?

Then there was that mysterious phrase in Egyptian; “Sma en add,” if he had heard it correctly. Maybe it would mean something to Ozymandias.

He crossed the echoing marble floor where Greek scholars stood in small groups or sat at reading desks, studying papyrus scrolls. At the main desk, he looked for a sign of Ozymandias, but to his dismay the scribe wasn’t there.

Flaminius addressed one of the librarians on duty, a tall Alexandrian with greying hair.

‘Have you seen Ozymandias today?’ he asked the man. The Alexandrian looked him up and down with all the superciliousness of his race.

‘Who do you refer to?’ he asked, gazing with distaste at Flaminius’ gladiator harness. ‘The Library is open to all, assuming they have suitable scholarly qualifications. Assuming they can read, even. Can you read?’

Although he was privately amused by the librarian’s arrogance, Flaminius had no time for arguments, intellectual or otherwise.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. ‘I can read Latin and Greek, anyway. I’m looking for an Egyptian who works here, a man called Ozymandias. Small, about so high; shaven head, protuberant lips…’

The Alexandrian librarian turned away. ‘No one of that description works here,’ he said.

‘Ozymandias has been working here for months. He was here yesterday. Where is he now?’ When the librarian refused to meet his eyes, Flaminius laid his hand on the man’s arm. ‘Answer me!’

The echoes of his voice danced round and round the great marble hall. He had hardly lifted his voice above a whisper, but now the hallowed hush was broken, and scholarly heads were turning to gaze at him in disapproval.

The Alexandrian lifted a reproachful finger to his lips for quiet. ‘Acting like a barbarian! I will have to ask you to leave at once. There is no Ozymandias working here. You’re mistaken. Please leave or I will have you ejected by force.’

Flaminius was baffled. ‘He was here yesterday,’ he insisted. ‘Were you? When the ship was on fire and your precious Library almost went up in smoke? If it hadn’t been for me and Ozymandias, you’d be sitting in a burnt-out ruin.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ said the librarian incredulously.

‘Is there some kind of problem here?’

A cold-eyed man with a jutting beard appeared in a nearby doorway. Flaminius recognised him as the senior librarian.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You remember me, don’t you? From yesterday?’

‘This gladiator,’ the first librarian butted in, ‘seems to be making threats. He forced his way in here asking for non-existent personnel and then threatened to burn the library down! He’s a barbarian of some description…’

‘I’m a Roman…’

‘As I said, a barbarian,’ the librarian said.

‘Thank you,’ said the senior librarian. ‘I will take care of this.’ He smiled pleasantly at Flaminius. ‘Please follow me.’

The senior librarian took his place behind a marble desk that was littered with scrolls, and invited Flaminius to sit on a marble bench. ‘Firstly, I must apologise,’ said the librarian. ‘The man you spoke with is not one of our usual staff; in fact, he’s a scholar in the Museum, but as a favour he agreed to fill in for one of our assistant librarians. He knows very little about the running of the library, and I must admit, I think he was a little offended by your, ah, appearance.’ He glanced significantly at Flaminius’ clothes, such as they were. ‘You have every right to dress as a gladiator, of course,’ he added with an indulgent smile. ‘As a youth, I was fond of affecting the garb of a charioteer, not to mention giving my heart away to heartless boys. Such is the folly of youth. But perhaps the Library is not the best place for a young fellow like you to frequent. The Hippodrome, perhaps, or the Gymnasium.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’ll consider your advice.’ The librarian couldn’t imagine a genuine gladiator might wander into the Library. Not that he was a genuine gladiator? ‘The man I spoke with was filling in for one of your assistant librarians?’

‘Usermaatre Setepenre.’

Flaminius scratched his head. ‘You speak Egyptian?’

The librarian laughed. ‘Indeed I do. My main area of expertise is the Hellenic corpus of the Heliopolitan hierophant and historian Manetho, but during my studies I have learnt much of the Egyptian tongue. A branch of learning sadly neglected by many of my Alexandrian contemporaries. But Usermaatre Setepenre is the name of the assistant librarian who is currently absent.’

‘Oh,’ said Flaminius, disappointed. ‘I was hoping it might be my friend Ozymandias. He works here, but I can’t find him.’

The librarian laughed again. ‘You’re using the Hellenic form of the name, of course. Forgive an old pedant. Ozymandias is how Usermaatre Setepenre’s name is rendered into Greek.’

‘I see,’ said Flaminius, startled. ‘No need to apologise. But could you tell me where Ozymandias is? You say he’s absent?’

‘I hoped that you, as his friend, could tell me!’ the librarian replied. ‘He didn’t come into work this morning.’ Flaminius’s heart pounded. What had happened to Ozymandias?

‘I’m sure he will appear soon,’ the librarian assured him. ‘Do you wish to leave a message for him? Is there anywhere you can be contacted?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘Maybe you could help me,’ he said.

‘Anything I can do,’ said the librarian generously.

‘You speak Egyptian,’ Flaminius said. ‘What does “Sma en add” mean?’

‘Sma en add?’ the librarian repeated. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps you misheard it. In gutter Egyptian, it could be taken to mean “to kill, or bring death, to the youth, or young man.’ He broke off. ‘Is anything the matter? You seem disturbed.’

Flaminius shook himself. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, rising abruptly. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll go to Ozymandias’ house and see if I can find him there. I’ll tell you if I find out what’s happened.’ He left the library, his mind in turmoil.

“To kill the youth,” the Egyptian snake charmer had said when he gave Apuleius Victor the pot of venom. The youth? What youth? Could they mean…him? He was hardly a youth in his own eyes, but as a recruit to the Family of Apuleius Victor he was known as Tiro. That suggested youth. Were they conspiring against him?

He was jumping at shadows. Tiro didn’t literally mean youth. But who was the poison for? They had killed Petrus with venom; the Thracian had been too unsubtle in his investigations, he had provoked suspicion. They had poisoned him.

They were ruthless, and they had something to hide. But now they intended to kill someone else. Had Flaminius betrayed himself?

—15—

He walked through the morning streets, so anxious he went in haste without being aware of it. Soon he was on the street where Ozymandias’ townhouse stood, a well-appointed edifice in the Roman style with a columned portico. Ascending the steps, Flaminius knocked on the door and waited patiently.

A slave showed him inside, leading him down the vestibule with its fresco that showed the conquests of Ozymandias’ heroic namesake, the Pharaoh, and into a garden where he was asked to wait.

He was admiring a fishpond where carp swam when he heard a soft footstep behind him. He turned, heart in his mouth, to see Nitocris standing framed by the doorway into the house.

‘Gaius!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Gaius!’

Racing up, she flung her arms around him. He held her close, feeling her heart pounding through her thin linen dress. They hadn’t spoken in months. He thought she hated him.

She withdrew, looking bashfully at his gladiator gear. ‘What in the name of Osiris are you wearing?’ she asked.

Flaminius gave himself a rueful glance, then took a long look at Nitocris. Slender, elegant, her long, dark, naturally straight hair hanging in dozens of pretty ringlets that must have kept her handmaiden occupied for hours, she wore a long, embroidered dress that hugged her form. Bangles and rings jangled on her slim arms, while kohl made her large eyes seem all the larger.

‘Didn’t your brother tell you he’d seen me?’ he asked. ‘I’m, er, undercover.’

‘As a gladiator?’ She shrieked with laughter. ‘He said very little when he came home last night, but he did mention some excitement at work, and that you were involved.’ She minutely examined the ground. ‘He must have gone somewhere in the middle of the night. I’ve not seen him since waking.’

‘That’s very odd,’ Flaminius said with a frown.

She looked up and nodded. ‘It took me back to the bad old days, after our parents died. He would slip out at night, sometimes not come back for days. We used to argue about it, but I didn’t know what he was doing. Until he was caught robbing tombs.’

Flaminius gazed round at the splendid garden. Nightingales sang on a tree in the middle of a lawn, and a small black cat, curled up by the pond, watched them surreptitiously, tail twitching.

He looked at Nitocris again. He had been in Egypt for ten months, and yet aspects of its culture still unsettled him—brother-sister marriages being one of them. ‘I doubt he’s gone back to tomb robbing,’ he assured her. ‘Not now he’s on the payroll.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t think he had,’ she said quietly, ‘but I did wonder if you had sent him on a mission. Oh, don’t worry about him,’ she added with an attempt at a laugh. ‘I expect you’ll find him at work. He sometimes goes to the Library early. Says it’s best to get the important work out of the way before the scholars get under his feet.’

Flaminius gave her a worried look. ‘I’ve just come from the Library,’ he said. ‘They haven’t seen him this morning.’

Nitocris wrung her hands. ‘Oh, but where can he have got to?’ she asked anxiously. ‘You’re sure you didn’t send him out on one of your missions?’

‘I think I’d have remembered.’ Flaminius took her hands and looked sternly into her eyes. ‘Please don’t worry about your brother,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure he comes home. I’ll find him and tell him his sister is waiting for him. He’ll come straight home then.’

‘Oh, Gaius,’ she murmured, meeting his gaze with melting, soulful eyes.

He remembered the night they had spent together in the crypt beneath the ruined temple. Did she truly have feelings for him? She had always been as mysterious as the sphinx.

‘I know you will,’ she told him. Gently she disengaged his grip and clapped her hands to summon the slave. ‘Will you have wine?’ she added.

‘I remember when all you had to offer was beer and lentils,’ said Flaminius with a smile. ‘Look at you now!’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t stay, I’ll be expected back at the gladiators’ school. I have unfinished business there. I’ve got to see a man about a snake.’

‘Farewell, then, Gaius,’ said Nitocris sadly. ‘If you see my brother, tell him I’ll be waiting for an explanation.’ She turned to the slave. ‘Show our guest out.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the slave, and he led Flaminius from the garden.

—16—

Gladiators’ School, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 27th August 124 AD

Returning from the city, Flaminius met Camilla in the peristyle of the school. She was pale,

‘Where’ve you been? Syphax has been asking questions.’

‘What sort of questions?’ Camilla’s hands were shaking. What interrogation could frighten the hardened gladiatrix?

‘Where I was last night, where you were.’ She bit her lip. ‘Maccabeus told him that we had become lovers. I left them sparring in the ring and came looking for you, but you weren’t in your cell. Did you go to talk with your Egyptian friend?’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius shortly, and they began walking towards the small arena. The din of practise swords floated towards them on the warm air.

‘What did he say?’ she persisted. ‘Did he translate what you heard the Egyptians saying?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘He wasn’t there. He seems to have gone missing.’

She halted and stared at him.

‘Gone missing?’

‘That’s what I said,’ Flaminius replied irritably.

‘So you couldn’t get a translation,’ she mused.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No, I got a translation. Ozymandias isn’t the only one who speaks Egyptian in this city.’

‘Your friend is called Ozymandias?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

She shrugged. ‘No reason. Are you going to continue your investigation, or are you going to practise? I’ve been asked to go to another school.’

This startled Flaminius. ‘Another school? Why?’

‘This afternoon there’s going to be a battle between Amazons and Greeks, and I’m fighting alongside some other girls as one of the Amazons. They want me to join them for the final training. I won’t see you again until we’re in the arena.’

Apuleius Victor had said something last night that corroborated with this. ‘I’ll show my face in the training arena,’ he told her. ‘But yes, I’ll be doing some snooping before the fight. Investigate Syphax’s cell like we intended to. We need to find what happened to that asp venom. We don’t want anyone else going the way Petrus did.’

The gladiatrix shook her head ‘I really don’t think that would be a good idea.’ Her eyes were serious. ‘You could get yourself in… deep trouble, Tiro. Believe me.’

He shrugged as if he didn’t care for his life. As she turned to leave, she added, ‘You didn’t tell me what those Egyptian words meant.’

He gave her a bleak smile. ‘Nothing good.’

She gazed at him a moment longer. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said at last, and vanished up the steps into the colonnade.

Wondering who, if anyone, he could trust, Flaminius strolled round the peristyle. He considered joining Maccabeus and Syphax in the training arena, but decided that first he would sit down on a marble bench and order his thoughts a little.

They meant to kill him. That was clear. What had happened to Ozymandias might have no connection, but there was little doubt that Apuleius Victor, Syphax, and their mysterious Egyptian allies, intended to kill him. But how had he given himself away?

They might have seen him last night, of course, but it was before the shutter broke, before he had been forced to beat a hasty retreat, that they had spoken the words that seemed to seal his fate. So who had betrayed him? He gazed in the direction Camilla had taken.

He was wasting time. From the distant sound of steel on steel, he could be sure that Syphax and Maccabeus were both occupied. He had not seen Apuleius Victor or the slave. Camilla must have left the school by now. He rose to his feet and hurried in the direction the gladiatrix had taken.

Once back indoors, he made his way down the passage that led away from the dining chamber. All was quiet, silent as an Egyptian mausoleum. He reached Syphax’s cell without incident and tried the door. It was still firmly locked.

With a sigh, he produced his impromptu lock pick and knelt down on the cold mosaic floor, inserting the wire into the keyway and gently probing the mechanism. He located the tumblers, tried to move them. Sweat sprang out on his brow. They were immobile. He swallowed and tried again. Was he doing something wrong? A third attempt and he was growing desperate.

A door slammed down the passage and he froze. People were speaking. It sounded like Apuleius Victor and someone else. Footsteps drew closer. Panting, he redoubled his efforts. The lock sprang open and he shot inside, closing the door behind him with the merest click.

He leant back, his attention on what he could hear outside. Someone was walking down the passage.

He darted to the side so the door would hide him when it was opened. Clenching a fist, he prepared himself to strike the newcomer from behind and make good his escape before they could see him.

The footsteps halted outside the door. For a long time, nothing happened. His body was slick with sweat. He was amazed that they couldn’t smell him, he was sweating so much. He stared in horrified anticipation at the doorknob, expecting to hear the key in the lock and see the handle turn.

To his relief, the footsteps moved away. With a heartfelt sigh, he turned.

The small room was no different from his own cell, Spartan yet splendid, with a bunk on one side, a low occasional table beside it, and a wardrobe against the back wall. Mosaic floor and frescoed walls completed the effect of simple luxury. A gladiator’s sword hung from a peg on the right-hand wall.

He went to the wardrobe and tried its door. It was unlocked. Inside he found sandals, kilts, cloaks, and a couple of Tyrian purple dalmatics. Gifts, Flaminius guessed, from some admirer. Free gladiators were well paid from prize money, but not so well paid they could afford such luxury. Gifts were not uncommon, though. He felt the soft fabric and wondered if it wasn’t silk.

But he couldn’t see the jar that the Egyptian had given to Apuleius Victor. Maybe it was in the impresario’s room, but Flaminius had thought that Syphax would have it, since he was the one who would be using it later today. To end Flaminius’ life?

Apuleius Victor strode from the colonnade. Reaching the training arena, he found Maccabeus and Syphax fighting desultorily in the late morning sun. They looked up as he entered and wearily lowered their arms. Syphax sheathed his sword and took off his helmet.

‘A bit thin on the ground today,’ the impresario remarked.

Maccabeus also took the opportunity to uncover his head. ‘The woman said she’s been asked to train with a family of gladiatrices. Isn’t that right?’

Apuleius Victor’s face darkened. ‘I’m not concerned about her,’ he said. ‘She was right; I have asked her to spend the morning with Diana’s Viragos. You know we’re putting on quite a show today: Hercules versus the Amazons. You’re Greeks, the ladies are Amazons. His imperial majesty, in whose honour you are fighting, is a lover of all things Greek, and I don’t just mean their young boys.’

Maccabeus shrugged. ‘Is it Tiro you’re worried about?’ he asked. ‘Lad’s young. Young lads like their beauty sleep. We were all young once, even me.’

‘It is indeed Tiro who concerns me,’ said Apuleius Victor, and he exchanged glances with Syphax. ‘He’s not as young as all that, Maccabeus. You’d make an indulgent father, but Tiro doesn’t need anyone to speak up in his defence.’

He drew Syphax to one side and spoke to him in an undertone. Maccabeus saw the Nubian’s face change, first with anger, then a cold resolve. Apuleius Victor patted him on the shoulder, then turned to Maccabeus as Syphax walked off in silence.

‘Syphax will be busy for a while,’ he said. ‘Now—it’s been a long time since I was in the arena.’ He began to equip himself. ‘I’ll spar with you until he’s back.’

As Maccabeus replaced his helmet, he wondered what fate Syphax had in store for Tiro.

—17—

Flaminius was looking under the bunk when he heard more footsteps in the passage. As his eyes fell on a small clay pottery jar, the sound reach his ears.

He cursed and got to his knees. Looking up, he cocked his head. Whoever it was, they were coming closer. Very quietly he got up and stole over to the wall again. He leant back and listened, trying to quiet his laboured breathing.

The footsteps came closer, closer, closer… then moved away, going further down the passage. Flaminius breathed another sigh of relief, then shot back across the cell and fished the pottery jar from under the bunk. With a grimace, he lifted the little lid and sniffed at the colourless liquid within.

The key turned in the lock.

He spun round, involuntarily dropping the pot. As it shattered on the floor the door swung open, revealing Syphax.

They both stared at each other. Flaminius glanced down at the smashed pot and Syphax followed his gaze.

‘You tried to destroy it, Tiro,’ said the Nubian.

‘You were going to kill me with it!’ said Flaminius.

Syphax curled his lip. ‘Was that you spying on us last night?’

‘What if I was?’ Flaminius said challengingly.

Syphax flung himself at Flaminius, seizing him by the hair and trying to force him facedown onto the venom stained floor. Flaminius wrapped his arms round Syphax’s muscular thigh in a hold no professional wrestler would recognise, and tried to push him backwards.

Syphax lashed out with his left fist, pounding Flaminius’ neck. Flaminius stamped down on Syphax’s foot, at the same time rearing upwards. Losing his grip, Syphax staggered backwards and collided with the wall.

All was lost. Flaminius had to finish this killer before the Nubian murdered him. He rushed him, but his sandaled foot came down in the pool of venom. He slipped and fell. Syphax, recovered, tried to stomp on his throat. Flaminius rolled over, grimly aware that he was lying in the spilt asp venom. If any of it got into a cut, he would be finished.

As he rose Syphax seized him from behind in a more traditional wrestling hold. Flaminius gritted his teeth and flung the Nubian over his shoulder. He reached up to the sword hanging on the wall.

Syphax got to his knees to find the sword at his throat. His back was to the wall. He looked wildly about him.

‘There’s no escape,’ Flaminius said. ‘Now you can answer a few questions.’

‘I’ll tell you nothing!’ Syphax hissed. Flaminius pricked his throat with the sword tip. A small round bead of blood appeared on the man’s dark skin. ‘I should have taken that sword in the first place,’ the Nubian hissed, ‘and killed you with it.’

‘Like you killed Petrus?’ Flaminius asked. ‘And Felix?’ Syphax said nothing. Flaminius traced the sword tip across his skin. ‘Answer me! Answer me or I’ll cut your throat!’

Another figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Enough!’ It was the impresario. ‘Put the sword down. This is not the arena. That’s where you’re paid to fight, Tiro, not here.’

Flaminius flung the sword down on the bunk. He put out a hand to help Syphax to his feet, but the Nubian struck it away and rose unaided. He turned to Apuleius Victor. ‘He’s a spy! We’ve got to kill him!’

‘As you killed Petrus?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Another spy,’ Syphax spat. ‘He asked too many questions. And you—you’ve been spying on us too.’

‘It’s alright, Syphax,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘I know what this is about.’ He beckoned. Camilla appeared in the doorway. ‘These people are naturally upset and worried by Petrus’ death.’

Syphax snarled. ‘Both of them? We’ll have to kill them both!’

Apuleius Victor shook his head. ‘A death in the arena is to be expected. A death in the school will provoke comment at the very least. We do not wish to attract attention to ourselves.’

‘Why did you kill Petrus?’ asked Flaminius. ‘And Felix? Did he ask too many questions?’

Apuleius Victor turned to Camilla. ‘Thank you for speaking to me,’ he said. ‘You must go to join Diana’s Viragos now. Syphax, go and spar with Maccabeus. I will explain things to Tiro. He deserves it. You all do, of course, but I’ll speak to you separately.’

‘Are you going to cut them in on the deal?’ Syphax was incredulous. ‘We can explain their death easily! An accident during training!’

‘And what of Maccabeus?’ Apuleius Victor said. ‘He may become suspicious. Will we kill him too? I’m not going to sacrifice my entire family! Besides, the poison has been spilt. It’s a sign from the gods; this is not the right course. Now get back to training.’

Syphax opened his mouth as if to speak, then turned angrily and strode from the room. With a half apologetic look at Flaminius, Camilla followed.

Flaminius watched her go, his eyes cold. When he looked next at Apuleius Victor, the impresario had something like compassion on his face.

‘I saw you both last night,’ he said. ‘I spoke to Camilla today, and got the truth from her without undue resistance. Don’t blame her.’

‘She betrayed me,’ said Flaminius. ‘Why shouldn’t I blame her?’

‘Come with me,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘I must speak with you. Remember, you are in the arena in less than an hour.’

Flaminius followed the impresario down the passage to the office, where he was invited to sit down at the desk. Apuleius Victor instructed his slave to bring them food. After bowls of steaming beans and grain had been laid out on the desk, he shut and locked the door, then went over to his chair and sat.

‘Have some wine,’ he said, pouring Flaminius a glass. ‘Well, you have known some crowded hours recently. You had a busy night, and you were up early. Now a fight with Syphax. You must have really cared for Petrus. Or was it Camilla who persuaded you? I know she liked the man, not that he was interested in her…’

‘You’ve pretty much admitted that you were responsible for Petrus’ death,’ Flaminius snapped. ‘What is to stop us from reporting you to the magistrate?’ He studied the man for his reaction. Maybe he could recruit Apuleius Victor as he had recruited Petrus; surely the impresario was closer to the mysterious Arctos than Petrus ever had been. ‘Syphax said something about cutting me in on the deal. Well, maybe we can make another deal.’

Apuleius Victor regarded him quietly, with a cold smile. Flaminius couldn’t understand his reaction. It wasn’t that of a criminal unmasked. He was too confident.

‘You want to make a deal with me?’ Apuleius Victor laughed. ‘You’re a barefaced rogue. I’m really beginning to like you!’ His gritted teeth suggested that the statement was ironic. ‘Yes, I think we could make a deal, but not in the way you think. Incidentally, I don’t think you’ll get anywhere if you take me to the magistrate.’

‘I suppose you’ve bought him,’ Flaminius said. ‘No matter. That was Camilla’s idea, not mine.’

‘Oh?’ said Apuleius Victor, smiling good humouredly. ‘And what was it you hoping to achieve? Blackmail? Was that it?’

Flaminius smiled back. ‘Let’s just say I hoped to influence you.’

‘You?’ Apuleius Victor laughed again. ‘You’re nothing but a novice gladiator from the gutter, and you think you could “influence” me? You have no idea who I am.’

‘I think I have,’ Flaminius replied. ‘You’re a desperate man who has a secret that he’s willing to murder to preserve. But I can offer you an alternative.’

‘Is that so?’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘I’d be fascinated to know what you have to offer me. When you joined us, you were clearly on the run, a deserter from the legions I would guess from that Mithras brand in your brow, spent some time in Britain going by your tattoo. You showed promise, fighting Felix well. I agreed to take you on. I saved you from the gutter, from execution, no doubt.’

‘You’re guessing,’ said Flaminius reprovingly.

‘I am,’ said Apuleius Victor, ‘but no one becomes a gladiator unless they are desperate. You call me desperate, but I’m a man of position in this city. You are a nothing, a non-entity. What do you have that you can offer me?’

‘Believe me,’ said Flaminius, ‘I could make life very difficult for you—unless you do what I want.’

Apuleius Victor laughed once again. ‘I do like you, Tiro,’ he said, ‘but don’t push your luck. Don’t revel in what you must see as a victory. Very well. You could have me dragged in chains before the magistrate…’

Flaminius shook his head, pounded the desk with his fist.

‘Listen to me, you fool,’ he said. ‘I’m offering you an opportunity you can’t afford to waste. You say you have position in this city, but you’re mixed up in some very murky business. I saw you with those snake worshipping Egyptians. I don’t know quite what it is you’ve got yourself mixed up in, or how, but I can offer you a way to redeem yourself.’

‘I’m starting to get very tired with your nonsense,’ Apuleius Victor said with sudden impatience. ‘Let’s forget this guttersnipe bluster. I am the one who has an offer to make. You see, I am not who you think I am. And I can offer you work—secret work—that will be well paid, far better paid than risking your neck in the arena. You’ve proved to me that you have the makings of someone who could work for me, although you clearly need training. Are you interested?’

Flaminius sat back, piqued. He was getting nowhere, and he didn’t quite understand what the impresario was getting at. But maybe the man would help him penetrate the conspiracy without him needing to blow his cover.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Tell me more.’

—18—

‘You’re right,’ Apuleius Victor began, ‘I did conspire in the murder of Petrus, although Syphax was a more than willing tool in my hands. But I was not to blame for Felix’s death.’

‘Who was, then?’ Flaminius asked.

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ the impresario told him. ‘And you are going to help me.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I want to know as much as you do,’ he said. ‘But there is something more important than learning who is killing off your family of gladiators.’

‘You think so?’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘Well, I’d agree with that. I’m not just interested in Felix’s death, I’m interested in the whole crooked gang who brought it about. I have my suspicions, but first I need evidence.’

‘Surely if you want a crooked gang,’ said Flaminius, ‘you need look no further than the charmers you were with last night.’

Apuleius Victor nodded. ‘They are the main suspects,’ he said. ‘I have been amassing evidence against them ever since I joined them—with Syphax’s help. But I have had to make compromises, and the death of Petrus was one. He was asking questions, questions that got back to the charmers, as you call them, and began to worry them. They gave Syphax the means to rid us of the spy. I was willing to sacrifice Petrus. He was a mediocre gladiator and his usefulness was at an end. And now the gang seems more willing to trust me.’

‘They didn’t trust you before?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What exactly is their game? For that matter, what’s yours?’

‘Gambling,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘They run a gambling operation, taking bets on the games in the amphitheatre and the races in the hippodrome. As you know, gambling is illegal except at Saturnalia…’

‘Jove help me,’ said Flaminius despairingly. ‘Are you telling me you work for the civic guard?’

Apuleius Victor motioned him to be quiet. ‘I work for myself,’ he said. ‘I am a gladiator impresario, as well you know. But on the side, I am a paid agent of the prefect and his civic guard, yes.’

Flaminius sighed. ‘Investigating gambling?’ It all seemed so banal.

‘You can take that attitude,’ said Apuleius Victor coldly. ‘But it’s not just gambling. They fix games. I don’t like that.’

‘Must be easy, from what I’ve seen,’ said Flaminius. ‘Most of the games seem to be fixed. The only people to die are slave gladiators, as a rule.’

‘Gladiators are too expensive a resource to waste,’ Apuleius Victor told him. ‘The mob wants to see blood. I have to ensure that blood is spilt. But I do not make enough money to buy new gladiators after every game.’

‘What about your salary from the civic guard?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Doesn’t that help?’

Apuleius Victor gave him a thin-lipped smile. ‘They pay handsomely, when they remember. But what causes me the biggest problems are the intrigues of the gangs. I have come to terms with one gang, as you have seen, though it took long enough. But they are by no means the only criminals working the amphitheatres and hippodromes. They did not have Felix killed. In fact, I believe they lost a great deal of money that way. No, other gangs are at work. A whole syndicate. And I want you to help me investigate it.’

‘These other gangs,’ said Flaminius thoughtfully. ‘This syndicate. Did they have Felix killed? Yes? Why? Did he know too much too?’

Apuleius Victor shook his head. ‘Felix was as innocent as a sacrificial lamb. He died for profit. The profit of the illegal gambling syndicate.’

‘How?’ asked Flaminius.

‘That’s exactly what I want to find out,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘I want to find out, the prefect wants to find out. And the gang I have joined also wants to find out. Due to my position, my hands are tied. I cannot investigate any further than I have done already. Joining one gang has effectively hampered my movements.’

‘There’s Syphax,’ said Flaminius. ‘Isn’t he helping you?’

‘Syphax is my agent,’ Apuleius Victor said. ‘But he’s useless for undercover work. You have shown some aptitude. I could use that.’

‘You’ve proved yourself to be ruthless. I wonder if I truly have a choice. If I was to say no, what would happen? You’ve already been plotting against me…’

‘A mistake,’ Apuleius Victor assured him. ‘I thought you another prying, incompetent snoop like Petrus, to be dealt with. But now I see that your talents are not to be wasted.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius. ‘So, you’re looking to recruit me? Put me on the payroll?’

Apuleius Victor coughed. ‘I already pay you handsomely,’ he said. ‘Requesting you take on new duties, shall we say?’

‘You mean I don’t get a bonus?’ Flaminius asked.

‘I can assure you that you will receive a substantial donative,’ the impresario said, ‘based on results. Infiltrate the other gang and I will pay you a generous sum out of my own pocket.’ Grasping Flaminius by the wrist, he stared fiercely into his eyes. ‘Work with me on this and we will smash this whole crime ring!’

It was time to come clean. Flaminius fished out the lance-head brooch he had been concealing in his belt pouch since joining the family. ‘I’m glad to hear that you’re impressed by my abilities as a spy,’ he said quietly.

Puzzled, Apuleius Victor examined the brooch. ‘Did you steal this?’ he inquired. ‘Are you aware of the penalty for stealing imperial property?’

‘I didn’t steal it,’ Flaminius stated.

‘Then you’re an imperial courier?’ Apuleius Victor asked, bewildered.

Why did people always think that? ‘I’m a… Look, you don’t need to know what I am,’ Flaminius said. ‘All you need to know is that this means that I am not to be hindered. I am on the emperor’s business. I’m not an imperial courier, but like a courier, my work is such that I have to be able to go anywhere. Do you know what the road network was built for?’

Apuleius Victor seemed startled by this apparent change of subject. ‘To improve transport links,’ he said off-handedly, ‘improve communications for people throughout the empire.’

‘Right,’ said Flaminius, ‘and wrong. ‘To improve communications, yes, but for the people? No. For the legions. And for the legions’ scouts and messengers. Do you know, I once travelled from the wilds of Caledonia to the emperor’s villa in Tibur in less than two months?’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘It couldn’t be done by any normal man.’

‘It can be done,’ Flaminius said, ‘by a man making good use of the road network, the system of waystations and post horses used by imperial couriers.’ He looked a little faraway. It hadn’t been so long ago, really, but it seemed like an eternity. He wondered what kind of secret network the rebels employed to smuggle gladiators from the Delta to the Thebaid. ‘I cheated a little, of course, but there were pressing reasons…’

Apuleius Victor had had enough. ‘What in Pluto’s name are you doing working as a gladiator?’

‘Very well, I’m an imperial agent,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus of the Twenty Second Legion, Commissary Division, at your service.’

The blood drained from Apuleius Victor’s face. ‘An imperial agent?’ he whispered. ‘And you’ve infiltrated my family? But… why?’

Hastily, Flaminius laid out the facts. ‘Someone is sending gladiators and gladiatorial weapons to the rebels in the Thebaid,’ he concluded. ‘I’m here to find out who and how.’

‘No one in my family is involved,’ Apuleius Victor said dogmatically. ‘Although we have had problems with men departing in the night,’ he added, scratching his chin, ‘taking equipment with them.’

‘I’ve heard as much from Camilla,’ Flaminius said. ‘Was one of them a murmillo, by any chance?’

‘Yes!’ Apuleius Victor said in surprise. ‘Diomede. He vanished two months ago. I replaced him with Syphax, who proved to have other uses. But Diomede was a good fighter. You have news of him?’

‘I’m sorry to break it to you like this,’ said Flaminius, with a cold smile, ‘but he’s dead. I killed him.’ Apuleius Victor stared at him. ‘It was about a month ago,’ the tribune added, ‘so I don’t think he spent long on the run. He was with the rebels.’

Apuleius Victor was having trouble taking all this in. ‘An imperial agent,’ he mused. ‘It would have been… politer if you had informed me in the first place.’

‘I had no idea that you were in the business,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Take that as a credit to your own skill at undercover work.’

‘Syphax suspects you,’ Apuleius Victor warned him. ‘He doesn’t know the full truth about me. He thinks we are working with the gang for our own profit, as far as I know. But he doesn’t like you. He thinks you’re working for someone. And he’s right! I don’t think you can stay here much longer.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t know where else I can go. I think, in fact, that I’ll take up your generous offer.’

‘You’re going to infiltrate the rival gang?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘I’ve run into a dead end here,’ he said, ‘and I won’t find out any more if all that is going on is illegal betting and murder. But perhaps I’ll find what I’m looking for in this syndicate, if I can only join it.’

‘Good man,’ said Apuleius Victor. ‘Our interests are not entirely at odds. You help me and I’ll help you. All I can tell you is that I have heard vague references to somewhere in the Delta, a place that the gangs hold sacred.’

‘The Delta’s a big place,’ Flaminius observed. ‘And we’re in the middle of the Nile inundation.’

Maybe this sacred place was the haunt of the man who Camilla’s erstwhile lover had called Arctos. Arctos. The name was Greek, meaning bear. Was Arctos a Greek?

There was a brassy flourish of trumpets from the direction of the arena, and Apuleius Victor sat up, startled. ‘We have been talking too long.’ He rose and opened the door.

Maccabeus was standing there. ‘Sir,’ said the gladiator respectfully. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening. Are we to go to the arena? It’s noon. They’ll be executing the condemned prisoners now. We’ll be late if we wait any longer.’

‘My apologies,’ said Apuleius Victor curtly. ‘I was discussing business. Yes, you had all better go to the arena pens at once. You too, Flaminius.’

‘Tiro,’ the tribune corrected him.

Maccabeus was still standing in the doorway. ‘Is there anything else?’ the impresario asked.

‘Sir,’ said the gladiator, ‘there’s no one else here. The gladiatrix has joined Diana’s Viragos. As for Syphax…’ He spread his arms awkwardly. ‘He’s gone.’

—19—

Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 27th August 124 AD

Without Syphax or Camilla, the march to the amphitheatre seemed no more than a self-important amble. On reaching the subterranean pen, however, they found at least two other gladiator ‘families’ already waiting. Apuleius Victor had kitted his own gladiators out with Grecian armour, hoplite helmets and long spears, although no breastplates concealed their muscular torsos, and the men they found here were similarly accoutred.

Maccabeus knew all of them, it seemed, and went around slapping backs and shaking hands. Flaminius stood awkwardly near the entrance. It reminded him of how he had felt on first entering the officers’ mess at Eboracum, back when he had been a young tribune of auxiliary cavalry—the lowest of the low, in officer terms. Maccabeus noticed his diffidence, and beckoned him over.

‘This is Tiro,’ he told the other gladiators. ‘He’s a new boy in the Family of Apuleius Victor. So am I, for that!’ He laughed.

‘You must be one of the longest serving gladiators around, Maccabeus,’ said a black bearded man, big even by the standards of gladiators. His lion skin cloak and club made it clear that he would playing Hercules in the upcoming Games. ‘How do you do it? Most gladiators who’ve lived as long as you have took the wooden sword[3] or went to Pluto years ago.’

‘You are calling me old?’ Maccabeus said with a roar of mock anger. ‘But you’re right. I remember when the great Apuleius Victor himself was a novice like this lad here, before, like an ageing whore, he went into management. How do I keep going?’ He tapped his nose. ‘Contacts, matey. Contacts. I know all the right people. And I mean…’ he lowered his voice to a deep whisper, ‘All the right people.’

Just as Flaminius was about to ask what he meant by that, there was a trumpet blast from above, and “Hercules” began giving them a hasty pep talk.

Moments later, they were marching up the tunnel that led to the arena. Flaminius walked at Maccabeus’s side. Assuming they survived the next hour or so, he would have questions to ask the man.

They reached the portcullis gates. The sun filtered into the dank, wet stone tunnel, bringing with it the growing roar of the expectant crowd. At first Flaminius mistook it for the sound of surf, breakers crashing on a distant shore. As the portcullis opened up and they stepped out into the heat and light of the arena, the noise swelled into a deafening pandemonium. The mob had not greeted them like this on previous days. What had roused them?

On the sand stood what seemed to be a cohort, if not an entire legion of gladiatrices. An Amazonian horde, all wearing helmets like Camilla’s that had been wrought to represent female faces, all carrying spears and shields, and very little else. The sight of so much naked female flesh would have been arousing if it wasn’t for Flaminius’ knowledge that very soon he would be fighting them. And somewhere among them was Camilla, who had betrayed him. He gritted his teeth, scowled beneath his helmet visor. Gripped his sword hilt all the more firmly.

Apuleius Victor stood in the imperial box at the prefect’s side, speaking loudly but inaudibly. The mob had been whipped up by his words and now only blood would satisfy them. Giving up on his speech, the impresario flung up his hands, then pointed at the leader of the gladiatrices. She brandished her spear and urged her warriors onwards.

The man dressed as Hercules waved his club round his head three times, then yelled something inaudible beneath the roar of the crowd. He led them at a charge into the midst of their Amazonian opponents.

Seconds later Flaminius found himself fighting a semi naked woman, clad only in helmet, sword belt and sandals, though her lack of clothing was made up for by the huge oval shield she bore. She fought like a harpy, her body slick with sweat. As Flaminius fended off her spear, he found the impassive mask of her visor terrifying.

At last he got under her guard and dealt her a deep cut in the left leg. She stumbled, and propped herself up with her spear. Flaminius waited for her to rise. ‘You’ll give me a chance?’ she panted. He barely caught the words beneath the roar of the crowd. ‘I would have thought you’d want to kill me.’

It was Camilla. Flaminius gripped his sword firmly. ‘How did you know me in this armour?’

‘I know you, Tiro,’ said the girl. ‘Even if you don’t know me.’ Painfully she rose. In the centre of the arena, Hercules was battling the Amazon Queen most spectacularly, to the evident delight of the crowd.

‘You betrayed me,’ Flaminius said, facing her sword in hand. They circled on the sand, not fighting but menacing each other. ‘You told Apuleius Victor about our investigation.’

‘Don’t you see? I had to,’ she said. The people booed, hammering on their seats, baying for blood. She made a lunge at him with her spear and he deflected it with his shield.

‘I don’t see,’ he shouted, coming at her in with sword held high. ‘All I see is a traitor!’

She met the rain of blows with her shield, then forced him back. ‘Somehow, he knew,’ she cried. ‘He took me aside, said he would cast me out of his family, I’d never work again. He wanted to know why we were spying.’

She lunged. Flaminius dodged to one side, and she tripped over the fallen body of a gladiator. Her helmet strap broke and her helmet rolled across the sand. She rolled over after it and then Flaminius was standing over her, sword tip to her throat. She lay very still.

The crowd was roaring. Flaminius pushed back his visor and gazed down.

‘You betrayed me,’ he said, ‘for this?’ He indicated the clouds of dust and the savagely fighting figures, the spectators, all eager for blood. ‘Was it worth it?’

‘What other life do I have?’ she said bitterly. ‘What other life is open to me? I have only one hope of living a life and that’s here. My only chance. I have to prove myself here, in this fight.’

Flaminius looked up. The crowd was pointing downwards with its thumbs. That decided him. He stepped back again.

‘Then we’d better make this a fight they’ll remember,’ he said.

Boos and jeers came from the crowd as he let Camilla rise. He replaced his visor, and Camilla picked up her own helmet from where it had fallen.

He was being merciful. So Camilla had betrayed him! It had been under duress, and besides, she was trying to escape a horrific way of life. Flaminius had only seen a few weeks of life as a gladiator, but it had been more than enough.

They fought with dramatic flair in the dust of the arena until the other surviving fighters halted their own struggles to watch.

With the approval of the prefect, Hercules had despatched the Amazon queen, and now the field belonged to the “Greeks”, to the pleasure of the few Greek citizens watching. But the duel between Flaminius and Camilla seized everyone’s attention, and under the eyes of all they fought.

Flaminius’ heart pounded as they struggled in the dust. The sun beat down, the clang of steel rang through the arena now that the crowd was quieter, watching the fight intently. Time and again, Camilla broke through his guard only for him to parry her thrust. Time and again, he forced her back. Both bled now from a score of superficial wounds. Blood mingled with sweat to dry in the fierce heat of the early afternoon sun.

The crowd began to beat time, stamping their feet, clapping their hands. At first Flaminius thought this a sign of their anger, but he realised that they appreciated the display he and the gladiatrix were giving them. Yet, the mob being what it is, they would soon grow bored. This had to be a fight to the death. He had been merciful, but it was now his life or hers. The final decision lay in the hands of the prefect, who watched from the imperial box, Apuleius Victor at his side. Camilla wanted a release from this hell. Flaminius knew of only one way to free her.

She missed her footing, slipping in a pool of spilt blood. And Flaminius was upon her.

His sword flashed in the blazing sun, then she was down, blood running freely from a deep gash in her arm. The roar of the crowd reached a climax, like a rutting beast. The surviving gladiators had withdrawn to the sides of the arena, their fighting done. Now the drama of Flaminius and the prone Camilla was in everyone’s eyes. A tragedy worthy of Aeschylus.

The prefect was on his feet in the imperial box. Apuleius Victor stood at his side, whispering into his ear. Standing there, Haterius Nepos looked more imperial than any emperor, his face dark with fury. He thrust the impresario to one side and gestured at the crowd. Thumbs pointed upwards now, now that they had seen the gladiatrix’s true mettle.

The crowd went silent as the prefect held out his right arm, his thumb horizontal. Flaminius watched, the whole crowd watched. Haterius Nepos was a showman worthy of the Colosseum. For a long second that seemed like an aeon, he kept his thumb poised. Then he lifted it, pointing up towards the shining, life giving sun.

Flaminius sheathed his sword and held out a hand. Camilla was hesitant at first, but as the cheers of the crowd grew louder, she seized it and allowed Flaminius to haul her to her feet.

She pushed back her helmet. Her face was wracked with confusion. ‘Do I live?’ she kept asking. ‘Do I live?’ Tears ran freely down her face.

She surveyed the arena, where bodies sprawled, some locked in the warriors’ last embrace, while flies buzzed around pools of fresh blood.

‘It’s over,’ said Flaminius quietly. ‘For today.’

‘The crowd loves you.’

Maccabeus shook hands with both as they came out into the welcome cool and gloom of the gladiators’ holding pen beneath the arena. The other surviving gladiators and gladiatrices were in jubilant mood.

‘They’ve never seen such fighting,’ agreed Hercules. ‘It was like a dance, a dance of death.’

Flaminius took an ewer of water and poured it over his face and chest, washing his skin of blood and grit. His wounds stung, but most were superficial. Turning to Camilla, who still seemed amazed that she had survived, that both of them had survived, he pointed at her injuries. ‘You’d better get them seen to.’

Maccabeus grinned. ‘Tiro’s sweet on Camilla,’ he told them, and everyone laughed. Flaminius’s face flushed and he wished he’d kept his helmet on. Maccabeus pounded his shoulder. ‘Don’t blame you, lad,’ he roared. ‘If I was a younger feller… Take her to the medic, lad.’

Leaving their weapons and armour, they went down the passage to the medic’s chamber, and the noise of the jubilant fighters receded behind them.

‘We’ve made everyone’s day,’ Flaminius said. ‘What a show!’

If only he was a real gladiator!

But when they reached the surgery, they met the one man who didn’t greet their arrival with joy and acclamation.

‘You!’ Xenocrates gasped as Flaminius led Camilla in. ‘Both of you! Don’t hurt me, I can explain. I can explain! The gods forgive me…’

They stared at him. ‘What are you babbling about?’ Camilla asked.

‘You’ve come to kill me, I know it,’ the medic said. ‘I’m not a rich man, but if you murder me my wife and children and slaves will be in the gutter.’

‘No one is going to kill you.’ Flaminius shook his head. ‘Camilla needs her wounds tending. I could do with some wine on my own cuts, not to mention down my gullet. That’s all. What are you wailing about, man?’

But Camilla knew now. ‘It was you,’ she said in a hiss. ‘It was you! Don’t you see, Tiro?’

‘You betrayed us to Apuleius Victor?’ Flaminius snapped. ‘After all that rigmarole about oaths and vows and the Styx?’

Tears rolled down the medic’s face. ‘May the gods punish me in the afterlife! Yes!’

‘I’ll save the gods some bother,’ Camilla vowed, looking about her for a weapon.

Flaminius put a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s hear what the man has to say for himself.’ He turned to Xenocrates. ‘You blabbed to Apuleius Victor? Why?’

‘It was after you came here, asking questions,’ said the medic. ‘I had every intention of keeping quiet. I swore by the gods…’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘Why did you tell Apuleius Victor about us?’

‘He had heard you discussing him in the gladiators’ school,’ Xenocrates said. ‘He was listening at doors after you returned from here, after I lost the gladiator Petrus. He followed you here and saw that you had been talking to me. Then he spoke to me. He wanted to know what I had been saying. He threatened to have me exposed! I told him about you, the gods forgive me. Then he went out.’

Flaminius looked at Camilla. ‘To meet the now mysteriously absent Syphax,’ he said, ‘and to plot against us. He knew all along.’

‘I didn’t betray you,’ said Camilla in relief. ‘Not if he knew already.’

‘No.’ Flaminius had already decided the gladiatrix made a better ally than enemy. ‘You didn’t.’ He turned to Xenocrates. ‘But you did.’

‘What will you do to me?’ the medic wailed.

Flaminius grinned savagely. ‘I’ll leave that to the gods,’ he said. ‘Now tend to our wounds and we’ll hear no more of it in this world.’

The medic hastened to obey.

That evening, there was another banquet in the gladiators’ school, although Apuleius Victor himself was mysteriously absent. Flaminius participated in the celebrations with little enthusiasm. The news that he could trust Camilla—if that was the best way to interpret it—had cheered him, but he was at a loss for any idea of where to continue his investigation. The festivities ended and he went to seek his bed.

He had only rested for a moment when there was a scratch at the door. He ignored it. It came again, more insistent this time. Testily he rose and opened the door, to see Camilla standing there. He looked at her inquiringly. Behind her stood Maccabeus.

‘He wants us to come with him,’ she said, gesturing at her companion. ‘He says it’s important.’

The gladiator nodded seriously. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Quickly. You’re needed.’

—20—

A quarter of an hour later, they were hurrying through the dark streets on the edge of the Egyptian Quarter. Elsewhere, the city was still a scene of celebration, as the citizens showed their loyalty to his imperial majesty by feasting, drinking, and whoring, much of it at the expense of the prefect and prominent citizens. As Flaminius and Camilla followed Maccabeus through alleyways as dark and noisome as those they had explored the previous night, singing and shouting drifted through the night, while the dark, cloudy sky was illumined by the light of the torchlit streets. But these alleyways were lit only by the stars and the new risen moon.

The rank smell of swamp water reached Flaminius’ nostrils. It was the odour of Lake Mareotis, the swollen expanse of water that extended south-eastwards from the southern edge of the city. After passing through a gateway in the city walls, they came out on the edge of the Canopic Canal. Flaminius wondered where exactly they were going. Where Maccabeus was leading them. He exchanged glances with Camilla.

‘Maccabeus,’ he hissed. ‘Where are you taking us?’

The gladiator gestured for silence. ‘If you want to know the truth,’ he said, ‘ask no questions.’

He took them to a bridge that passed by the canal harbour where dozens of boats and barges bobbed at anchor on the dark waters. As they crossed the bridge, more barges were passing up and down the canal. Day or night, holiday or working day, the waters of the Canopic Canal were busy, but they became quieter in the later watches of the night.

Beyond the canal the going was harder. They had left habitation behind and now were forcing their way through a half-flooded jungle of broken boats and thickets of papyrus. The wet ground squelched under their feet, unidentifiable creatures sought cover at their approach. Ahead of them the waters of Lake Mareotis shone in the hazy, dreamy moonlight.

They came out from between clumps of reed to find themselves on the muddy shore of the lagoon itself. ‘Wait here,’ said Maccabeus. He handed Flaminius a water skin. ‘You can fill this in the lake. It’s sweet water, not salt.’

With that, he vanished along the bank.

Flaminius looked at Camilla. ‘Where is he taking us?’ he asked.

When she didn’t answer, but sat down patiently on a tussock of ground, he went down to the lagoon edge and filled the water skin. He felt nervous. The swollen waters of the Delta were usually busy with traffic, like the canal, but he had read that they were home to savage beasts, crocodiles, and a fearsome monster found only in southern rivers like the Nile, the great river horse, said to be almost as big as an elephant, with the cloven hoof of the ox; the back, the mane and the neighing of a horse, the snout, tail and tusks of a wild boar, and a hide so thick it was used to make shields and armour.

He heard a regular sloshing noise growing closer. Something was approaching through the waters. It was so dark now that he could barely see anything. Heart in his mouth, he looked round to see Maccabeus dragging a boat through the water. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hefted up the water skin, now full, and went to meet the man. Camilla joined them.

‘Where did you find this?’ she asked. Maccabeus gave her a baleful look, and she pursed her lips resignedly. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘No questions.’

‘Get in,’ said Maccabeus.

Taking the water skin from Flaminius, he stowed it in the small vessel’s hold. Flaminius and Camilla followed him aboard. The boat was woven from reeds, in a crescent shape with a curving prow and stern. While they crouched down in the waist Maccabeus picked up a long pole from the deck and went to the prow where he used it to push them off into the wide waters of the lagoon. Once they were afloat he took up two sweeps and steered them south-eastwards across the flood waters.

The moon shone down, and the bubbles of their passing became a trail of phosphorescence. Reflected in the waters, the stars wheeled above; the moon turned the surface of the waters to silver, and Flaminius had the illusion that they were crossing a lake of stars. Or was it the Styx, and was Maccabeus in truth Charon, the ferryman of the old tales? Their destination was a mystery. All that Maccabeus had said was that they were going to learn the truth.

After a while, the big man grew tired, and he gave over the rowing to Flaminius.

‘Keep an eye out for river patrols,’ he told the Roman as he lay down in the prow.

‘Patrols?’ said Flaminius.

‘Yes, patrols.’ Maccabeus had been made irritable by his exertions. ‘Romans patrol these waters. They’ll want to check our papers.’

Camilla was asleep already. Flaminius felt lonely and confused. ‘Do we have any papers?’

‘No,’ said Maccabeus. ‘If a patrol comes, stop rowing, ship your oars and lie face down on the deck. Wake me. We’ll just drift past. They shouldn’t see us in the darkness.’

‘What if they do?’

‘We take to the water,’ Maccabeus said. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

‘After a fashion,’ said Flaminius. ‘But I don’t much fancy swimming in crocodile infested waters.’

Maccabeus made no reply. Soon he was snoring. Flaminius heaved at the oars and the boat made its gradual way across the water.

There were islands in the lake, some of them quite sizeable, even in the middle of the inundation. He had heard that in the Tanitic Lake, in the Eastern Delta, towns had been built on the islands, and the lake itself was so big that in places a man might think he was in the middle of the ocean, apart from the sluggishness of the salt waters.

He didn’t know where they were going, or even if it was the right direction. If a river patrol found them, and discovered that they were travelling without the right documentation… he would be able to reveal his true identity, but it would blow his cover.

What was Maccabeus’s game? The rebels were said to have a hideout somewhere in the Delta. Was Maccabeus one of them? Was the hideout where he was taking them?

As the sun rose over the eastern reed beds, Flaminius drowsed over the oars. They were drifting. Faraway across the waters, fishing boats were already busy, their crews casting nets into the placid blue waters. Camilla awoke. Seeing Flaminius dozing, shook him. He came to with a start. Maccabeus was still sleeping in the bow.

‘You should have woken me,’ she told Flaminius. ‘How long have we been drifting?’ She took a sighting on the sun. ‘I’m hungry. And we’re off course,’ she added. ‘Turn starboard and row for those reeds. If we’ve got no papers, we can’t risk being seen by a river patrol.’

Flaminius guided them up to an inlet in the reed bank. Several logs lay on the shore, but as he grew closer they slithered into the water and vanished. Crocodiles! They reached the inlet without further incident, seeing neither man nor beast other than an ibis flying past.

Partway up the inlet they moored, hidden from sight. It was morning now. Flaminius wondered what Apuleius Victor would think when he found all his gladiators had left. Would he hire more? Or was this the end of his career in entertainment?

Maccabeus woke up. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘Give me water.’

Camilla handed him the water skin and he drank deeply from it. He extracted a rod from the hold and started fishing.

The fish he caught they had to eat raw, to Flaminius’ disgust. He had known worse provisions in his time with the legions, but recently he had been enjoying the soft life of the gladiator. He remembered last night’s feast fondly.

‘Down!’ Maccabeus hissed, and forced them both to the reed deck. Flaminius lay there, Maccabeus’s hairy paw on his shoulders. Covertly, he lifted his head and peered through the reeds.

A large boat was passing, its painted wooden strakes glistening with Nile water, its square sail bellying in the lake breeze. On deck stood men in armour, eyes vigilant as they scanned the bank. In the prow sat a ballista.

‘I said “down!”,’ Maccabeus repeated, pushing Flaminius’ head forcefully to the deck.

Flaminius lay motionless, listening to the creak of the hull, the gentle slap of water on the sides, the wind among the papyrus reeds, the distant crack of sails and rigging from the patrol boat. Ibis called to ibis amid the reeds, and in the distance a flock of gulls squabbled, but otherwise all was quiet.

‘Did you want us to get caught?’ Maccabeus added in a hiss.

‘I wanted to know what I was hiding from,’ Flaminius replied. ‘How often do the patrol ships cross the lake?’

Maccabeus didn’t answer. ‘I’ve had my eye on you since I joined Apuleius Victor. I think you’re just what we need. And I’m not going to risk having you arrested or killed by Roman river patrols. Keep watch while I sleep.’ He lay down in the bow and was soon snoring again.

Flaminius picked his teeth with a splinter of reed. Maccabeus had recruited them. That sounded promising. If this journey was to take them into the heart of the conspiracy, that was all to the good. It was now the fourth of the ten Days of Hadrian. If Avidius Pollio was right, six were remaining before the emperor made his surprise visit on the province. If the rebels were gathering in the Delta, that put them in a far better position to threaten the emperor than if they had remained in the Thebaid.

Exactly how they had got there was becoming clear to Flaminius. Despite the tight security that had existed in Egypt since the Judaean revolt, it was possible for small groups of rebels to travel in secret through the backwaters, to mass in the more inaccessible tracts of the river. There had been river pirates in the Delta since the days of the Pharaohs, and no amount of policing had changed that. According to Ozymandias, mostly they were the local countryfolk, the Bucolics as he called them.

Camilla was studying him. She must have no idea what was really happening. All she knew was that they were investigating Petrus’ death to provide evidence against his killers to the magistrate. The investigation had gone much further than that and yet she made no complaint.

‘Do you know where we are going?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ll wake you for the next watch.’ He smiled as she lay down, at his own words as much as at her compliance. He was talking as if it was the middle of the night. But if they could only travel in the blackest midnight, day would be night now, and vice versa.

Noon came and the sun blazed down. Nothing moved except an occasional scarab beetle flying past, wings sounding a droning hum. Flaminius erected a kind of shelter over the small boat using the cloak he had brought when Maccabeus and Camilla woke him. Back in the amphitheatre the public executions would be just beginning, the appetite of the mob for the blood soon to be shed would be whetted. Again he wondered how Apuleius Victor would react to their disappearance. The impresario had encouraged Flaminius to continue his investigation, even suggested that the two conspiracies might be linked. But he would have had a lot of explaining to do when he saw the prefect that morning.

After the sun began to descend, Flaminius woke Camilla then lay down to sleep while she kept watch. He hoped their progress that night would be rapid. If they spent this much time crossing the Delta, the emperor would have been and gone by the time Flaminius returned—assuming that the rebels didn’t know he was coming. Assuming they were not plotting his assassination even now.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Not many people in Egypt or elsewhere knew of Hadrian’s plans; Flaminius was one of the few, but he was hardly going to spread rumours. Neither was Avidius Pollio.

That evening, Maccabeus rose, and after a supper of fish that Camilla had caught, they pressed on for the south-eastern end of the lagoon. Here, in a moment of unusual candidness, Maccabeus explained they would take to a canal that linked the lagoon with the Canopic Branch of the Delta.

Near Heliopolis, the Nile forked out into seven main channels that made up the Delta; the first was the Canopic Branch, which reached the sea at Canopus, the notorious resort where Flaminius had spent a blissful week of leave that spring, glad to put behind him for the moment a life of peril and intrigue. Going left to right on a map, the other channels were the Bolbitine, the Sebennytic, the Phatnitic, the Mendesian, the Tanitic and the Pelusiac. Although rich farmland covered much of the area, the province was currently in the middle of the inundation of the Nile, and much of the Delta would be underwater. But maybe Maccabeus was counting on this. The threat of river patrols would have lessened since the inundation began, and the three fugitives would have better scope for their surreptitious travels.

They reached the edge of the lagoon about midnight, spending an anxious few moments searching for the canal that would take them to the Canopic Branch—and where then, Flaminius didn’t know.

Camilla stood up in the bow and pointed. ‘Isn’t that it?’

Flaminius could nothing but blackness and reed beds, but Camilla’s eyesight must be better than his. Under her directions they were soon entering a broad channel carved out of the Delta mud. The ubiquitous reed beds clogged either side, and unseen things could be heard splashing through the water. To the east, in the direction they were taking, the lights of a town were visible.

‘Where’s that?’ Flaminius asked Maccabeus.

‘Shabour,’ he said briefly, heaving at the sweeps. ‘We must pass by that place to access the Canopic Branch.’

Flaminius felt uneasy. Sailing across the lake was one thing; it had proved easy enough to evade patrols. But now they were entering inhabited country, the hinterland of one of many Delta towns perched on a muddy hillock above the level of the waters.

He took over the rowing and they made their way gradually up the canal. No moon was visible, and the stars that had wheeled above the previous night were concealed by clouds. Luckily the canal proceeded more or less on an east west axis, and Flaminius, although as inexpert at navigation as most Romans, was able to keep them on an even keel.

The moment they entered the canal, the reed banks behind them shivered and out shot a larger reed boat, paddled by eight men. Flaminius looked back, trying to work out if they were following them or simply heading in the same direction.

The waters widened. Flaminius heard the splash of a steering oar from up ahead. He tensed.

The clouds parted and the moon poured her light down upon the scene. Confronting them in the water was a boat like the one they had seen before, crewed by armoured legionaries. Even as Flaminius’ hands slipped from the oars, a harsh voice barked out from the prow, ‘Who goes there?’

There was a hiss and a roar and a waft of naphtha as someone lit a beacon in the stern of the ship. The canal was lit up as bright as day. They had nowhere to go.

—21—

‘Head for the bank!’ Maccabeus cried.

‘Are you out of your wits?’ Flaminius had seen the ballista in the prow, trained directly on them. ‘I’m surrendering!’ He could speak with an officer and make his identity known. It would be the end of the investigation, but if they could take Maccabeus prisoner and get the information they needed out of him…

Even as he was formulating his new strategy, Maccabeus snatched an oar from his hand and began rowing towards the bank as fast as he could. ‘Stay still or we shoot!’ roared a Roman voice. Maccabeus ignored it and kept paddling. They were almost at the bank when the voice bellowed, ‘Right, give them hell!’

The wind whistled coldly. A volley of ballista shafts skewered the deck. The boat capsized, and all three fugitives were flung into the dark water. Flaminius splashed about, cursing Maccabeus, then struck out for the bank. The weapon he had taken for a ballista was a polybolos, an invention of the Greeks—a repeating ballista. He had heard about them, but never seen them in action: now he was experiencing their use at first hand, but he was too busy preserving his life to summon up any professional interest. As he reached the bank, he looked back.

A newcomer had appeared on the scene—the reed boat that had been following them since they left the lake was bearing straight down on the river patrol vessel. Flaminius kept swimming.

He reached the canal side and climbed up to find Maccabeus and Camilla crouching in the reeds, peering in the direction of the canal. Flaminius flung himself down beside them, sopping, then lifted himself on one elbow and followed their gaze.

The reed boat was alongside the patrol vessel and its crew was swarming up the sides. Legionaries stood at the gunwales, swords drawn, hacking at the boarders as they came over, but even though several of the attackers fell with a splash into the water, more forced their way onto the deck where they fought on. Flaminius’ eyes widened. He recognised the attackers, or at least, he had seen their type before.

‘They look like gladiatrices,’ Maccabeus muttered.

Flaminius glanced at him and nodded. ‘They’re dressed as women,’ he commented, as if this was something new to him as well. But surely he knew them. They were Bucolics, rebels like those he had encountered in the Thebaid.

‘I don’t care what they look like,’ Camilla panted. ‘They’ve given us a chance. We’d better take it while it’s still there.’

‘A chance?’ Maccabeus indicated the reed boat that had sunk in the canal. ‘We’re going nowhere.’

Camilla got to her feet. ‘We can walk,’ she said determinedly, ‘until we find another boat to steal.’

The canal was plunged into darkness again. Someone had doused the lantern on the patrol boat. Flaminius rubbed at his eyes. It was a while before he could see by the light of moon and stars.

‘Come on.’ Camilla led them up the bank. They reached the top of what proved to be a dyke. Flooded farmland spread away in the starlight. They were not going to get anywhere on that side. Water behind them, water before them. Only the bank was dry.

‘If we follow the dyke,’ said Maccabeus, ‘we’ll reach the Canopic Branch. Then, like you say, we can find a boat to steal.’

‘Is that the only way to our destination?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Up the Canopic Branch?’

Maccabeus looked suspicious. ‘It’s the quickest route,’ he said, starting to walk. The other two followed him, and the sound of the fighting aboard the patrol vessel died away.

A wind whipped at the drenched gladiators. At first it was cool and refreshing, but after a while it began to chill them. The canal was empty. They saw no sign of further patrols, or Bucolics for that matter. But the walking began to tell on them. At last they could go no further.

Flaminius and Camilla stood side by side, gazing down at the darkness of the flooded arable country. Maccabeus was searching for somewhere where they could shelter for the night. ‘We’re losing time,’ Flaminius muttered.

Camilla moved closer. ‘Are you in such a hurry?’ she asked.

He looked at her abstractedly. Then he smiled. ‘We’ve come a long way from investigating Petrus’ murder,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to follow me any further, you know.’

She reached out and caressed his cheek. ‘You think I have any alternative? We’ve been forced into this. Who knows where we’ll end up?’

‘Dead in a ditch, I expect,’ said Flaminius darkly. ‘We’re going nowhere. And we’re wasting time.’

‘You want to return to Alexandria, and the Family of Apuleius Victor?’ She sounded somehow anxious.

He shook his head. He couldn’t share the source of his impatience with this girl. He couldn’t trust her with his secret. Not here and now. Maybe there would be a time. Or… what was there to lose?

‘Camilla, I…’

‘I’ve found a dry place to sleep, boys and girls.’ The dark shape of Maccabeus swam up out of the murk. ‘Follow me,’ he added.

Flaminius glanced at Camilla. Her eyes were bright in the starlight. With tears?

Unspeaking, they followed Maccabeus. Soon they were climbing down into the shelter of the dyke wall. Out of the wind, between the dyke wall and the flooded fields, they settled down for the night.

‘What’s the plan?’ Camilla asked Maccabeus at dawn. None of them had slept well, and the gladiatrix was looking haggard. ‘If those Bucolics slaughtered the Romans on that patrol vessel, it won’t be long before this area is crawling with legionaries.’

Maccabeus looked moodily into the embers of the fire. It had been quite a feat, lighting it on the boggy ground, although they had no food to cook on it. ‘We get to the Canopic Branch,’ he said. ‘That’s the first priority.’

‘If we knew where we were going,’ said Flaminius, ‘we could work out the best way to get there.’

‘No!’ said Maccabeus. ‘The less you know, the better. Besides, how well do you know the Delta? You’ve only been through it on pleasure barges, I’ll be bound.’

‘We’re to rely on you alone?’ Flaminius was openly hostile. He turned to Camilla. ‘Ah, we’re getting nowhere here.’

‘If you’re captured,’ Maccabeus said, ‘the less you know, the less you can betray.’

‘I’m not going to betray you,’ said Flaminius patiently.

‘Under torture?’ Maccabeus said. ‘You don’t know what their interrogators are capable of.’

On the contrary, Flaminius knew perfectly well. Legionary torturers were the best in the world. Maccabeus had a point, certainly, and besides, he was right to suspect betrayal. The moment Flaminius knew where Arctos had his encampment, he would use every means at his disposal to get that information to the legate, the prefect, or wherever it would do the most good. Arctos was the head of the snake. If they could crush the head, the body would perish. If not, Arctos’ forces might seize control, kill the emperor, who knew what? It would be the Judaean revolt all over again, and this time with the emperor in the middle of it.

The best course of action would be to send word to the emperor, instructing him to remain in Rhodes or wherever he was right now. But to do that Avidius Pollio would be admitting that he had allowed the situation to develop. And he would not be willing to sacrifice his career, not if Flaminius could expose the conspiracy.

‘We’re wasting time,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Let’s get moving.’

They made their way along the edge of the water in the lea of the dyke wall. The flooded fields stretched for many miles, the water broken up by half drowned palms and tamarisks and white walled villages atop muddy hillocks. Several times they sought cover as river patrols passed by on the canal. Camilla was right. Whatever had happened last night, and if the river pirates of the Delta shared the appetites of those of the Thebaid, he doubted much remained of the patrol. The other river patrols had been stepped up. Although the attack had nothing to do with them, they were suffering as a result.

Who were these river pirates? They resembled the men Flaminius had met in the Thebaid, but Maccabeus knew nothing of them, that much was clear. Was there a link? Did Arctos control them all?

And who was Arctos?

At last the canal met the spreading waters of the Canopic Branch. The small town of Shabour straddled the canal. If they had come here in the now sunk reed boat, they would have had to pass through the town, and bringing them to the attention of the local river guards, town guards, canal guards, or whichever guards controlled this area. Flaminius surveyed his companions. Like him, they were bedraggled and haggard. The sun beat down but he was shivering. He hoped he wasn’t due for another bout of fever.

There was a fishing village among the reeds, a short distance from Shabour. Reed boats were drawn up on the strand like basking crocodiles, larger than their boat, some with small white sails. Camilla pointed them out. ‘We could steal one of them.’

‘In broad daylight?’ asked Flaminius.

‘Wait until noon,’ said Maccabeus in a growl. ‘No one will be about.’

With good reason, Flaminius told himself, but they couldn’t waste more time waiting until night. He agreed to the plan, and they concealed themselves in the reeds nearby to watch the settlement as the heat of the day grew and grew.

In the growing heat boats and barges became as thick on the waters as flies. Women from the settlement went down to the banks to gather water while men set out to fish, children cleaned an earlier catch and cats stalked from shadow to shade carrying disapproval like a banner. Flies buzzed around piles of dung and rotting fish. The shadows grew shorter and at last the few people retired to their huts, including the fishermen who brought back a meagre catch.

As soon as the last child had been carried off into the shelter of the huts, the fugitive gladiators crept out of the reeds into the full glare of the sun. They grabbed a boat and Flaminius and Maccabeus dragged it down to the water while Camilla kept her eyes open for signs of life from the huts. Soon the boat was bobbing on the waters. Flaminius found the steering oar and shoved them out into midstream while Maccabeus unfurled the small square sail and Camilla helped Flaminius by paddling. Soon the sleeping village lay behind them. The river traffic lessened due to the heat but vessels were still passing. Under Maccabeus’s direction, they turned south and began to paddle against the current.

Grimly Flaminius wondered how long it would be before they found the rebel encampment.

‘Moor over there,’ Maccabeus said after an uneventful quarter of an hour. He was pointing at the far bank, a wilderness of papyrus reeds.

Flaminius twisted round. ‘Moor?’ he asked. Sweat was pouring down his face but he had no wish for any delays.

‘Tie up the boat,’ Maccabeus said.

‘I know what “moor” means,’ Flaminius said. ‘I…’

‘Maccabeus is right, we should moor,’ said Camilla. ‘We can’t go on in this heat. Wait until it’s cooler.’

‘We should wait until nightfall,’ said Maccabeus. ‘Over there, it’s safe. The river patrols won’t come, they’re too afraid of attacks by the river horses. We can stay there until night then carry on under the cover of darkness.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No more delays. We’ve lost enough time as it is. We keep going.’

‘Moor the boat on the far bank!’ Maccabeus demanded.

‘Where we’ll be safe from river patrols but not from river horses?’ Flaminius said.

‘He’s got a point,’ said Camilla. ‘But we can’t go on in this heat. We’ve got to find some shade.’

‘No,’ said Flaminius obstinately.

‘Do as you’re told,’ Maccabeus roared.

‘I’m paddling,’ said Flaminius grimly, ‘and I say we keep going.’

They rounded a bend. A river patrol vessel was sailing downstream towards them. Seeing their cockleshell of a reed boat, it changed course and headed in their direction.

‘You fool, Tiro,’ said Maccabeus resignedly. ‘How will you talk our way out of this?’

—22—

The patrol ship weighed anchor alongside them, and two legionaries jumped down onto the reed boat, causing the deck to rock and sway. The men, weighed down by armour, were red faced and sweating, and they glared contemptuously at the semi-naked crew. Other legionaries watched from the side of the bigger vessel. A polybolos was positioned in the prow, trained on the reed boat.

‘Papers?’ barked the smaller of the two legionaries. ‘Identification, yes? Tjufy? Got ya tjufy, you Gyppo sods? Got ya tjufy? Got ya tjufy?’

‘The man wants your papers,’ said his bigger comrade. ‘Papyrus. Tjufyu. Tjufyu.’

Tjufy was the Egyptian word for paper, tjufyu the plural. The bigger legionary had a better command of the native language than his friend—about as good as Flaminius.

‘We got no papers,’ said Maccabeus in broken Greek. ‘We lost em.’

Flaminius scowled at him, then fished into the hold and produced a papyrus scroll. Shaking his head, he handed it to the smaller legionary.

‘Tjufyu,’ he said.

The legionary snatched it off him, opened it out and peered at it, holding it upside down. Camilla looked at Flaminius, mouthing, ‘Papers?’ The bigger legionary struck her across the face. She tried to rise, but Flaminius seized her arm. The legionary growled at her, then grabbed the scroll from his comrade and read it slowly.

‘These papers aren’t in order,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to come aboard and speak to the centurion.’

‘Look here, now,’ said Flaminius in Latin.

The legionary stared at him in surprise, then shook his head. He turned to shout up at the legionaries on deck. ‘Chuck a ladder down to us.’

A rope ladder slithered down the side and the two legionaries gestured the three to climb it. ‘Move!’ the smaller one barked.

Resigned, Flaminius began climbing. As he reached the gunwale where two more legionaries were ready to haul him aboard, there was a scuffle below. Camilla was on the lowest rung of the ladder, being encouraged by one legionary while Maccabeus was shaking the other by the neck. As Flaminius watched, the first legionary clubbed Maccabeus down with the hilt of his sword.

‘Get up here,’ growled a legionary from the deck above. As they dragged him onto the deck, Flaminius heard the thud of boots on flesh. He got up. The legionaries were helping Camilla aboard, but by no means in the chivalrous way Flaminius would have hoped from men under his own command. He tried to remonstrate and got a fist in his teeth.

Maccabeus was dragged on deck, battered and bruised and wheezing for breath. The three were marched aft to a small cabin where a helmeted centurion sat in the shade.

‘Travelling without due authorisation, sir,’ a legionary barked. At the centurion’s gesture, he handed over the papers. The centurion read them lazily.

Without looking up, he said, ‘Says you’re Egyptians. Nectanebo and… I can’t read the other one. Well, for starters, there’s three of you and one of you is a woman.’ He looked up and caught Flaminius’ gaze with his cold blue eyes. ‘The other two look Greek or Punic, but you, chum, you look like a Roman.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘My father was Roman,’ he said. The centurion rose to his feet and stared at Flaminius’ brow.

‘Take the other two for’ard,’ said the centurion, not taking his eyes away from Flaminius. ‘I’ll question this one in private.’

Flaminius was ushered into the small cabin. He squatted down on the deck while the centurion lounged in his camp chair. ‘Wine?’ asked the centurion. ‘If that’s the right name for this satyr piss.’

Flaminius was startled. ‘Thank you,’ he said hoarsely. The centurion unstoppered a small amphora and poured them both cups of Greek wine. The man drank deep, then wiped his mouth and pointed at Flaminius without meeting his eyes.

‘Reckon your mother was Roman too,’ he said.

Flaminius said nothing. The wine was actually pretty decent. He’d not had anything this good back in Nicopolis; his host was a connoisseur. Flaminius noticed for the first time the dint between his brows where the centurion had been branded with the raven of Mithras.

‘Deserter?’ the centurion asked, still looking away. ‘Or is there a better reason a soldier like you is travelling with these runaways?’

‘How do you know they’re runaways?’

The centurion shrugged. ‘If they were travelling legitimately, they’d have proper papers. Security’s tight in Egypt. Patrols are everywhere, travel is strictly limited. Informers and agents are everywhere, too.’ He looked straight at Flaminius as he said this.

Flaminius gave a tight smile. ‘You’ve got me right, centurion,’ he said in a low voice. ‘No, I’m not a deserter. I’m with the commissary, travelling undercover. My companions don’t need to know that.’ He gave the man the correct password for the month.

‘If you’re with the commissary,’ said the centurion drily, ‘we’d better not keep you.’

‘You’re right,’ said Flaminius. ‘It wouldn’t help your career.’

The centurion produced a sheaf of papyrus. ‘Sign here,’ he said, handing Flaminius a reed pen and a small jar of ink. ‘Here, here, and here.’ Flaminius dipped the pen into the ink and gave three false signatures next to the centurion’s own.

‘Very well, Epimenides of Crete,’ said the centurion loudly, peering at the first signature, ‘if I’ve got your name right. Don’t let me catch you travelling without proper documentation again, and get yourself and your filthy barbarian friends off my nice clean patrol vessel.’

Flaminius strode across the cluttered deck and gestured to Maccabeus and Camilla. ‘Quick,’ he said, waving the papyrus sheaf. ‘We’re moving.’

Maccabeus scowled. ‘I’m not going until I’ve seen that one flogged!’ he shouted, pointing at the legionary who had beat him. ‘I’m a citizen of Carthage. I have rights!’

Flaminius glanced across the deck. The centurion sat in his doorway, sipping at another cup of wine. Thin lipped, he shook his head. Flaminius turned to Maccabeus.

‘Get off the boat and don’t push your luck! Camilla, get down that ladder.’

Camilla jumped down into the reed boat. Grumbling, Maccabeus climbed down the ladder. Flaminius followed, after a final nod of thanks to the centurion.

Back in the boat, he shoved them away from the patrol vessel and the other two paddled them towards the east bank.

‘What I want to know,’ Maccabeus grated, ‘is how did you get us out of that?’

‘I did what you told me to do,’ Flaminius told the gladiator, ‘and talked our way out of it.’ Unconsciously, he rubbed at the scar in his forehead.

After his initiation in that cellar under the procurator’s palace in Londinium, he had seen the brand as a nothing more than a painful annoyance. Now it was starting to prove useful. Many Romans in the East had become Mithraists, particularly those in the legions, attracted by this Persian cult’s promise of salvation for those of proved valour.

‘And now we’ve got the documentation we need?’ Camilla leaned over to Flaminius and kissed him. ‘You’ve got a silver tongue and no mistake, Tiro!’

Maccabeus grunted. ‘How do we know you didn’t do a deal with them? The Romans are the enemy, everyone knows that.’

Camilla shook her head. ‘Tiro got us out of the mess he got us into by his own boyish naivety. But he got us out of it so well, we don’t need to paddle by night and sneak around anymore.’ She snatched the papyrus scroll and waved it around. ‘We’ve got ourselves the papers we need!’

Maccabeus grunted. ‘What about the papers we already had? I don’t understand. Where did they come from?’

‘They were in the hold,’ said Flaminius. ‘They must have belonged to the legal owners of this boat. Camilla’s right; we can now go to our destination without all this subterfuge. Now you can tell us where we’re going.’

Maccabeus kept paddling, and kept quiet.

The big gladiator obviously suspected something. As he leaned in the stern, occasionally making a course correction with the big steering oar, Flaminius regretted the circumstances that had led to their encounter with the Romans. Although it had turned out better than expected, it might lead to problems.

He had been shocked by the attitude of the legionaries to people they assumed to be natives. He had been undercover before, not to mention on the run, and had seen the Romans from the perspective of the peregrines, those people living within the empire who lacked the benefit of Roman citizenship, but he had not met such casual aggression from legionaries. If this was what native Egyptians experienced daily, no wonder so many chose to flee into the desert and take up the life of robbers. A man who could harness that wholly understandable hatred for the authorities would have a powerful weapon in his hands.

The Canopic Branch grew busier as the sun descended. Flaminius was hard pressed to keep their small reed boat out of the path of larger vessels. Enough of a wind now stirred the waters that they could rely on the sail to keep them heading upstream, but Maccabeus and Camilla had to leave off their rowing and tend to the rigging. Some of the galleys they passed, whether transporting grain from Crocodilopolis, slaves from Memphis or wizards from Heliopolis, were truly massive; biremes if not triremes, more at home in the open ocean than the river, and Flaminius was a true novice as a helmsman. After a while, Maccabeus decided that he could do a better job of steering them through the busy waters, and Flaminius was sent to trim the sail alongside Camilla.

‘He likes you, you know,’ she said, as they both struggled to keep the linen sheet at the optimum angle.

Flaminius almost let go in his surprise. ‘Who does?’ he said. ‘The old boar?’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said playfully.

Flaminius had never thought he could imagine a playful Amazon. He’d not understood what Theseus or Hercules had seen in such ladies, although of course he still intended to seek out the British warrior woman Drustica and tame her to Roman ways. But Camilla looked more the Amazon than Drustica, with her Punic looks and her bare bosom. Of course, Amazons seared one breast off to aid their archery, he remembered…

‘Trim that sail!’ Maccabeus roared from astern. ‘We’re in busy waters now, Tiro!’

They were crossing a junction between one channel of the Nile and another; the Bolbitine, Camilla confided. Next they would be meeting the even busier Pelusiac Branch, whose traffic was as heavy as the Canopic. To Flaminius’ exhausted relief, the sun, huge and red, was beginning its descent into the underworld, and soon Maccabeus directed them towards a small island on the east bank.

‘Since we’ve made such good progress today,’ he said, ‘we can sleep tonight and go on in the morning.’

Tired as he was from struggling with sail and rigging, and despite his determination to expose this conspiracy before Hadrian’s visit, Flaminius could only nod in weary agreement.

He was glad to see that the fishermen from whom they had stolen this vessel had stocked the hold with provisions. Mainly lentils and beans, but Flaminius needed some sustenance after the journey.

‘We need a fire to cook with,’ he said.

‘Get some firewood then, Tiro.’ Maccabeus settled down by the steering oar and rested his face in his hand.

Flaminius peered at the reed thickets. He turned to Camilla. ‘Coming ashore?’ he asked. ‘We need firewood.’

He left not waiting for an answer. As he waded through the reeds and came ashore amid muck, he heard Camilla sloshing after him.

‘Wait there, Tiro,’ she complained. ‘We won’t find firewood here. Not in this flooded marshland. More likely find a crocodile.’

‘Well,’ said Flaminius, ‘a novice like me wouldn’t know that, would he?’

He helped her up the bank. As soon as she was ashore, she seized his face and kissed him for a long time.

‘Well,’ said Flaminius, ‘that was unexpected.’

She turned away. ‘You don’t like me. I’m too big.’

‘Of course I like you,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting a kiss, that’s all. Not a second one.’

‘You didn’t want the first one?’

Flaminius tried to find firm footing. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

She followed him further ashore until at last they found solid ground. The stars wheeled overhead, shining above the sails of barges and galleys passing in the river. It was almost the fourth Day of Hadrian.

Camilla slipped her hand into his. He had never met a woman as big as her. A woman who made a success out of a career as a gladiatrix would be no slip of a thing, but Camilla would make Artemis feel like Aphrodite the Virgin.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ she asked. ‘Don’t worry, Maccabeus is asleep. It’s been a hard day, and he’s an old man. Older than you, anyway, Tiro.’

‘Do you have any idea where we’re going?’

She shrugged. ‘To join Arctos. That’s where all fugitive gladiators go these days, Tiro. After all, there was no future with Apuleius Victor.’

‘Is that what you want?’ She shrugged again at his question. ‘Do you know what we’ll be doing when we get there?’ he added.

‘Living,’ she said. ‘Living free. We don’t need the Romans. We can have our own kingdom. Just like in the old days.’ She slipped her arms round him.

Flaminius broke free. ‘Is that what you really want?’ he asked again, hoarsely. ‘Do you think it’ll even…’ He broke off as his foot struck something, something that felt like wood. ‘I think I’ve found some kindling. That’s good,’ he added, bending down. ‘We can cook supper.’ He grabbed it but as he lifted it into the starlight, a cry escaped his lips.

He was holding a human femur, its yellowing length stripped of flesh except for a few blackened fragments.

Camilla’s voice was as hoarse as his own. ‘D-did crocodiles get them?’

Flaminius shook his head darkly. ‘Look at these cuts.’ He pointed at the angular striations dimly visible on the bone. ‘This has been butchered.’ He looked up, his face pale. ‘By a man.’

—23—

Flaminius heard retching sounds. As he went to Camilla’s side his foot struck something heavy, like a rock, but spongy. It went bouncing off into the reeds. Ignoring the noise, he put his arm round her shoulders. They were standing in a circle of ashes and burnt timbers, he realised. It was a cooking pit.

She pushed hair away from her face and straightened up. ‘I’m alright now,’ she muttered. ‘Disgusting.’

‘An anthropophagi feast?’ Flaminius said. ‘I’d say it’s disgusting! We’d better get back to the boat. They could still be round here.’

‘I meant my reaction,’ she said as she followed him down the bank. ‘I’m a gladiatrix, Juno curse it. Anthropophagi? I thought you got them south among the Ethiopians, not in civilised Egypt.’

They came out onto the bank. The reed boat still bobbed there. Maccabeus sat by the bow, peering in their general direction.

‘There are rebels in the Thebaid who have been known to eat their victims,’ Flaminius was telling Camilla as they got into the boat.

‘Where’s the firewood?’ Maccabeus held to the sides as the deck tilted under the weight of the returning duo. ‘You were supposed to be gathering firewood, not picking irises to put in each other’s hair.’ He spat disgustedly into the water.

‘We found other blooms,’ said Flaminius.

‘Bones, stripped of flesh,’ said Camilla, ‘and butchered. Tiro says it’s the rebels.’

‘The rebels?’ Maccabeus asked angrily. ‘What does Tiro know about rebels? So you found some crocodile’s leavings and the lad started telling you horror stories? And now we’ve got no firewood.’

‘I don’t think this is a healthy place to moor,’ said Flaminius. ‘Where’s the nearest town? We should tie up there and go ashore, find beds for the night.’

‘Who’s going to pay for them?’ Maccabeus said. ‘Nearest town is Heliopolis, and even though no one lives there but its wizard priests, they charge high prices for board and lodgings. Besides, we’re supposed to be travelling in secret.’

‘News to me,’ said Flaminius, although it had been patently obvious. ‘Isn’t it about time you told us where we’re going?’

‘No!’ shouted Maccabeus. Flocks of ibis took flight among the night black reeds, crocodiles on sandbars dived into the deep water, and in Flaminius’ mind’s eye all the river patrols of the Delta looked up and listened to the echoes of the gladiator’s bellow. ‘No,’ Maccabeus said more quietly. ‘I don’t know if I can trust you yet.’

‘If this journey is supposed to be a secret,’ Flaminius told him, ‘you’d better keep your bull-roars to yourself. I suggest we go upstream a mile or two and then see if we can find a safer source of firewood than an anthropophagi feasting pit.’

Going ashore a quarter of an hour later they found enough firewood to build a more wholesome cooking fire. After eating their lentil stew, they took it in turns to sleep and go on watch.

It was Flaminius who was on sentry duty when the sun rose above the reeds, huge and shimmering on the horizon, to be greeted by the howls and calls of unseen wildlife. A few fishing boats were visible further down the bank, and a river patrol was passing rapidly on the far side, heading downstream at a rate of knots. The night’s chill was gone and a soft rose light turned the waters golden.

Camilla woke and joined him watching the river. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’ he asked her.

‘How would I?’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are.’ She gave the bank a look. ‘Do you suppose there are anthropophagi in there, even now?’ she asked.

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Flaminius went to wake their guide. ‘Maccabeus’ snores will have frightened them off.’

Yawning like a river horse Maccabeus waddled over to help himself to cold lentil stew. After they had all breakfasted, they took to the river again, and before an hour had passed, reached the great dividing of the ways just north of Memphis where the main stream of the Nile split into its two chief branches, the Canopic, which they had been following, and the Pelusiac, which led north eastward to form the other main line of the delta-shape that had given this area its Greek name. Due to the inundation the Delta was more like a huge lake at this time of year, and the channels were difficult to distinguish from flat stretches of water that would have been farmland at any other time of year.

At this point the waters were even busier, and river patrols made up much of the traffic. Maccabeus replaced Flaminius at the steering oar and to the Roman’s surprise he turned them about mid-stream and guided them up the Pelusiac Branch. Maccabeus was taking them by a circuitous route. Usual process, of course, when leading recruits who could pose a security risk to a hidden base. But it seemed like so much timewasting to Flaminius.

North-eastwards they sailed. The Pelusiac Branch proved as busy as the Canopic, and their small vessel was forced to inch its way between large boats. River patrols infested the waters. Maccabeus sweated every time one passed, and Flaminius smiled secretly to himself.

‘What are you worried about?’ he asked, after the third river patrol had passed them, the legionaries aboard staring impassively down from beneath their helmets. ‘We’ve got the right papers, remember? Thanks to me.’

But Maccabeus seemed unconvinced. ‘You don’t know the Romans like I do, Tiro,’ was all he would say. ‘Now take this oar again.’

Flaminius bit off the obvious answer, and did his best to keep an even keel as they sailed on past the semi deserted city of Heliopolis, currently an island where obelisks reared to the sky in praise of the sun now rising towards its zenith. They moored on the right bank, near where a native herd led his cattle through shoulders deep water towards a heap of fodder on higher ground. Maccabeus went ashore and spoke to him. They vanished from sight.

‘What’s going on?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Where’s Maccabeus gone?’

Camilla was lying in the shade of the sail. ‘To talk to the Bucolic, I think,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t think he’ll get eaten. Maybe he’ll find us some food.’

If Maccabeus was taking them to Arctos’ encampment, he was up to his neck in the rebellion. Was Maccabeus himself a crossdressing cannibal? Or was that only an Egyptian habit? Uneasily, Flaminius scanned the bank. No sign of Maccabeus. Despite her reassurances, the word Camilla had used to describe the herdsman worried him.

‘I think I should go and look for him,’ he said at last. ‘You stay here and I’ll go ashore.’

Lazily, she opened one eye. ‘You worry too much, Tiro,’ she told him. ‘He’ll be fine.’

Flaminius went to the side. The sun beat down as he jumped down onto the muddy bank.

‘Where are you going, Tiro?’

Hearing the familiar voice, he looked up. Silhouetted against the sunlight was the broad shape of Maccabeus. In one hand he carried a trussed fowl, in the other he had a handful of what proved to be radishes. His legs were plastered with mud.

Flaminius relaxed. He helped Maccabeus aboard then climbed up himself. ‘I was wondering where you had gone,’ he said as Camilla took the fowl and wrung its neck.

They ate well that noon, then slept. Flaminius woke an hour or two later with a bad taste in his mouth. What was happening in Alexandria? This was the fourth of the Days of Hadrian. How long would it be before they reached Arctos’ encampment, if that was truly where they were going? And how long before Flaminius gleaned enough intelligence for the legion to crush the incipient revolt?

Maccabeus stirred, then leant over to shake Camilla awake.

They set out again that afternoon. Their route took them through river traffic that grew thicker as they approached what Maccabeus told them to be the city of Bubastis, centre of the Egyptian cult of their cat goddess, who the Romans identified with Diana. But once they had passed the temple city and were sailing on down the wide waters beyond it, they saw an encounter between a river patrol and a fishing vessel that shook Flaminius’ faith in their documentation.

The patrol vessel was sailing away from Bubastis. The water was thick with boats, but the river patrol went straight for a fishing vessel ahead of their own reed boat. An altercation broke out between the fishermen and the legionaries. They were too far off for the argument to be fully audible, but one of the fishermen waved a papyrus scroll as if it was a magical talisman. The centurion on board barked an order to the men on the polybolos, who opened fire.

‘Avast!’ Maccabeus cried over the screams of the dying fishermen. Camilla put down her paddle. The reed boat drifted on the waters, but while they had been going against the current all the way up the Canopic Branch, now they were sailing downstream, making much better progress. Their drift was taking them straight towards the fishing boat, now surrounded by waters stained red, and the patrol vessel beyond it.

Maccabeus gave Flaminius a jaundiced look. ‘Now will your papers get us out of here?’

Flaminius gasped. ‘They didn’t even look at those fishermen’s documents!’

‘Something’s happened,’ Camilla surmised as they drifted inexorably. ‘Maybe it was those rebels. But the Romans have been stirred up. They’re running scared. They’re shooting on sight…’ Her voice grew shriller the closer they came to the anchored patrol vessel.

‘Paddle!’ shouted Flaminius. ‘Steer for the bank!’

‘Are you mad?’ Maccabeus barked. ‘They’ll shoot us too!’

Flaminius shook his head. Camilla, on the starboard, started paddling, and they turned leeward. He pulled on the steering oar. ‘Those things take time to reload,’ he said. The centurion on deck had noticed their movement, and was gesticulating angrily at the ballistics team.

Maccabeus started paddling. ‘You’d better be right, Tiro,’ he said, ‘or you’re be dead—us with you.’

‘If we get ashore,’ Flaminius asked, ‘will we be able to walk to our destination?’

Maccabeus laughed scornfully. ‘Walk? Through that part of the Delta?’ he said. ‘It’s flooded, not to mention infested by crocodiles and Bucolics.’

‘What’s the difference between them and the people we’re going to join?’ Flaminius asked.

Maccabeus looked outraged. He was about to reply when Camilla cried out, and the air filled with a hissing like a thousand serpents. Flaminius let go of the steering oar and flung himself at the deck, dragging Camilla with him. The water erupted, spraying across the three of them. The shouting of the commanding officer drifted across the waters. Flaminius looked up. The river patrol vessel was a hive of activity.

‘Our trigger-happy centurion has got our range,’ Flaminius said through gritted teeth. They were about forty-five cubits from the bank but he couldn’t see any crocodiles. ‘Swim for it,’ he urged. ‘Before they reload again.’ Putting action to his words, he slipped over the side.

‘Come on!’ he urged, treading water.

Maccabeus looked at him, at the shore, then at the river patrol vessel. Camilla showed no such indecision, diving overboard and sending up a greater spray of water than the bolts. Maccabeus joined her.

Flaminius reached the bank first, dragging himself through the reeds onto drier ground. Camilla joined him soon after, then Maccabeus.

‘Fire!’ came a distant voice. Even as it reached them, the reeds whistled and crackled while a rain of bolts shot through it. Flaminius flung himself to the ground. Maccabeus cried out in pain and fell, clutching at his leg.

‘We’d better move,’ Camila said, hauling Maccabeus to his feet. A bolt jutted from his leg. Flaminius snapped it, leaving the head buried deep in the big man’s thigh. ‘I don’t think they’ll risk coming ashore, but they can sit there in the water and shoot at us.’

Maccabeus, sobbing with pain, put his arms round their necks and allowed them to lead him away. As they made their way through the thickets of reeds, another volley of bolts plunged into the vegetation behind them.

Flaminius waded through the flooded reeds until at last they came up another bank into an overgrown stretch of dry land where palm fronds waved and the going was treacherous underfoot with fallen stones. Turning a corner, he saw a vine grown obelisk, easily as tall as any palm tree. Nearby stood something that he realised was an androsphinx, half buried by more vegetation.

‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘It looks like the ruins of a city.’

‘It is,’ gasped Maccabeus. ‘We can find somewhere to hide here until the Roman patrols move on. Over there!’ He pointed at the tumbledown ruins of an ancient temple or palace. Baboons barked in the distance and ibises flew overhead. The three fugitives approached the dark entrance.

‘Let’s get you in there,’ said Flaminius. ‘We want to take a look at that leg.’

They hauled him into the shelter of the monumental archway and Flaminius peered at the wound in Maccabeus’ thigh. It didn’t look healthy.

—24—

‘I’ll be alright,’ the big gladiator insisted, trying to rise.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Flaminius, pushing him gently but firmly back down. ‘You need to rest.’ He was in a quandary. They were wasting time again; the longer they spent wandering the flooded Delta, the less chance they had of foiling the conspiracy before the emperor’s visit. But without Maccabeus they had no hope of finding Arctos’ encampment.

‘What if they come after us?’ Maccabeus moaned.

‘They won’t,’ said Camilla.

Dozens of birds flew screaming into the tree canopy. Flaminius wheeled round, eyes wide, trying to penetrate the gloom. There were people out there. Had the Romans come ashore? He saw nothing, but he could hear a group of people moving around.

‘Are you sure about that?’ he whispered. ‘Someone’s out there. Several someones.’

‘The patrol?’ gasped Maccabeus.

‘Maybe,’ said Flaminius. ‘If it’s not… well, what was it you were saying about Bucolics?’

‘We need to get out of here,’ Camilla grunted, ‘Get to safety.’

‘Wherever that might be,’ Flaminius said under his breath. A little louder, so they could hear him, he said, ‘Keep quiet. And listen.’

The crashing in the undergrowth moved closer. Flaminius could see nothing but shadows beneath the trees. No glint of light on armour. Was it the Romans, or was it the Bucolics Maccabeus feared? The noises grew closer.

Several figures swam into sight in the darkness beneath the trees. They halted on the edge of the clearing, no more than dark silhouettes. Flaminius pressed himself to the ground, as did Camilla. Maccabeus bit his lip and tried to ignore the pain of his leg.

Shadows grew, and the temperature decreased. Flaminius realised that night was not far away. Another day had gone, another day closer to the emperor’s visit. And what would his imperial majesty find when he got there? A country up in arms? Or peace?

Camilla gave a deep sigh. Flaminius glanced at her, warning her with his eyes to keep quiet. She caught his eyes, then nodded in the direction of the trees. Flaminius looked back. What he had thought were watching figures were shadows.

‘There were people,’ he insisted.

‘Yes,’ said Camilla. ‘I saw them too. But they melted away into the trees.’

Flaminius glanced back. Had they really gone, or had they just withdrawn? Were they still watching from the deep shadows?

Maccabeus groaned in pain. The flesh around the bolt head was red and inflamed.

‘What can we do?’ Camilla asked. Flaminius said nothing.

Maccabeus’ head fell back. Camilla grunted.

‘Is he dead?’

Flaminius checked his pulse. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s fainted.’

Camilla laughed. Flaminius glared at her. She calmed herself. ‘It’s funny, though,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it? The big gladiator fainting like that?’

‘It’s not funny at all,’ said Flaminius furiously. ‘Only Maccabeus knows where we’re going.’ He shook his head. Camilla looked away, shamefaced. ‘I don’t know what we can do except to try to remove the bolt from his leg. But that might well worsen it. It’s at risk of infection even now.’

He remembered the medics he had known, Greek frauds the lot of them. But now he wished he had someone like Xenocrates of Rhodes with him. He would know what to do. Flaminius looked out of the temple arch. Maybe something out there would be of use, some healing herbs.

He turned to ask Camilla if she knew anything of medicine, but the gladiatrix lay on her flank, snoring gently. Even as he watched, the light was draining away. The sun god was returning to the underworld.

Camilla was asleep. Maccabeus was unconscious. Among the trees, men were waiting. The Romans? It seemed unlikely. They would have just marched straight in and seized the three of them. Or even killed them. He was still shocked by the casual massacre he had witnessed. It was a sign the legionaries were scared. Camilla had been right. Something must have happened for them to be like that. An attack by rebels seemed likely. He remembered the cooking pit he had found when they went ashore the previous night.

It was cold. He shivered, lying down between Camilla and Maccabeus. He wished he could fall asleep as easily as the gladiatrix, but he lay there for a long time, peering into the darkness, listening to the night noises, the chirping of crickets and an occasional roar, unable to sleep.

Sunlight slanted in through the trees, illuminating the cavernous interior of the half-ruined edifice. Camilla stood with her back to him as he awoke, gazing up intently at the fading frescoes on the walls, which showed what Flaminius took to be Pharaoh hunting water fowl among the reeds with the aid of a throwing stick. Maccabeus was still asleep.

‘What’s for breakfast?’ he asked.

Turning, she made a face at him. ‘Lotus fruit,’ she said, pointing at a heap of fruit piled on a fallen stone nearby. ‘I picked them at dawn. But they’re not ripe yet.’

‘Lotus fruit, eh?’ Flaminius remembered Homer’s story of the Lotus Eaters. ‘Will this spell the end of our odyssey?’ He tried one.

Camilla was right, it was still some weeks away from ripeness. But it would have to do. And if it brought on drowsiness and idleness, like in the poem, someone else would have to rescue the province from the rebels. Right now, he was too hungry to worry about the fate of empires.

‘You’ve been out?’ he asked, mouth still full.

She nodded. ‘There’s a whole city out there,’ she said. ‘Ruined, all of it. Overgrown. In some places, people have come to take away the stones, for building, I suppose. But there are obelisks and sphinxes and all manner of things under the vegetation.’

‘I saw some of it when we came here last night,’ he said.

It was morning on the fifth of the Days of Hadrian. He was no closer to learning what linked the gladiators of the Family of Apuleius Victor with the rebels of the Thebaid, and the celebrations in the name of the emperor were halfway through.

He rose, and peered down at Maccabeus. ‘Any idea where he was taking us?’ he asked. Camilla didn’t answer.

Maccabeus’ face was slick with sweat. A pair of feverish eyes opened suddenly, and stared up at him. ‘You’re awake,’ Flaminius said. He looked up and beckoned Camilla over, then knelt down beside Maccabeus. ‘Can you walk?’ he said. He looked down at the big man’s leg. It was still red and throbbing.

‘I think so,’ Maccabeus said. He tried to get up but almost fell, and both Flaminius and Camilla had to grab him then lower him back to the ground. Camilla had prepared a bed of palm leaves.

‘Time’s pressing,’ Flaminius said. ‘We need to get to our destination. Can you not direct us?’

Maccabeus shook his head. ‘Go there without me and they’ll kill you,’ he told him hoarsely.

Flaminius examined Camilla, who returned his gaze impassively. He wondered if this was true, or just another security precaution. It seemed highly likely. But all he really needed was to learn the location of the rebel encampment, and then he could find a patrol or two to take it out. If they were as trigger happy with rebels as they were with fishermen, the rebellion would be over in no time.

‘Are we nearby?’ he persisted. ‘We could get help for you.’

‘From them?’ Maccabeus shook his head. ‘They have a short way with cripples.’

Flaminius examined his leg again. ‘You’re not crippled,’ he reassured him. ‘You just need rest and medical attention. But we’re not going to get that in a ruined temple. I’ll go out and look for them.’

Maccabeus’ hand seized his wrist. The big man shook his head. ‘You’ll never find them,’ he said. ‘You won’t know what to look for.’

‘It’s an encampment,’ Flaminius said. ‘I’ll know an encampment when I see it. If I explain the situation, they should help you.’

‘He’s told you they don’t accept cripples,’ said Camilla. Flaminius glanced at her. Why was she so calm? She had less to lose. But as a fugitive, unless she joined the rebels, her life expectancy was low. Why was she so sanguine? He looked back at Maccabeus. The gladiator’s eyes had closed again. Flaminius reached out and shook his shoulder gently.

‘You’ll have to guide us,’ he said apologetically. ‘We can’t just stay here.’

‘Why not?’ said Camilla. ‘We’ve been safe so far.’

‘We can’t stay here.’ Flaminius did not meet her eyes. ‘We can’t live on lotus fruit, even when it’s ripe, and besides, this whole area is crawling with river pirates and crocodiles.’

‘And asps,’ said Maccabeus sleepily. ‘Snakes are to be found all over this area. It’s a backwater. The Pelusiac Branch is too shallow north of here, so boats take a canal to the Tanitic Branch and the sea. This dead city, I don’t know its name, but it was abandoned long ago, after the channel silted up. No one really lives round here.’

‘Except Bucolics,’ Flaminius reminded him.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Maccabeus. ‘Bucolics. Help me up.’

Flaminius assisted the big man to his feet. Camilla looked up at them. ‘You’re going to make a sick man guide us? You really do want to join the rebels.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘If he won’t give us directions, Maccabeus can at least guide us.’

Leaning on him, Maccabeus allowed Flaminius to take him out of the temple and into the clearing. Camilla trailed after them.

They passed through the trees, coming out into a clearing. The rubble was visible through moss and reeds. No one was around. Far to the south, drowned fields were visible, but the papyrus reeds swayed in the breeze as far north as the eye could see. Maccabeus directed them to follow a narrow, elevated path through the flooded reeds. Mist hung in the air as the sun’s heat grew.

Water pooled on either side, visible through the reeds. At times, Flaminius heard movement from within, animal sounds. Crocodiles, perhaps. The air whirred as water fowl flew overhead. He wished he had a sling to bring some of them down with. At one point they all had to halt while a huge snake slithered across the wet track ahead of them. On they travelled, on across the bleak marsh, the wind soughing in the reeds, until Maccabeus could go no further. On a tussock of drier ground they halted.

Camilla had brought more of the green lotus fruit. Flaminius chewed on his share unenthusiastically. He was suffering from indigestion from breakfast.

‘We should try hunting.’ He picked up a branch from beside the path.

‘With that?’ Camilla asked in surprise. He nodded, and brandished it.

‘Throwing stick,’ he said. ‘That’s what the Egyptians use for hunting. You saw the murals in that temple. I’m not going to live on unripe lotus fruit for the rest of my life.’ Maccabeus had fallen asleep. ‘Stay with him,’ he instructed Camilla.

‘Shouldn’t we all stick together?’ she was calling as he waded away through the reeds, but he ignored her. Soon her voice was inaudible.

Half an hour later and he was plastered with mud, had lost the throwing stick, and had nothing to show for his exertions except for flocks of angry ibis circling in the sky above him. He was wet and hungry, and the sun was reaching its zenith.

He surveyed the reeds. His blundering progress should have left a clear trail, but to his dismay, he could see no sign of his passing. With the sun so high, he had no way to work out which way was north or south. He had been travelling north as far as he knew. But in this endless marsh it was impossible to be sure.

‘Camilla?’ he shouted, then listened. All he could hear was the squawk of indignant birds. ‘Camilla!’ he cried again, then when there was no answer he started wading in what he hoped was the right direction.

He noticed a trail of broken reeds, and followed them, hoping they represented his path. Maybe he was right, because after a quarter of an hour, he staggered out into a muddy track between banks of reeds. Was it where he had started? He looked up and down. No sign of Camilla or Maccabeus.

He followed it southwards. At least he hoped it was southwards.

As he followed the track, he thought he heard something moving towards him through the reeds. He hoped it wasn’t a crocodile. Turning a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Splashing up the path towards him was a group of spear wielding figures. They wore the long linen dresses of women and had long black hair and collars of faience beads. Their faces were made up like those of Alexandrian courtesans. But no self-respecting courtesan would venture so far into this most unfashionable backwater. They were men. Worse, they were rebels. Bucolics. Anthropophagi.

They saw Flaminius the moment he saw them. Almost as startled as he was by this mud plastered apparition, their leader pointed his spear, and shouted something in Egyptian.

Heart pounding, Flaminius ran back the way he had come.

—25—

Nile Delta, Egypt, 29th August 124 AD

Haring round a bend in the track he collided with Camilla, who was on her knees tending to a semi-conscious Maccabeus.

‘What are you doing, clumsy oaf?’ the gladiatrix demanded, rising to glare at him. ‘Where have you…? What have you…?’

‘Bucolics!’ Flaminius cried, pointing behind him. ‘They’re after me.’

‘You’ve brought them down on all of us,’ Camilla cried. Maccabeus got unsteadily to his feet.

‘We must fight them,’ he said.

‘There’s too many,’ Flaminius said. ‘Besides, we’ve got no weapons.’

‘We’d better move,’ Camilla grunted. ‘No—not you!’ she added as Maccabeus staggered away.

‘I’m not a cripple yet,’ the gladiator said over his shoulder. ‘I can…’

He broke off. A splashing of feet heralded the appearance of the Bucolics through the reeds. Flaminius and Camilla ran after him.

Maccabeus preceded them at a lurching, staggering run. The recent rest had done him good, but it was unlikely that he would be able to get far. As they ran, the Bucolics shouted war cries, ululating screams that might have contained words but none Flaminius understood. A glance over his shoulder showed the pursuers close on his heels. One stopped, and flung a throwing stick. It whizzed between Flaminius and Camilla and vanished without a whisper into the reeds.

Maccabeus’ figure became indistinct as he ducked in and out of reed thickets. How far did the marsh extend? Would they ever escape it? Would they ever escape the pursuing Bucolics? Flaminius could hear their hunters drawing ever closer, terrifying in their absurdity.

Camilla panted for breath. Flaminius could feel a stitch developing in his side. He had come a long way in the last few years, from one end of the empire to the other, seen a lot, experienced a lot. The idea that he would end his days in the belly of a cross dressing cannibal revolted him.

Maccabeus vanished through a gap in the reeds. Flaminius and Camilla splashed after him. Turning a corner, they came to an abrupt halt. The reeds ended and a wide stretch of water opened up, in the middle of which was an overgrown island on which lay some ruins. Maccabeus floundered out into the channel. Flaminius was about to follow him when Camilla seized his arm. She pointed.

Dark shapes darted through the water. ‘Maccabeus!’ Flaminius shouted. ‘Watch out! Crocodiles…’

Maccabeus halted, swung round… but too late. Something seized his feet from beneath him and he vanished under the water. Spray thrashed upwards in a great curtain as the big man struggled with his unseen assailant. Then, abruptly, the water was as still as the pool in a public baths. And as red as sunset.

The Bucolics surrounded them. They were caught between crocodile infested swamps and anthropophagous river pirates.

‘We have no choice,’ said Flaminius, and Camilla nodded.

‘Come with us,’ said the leader of the Bucolics, a scrawny Egyptian whose women’s clothes was stained with mud. He directed the two surviving fugitives back the way they had come.

‘Where are you taking us?’ Camilla demanded as two men bound their hands with withes.

‘You are going to meet one of our leaders,’ said the chief Bucolic. ‘He has had us searching the marshes for you ever since word came that you had been seen.’

‘Me?’ said Camilla. ‘But I’m just a gladiatrix. Don’t tell me my fame has reached these dreary marshes?’ She gave a cracked laugh. Their comrade devoured by crocodiles, now captives of their absurd, sinister pursuers, the strain was beginning to tell on her.

‘Not you, woman,’ said the chief Bucolic. He pointed at Flaminius with his sword. ‘Him.’

‘Me?’ said Flaminius. ‘But I’m a nobody. They call me Tiro. I’ve only been a gladiator for a few weeks.’

‘And what were you before?’ said the chief Bucolic. Flaminius went cold. ‘No more talking,’ the Bucolic added. ‘We have some hard walking to do before we get to our village.’

Camilla leaned closer to Flaminius. ‘Well? What were you doing before you joined us?’ she asked in a whisper, but one of the Bucolics heard, and struck her with a spear butt. She waded onwards in a dispirited silence.

So did Flaminius. Who were these Bucolics? How did they know him? Had they confused him with someone else, or had his fame spread? Renown was not something an imperial agent wanted to foster. Anonymity was what he needed for his work, although the scars and tattoos he had received during his career militated against that.

If only, when Maccabeus had led them from the gladiators’ school on this ill-fated expedition, he had thought to bring a weapon. Not that Flaminius could fight off at least fifteen Bucolics. Not alone. Not even armed, not unless he was mounted and with several auxiliaries at his back. He remembered his first encounter with these robbers, or at least their country cousins, in the bad-lands at the back of Isideion. These ones seemed to be natives of the Delta. Had the others been desert bandits, or had they been more wanderers? If the rebels in the Thebaid had been reinforced by Bucolics from the Delta, that might explain the link between the gladiators and the rebels.

One problem with that theory, he realised as he waded on through the marsh, was Maccabeus’ aversion to these people. The old gladiator had feared these Bucolics so much he had run straight down a crocodile’s gullet. Flaminius shuddered at the memory. So these Bucolics must represent a different, and unknown, faction. They could be the river pirates from Lake Mareotis, who had followed them until the encounter with the Roman patrol vessel. Maybe they had been following them across the Delta—that would explain the trigger-happy patrol they had encountered; the legionaries had been scared out of their wits by the depredations of these Bucolics.

But why had the Bucolics followed them in the first place?

Flaminius assumed he would get the answer when they reached the mysterious leader of the Bucolics. How this would affect his mission remained to be seen. The sun was descending over the marshes; it would soon be the end of the fifth Day of Hadrian. And he was getting nowhere.

They rested on another marsh island where ancient ruins mouldered beneath vines and lianas. The Bucolics had speared a few fish during the march, and that night they ate as well as they had done since the beginning of this wetland odyssey, he and Camilla, fed by their captors. Afterwards, guards were posted and the rest of the Bucolics curled up and went to sleep. Exhausted after the exertions of the day, Flaminius tried to sleep as well, but Camilla seemed restless.

‘Will you stop fidgeting?’ he asked her irritably, over his shoulder. She went still, then leaned closer.

‘I’m trying to get out of these bonds,’ she hissed.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ She seemed shocked by the question. ‘Do you want to be eaten? We can’t stay with these people!’

‘No one’s said anything about eating us,’ whispered Flaminius. ‘In fact, they fed us pretty well. I’m developing quite a taste for raw fish.’

She gave a snort of disgust. ‘Someone should teach these barbarians how to cook. They don’t seem to have any trouble cooking people. Why can’t they cook fish?’

‘Same reason that we couldn’t, under these conditions,’ Flaminius said. ‘No wood, too much water. I agree it’s barbaric, but what else can we do? We’re not going to escape. I want to meet this Bucolic leader.’

‘Why?’ Camilla grunted. ‘We’re going to join Arctos and the rebels. That’s what I’m going to do as soon as I get away.’

‘How are you going to do that?’ Flaminius asked. ‘You’re a prisoner. Anyway, only Maccabeus knew the way, and he’s not telling.’

Camilla was silent for a long time. Just as Flaminius thought he was finally going to get to sleep, he heard her mutter angrily, ‘I’m going to get away from these Bucolics and then I’m going to join Arctos. I’ve had it with you. If you want to stay with these anthropophagi, that’s your business.’

She rolled over and began to snore. Flaminius, who had been on the edge of a dream, was now fully awake.

Mention of Arctos had reminded him of the importance of his mission. These river pirates who had captured them, these Bucolics, interested him strangely. Where they fitted into the mosaic, he didn’t know. Getting away from them would be difficult, but Camilla was right about one thing. Joining Arctos was what mattered most. If only they had a hope of finding him in these marshes now that Maccabeus was gone. Flaminius had to learn the truth of the conspiracy, and do what he could to defeat it before the whole province was in a state of revolt.

And it wasn’t simply a case of keeping Avidius Pollio in a job, although that was apparently how the legate saw it. The people of Egypt would suffer, the everyday people, citizens of the cities and villagers in the farmlands. Another revolt, like that of the Judaeans, would cause endless destruction.

The journey through the Delta had opened his eyes to the life of the normal Egyptian. His friendship with Ozymandias had taught him much; native Egyptians were burdened with endless taxes and duties. The legionaries who had stopped him and his two companions would have robbed them under the guise of fines or taxation, if he hadn’t been able to talk to the centurion as an equal. He remembered the other river patrol, the legionaries who had slaughtered those fishermen.

And this was what the rebels were fighting against. The Judaeans under Lukuas, the Bucolics in the Delta, the rebels in the Thebaid… all of them had met petty tyranny and taxation from the Romans. And yet… and yet…

Flaminius got a grip of himself. Any more of that thinking, and he’d be donning a dress and joining the Bucolics! And the country would be plunged into anarchy just in time for the emperor’s visit. It wouldn’t benefit Egypt, it wouldn’t benefit Avidius Pollio’s career. It wouldn’t benefit Flaminius. He still hoped for a posting back to Britain before he got much older. Back to Drustica.

Smiling to himself at his memories of a climate colder, though no drier, than the Delta, he fell asleep.

The house was shuttered and dark. As the civic guards moved into position, Apuleius Victor wondered if his informant had not been playing games. He shivered in the chill night air.

The guard centurion joined him. They stood on the corner of the street, peering round at the house.

‘Sure this is the place, sir?’ the centurion asked, voice low. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood!’

‘Riches make men respectable,’ Apuleius Victor said cynically, ‘a result that many people think justifies the deeds. There are rich men behind the operation who hope to get richer.’

The centurion shook his head. ‘Makes you wonder what they need all that money for,’ he mused.

Apuleius Victor gave him a sharp look. ‘Like I said,’ he whispered, ‘it’s the result that justifies their deeds. No, there’s no doubt about it,’ he continued with an assurance that he didn’t feel. ‘The ringleaders of the operation are meeting together in that house. Move your men in, centurion, and we’ll wring the truth from our criminal friends.’

The centurion went to speak with his subordinates.

Apuleius Victor shivered again. It was an unexpectedly cold evening for Alexandria in high summer, and the night wind brought with it the stink of the marshes. He wondered where that commissary officer was now, Tribune Flaminius, who had thought that there was a political dimension to the whole business. Now that all Apuleius Victor’s gladiators had absconded, the impresario was able to concentrate on police work. A good thing he had possessed this second string, or he would have been utterly ruined by the machinations of the crime syndicates.

The centurion reappeared. ‘We’re moving in.’

Apuleius Victor nodded. The centurion lifted up a hand bell and began ringing it; the clamour echoed from the walls of the surrounding houses. There was the thunder of booted feet, a crash of doors being smashed off their hinges, and the centurion hurried after his men, into the house. Apuleius Victor hung back. His remit did not include fighting, and from what he could hear within, it was quite unpleasant in there: grisly sounds that would have inspired applause in the arena but in a respectable street of the Greek Quarter of Alexandria were off putting, to say the least. It was a long time since he had last been in a fight, back in his gladiator days, before he took the wooden sword. Gladiatorial combat was a different thing entirely.

Everything went quiet. Apuleius Victor strode down the pavement to peer in through the shattered doors. A vestibule led to an atrium. The place was packed with civic guards restraining struggling Egyptians and gladiators. Seeing the centurion, the impresario pushed his way through the throng.

‘These are only robbers from the Delta and a few gladiators,’ he said. ‘I was led to believe there was a Roman citizen mixed up in all this.’

The centurion grimaced. ‘Three of them got away,’ he said. ‘My men pursued them as far as the canal, but there the fugitives took to the water in a craft they either stole or had waiting for them. River patrols will be notified, but by now they’ll be halfway across Lake Mareotis.’

Apuleius Victor cursed.

—26—

Nile Delta, Egypt, 30th August 124 AD

A kick in the ribs woke Flaminius.

‘Up!’ shouted an Egyptian voice. ‘Much walking today. Up!’

He was seized by his arms, which had gone numb in the night, and forced into a sitting position. One of the Bucolics thrust some raw fish into his mouth. He almost choked, then swallowed it.

‘Can you not free my arms?’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not going anywhere… but my arms are about to drop off!’

Ignoring him, the Egyptian splashed away as his fellow Bucolics readied themselves for the journey on all sides. Camilla was watching him. She stretched.

He stared in shock. Quickly, she put her hands behind her back. ‘Yes,’ she said in a murmur. ‘While you were contemplating joining these Bucolics, I was working hard at making my escape. I’ve broken my bonds.’ She held the snapped fragments together to give their captors the impression that she was still bound. Uncomfortably, he shuffled over to her side.

‘Quick,’ he said urgently, ‘untie me.’

She grinned maliciously. ‘I thought you wanted to meet the leader of these Bucolics.’

‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I want to locate Arctos. If you’ve got any idea where we can find him, I’m coming with y…’

Rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet. Camilla received the same treatment. Someone shoved Flaminius in the back.

‘Get moving,’ came a voice. ‘We want to get a long way from here before the sun gets too high.’

They splashed off along the pathway through the reeds. Camilla lumbered at his side. From time to time, Flaminius shot her agonised glances. If only they’d had enough time for her to free him. Maybe they’d get a chance when they paused for a siesta. But Camilla ignored his mute appeals.

Suddenly she halted. Flexing her arms, she wheeled round and punched an unsuspecting Bucolic in the face, snatched his spear, then turned to fend off an attack from the other side. Bucolics were shouting, running towards her. Flaminius struggled desperately with his bonds.

‘Help me!’ he implored her, but she gave him a cold look and vanished into the reeds.

‘After her!’ barked the chief rebel, pointing towards the swaying reeds that showed her path to liberty. ‘Hold him!’ he added, pointing in turn at Flaminius. The Roman jerked as two men grabbed his arms. He grimaced.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

The pursuers returned dolefully shortly afterwards. ‘Where is she?’ shouted the chief rebel. They shook their heads in dismay.

‘She’s gone,’ said one. ‘She must know these marshes better than we do.’

The chief rebel cursed, then struck Flaminius for no good reason. ‘Get moving!’ he snarled.

They set off again down the muddy path.

The chief Bucolic began walking alongside Flaminius. He had regained his self-control, even seemed quite friendly.

‘Why didn’t you join your friend?’ he asked.

‘Escaping?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I can’t. My hands are tied.’

The chief Bucolic laughed. ‘She broke free, though,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius bitterly. ‘She must have spent half the night working at her bonds.’

‘And you didn’t.’

‘It didn’t occur to me,’ said Flaminius, ‘that it would be quite so easy. Your men didn’t make much of an effort to catch her.’

‘She doesn’t matter,’ said the Bucolic airily. ‘It was you we were told to get, not her. She won’t get far, anyway. Like your other friend. None of you know the marshes as we do.’

‘That’s not what your man said,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘He said Camilla knew them better.’

The Bucolic spat. ‘He was making excuses,’ he said. ‘A crocodile will get her. She would have been safer staying with us. Why didn’t she free you?’

Flaminius shook his head wordlessly.

‘She could have helped you and yet she did not,’ the Bucolic added. ‘Fine friends you have. Where did she think she was going? Was she just running blind?’

‘Pretty much,’ Flaminius said. ‘But she was hoping to find the encampment of Arctos.’

‘Ah,’ said the Bucolic wisely. They splashed on in silence. The Bucolic spoke with some of his men then returned to Flaminius’ side.

‘You know of Arctos?’ Flaminius asked him. The Bucolic nodded tersely.

Flaminius was excited. ‘You do? You know where his encampment is?

The Bucolic nodded. ‘I do. It is known to all we of the wetlands.’

Flaminius halted. ‘Take me there!’

The river pirate behind him prodded him in the back with his spear. ‘Keep moving,’ barked the chief Bucolic. Grudgingly Flaminius did as he was told.

‘I can’t pay you here and now,’ he told his captor, ‘but if you set me free and take me to Arctos’ encampment, I will make sure you become richer than you could ever imagine.’

‘I have all I could ever need here in the marshes,’ said the chief Bucolic. ‘Here we have freedom, food, shelter. The tax gatherers can never find us here, nor can the soldiers. Even during the inundation, the waters are too shallow for their boats, too deep for them to wade without fear of their armour rusting. So it has been since my people first settled here in this land. The old people say we once ruled Egypt. You will have seen the ruins of our forgotten city. But that was long ago.’ He looked away. ‘I was told to take you to the village.’

‘I don’t want to go to your village.’ Flaminius sounded petulant in his own ears, ‘I want to find Arctos’ encampment.’ He studied the impassive river pirate. ‘Who told you to take me to your village? Why?’

‘I do not know why you are wanted,’ the river pirate said. ‘He is a well-respected man among our people. I was given your description and told to bring you to the village. Your name is Flaminius?’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius automatically. ‘No!’ he said at once. ‘No, I’m called Tiro. I’m a gladiator.’

The river pirate cursed. ‘You’re not Flaminius?’

Angry, he halted, and motioned for the others to stop. He took off his wig and looked Flaminius up and down. To the Roman’s surprise his hair was as red as any Caledonian’s. ‘You answer his description,’ the river pirate went on doubtfully. ‘We’ve been following you for days, and now you turn out to be an imposter.’

Despite the increasing heat of the day Flaminius felt coldness prickling across his bare skin. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘My name is Gaius Flaminius Drusus. You were told to take me to your village. But again, I have to ask you: why? And who told you?’

‘We’re wasting time,’ said the river pirate. ‘If you’re truly who we want, we need to get you to the village before noon. Stop asking idle questions and get moving!’

Two of his men hustled the bound Roman onwards down the path.

Sometime later, the reeds began to thin out, the ground underfoot grew firmer. At last they reached an area of palm trees, an island amid the reeds. Goats cropped the sparse grass. In the middle huddled a village of flat roofed white huts. The waters surrounded the island on two sides, flooded marsh lay on the other.

The Bucolics led Flaminius out of the reeds and on into the village. A man sat outside a hut, looking up lazily. A mangy dog scavenged in a nearby midden. Women and children appeared. Chattering, they rushed to surround the men, many of them hugging them or scolding them. Some gathered round Flaminius, peering at him curiously, some as bold as to poke him or pull his hair. He endured it all stoically, waiting to be introduced to the man who had been so keen to meet him he had sent these Bucolics miles across marsh and river.

He was taken towards the bigger hut, and thrust through the reed curtain that covered its doorway. In the shadows on the far side a man sat cross-legged on a reed mat.

‘Here he is, sir,’ said the chief Bucolic, who had accompanied Flaminius inside. ‘Him who our friend the centurion spoke about.’ Flaminius frowned. The centurion on the patrol vessel?

The man in the shadows looked up. Unlike the Bucolics, he wore the usual linen kilt and skullcap of an Egyptian man. ‘Bring him over here, Kalasiris. Let’s see him; the cause of all our trouble.’

Hastily Kalasiris led Flaminius across the hut. A stray ray of sunlight shone in through the reed curtain, lighting up the sitting man’s dark face.

‘What in the name of Jove are you doing here?’ the Roman demanded incredulously.

It was Ozymandias.

—27—

Slowly Camilla sloshed and waded through the marsh waters.

The pursuit of the Bucolics had died away long ago, but she was still on her guard. That band of robbers and river pirates owed loyalties to none, and Rome had no control in this region. That was why Arctos had chosen the vicinity for his encampment. It was a wilderness right enough, forsaken by all right-thinking gods. Coming as she did from drier climes, she felt little but loathing for these watery acres. They stank, they seethed with dangerous life—she had already seen snakes swimming past, and small islands where crocodiles slept—but if they held the key to riches and power, she would just have to put up with it.

All her life Camilla had been subordinate to others, whether a slave or a gladiatrix. Rome had done nothing for her, nor for her people. These rebels offered her the opportunity to triumph over her oppressors.

She waded on. A pity that Maccabeus had been killed, even more that she had had to leave Tiro behind. Alone in the marshes, she was risking her life with every step. But the whole journey had been risky, and self-preservation was her current priority.

She wondered what Apuleius Victor was doing now, now that his whole family had run away. Had he bought new gladiators, or had he given up and joined the mob, watching the other gladiators fight and die in the amphitheatre?

She guessed the first; Apuleius Victor was not the kind of man to give up. She admired him for his tenacity. But she couldn’t have stayed with him much longer. Just as she risked her life wading through the waters of the Delta marshes, her existence had been in the balance every time she entered the arena, wherever she had fought, from Carthage to Alexandria. But now she was risking it in the cause of liberty.

On the horizon stood a line of palm trees. The island on which they grew must be the only dry land for miles around. She tried to speed up her wading, but the current tugged at her legs as if reluctant to let her go, as if wanting to drag her down into a watery grave instead. She waded onwards, her bare feet sinking into the mud every time. As she rounded a bank of reeds a broad, shallow lagoon opened up between her and the wooded island.

Eagerly, she began to run, sending up great splashes with her feet. The water sprayed. To her horror a huge pair of dark green jaws appeared. She ran, heart pounding in her breast, the crocodile pursuing her through the waters.

She should have been more cautious. Now she was going to die.

As she ran, she fixed her gaze on the far-off trees. A hasty glance backwards showed dark shapes speeding through the water towards her. Kicking up a wall of spray she ran on. She knew that it was exactly this that drew the crocodiles towards her, but she was unable to do anything else.

A crocodile leapt from the water and snapped at her with its jaws, which almost closed on her leg. Terrified, she floundered on. This was not her element; the crocodiles were as adept in water as on earth, but she was a cripple in their domain.

At last she reached the bank that marked the edge of the wooded island and flung herself up it. She glanced back to see a huge crocodile, the grandfather of them all it seemed, rising from the waters.

She had fought beasts before, but only in the arena, where they had been declawed; besides, she had been on horseback. The life of the venatrix was not for her… She searched the ground for some means to defend herself as the crocodile raced up the bank towards her, jaws hinging open in anger. She snatched up a fallen branch and brandished it like a sword. The crocodile was not deterred. Realising the futility of her actions, she dropped the branch and turned to run.

The air hummed. The crocodile leapt up in the air to land with a wet thump on the packed earth. Camilla was flung against a palm tree by the impact. She hugged the trunk as she peered at the creature; it seemed to be in its death throes. By Celestial Juno, what miracle of the gods was this?

A hunting arrow jutted from between the creature’s eyes. Someone had shot it. She let go of the trunk but used it as cover as she peered through the trees. Where was the archer?

A dark figure leapt down from a tree and strode towards her.

‘Syphax!’ she said in relief. Realisation washed over her. ‘Then you’re one of us!’

‘Camilla.’ The Nubian gladiator acknowledged her coolly. ‘Joining us at last?’

‘I never guessed you were with the rebellion,’ she said dazedly. ‘We all thought you were Apuleius Victor’s faithful hound.’

He grimaced. ’Until I came here, I didn’t know you were with us either. But that’s the way it needs to be. The less we know, the less we can betray.’

‘I’ll never betray the rebellion.’

‘Every man,’ he said, ‘or woman, is a traitor under torture.’

Producing another arrow, he fitted it to the bow he held and trained it on the dying crocodile. He waited his moment then loosed; the arrow sank into the creature’s pale belly and the crocodile stiffened into immobility.

‘Quickly,’ Syphax hissed. ‘That carcass will be attracting scavengers.’ A small dot was visible in the blue skies above, a vulture attracted by the fight. ‘Come with me.’

As they hurried through the trees, he said, ‘What of Maccabeus and Tiro? You were supposed to be bringing them with you.’

She grimaced. ‘They didn’t make it.’ She didn’t say that she had abandoned Tiro when her own skin was in danger. How she regretted that decision.

‘Arctos will be angry,’ he told her. ‘He took a keen interest in that lad.’

‘Is Arctos here?’ Camilla grunted.

Syphax shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s in the city. I don’t know when he’ll be returning. Sometime soon, I think.’

‘Good,’ said Camilla. Secretly she dreaded Arctos’ coming. If he was angry with her for abandoning Tiro…! She had heard what he did with people who angered him.

Huts and shelters became visible through the trees; men too, sitting round them or standing, gladiators and native Egyptians, all armed. Some were sparring, and as Camilla and Syphax approached, the ring of blade on blade drifted through the trees, bringing with it the aroma of cooking fires.

‘But here’s someone you know,’ Syphax added as they came out into the encampment. A black bearded Sicilian giant—at least five cubits tall—stepped forward, his burning gaze fixed on Camilla.

‘Dido!’ he laughed. With one blow of his gauntleted fist, he knocked her to the ground.

She lay there, blood pounding in her ears, accompanied by the harsh laughter of the gladiators. Then she rose on one elbow, holding back tears.

‘Brutus,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time. I wondered if I would find you here.’

Brutus seized her forearms and hauled her to her feet. He slapped her playfully across the back of the head. ‘She’s a real woman, this one,’ he announced to the others. ‘She can take any punishment, she’s a glutton for it. She came here looking for me because she knows I know how to treat a woman right.’

‘She came because she was told to,’ said Syphax, baring white teeth in a snarl. He spoke in an undertone to two other gladiators. They took long knives and vanished into the trees along the trail Camilla and Syphax had followed. ‘Arctos sent her a message telling her to bring the other gladiators.’

‘Oh?’ said Brutus dangerously, looming over the Nubian. ‘You want her, do you?’ He grabbed Camilla by the scruff and dragged her forwards. ‘Have her! Take her now, in front of us all!’

Syphax looked Camilla up and down then turned away. ‘Not my kind of meat,’ he said.

Camilla pulled herself free of Brutus. The gladiator swung round to knock her down again, but she dodged, flinching. He glared at her, then laughed.

‘You’re getting better!’ he said. ‘I told you I’d make a gladiatrix out of you!’ He faced the chorus of grinning rebels; they had downed swords and were watching. ‘When she joined the family,’ he told them, ‘I said a woman could never fight in the arena. She fought me!’ Proudly he showed them deep toothmarks in his upper arm. ‘I trained her up, hardened her. Now she’s a fighter.’

He knocked her down again. This time she did not attempt to get up.

Brutus moved off. Syphax sat on his haunches, watching her impassively. She rose, rubbed her bruises, and looked round the encampment.

‘He’s not changed,’ she said.

‘He’s still a fool,’ Syphax growled. ‘But a good fighter, and that’s what we want.’ He glanced around then leaned closer. ‘The word is, someone big is coming here.’

‘Someone big?’ she said. ‘Here? To this encampment? Do you mean Arctos? Do you know when he’s coming?’

He shook his head angrily. ‘Not here, not to the encampment. Not Arctos either. Someone big is coming to Egypt.’

‘We’re going to take the prefect prisoner,’ she said. ‘That’s the plan I was told. I don’t know when or where.’

Syphax nodded vigorously. ‘But plans can change. Opportunities can change.’

‘A better opportunity than taking the prefect hostage and seizing the richest province in the empire?’ She sat down on a fallen log. ‘What can that be?’

‘I can’t tell you that much,’ Syphax taunted her. ‘You know I can’t.’

Then why tell her at all? ‘Is there any food round here?’ she asked. ‘I’ve not eaten for a while, and all I’ve had is green lotus fruit and raw fish.’

‘I’ve sent men to cut up that carcass,’ Syphax hissed. ‘We’ll have crocodile steaks. Or are you so used to feasting and banqueting that you’ll turn up your pretty nose?’

Camilla knew full well her nose wasn’t pretty. ‘I told you, I’ve lived on raw fish,’ she growled. ‘I can eat crocodile meat with a will.’

Syphax vanished into a reed hut and returned bearing gladiatorial swords and armour. ‘Wear this,’ he said, dropping the armour in the dust at Camilla’s feet. ‘You’re to get in training straightaway. When Arctos comes here and sees you, he won’t think you’ve been wasting time. Even if you have lost Tiro.’

He walked off. Camilla strapped on the brief armour. How well would they be able to fight legionaries like the ones she had encountered, dressed in such impractical gear? She should speak to Arctos when she finally met him. Couldn’t he provide better armour?

She was happy she had met Brutus again. He had been her first. The only man who was man enough to take her. She’d fought him, of course, tooth and nail. But he had been stronger than other men. He had tamed her, he said. That the greatest gladiator in the world had tamed the greatest gladiatrix, like Theseus had tamed Hippolyta, or was it Antiope? They had been happy.

Brutus was a man of the aboriginal Sicanian people of Sicily. He had lived by robbery, like many of his people, and ultimately been enslaved for it. The life of the gladiator had been inevitable, and yet he had chafed at this existence, feeling a burning grudge against the mob who flocked to see the bloodshed. It was he who had taught Camilla that gladiators, gladiators who survived, were better than the mob, better even than emperors. The audience hung on everything the gladiators did, every cut, every thrust, every parry. Even slave-born gladiators were better than the gutter-bred back seat watchers, and free gladiators or venators were nobler than the equestrians and senators who sat in the closer seats. Even the blessed few in the imperial box, even the governor or emperor who decided the fate of the defeated, wouldn’t have that privilege, that choice between life and death, if it wasn’t for the gladiators. Like gods, the gladiators lived and died for the sins of the mob, sacrificed to ensure salvation for the many.

So Brutus had said, beating it into her night after night. The impresario had complained about him damaging valuable stock, but Brutus had soon shown Apuleius Victor who was master. And then Brutus had vanished. It had taken a long time before Camilla learnt where. And here he was, putting his words into practice, on the cusp of a revolt that would put that of Spartacus in the shade for all time.

She needed a breastplate at the very least. All Syphax had given her was a shoulder piece and an armguard and gauntlet, and a visored helmet. She needed a shield too. No one could fight for freedom in gladiator armour.

She hurried away.

—28—

When the alarm came, she was sparring with two gladiators, men she recognised from the games in Leptis Magna a year ago.

A native Egyptian sprinted through the clearing, heading for the tents. ‘Attack!’ he cried. ‘Attackers coming! Attackers!’

Camilla could not see beyond the palm trees. ‘The Romans?’ she asked, but the Egyptian had run on.

Leaving her two companions, she went in search of Brutus. She encountered Syphax instead, racing from the huts, two gladiators at his back.

‘They say we’re under attack,’ she told him.

Syphax pushed past her. ‘Follow me. We need to muster all the men.’

‘Is it the Romans?’ she asked, but he was already running down the path, his gladiators following. Sighing, Camilla hastened after them.

She caught up on the bank. Syphax was talking in Egyptian with the man who had been left on lookout, a native of the Delta. Nearby lay the carcass of the crocodile, fought over by smaller reptiles.

‘What’s he saying?’ Camilla asked.

‘He saw them approaching through the reeds,’ one of the gladiators rumbled. ‘In boats or afoot? Syphax is asking now. ‘On foot, says the lookout. No, not Romans, he adds. Egyptians. Bucolics.’

Camilla scanned the surrounding marshes. ‘I see no sign of them,’ she said. ‘What does he say they were like, these Bucolics?’

‘He says they wore the clothes of women.’ Syphax looked at Camilla. ‘Our allies in the south go into the fight dressed as women. It is said to make them invulnerable.’

‘I met Egyptians on my way here,’ she said, ‘who were like that. They attacked us. That’s why I was alone when I got here. Where are they now?’

Syphax asked the lookout, who shrugged, and said something, pointing. ‘They vanished behind a patch of reeds,’ Syphax told her. ‘Maybe they are on their way. He says he gave the alarm because…’

Camilla heard it first; a splashing sound; many men wading through the waters. From behind the bank of reeds that the lookout had indicated armed figures appeared. Egyptian women, she thought, but then she reminded herself. These were Bucolics. The Bucolics who had pursued her, she was sure of it.

The bushes rustled behind her and out came Brutus at the head of a large group of gladiators. They all carried hunting bows.

‘What’s the alarm?’ he demanded.

Camilla greeted him. ‘The Bucolics who pursued me,’ she said, ‘I’m sure it’s them.’

Brutus followed her gesture. His cruel eyes narrowed and he gave a growl.

‘They’re coming this way,’ said Syphax.

‘I see that,’ Brutus told him impatiently. ‘Have they made any attempt to contact us?’

Syphax shook his head. ‘The lookout says they are from the island of Nikokis,’ he said. ‘Feared throughout the Delta.’

‘Why have they not been recruited?’ Brutus asked. ‘They sound like just what we need to carry out our plan.’

‘They refuse to cooperate with other villages,’ Syphax said after speaking with the lookout. ‘They kill and eat any who approach them, unless they win their trust.’

Brutus gave orders for the archers to fit arrows to their bows.

Camilla remembered her captivity. She had abandoned young Tiro to these river pirates’ ministrations. Now they were coming—after her? Were they to be her Nemesis?

The men on the bank fell silent as the Bucolics of Nikokis advanced through the shallow waters. The sun danced on the waters, a wind moaned among the papyrus reeds. Ibis flew overhead. A scarab droned past.

When the Bucolics were within earshot—and arrowshot—Brutus called out, ‘Who goes there? We have you covered. Go no further until we have parleyed.’

One of the Bucolics stepped forward. ‘I am Kalasiris of Nikokis,’ he announced, a tall, massive man, incongruous in his woman’s clothes. Camilla recognised him as the leader of those who had captured her.

‘And what do you want with us?’ Brutus asked. ‘You come armed, I see. Do you wish to fight? I have heard your reputation throughout the Delta.’

Kalasiris shook his head. ‘We do not come to fight.’ A bound and hooded figure was pushed forwards. ‘We come to bring you a gift—and to make a proposition.’

Brutus exchanged glances with Syphax. Camilla stared at the Bucolics’ prisoner. She could see nothing of his face; a linen bag had been pulled over it, and he was tied up with ropes, but she had her suspicions. Her pulse quickened, and she looked guiltily at Brutus.

‘What gift?’ the Sicanian called. ‘And what proposition?’

‘Let me join you,’ Kalasiris called back, ‘and we can discuss it fully.’

‘You can stay where you are,’ Brutus told him. ‘I’m not letting you up here. Stay put. My archers have you covered.’

Kalasiris laughed. ‘Frightened? I’ll only come with a few men. We’ll keep the prisoner back here, though, until we know you want to accept him.’

He had a whispered conversation with another Egyptian, the only one wearing men’s clothes—a white linen kilt and skullcap. During this, Brutus spoke to Syphax.

‘They may mean to put us off our guard,’ he asserted. ‘We should tell them to leave. Fill them with arrows if they don’t.’

Syphax shook his head. ‘We don’t want to make enemies with them. If we massacre this group more will come, and they won’t be in a parleying mood.’

‘I wonder who their prisoner is,’ said Camilla quietly.

‘Someone they think we want,’ said Syphax. ‘Who could that be?’

Brutus shouted to Kalasiris, ‘Advance, with two other men.’

Kalasiris and a couple of his fellow Bucolics waded over to the bank. With arrows trained on them they scrambled ashore, leaving the rest of their people, and their captive, standing in the marsh. Accompanied by an escort of mistrustful gladiators, they approached Brutus.

‘We welcome you to these waters,’ said Kalasiris, ‘that is all. We have been aware of your presence for some time now. We wished to contact you.’

‘You bring gifts,’ Brutus observed. ‘The Greeks brought gifts to Troy.’

‘We are not Greeks,’ said Kalasiris. ‘Our people have dwelt in the Nile Delta for over a thousand years. We bring a gift—a token of our esteem—and a proposition. We would join forces with you. You hate the Romans just as we do. We would see the tax gatherers and the river patrols driven from our country.’

‘What gift is it that you bring?’ Syphax asked. ‘Do you mean your prisoner?’

Kalasiris nodded. ‘A spy,’ he said. ‘We would hand him over to you so you can deal with him in a fitting manner.’

Camilla gave an involuntary gasp. Brutus glowered at her. ‘A spy?’ he said, not looking at Kalasiris, still giving Camilla a baleful stare.

‘A spy for the Romans. We have taken him prisoner,’ said the Egyptian. ‘He came into the marshes spying on us. On you.’

‘Did he come alone?’ Camilla asked abruptly.

Kalasiris smiled. ‘He had two companions,’ he said. ‘One was killed by crocodiles. The other…escaped.’

Camilla did not take her eyes from him. ‘Let us see this man.’

‘Silence!’ Brutus instructed her. ‘I make the decisions here, in lieu of our leader. You! Bring the spy here,’ he told Kalasiris.

Kalasiris waved to his men. Two of them took the prisoner by his arms and urged him on through the marsh waters. Camilla watched in trepidation. Surrounded by gladiators, the two Egyptians and their captive joined Brutus. One of the Egyptians was the man Camilla had seen before, the only one who wore normal clothes. He looked more like a scribe than a herdsman.

Brutus looked the prisoner up and down.

‘This is the spy, then,’ he said, reaching forwards. ‘A Roman spy?’

He tore the hood from the prisoner’s head. Syphax grunted in surprise. With a sinking feeling of inevitability, Camilla gazed at the face revealed.

‘Tiro,’ she said with a sob. The youth looked utterly bewildered.

—29—

‘Lock him up in that hut,’ commanded Brutus, indicating a shack nearby. ‘You and you,’—he pointed at two gladiators— ‘stand guard over him. When Arctos comes here, he will want to question this…spy.’ He knocked the prisoner to the ground.

Camilla cried out. Syphax and Brutus both stared at her in surprise. Syphax’s eyes narrowed, and he gave a low laugh, then glanced at Brutus.

‘What is this wailing, woman?’ the Sicanian bellowed. ‘I thought I’d knocked that out of you long ago.’

‘Nothing,’ said Camilla. ‘I know the prisoner, that’s all. Syphax knows him too, don’t you?’

‘Never seen him before,’ said the Nubian.

Camilla shook her head. ‘It’s Tiro, Syphax. He was with us in the Family of Apuleius Victor. Surely you remember.’

The two gladiators picked up the semi-conscious prisoner and carried him over to the hut. ‘Were you and he lovers?’ Brutus demanded.

Camilla shook her head. ‘He’s only a boy,’ she said.

‘He’s no man, that I’ll tell you,’ Brutus said, pounding himself on the chest. ‘Not like me. But I think you and he were lovers!’ He raised a threatening fist.

Before Brutus could knock Camilla down again, one of the Egyptians spoke, the man who looked like a scribe. ‘Does our prisoner not buy us into your army, gladiator?’

Brutus lowered his arm and swung round. He gave the small Egyptian a contemptuous glance. ‘You can join us,’ he told him, ‘but until we know you better, you’ll be kept under guard.’

‘Are we to be prisoners?’ the Egyptian asked angrily. ‘We brought you a spy. We bring you warriors. And you’d put us under guard?’

Brutus’ face split with a cold smile. ‘Until our leader has spoken, I can give you no assurances. I cannot let join us without his decision.’

The Egyptian peered ostentatiously around Brutus. ‘Where is your leader? I’d speak with the man in charge, if you are only his lackey.’

Brutus’ eyes flared like embers. ‘He is not here. Take your men over to that clearing.’ He told off guards to keep watch over the newcomers, who sat down in the dust between two stands of palm trees amid much complaining and chatter.

Camilla watched in silence. Brutus and his men returned to sparring. Camilla knew she should do the same. But her eyes drifted towards the reed hut where two gladiators stood on guard. The hut containing Tiro.

It grew hotter. The gladiators gave up training until afternoon, moving into the shade to laze or sleep. The stillness was broken only by the lapping of water on the bank and the distant whirring of errant scarabs. Camilla took a water skin from another gladiator and drank deeply, then splashed some more over her face and chest. ‘Thanks,’ she said, returning it. She put her armour and weapons away in a hut and went looking for somewhere to sleep.

Somehow, she drifted close to the hut where Tiro was imprisoned. Both guards were nodding at their post. Even as she watched from between two trees, they both sat down and leant against the rickety wooden wall, removed helmets and mopped brows, drank thirstily from water skins. Camilla looked about her. Although lookouts were stationed on the edge of the island, otherwise people slept or dozed.

She could stand it no more. Gliding across the clearing she stepped over the snoring guards and unbolted the door to the hut.

As she entered the cool gloom she was seized from behind, her arms pinioned behind her back.

Her assailant halted abruptly, and let her go. ‘Camilla?’ came a familiar voice. ‘Is that you?’

She turned, and there he was. She called him a lad, but Tiro must have been in his mid-twenties. A thicket of stubble blued his chin. His eyes were a different shade of blue, the blue of the skies at harvest time. They regarded her in puzzlement that was endearing. She felt a pang of guilt for abandoning her to the Bucolics.

‘It’s me,’ she rumbled. ‘I came to see you.’

‘I’m surprised you’re willing to speak with a spy.’ He squatted down in one corner of the otherwise empty hut.

‘I spoke with you before,’ she said, ‘during our journey. And I knew you were a spy then.’

His face paled. ‘You knew?’ He looked down at the ground. ‘Jove curse it!’

‘You are a spy, aren’t you?’ she asked doubtfully.

He patted the earth beside him. ‘Come and sit next to me,’ he said.

She examined the ground doubtfully. ‘I’d rather stand.’

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘I’m getting a sore neck looking up at you.’

Primly she smoothed down her leather skirt and sat down. The ground felt gritty beneath her. She still looked down at him. He was probably a normal sized man, but beside hulking gladiators he seemed small, like a boy. Like a bewildered boy who didn’t understand the ways of the world.

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I only came because your guards were asleep.’

‘Asleep?’ He looked away. ‘So I could come and go as I pleased? Or would you stop me? Why have you come here?’

‘You could escape,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But if you tried, I think I’d have to stop you.’

He smiled at her. ‘I won’t put you in that position,’ he said. ‘I’ll be a good little Tiro and stay here.’

‘What is your real name?’ she asked. ‘And why did you come here?’

‘Oho,’ he said, and tapped his nose. ‘You were sent to interrogate me? Soften me up?’

She scowled. ‘Do you trust no one?’ she demanded.

‘It’s the best policy.’ He gave her a charming smile. ‘After all…’ he added slowly. ‘Why should I trust you?’

She rose to her feet. ‘I should be going.’

‘No.’ He reached up and tugged at her arm. ‘Sit down again. I’m sorry I said that.’

Her mouth a downturned line, she sat. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘you did abandon me to those Bucolics.’

‘They didn’t kill you,’ she said sharply.

He shook his head. ‘No. They didn’t kill me.’

She looked away. ‘They took you prisoner,’ she said, ‘and brought you here as a diplomatic gift. So they could join our cause. But they didn’t kill you.’

‘Do you think Arctos will?’ Tiro asked.

She sighed, and regarded him. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she told him.

‘Hasn’t he said anything?’ Tiro asked. ‘Apart from knocking me about? He wasn’t very charming to you, either.’

‘Oh!’ said Camilla, amused. ‘That wasn’t Arctos. Arctos isn’t here.’

‘Not here?’ Tiro exclaimed. ‘Where is he, then? And who was that barbarian I met?’

‘Now who’s the interrogator?’ she said with a quirk of a smile. Tiro shrugged. ‘I don’t know where Arctos is right now,’ she went on, ‘but he’s supposed to be coming here soon. And the barbarian, as you call him, is Brutus.’

His eyes widened. ‘Brutus? The first one from the family to disappear?’

She nodded. ‘Brutus and I…’ She broke off.

‘Oh,’ said Tiro, patting her on the arm. ‘I see.’ Her skin tingled from the brief contact. ‘Is that why you left me to be taken prisoner by the Bucolics?’

She shook her head, confused. ‘I don’t know why I did that,’ she said. ‘I was bringing you here so you could be questioned.’

‘You were bringing me?’ Tiro’s face fell. ‘I thought Maccabeus was in charge.’

She shook her head. ‘I told Maccabeus to act as if he was,’ she explained, ‘but it was me who was taking you to the encampment. You were getting too close to the truth, for all that I had tried to distract you with investigating Petrus’ murder. At first I tried to get rid of you by reporting your spying to Apuleius Victor, but that didn’t work. I received a message from Arctos that it was was time you were taken where the truth could be wrested from you. But then we were pursued by the Bucolics. Maccabeus died. We were captured. I thought it better that I get to the encampment and leave you…’

‘To be eaten by anthropophagi? That’s one way to get rid of a spy.’

‘You weren’t eaten, were you?’ she said defiantly. ‘You’re still alive.’

‘That’s right,’ he conceded. ‘Kalasiris and his people were perfect gentlemen. They don’t really like eating people, it’s just a tradition during war time, or rebellions. It strikes fear into the heart of the enemy. But they thought I was more valuable as a bargaining counter.’

‘I betrayed you,’ said Camilla repentantly. ‘And then they betrayed you too. It’s no wonder that you find it hard to trust people.’

Tiro nodded. She shook her head uncomprehendingly. ‘I have not lived a happy life,’ she admitted. ‘But I have never been betrayed like that. I feel pity for you, Tiro.’

‘Pity enough to help me?’ he said quickly.

She stared at him for a long time. Then shook her head.

‘I can’t set you free,’ she told him. ‘I can’t help you. Brutus would…’

‘Ah,’ he said, nodding wisely. ‘Brutus.’ His eyes widened. ‘But you weren’t happy when he beat me. I noticed that as I was dragged from that place. And Brutus wasn’t happy that you were unhappy.’

‘He was my first,’ she told him in a rush. ‘You don’t know what that means to a woman. Yes, he beat me. He broke my nose one time…’

‘You told me,’ said Tiro. He laid a hand on her arm. ‘And you love him?’

‘He only beat me,’ she explained, ‘because I needed it. I needed toughening. He beat the womanliness out of me. Well, he tried. “You can’t be weak and womanly and wield a sword in the arena,” he told me. “One day, we gladiators will rule,” he kept saying.’

Tiro laughed. ‘Gladiators rule? Rule what, the empire?’

‘You’re a gladiator, too,’ she pointed out.

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ he said drily. ‘I may be a gladiator but I don’t expect to rule anywhere. Why does he think gladiators will rule?’

‘A sibyl told him,’ she said. ‘A wise woman in his village. She foresaw a time when the emperor would be a gladiator. He thinks it will be him.’

‘Impossible,’ Tiro scoffed.

‘The mob looks up to us,’ Camilla grunted. ‘And the mob decides who is emperor, not the Senate.’

‘I think the Praetorians have some say in the matter,’ Tiro suggested.

‘And Brutus knows the secret of the empire,’ said Camilla.

Tiro’s face went pale. ‘The secret of the empire?’

The door opened. Camilla wheeled round. Standing there was Brutus, his face dark.

‘He who controls Egypt controls the empire,’ the Sicanian announced..’ And soon we will control Egypt.’ Brutus struck Camilla across the mouth. ‘Why are you talking to this spy? Are you a spy too?’

Camilla put a hand to her lips. It came away bloody.

‘There was no call for that,’ she said slowly.

Brutus swaggered up to her. ‘I think you need teaching a…’ He broke off at a trumpet blast from outside.

‘Arctos!’ he exclaimed, turning to the door. ‘He’s here!’

He was about to leave, but then Syphax bustled in, urging the two guards after him. He shut the door and gave Brutus a look.

‘We stay inside when Arctos comes,’ he said. ‘You know that! Nobody sees his face.’

Another trumpet blast resounded from outside.

—30—

‘How can Arctos give you orders,’ Tiro asked conversationally, ‘if you never see his face?’

‘Silence, Tiro,’ said Camilla, although she was wondering this herself. Arctos had sent her messages in cipher, but she had never met him.

‘Only I am privileged enough to speak to him,’ said Brutus. ‘Even then, he wears the helmet of a murmillo when I am permitted to enter his presence, as do the men who come with him.’

‘Security arrangements like those,’ said Tiro thoughtfully, ‘suggest that he has something to hide; namely his face. Who is he? Someone who we’ll recognise?’

‘You won’t recognise anyone,’ Syphax assured him; ‘You won’t be seeing him. We won’t let a spy like you anywhere near him.’

A fanfare broke the ensuing silence. Brutus looked up. ‘That’s the call to assemble outside Arctos’ hut.’ He turned to go. ‘Syphax, come with me. Camilla, you come too. You two’—he pointed at the guards— ‘stay here. And stay awake.’

He led the others from the reed hut. As she followed Camilla looked back to see Tiro stoically sitting back down on the packed earth floor of the hut.

Outside it was bright and sunny, and beams of light shone through the trees in the middle of the encampment. At one end of this stood the largest of the huts. Outside the entrance were two big gladiators who Camilla had not seen before. Both held trumpets. She guessed that they had accompanied Arctos here while everyone was in the huts and tents.

Filtering into the area were the rest of the gladiators and Egyptians. Kalasiris had been brought there under guard.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Brutus barked. A guard said he had brought the Egyptian in case there were any orders concerning him. The other Egyptians had been sent inside a tent, under guard. ‘Orders?’ Brutus scoffed. ‘We have yet to tell Arctos about him. Keep him here. Bring him forward at my order.’ He addressed the group. ‘You know what to do. Stay here in silence while I speak with our leader.’

He walked towards the hut. At his approach the two gladiators on guard stiffened, and one drew a wickedly gleaming sword.

‘Who goes there?’ he asked.

‘A son of Spartacus,’ said Brutus.

‘Pass, friend.’ The gladiator relaxed and sheathed his sword. They both stepped aside and Brutus ducked inside the hut.

Camilla watched, Syphax at her side. Who was Arctos? Tiro had been right. All these security precautions—no one allowed to see his face. He must be someone important—someone who would be compromised if anyone recognised him. Did he fear spies? Or did he have something else to hide?

She heard muted conversation from within the hut. The men stood in silence. The two gladiators stared straight ahead of them. The sun began to descend. Insects zipped by. A warm wind stirred the trees. Camilla edged closer to the hut, listening intently, but could hear nothing. Syphax followed her.

The bead curtain covering the doorway hissed as Brutus stepped outside and gazed round at the assembled rebels.

‘Arctos has nothing to say,’ he told them. ‘Get back to your work.’

Grumbling, the gladiators moved away. Camilla and Syphax remained.

‘Why has he returned?’ Syphax asked. ‘Are we going to attack? What is the plan? What of this important visitor?’

‘Arctos does not yet know when the visitor will come,’ Brutus said. ‘It will be sometime during the festivities, but he cannot yet say which day. He came here,’ he went on, ‘because the city became too dangerous. He had to flee, but he brought with him all the money.’

‘Money?’ said Camilla. ‘What money?’

Brutus gave her an irritable look. ‘The money needed to equip our fighters,’ he said, leading them away, ‘and for bribes. It’s an expensive business, revolution. The civic guard were onto him. We think that Apuleius Victor betrayed us.’

‘I never trusted him,’ said Syphax.

‘You were his right-hand man,’ Camilla taunted him. ‘His faithful hound. He and you were close enough to be lovers.’

‘I let everyone think that,’ said Syphax, narrowing his eyes. ‘I did his bidding. He infiltrated one of the gangs, with my help…’

‘You let him infiltrate the syndicate?’ Brutus was incredulous. ‘I knew nothing of this.’

‘I had to,’ Syphax hissed. ‘Otherwise he would have suspected my loyalties. The gang helped him remove people who threatened him. In return, he looked the other way when games were fixed.’

Camilla had also been unaware of this. ‘What of Petrus? Did they… were they the ones…?’

‘What is this bleating?’ Brutus said impatiently. ‘Petrus? What of him? Why didn’t you bring him?’

‘Petrus is dead,’ said Syphax. ‘They killed him because he was snooping.’

Camilla’s eyes widened. ‘With Apuleius Victor’s aid? With your aid?’

Syphax inclined his head, unashamed. ‘They gave us asp venom, I coated my blade with it. In the fight I wounded him. Only a scratch, but it was enough.’

‘And you bribed the medic to say the death was of natural causes,’ Camilla grunted.

Brutus snarled. ‘If Apuleius Victor was investigating the syndicates, that would explain it! He must have blabbed to the prefect’s men in the civic guard. Only Arctos and two others escaped. Luckily, he brought the money with him. Most of it, at least.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Camilla, bewildered. ‘What money? Where did it come from?’

‘Gambling, of course,’ said Syphax. ‘Arctos gained control of all the syndicates in Alexandria. Through his agents, he rigged the games and the races, and cleaned up through exploiting the foolishness of gamblers.’

‘I thought we were going to make a better empire,’ Camilla said bitterly to Brutus. ‘Are you saying that Arctos is a criminal?’

Brutus seized her. ‘Never let me hear you say that again, do you hear?’ He shook her violently. ‘Arctos used the vices of the Romans against them. Now we have money. For weapons and armour.’ He tapped his finger on Camilla’s armguard. ‘Do you think we could face legionaries in the field armoured like gladiators?’

She shook her head. ‘Our armour is more for show than defence.’

‘So now we must have better armour,’ said Brutus, ‘armour as good as that worn by legionaries. Now that we have money.’

‘Who will supply the armour?’ asked Camilla.

‘You’ve asked enough questions,’ Brutus told her. ‘Let us just say that Rome has her enemies, and south of here is a land where ironworking is common. Now, get back to your training. The moment to strike could be any day.’

Camilla walked away, deep in thought. The only land south of Egypt she had ever heard of was Ethiopia, a constellation of kingdoms inhabited by folk like Syphax. Were they to supply the arms and armour? It would take a long time to transport it, unless deals had already been struck. She knew very little about what was going on.

So Petrus’ death had resulted from the machinations of Arctos’ crime syndicates; and Apuleius Victor and Syphax had played their parts.

She wished she had someone to talk to. Her feelings were complex and confusing. Most of all, however, she was feeling betrayed.

Flaminius lay on the hard-packed earth of the reed hut, mind a whirl. He had got so close and yet he was so far away from completing his mission. He’d known battle and betrayal, and now he was a prisoner. From what Camilla and the others had said, the mysterious Arctos was nearby—and yet who was he? He certainly believed in security. It seemed unlikely that Camilla or any of the other rebels could tell him who the man was. So who could he be? These precautions suggested he was someone widely known.

He considered the prefect, Haterius Nepos. The man was powerful in Egypt, second only to the emperor himself. Could he be plotting to oust Hadrian?

But there was a very simple reason that Arctos could not be the prefect. Haterius Nepos was an equestrian, like Flaminius himself, of the middle rank in Roman society, above the mob but beneath the senators. The Roman senate would never accept an equestrian as emperor, even if he did control the city’s grain supply. They would accept one of their own as long as he had the support of the legions. But never a man beneath them in dignity. That was why the prefecture of Egypt, with all the power it entailed, was always assigned to a man of equestrian rank. Snobbery was a strong force in Roman politics, a very strong force.

Arctos must be someone important, all the same. And yet the only man in the province of senatorial rank, incidentally with military might at his back, was Avidius Pollio. A chill ran down Flaminius’ sweaty backbone. Could it be him? Could it really be that the man who had sent him on his mission was behind the plot itself?

Flaminius shook his head. He had known some convoluted conspiracies in his time, but this one just didn’t make sense. Apart from anything, if Avidius Pollio intended to seize power in Egypt in preparation for taking over the empire, why would he waste his time recruiting gladiators and Bucolics?

Flaminius pounded the ground with his fist. So near and yet so far. If he could only escape, maybe at night, and go to Arctos’ hut. If he could just get a glimpse of the man, it might all fall into place. Maybe he would recognise him. Then…steal a boat…sail back across the flooded countryside to Alexandria…warn the authorities…

He went still. Voices could be heard outside. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to make out what they were saying.

‘…orders from Arctos to questions the prisoner…’

He was to be questioned? So Arctos knew about him. He heard a clank of armour and then a figure stepped in through the bead curtain.

‘You again,’ he muttered, recognising Camilla. ‘You’re going to continue your interrogation?’

She crouched down beside him. ‘This is no interrogation, Tiro.’

‘You told the guards you were here to question me for Arctos. Alright then, what does he want to know? Not that I’ll tell you anything. You tried before, didn’t you? Playing on my sympathies…’

‘Will you stop your yammering?’ Camilla placed her hand over his mouth. ‘You must trust me. I trust you! You are the only one I can trust here.’

Flaminius moved back, and she dropped her hand. ‘It’s too late for trust. You betrayed me. And now you expect me to talk to you? When you can come and go as you please? You’re obviously high in Arctos’ favour.’

Camilla sat down. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘Those guards are too easily fooled. If I was Arctos, I would have them flogged.’

Flaminius sat back. He had no reason to trust this woman. And yet, what did she want with him?

‘When does the interrogation begin?’ he asked.

‘You remember we tried to find out who killed Petrus?’

He nodded. ‘It was Syphax, working for Apuleius Victor. Apuleius Victor is…’ He halted. He couldn’t reveal the man’s true identity.

‘So you know?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You know who Apuleius Victor really is?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he told me. Unless…you’re not telling me he’s Arctos, are you?’

She laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s not. But he was working for him.’

Flaminius went cold. ‘Working for him? For Arctos? But he…’

‘And he was also working for the prefect.’

Flaminius relaxed. ‘That much I did know,’ he admitted. ‘But I didn’t realise that he was working for Arctos. I know he was mixed up with that gang, but he told me he was trying to find out who was behind the gambling rings.’

‘I can tell you that,’ said Camilla, glancing over her shoulder. ‘It’s Arctos.’

‘Arctos?’ Flaminius thought rapidly. ‘That would explain a lot of things. But one big question: who is Arctos?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I did catch a glimpse of him, but I didn’t recognise him. I…’ She broke off and cocked her head to listen.

‘I’m telling you,’ Syphax’s voice was saying, ‘Arctos wants the prisoner taken to him for questioning.’

‘And I’m telling you,’ the guard was saying, ‘he’s already being questioned, right now.’

Camilla turned urgently to Flaminius.

—31—

‘Get back against that wall.’ Flaminius pointed at a spot to one side of the doorway.

‘But they’ll find me…’

Flaminius shoved her in the direction indicated and strode through the bead curtain to find Syphax in urgent discussion with the two guards.

‘How long am I going to be kept in here? I demand to be set free.’

Syphax smiled. ‘You’re not going to be freed, Tiro, or whatever your name is, but you are going to come for a little walk.

The gladiators menaced Flaminius. ‘Get back in the hut!’

‘No!’ said Syphax. ‘He’s coming with me. Arctos wants him.’

He knocked their blades down with his own sword, then took Flaminius by the arm. ‘You can guard him on the way to the big hut,’ the Nubian added generously.

As the Roman spy was led across the encampment towards Arctos’ hut, the two guards fell into line behind him and Syphax. A glance over Flaminius’ shoulder revealed Camilla slipping away from the hut. He breathed more easily after that.

Syphax noticed the change. ‘You’ve got nothing to relax about,’ he told him with a sneer.

Brutus stood outside the hut. Incongruously, the Sicanian looked anxious. ‘Arctos wants to talk with you,’ he said, looking Flaminius up and down. ‘He wants to talk to you’—and he pointed at the hut— ‘in there.’

‘Face to face?’ Flaminius asked.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, spy?’ Brutus spat. ‘You’d like to see his face.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Flaminius said. When Brutus didn’t answer, he added, ‘Have you ever seen it?’

Brutus shoved him towards the doorway. ‘Get in there.’

The two gladiators caught him. One flung a dirty look at Brutus, then called inside, ‘We have the prisoner you wanted to speak to.’

A voice trickled out. ‘Send him in.’

‘You heard Arctos,’ the gladiator told Flaminius, releasing him. ‘Go inside the hut.’

‘Thank you,’ said Flaminius, and he meant it. He ducked through the bead curtain.

The lamplit space beyond was empty of all furnishings, apart from two reed mats and a wooden coffer large enough to need two men to carry it. On one mat sat a lean, elderly man clad in a simple tunic of richly woven cloth and a gladiator helmet that covered his face. On a finger of his wrinkled right hand he wore a seal ring with a design Flaminius couldn’t make out from where he stood.

‘So you are the spy,’ Arctos said, voice muffled. ‘I recall seeing you before.’ It was the voice of an old man. Despite his Greek name, Arctos’ voice had a hint of an Iberian accent. Was he from Hispania?

He gestured to the reed mat and Flaminius sat down on it. ‘Such luxury,’ he said. ‘It’s just bare earth in my hut. You’ve seen me before? When?’

‘That I can’t say,’ replied Arctos. ‘It was some time ago, in another country.’

‘Britain?’ Flaminius suggested.

‘Hardly,’ said the man. ‘I’ve never been to such a barbarous backwoods province. Egypt is quite enough for me.’

Flaminius frowned. ‘It’s hard to guess where it was,’ he said, ‘without being able to see your face. Maybe we have met. But maybe if you could just lift that helmet a little.’

A laugh issued from the blank visor. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Tiro? You’re a spy. You’d like to learn my identity and then report me to your emperor.’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘You’ve got me right. I’m an imperial agent. A spy, if you like. But who are you? Despite a slight Iberian accent, which is all the rage these days, you speak Latin very well. Better than me, in fact, and I got a first-rate education in Italy…’

‘And now you squander it in this sordid business of spying for that upstart of an emperor,’ Arctos observed. ‘What a waste.’

Flaminius scratched his head. ‘I often feel that way myself,’ he confessed with a grin. ‘What I’ve seen and done over the last few years…I want nothing more than to settle down in some obscure part of the empire—that barbarous province about which you were so disparaging. But this line of work is hard to get away from.’

The visor did not move. ‘You don’t wish to work for your emperor? That sounds disloyal.’

‘I would like to retire,’ Flaminius confessed. ‘I’ve packed a lifetime’s work into the last few years. But you’re in a poor position to accuse me of disloyalty. I’m not the one who’s plotting against his imperial majesty.’

‘His imperial majesty,’ Arctos said sardonically. ‘You speak with such reverence. If you knew him as I do…’ He checked himself abruptly.

Flaminius gazed thoughtfully at him. ‘I’ve met the emperor,’ he said. ‘I know the kind of man he is.’ He folded his arms. ‘I take it you’ve met him too, from what you say.’

‘Well enough to know that he is unfit to rule,’ said Arctos. ‘It is my right, my destiny. And you? Are you backing the right chariot? Do you think this Greek obsessed pederast should wear the purple?’

‘If it wasn’t him,’ Flaminius said with a shrug, ‘it would be someone else. Hadrian’s rule has been tranquil enough, despite a few attempted coups. They’ve all been stillborn.’

‘Or stifled in their cradle,’ said Arctos. ‘And you’ve had a hand in that, haven’t you? Oh yes, I’ve got you placed now. Gaius Flaminius Drusus, late of the Ninth Legion.’

Despite the warmth of the August evening, Flaminius’s blood went cold at these words.

Who was this faceless enemy?

When Syphax beckoned from the trees Camilla was sparring with two gladiators. With an apology to her companions, she downed weapons and went to the Nubian.

‘Arctos is speaking to Tiro,’ Syphax told her. ‘They’ve been talking for some time.’

‘Brutus must be jealous,’ she said.

Syphax did not smile. ‘I’ve heard that you were in Tiro’s cell.’

Camilla growled. ‘Who said that? They must be mistaken.’

‘You told the guards that you had been sent to interrogate him,’ Syphax said flatly. ‘Now, why was that?’

‘Very well, I lied,’ she said. ‘There’s something I must say. But only if you swear to keep it to yourself.’

Syphax made no such vow, and did not speak. He continued to gaze at her. ‘I don’t want Brutus to hear this,’ she went on. ‘But you know that Tiro and I came here together.’

‘Did you know he was a spy?’ Syphax asked.

‘I was told to keep an eye on him, looking out for signs that he was working for the authorities. We spent time together, even when we were still in the city…’

‘And?’ Syphax said. ‘You’re not saying that he made you his agent?’

She hung her head. ‘Worse than that. This is why I don’t want Brutus to hear about it. He’ll skin me alive.’

‘Why?’ Syphax was urgent. ‘Have you betrayed us?’

She shook her head. ‘No. But Tiro and I… on the journey we became lovers.’

Syphax stared at her in shock. Then he grinned like a jackal. ‘Lovers?’ he said with a laugh. ‘This is rich. You’re right, Brutus would flay you if he heard about this.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘You won’t tell him,’ she said anxiously. ‘Will you?’

Syphax’s lip curled. ‘I don’t care about Brutus.’ He took her face in his hands and looked fiercely into her eyes. ‘I’ll keep your secret, woman,’ he promised her. ‘But from now on, you’re mine. You do my bidding. Understood? Otherwise, Brutus gets to hear about you and Tiro.’ She nodded dumbly.

He gave her a disgusted look. ‘Is that what you were up to in his hut?’ he panted. ‘You whore!’ Savagely, he kissed her, then flung her from him so she fell to her knees. He pointed at her. ‘You’re mine now,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t forget that!’

He stalked from the clearing.

Camilla got to her feet, dusting herself down. She gave a slight smile. Fooling Syphax had not been difficult. Now he would make demands on her whenever he thought he could get away with it, he would blackmail her. But in his eagerness to assert his dominance, he had forgotten that she had been speaking with Tiro.

She considered her own lies. They had not become lovers during the journey; it would have been difficult with Maccabeus’ presence. But she had felt something stirring in her brutalised heart. The thought of him made her pulse quicken.

She wondered if he felt the same.

‘You put me at a disadvantage,’ Flaminius was saying. ‘Everyone else knows me as Tiro, the inept apprentice gladiator. I’m inoffensive. Girl gladiators feel oddly enamoured. Male gladiators feel a manly contempt. You, on the other hand, know me to be an imperial agent. But all I know about you is that you want to make yourself emperor. And…’ He paused. ‘Forgive me, but aren’t you a little old?’

‘Old?’ Arctos was incensed. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘I can’t see your snowy locks or your timeworn features,’ said Flaminius, grinning affably. ‘But those hands are wrinkled and liver spotted. The emperor may be a Greek loving, boy loving provincial, but he’s not yet fifty, and he keeps himself fit. Plenty of exercise, good food, but no luxuries; a healthy mind, a healthy body. You, however, “Arctos”, seem to lack both those attributes.’

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Arctos hissed.

‘You’re old,’ Flaminius said bluntly. ‘And going by your plots and conspiracies, and the people you’ve surrounded yourself with; well, you’re not impressing me with the healthiness of your mind, either.’

‘You feel contempt for me,’ Arctos complained. ‘Very well: I am not as young as you. But my age has brought me wisdom. I know the right man for the job. You, despite your insults, strike me as a very capable youth, by no means the novice you pose as, though that pose itself is a tribute to your abilities.’

Flaminius waved a hand. ‘Is there a point to all this flattery?’

‘I would like to offer you a future,’ Arctos told him. ‘A position in my army as coordinator of my intelligence network, with perhaps promotion to prefect of my Praetorian Guard.’

‘You’re trying to corrupt me,’ Flaminius said with a laugh. ‘You think all these offers will persuade me to join your rebellion?’

‘Why not?’ said Arctos. ‘Can you anticipate any such honours in your current position? You’re nothing more than a spy.’

‘I’m a spy,’ Flaminius acknowledged. ‘An imperial agent. That’s no small matter, though you seem to think so. I’m a direct representative of the emperor. Which is quite an honour. And quite a privileged position.’

‘But I offer you even greater honour and privilege,’ Arctos argued. ‘Simply join with me, aid me in my endeavours, and one day you will be my right-hand man, my Praetorian Prefect. The second most powerful man in the empire. Or would you rather be prefect of Egypt? Of course, you’ll have to persuade me that you’re trustworthy before I grant you either position. But I will trust you, when you see reason.’

Flaminius sighed. ‘Haterius Nepos lives like a king. And during my stint in the Praetorians, I saw how well its prefect lived. These are the highest posts open to a man of my social rank. But who’s to say I’ll never achieve them, without your help? I’m twenty-four, and already I control the commissary of the Twenty Second Legion. The legate Avidius Pollio trusts me implicitly. Where my career will take me from, well, who knows? One day I may be a prefect. But I don’t know if I want that yet.’

Arctos had been paying little attention to Flaminius’ last words. ‘You’re Pollio’s chief commissary officer?’

‘Of course,’ said Flaminius, laughing. ‘Did you think I was just any old agent? I’m young, yes, but I’m privy to a lot of important information.’

Arctos’ voice was soft and gentle. ‘Then you can confirm the rumours that have reached my ears that Egypt is soon to receive a visit from the highest quarters?’

Flaminius started. Had his boasting led him astray? ‘A visit from the emperor? No, I’ve heard nothing.’

Arctos laughed. ‘Rumour, messenger of Jupiter! You fool, I said nothing about a visit from the emperor. Your own denial confirms it. And now, since you are party to so many secrets, you can tell me when Hadrian is scheduled to arrive in Alexandria.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘How about I remove that helmet of yours and see who exactly you are?’ He reached forwards.

Too late, Flaminius heard the pad of sandaled feet behind him. Still reaching out, he turned. Something connected with his skull and his consciousness fled him in a trail of sparks and exploding stars…

Arctos stared down at the fallen form, then at the gladiator guard who had struck him with the pommel of his sword. ‘You’d better not have killed him,’ he said churlishly. He checked for a pulse, then sat back, satisfied. ‘And you’d better not have damaged his brain. There are secrets in there that will be mine—whatever it takes.’

Brutus appeared in the doorway, accompanied by the other gladiator. ‘What happened?’ he asked tensely. ‘Did he attack you? I said we shouldn’t leave you with him.’

Arctos shook his head. ‘It was a success. He knows all that I wish to know. Now wake up this paragon of virtue and make him talk!’

—32—

Flaminius returned to consciousness, his mind a whirl of confusion. Who was he? Where was he? What was he doing in this bare, empty, shadow hung reed hut? He tried to move and surprised himself by vomiting until it hurt his chest to breathe.

Once the heaving was done, he hauled himself up from the stinking puddle of vomit. On the far side of the packed earth floor was a curtain of beads. From outside came distant voices and the staccato ring of steel on steel. Weakly he attempted to call for help, but the pale shadow of a voice that came from his mouth served only to embarrass him.

On hands and knees, pausing every now and then when the pounding in his head grew unbearable, he crossed over towards the curtain. Less than halfway, the hut spun round his head and the floor came up to meet him and…

Out of the endless darkness, rough, callused hands grabbed him. Something cold and wet struck him in the face. Snorting and gasping for breath, he opened his eyes. Two gladiators had dragged him up onto his knees and a third had thrown the contents of a leather bucket of water at him. Filthy water dripped on the packed earth. The one with the bucket said, ‘Take him to Arctos.’ It was Syphax. The other two took Flaminius outside.

The blue of the evening sky stood out against the black silhouettes of palm trees. They dragged him across the bustling encampment to Arctos’ hut. Syphax followed, but halted outside the hut. The two gladiators pushed Flaminius through the reed curtain and followed closely. Flaminius sprawled on the floor.

A pair of sandaled feet came into sight. Looking up, he saw the massive form of Brutus, face in shadow, standing over him holding a terracotta lamp in one hand. The lamp illuminated Flaminius but plunged much of the hut into darkness. All he could make out was a brazier in which glowed reddish embers.

‘Tell us what you know of troop movements in the province,’ came Arctos’ muffled voice. Flaminius craned his neck round in an effort to locate the rebel leader, but one of the gladiators seized his head and forced him to look at Brutus. The Sicanian now stood by the brazier, checking several irons that lay in the fire. One of them glowed white hot.

‘Tell us what we want to know,’ Arctos’ voice came again.

‘And what do I get in return?’ Flaminius asked.

A gladiator struck him across his face, so hard his head rang with the blow. As the echoes died away in his skull, he heard Arctos saying, ‘When does the emperor intend to visit Egypt?’ but even as he did, the roaring in his mind grew and he tumbled backwards down a never-ending shaft of blackness.

He was lying on a packed earth floor. It must be the hut, his prison. He lay there for what seemed like a very long time. He was too weak to move, but he began to wonder if he would ever see anyone again, or had they left him here to starve? He tried to sit up, but the effort was too great.

Footsteps woke him from a sleep that had stolen up on him. It was pitch black now, apart from a dim glimmer from the doorway, and very cold. Someone crouched beside him. He knew that scent, a mixture of sweat and leather combined with something else, something indefinably feminine.

‘Tiro?’ It was Camilla.

‘Can’t keep away from me, can you?’ he muttered weakly. ‘How did you get in?’

She was silent for a moment. ‘The guards were looking the other way,’ she said at last. ‘Have they hurt you?’

Flaminius allowed her to help him sit up. ‘No, not that much,’ he said, remembering Brutus and the hot irons in the brazier. ‘I think they mean to, though.’

‘They will do,’ she assured him, ‘if you don’t tell them what they want to know.’

Flaminius could see nothing of her face in this darkness. ‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’

‘I don’t want them to hurt you,’ she said. ‘Arctos is willing to give you a place at his right hand, but he says you refused his offer.’

‘I get the distinct impression,’ said Flaminius slowly and painfully, ‘that you received a similar offer. And you didn’t turn it down.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Camilla, her voice faint.

‘Of course,’ Flaminius said, ‘you were always working for Arctos, weren’t you? Or maybe I should say Brutus.’

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working for them for a while now. But I…I care about you, Tiro. I don’t want to see you hurt.’

Flaminius leant against the rough, dried mud wall. ‘Did Arctos send you to tell me that?’

‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I sneaked in when the guards were distracted.’

‘I know that’s not true and so do you,’ said Flaminius. ‘So let’s not waste time. Tell Arctos I’m willing to do a deal. I’ll tell him what I know about the legion’s movements in the Thebaid if he agrees to take off that melodramatic mask and let me see him for who he really is.’

Camilla grunted. ‘He won’t accept this.’

‘He’ll have to accept it,’ Flaminius said, ‘because it’s the only way he’ll get that information.’

‘He really wants to know when Hadrian is coming here,’ she said. ‘If it’s true that the emperor means to visit Egypt.’

‘Maybe I don’t know that. Or maybe I’ll tell him in return for my freedom.’

There was a rustle from beside him. Something moved across the dim light, then the beads clattered and the light oozed back. Camilla was gone, leaving only a smell of sweat and leather.

Flaminius curled up beside the wall and tried to get some sleep. He didn’t know what day it was. For all he knew, Hadrian’s arrival was imminent. Or maybe it was the night of the same day.

Running footsteps woke him next. Figures blundered into the hut. Hands seized him. A voice he recognised as Syphax’s hissed, ‘You’re free. We’re setting you free.’ He was lifted to his feet and hurried from the hut.

It was dark outside. The stars shone down brightly. The figures hustled him across the empty clearing. Then he found himself thrust into the lamplight of Arctos’ hut.

Brutus stood there. Flaminius’ escort forced him into a kneeling position. The Sicanian loomed over him. He lifted his gauntleted fist and brought it smashing down…

Flaminius woke again. This time nothing had changed. Shadows pooled in Arctos’ hut, the lamp flickered. He tried to look around—he could see no one—but hands seized his head and forced him to look forwards. Someone else held his hands behind his back. He heard a third person moving behind him.

‘You hope to make a deal with us?’ It was Arctos again. ‘In return for your freedom?’

Flaminius was in no fit state to make any deals. He just wanted to crawl away into a hole somewhere and die. ‘You want to know what I know,’ he croaked. ‘Well, I’m nosy too. Maybe we can make some kind of exchange. Information in return for information. Or for freedom.’

Arctos came into view, still wearing the gladiator helmet. He leaned over to bring his visored face close to Flaminius’. ‘What do you want to know?’

Flaminius laughed. ‘I want to know how in Hades you think you can pull this off!’ he said, scoffing.

Arctos drew back. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You really think you can conquer the Roman Empire with a few gladiators?’

Arctos folded his arms. ‘I know I can,’ he said. ‘All I need is just a little bit more intelligence.’

‘You said it, chum,’ Flaminius muttered. A gauntleted fist slammed into the side of his head.

‘Don’t do that,’ Arctos snapped. He circled round, visor turned towards Flaminius. ‘Do you think this province is so unimportant?’

‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘I know that Egypt is vital to the empire. But there’s a loyal legion stationed here that isn’t going to put up with a rebellion of gladiators any more than it put up with the Judaean Revolt.’

‘Ah, the Judaean Revolt,’ said Arctos. ‘Now the Judaeans are a shadow of their former strength. The Greeks despise the Judaeans. It was a hatred that Rome encouraged. Divide and rule. But now the Judaeans are dead or fled for the most part, the Greeks, those oh-so-civilised and cultured Greeks who his imperial majesty rates so highly, now they have only one focus for their frustration and hatred: Rome.

‘And another irony: this festival in Hadrian’s name, celebrating his accession and his suppression of the Judaean Revolt, is celebrated by gladiatorial games, the so-called Games of Hadrian. Families of gladiators from provinces miles around have flocked here to fight in honour of the imperial majesty. And yet gladiators are unhappy men, ripe for revolt. Spartacus has not been forgotten. These tough, well trained fighting-men—and women—make ideal shock troops. The tax evading Egyptian robbers of the Thebaid and now the river pirates of the Delta will make others. And the crowning glory—Hadrian himself is coming here, to allow the mob to fawn upon him as they celebrate their liberation. It will be a true liberation. The emperor will ascend to Olympus in a blaze of glory before he even sets foot on the sacred sand of Egypt.’

Arctos broke off, as if he had said too much. Flaminius lifted a quizzical eyebrow. ‘How do you hope to accomplish that? While he’s still at sea? I…’ He too broke off, a vision of the burning ship in the Great Harbour flashing through his thoughts. ‘A blaze of glory. That was you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been practising. But how?’

‘We mentioned an exchange of information,’ Arctos said. ‘I’ve told you rather too much. I should kill you here and now.’ He turned in Flaminius’ direction again. ‘Was it not that you also have information I require. Tell me what I want to know.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Flaminius asked, playing for time. ‘I’ve forgotten.’

Arctos seized him by his harness, gripping it in two claw-like hands. ‘I will get it from you one way or another,’ he hissed. ‘When is Hadrian coming to Alexandria?’

‘Alexandria?’ Flaminius said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You do know,’ Arctos said. ‘And you will tell me. You will tell me! Obviously, sometime in the next few days. But which one? It is vitally important that I know.’

‘So you can devise some means of destroying his ship?’ asked Flaminius. ‘Kill him before he comes ashore? What then?’

‘Then I will have my rebels at my back,’ Arctos said. ‘I will give that fool Avidius Pollio and that equestrian oaf Haterius Nepos an ultimatum: support me as emperor or face a revolt that will make that of the Judaeans seem like a gladiatorial contest.’

Flaminius studied the visor. It made its wearer seem unhuman, like some steam driven automaton of the kind popular in the more forward-thinking temples. But Arctos was not an automaton, he was a man. Flaminius glanced covertly at the seal ring on Arctos’ finger. The design showed a bear. The ring itself was gold. Horrified realisation crept across him like an army of ants.

‘I know who you are,’ he whispered.

—33—

Silence hung heavy in the hut. All that could be heard was the distant soughing of the wind among the reeds.

‘I very much doubt that,’ Arctos said at last, disengaging his hold from Flaminius’ harness. Brutus looked from one to the other, then lifted his gauntleted fist as if to strike Flaminius. Arctos shook his head warningly and the Sicanian relented.

‘So,’ Arctos said, ‘we’ve had our trade of information. I should let you go.’

Flaminius didn’t know how to react. ‘You’re setting me free?’ It was impossible. Surely if he strayed one foot out of the encampment the rebel leader would send men after him to kill him. There was no way Arctos could afford to let him go, knowing what he knew now.

‘It’s true,’ said Arctos. ‘I’ll let you go. But first…since you posed as a gladiator in your attempts to infiltrate my network, you must surely have learnt the trade. Tiro, I hear they call you. But it’s a profession that encourages swift development. And I like nothing more than to see a good Roman tradition like a fair contest between two professional gladiators.’

‘You want me to fight for my freedom?’ Flaminius was in no fit state. After the torture, physical and mental, he felt weak, and more than half expected a relapse into fever.

Arctos whispered something to Syphax. The Nubian vanished from the hut, returning shortly afterwards leading Camilla.

The gladiatrix looked wide eyed at Flaminius. Just whose side was she on? Arctos’? Or Flaminius’ own?

Arctos welcomed her. ‘You will fight Tiro,’ he told her. ‘If he wins, he may go free with all that he has learnt here. If he loses…’

‘If he loses, what happens to me?’ Camilla asked.

‘You will have my favour,’ Arctos said. ‘Villas and estates will be yours when the empire is mine. A life of luxury. Everything that you have never known. What do you most desire?’

‘I would like to see the head of the slave driver who sold me as a gladiatrix,’ she said. ‘On a charger before me.’

Arctos laughed, and slapped her on the arm. She glowered at him, but he said, ‘Very well, if you win this fight, I will ensure that you find that man and see him killed.

‘Get them both properly equipped,’ he told the others, ‘one as retiarius, the other as secutor. Rouse everyone, gladiators and Bucolics, and have them light torches and form a ring. Tonight we shall see a fight such as the emperor watches in the Colosseum itself.’

Syphax and several others took Flaminius to the hut that was their armoury. Camilla also came, and together they chose the best weapons and armour. ‘A pity we do not have the armour Arctos was promised by the Ethiopians,’ Camilla commented, equipping herself with an oval shield, a metal armguard and gauntlet, a longsword and a visored helmet.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Her choice of weapons left Flaminius to take the part of retiarius. He lifted up a trident and tested it for its balance.

She shot him an enigmatic glance. ‘Don’t you?’ she asked. ‘If I kill you, I will get my revenge. If you kill me, you can go free with everything you’ve learnt here.’

‘Even if I believed that for a second,’ said Flaminius wearily, ‘I still do not wish to kill you.’ He had a soft spot for her, despite her betrayal. She reminded him of Drustica.

Syphax jeered. ‘You’ve made a friend here, woman,’ he said.

Defiantly, Camilla placed the helmet on her head. She stood there, faceless as Arctos, breathing heavily but saying nothing.

‘Hurry,’ said Syphax to Flaminius.

Flaminius strapped the armguard on to his left arm, picked up the trident in one hand, the net in the other. He had always thought the retiarius’ equipment pitifully meagre. And yet he would have the advantage of speed, while Camilla would be slowed down by her heavier armour.

Outside the rebels were gathering, gladiators and Bucolics. Ozymandias stood amongst the other native Egyptians, speaking to the red haired Kalasiris. As they passed, the assistant librarian looked up. His eyes met Flaminius’, but Flaminius looked away.

At the far end of the impromptu ring stood Arctos, like an emperor in the imperial box, flanked by Brutus and the two gladiators who had accompanied him. As Flaminius and Camilla entered the ring from the far side, a harsh yell of acclamation came from a hundred or more throats. Flaminius had not realised how many men were gathered on this island. And yet this could only represent a small fraction of Arctos’ forces, if he truly thought he could challenge the Twenty Second Legion. But of course, he could draw on the robbers of the desert, and all the dispossessed and discontented of this dark land. Certainly, as the rebel leader stood there with his features hidden behind the visor of his helmet, he gave every indication of confidence.

Someone else was concealing their face and true demeanour behind a mask: Camilla. All Flaminius could see was his own face reflected in the burnished metal of her visor. The torches held by the watchers roared in the night air, flickering wildly and casting highlights from their armour.

Arctos stepped out into the ring between them.

‘These gladiators have been given the chance to fight for the things they most desire,’ he said, his voice ringing out from the helmet like an orator’s as he took up a declamatory stance. ‘They have fought together side by side, become comrades. But now that is all behind them. All they have now is the fight to the death. To the victor, the spoils. To the loser—death, death, death!’

The torchbearers took up the chant, and soon everyone was chanting, ‘Death! Death! Death!’ The din would travel for miles across the flooded Delta. Flaminius tried to ignore the chanting figures. They seemed more like baboons or jackals than human beings. He remembered the mob that had watched his fights in Nicopolis, that many headed monster. It had thrilled him, yet repulsed him, as he knew it did all gladiators. The superiority they prated, it was gone. The gladiators had become another mob. And with them were the Bucolics, and Ozymandias.

The latter had watched in uneasy silence. Dwelling as they did in these backwaters, they knew nothing of civilised sport. They had no idea of how to behave in society. But now they added their voices to the never-ending chant:

‘Death! Death! Death!’

Arctos gave a flourish of his cloak then stepped back into the mob, which almost swallowed him up. Flaminius turned resignedly to Camilla—and leapt back as her blade whistled past his unarmoured head!

The mob booed and jeered. Camilla cut at him again. He lifted his trident awkwardly in his left hand, weighed down by the folds of the net in his right. Neglecting the net, he lunged at Camilla. She leapt back as deftly as him, despite the armour she wore. She was bigger than him, of course, and stronger. Better able to carry that weight…

He raced after her, and the crowd moved back. Another lunge, and this time she was ready with her shield, using it like a pugilist’s glove. The prongs of Flaminius’ trident caught in the ornate tracery of the shield and he had to yank hard to pull it free. As he did so, she sliced at him with her blade. Though he twisted away, tearing his trident free with a pinging sound as he did so, he felt a white-hot flame of pain along his ribs.

He feinted with the trident then brought the net down cracking like a whip. It caught on the crest of her helmet, but she ducked and it flopped flaccidly to the floor. She stomped on it vengefully with her sandaled feet, then stabbed at him as he tried to tug it away. He parried the attack with a lunge of his trident and metal met metal with a screech as if of pain. She knocked the trident away with her shield but he kicked it back with his right foot, slamming into her side. As she staggered, he tugged at the net again and she was down, enmeshed in its folds.

Flaminius loomed over her, trident lifted. On every side, fists were clenched, thrust forward, thumbs pointing downwards. He peered into her eyeholes, trying to see her reaction. He didn’t want to kill her, but if he did, he would be set free.

Or would he? How could he trust Arctos?

His head was clear. His weakness had gone. His blood was on fire. He knew that after the fight was over he would be weak again, weaker than ever. But now he was triumphant.

Arctos stepped forward from the crowd. The rebel leader’s arm was extended, his fist clenched. And then he raised his thumb.

Live. Camilla would live.

The mob roared angrily. Arctos motioned for silence. ‘Best of three,’ he said.

Flaminius allowed Camilla to rise. Angrily, she tore the net away. He took it and bundled it up under his right arm, slung the trident over his left shoulder, and stepped away, allowing the heavily armoured gladiatrix to ready herself for the next bout.

Camilla was panting and grunting. She pushed her visor back and looked long and hard at Flaminius. Then she lowered it, clanged her sword against her shield, and advanced.

Flaminius sank into a low crouch, trident jutting upwards, a fold of mesh in his hand but most of his net pooled on the cold sand. Shadows from the torches flickered on Camilla’s armour. Did he intend to kill her? No. He might have to, though. He would have to wait for the optimum moment.

She blundered forwards, shield lifted. He lunged at her, rising from his crouch. She deflected the blow with her shield, cut at him with her sword, but as he rose he swung the mesh. It opened out like a Lake Mareotis fisherman’s net when he casts it. The sword was caught in the folds, more folds entwined themselves around her sinewy arm. But this time she anticipated the move, snatched her arm back, slicing through the net with her sword, then whirled round to give herself the momentum needed to make another hack at Flaminius’ neck.

He ducked and her sword swooped impotently like a frustrated hawk. He dropped the tattered net and thrust the trident with both hands. She countered the attack with her shield; she swung her sword and he leapt back. He charged in again, aiming at her armoured face, but as she lifted her shield he darted under, wounding her in the arm. She half staggered half fell back, dropping the big shield and staring disbelievingly at her forearm which was weeping blood.

Snarling like a wounded animal, she pushed herself back to her feet and flung herself at him. He fended her off with his trident. Now both were at a disadvantage; he had lost his net, she her shield.

Not so long ago they had both been friends, he thought, but all that was long gone.

Swinging her sword she lopped off the head of the trident and Flaminius was left holding a pole. He lifted it in both hands to deflect an overhand chop, but the sword cut through and sank into the sand. She tried to haul it out, he kicked her in the face, she sprawled backwards. The crowd was chanting its bloodlust. Flaminius seized Camilla’s sword hilt and tore the blade free in a fountain of sand. He levelled it at her throat as she got to her knees. She tore off her helmet.

Her face was savage with hate, her eyes desperate with fear. The mob had their hands out, thumbs pointing downwards. Flaminius looked to Arctos.

‘One more round,’ said the rebel leader. ‘Whoever wins the third and final round is the victor.’

Flaminius dropped his sword and stepped back. ‘Hardly fair,’ he commented, allowing Camilla to gather together her gear. Syphax brought out a new trident and net and flung them to him. ‘After all,’ Flaminius went on, ‘I’ve won two fights already. Best of three, you said.’

‘I’m changing the rules,’ Arctos told him.

‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to set me free,’ Flaminius mocked him. ‘Cheat!’

He backed up so Camilla had enough room to manoeuvre. Arctos signalled to them. ‘Begin.’

This time Camilla did not intend to pussyfoot around the ring. Running at him she rammed into him with her shield so he backed up rapidly, then clumsily parried a rain of blows with his new trident. Then something wrapped itself round his sandaled feet. As he fell backwards to hit the sand with a thump that knocked the breath from him, he realised that it was the old net.

‘Should have thrown that away,’ he said reflectively as Camilla stood astraddle him. ‘I always was a bad housekeeper.’

The thumbs of the mob were pointing upwards. Camilla moved as if to step away and let Flaminius rise. Then Arctos gave the thumbs down.

Flaminius rolled over, grabbed her legs, and pulled her to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he shouted, ‘Ozymandias!’ as if it was a war cry.

Halfway across the ring, Ozymandias produced a knife from his kilt and plunged it into the unsuspecting breast of the gladiator beside him.

—34—

Arctos’ helmet flashed in the torchlight as he turned to watch. ‘Treachery!’ he boomed. The Bucolics produced hidden weapons and set upon the gladiators. Arctos ran.

Camilla looked about uncertainly. Flaminius shoved her to one side and as skirmishes broke out all around the ring, ran in pursuit of Arctos, who had vanished into his hut. As he ran, Bucolics cut down gladiators, gladiators cut down Bucolics. A brawny man in gladiator armour screamed in pain as a Bucolic stabbed him in the kidneys; he fell to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. Another gladiator, armed with a longsword, was surrounded by several knife wielding Bucolics. He brought his weapon upwards in a glittering arc of steel and split one of them from crotch to gizzard, before another river pirate plunged his dagger into the man’s suntanned chest.

Flaminius ran on. Just as he reached the doorway to the hut, a figure barrelled out of the torchlit gloom and smashed him to the ground, pinning him there. Flaminius felt strong fingers tighten around his throat. Choking for breath, he fought to throw off the heavy body, seized the arms by the wrists and tried to haul the hands away. A dark face glared down at him.

‘You! Tiro!’ It was Syphax. ‘This is your doing!’

Flaminius tried to choke out a reply, but Syphax wasn’t listening. Spots appeared before his eyes and the red shot darkness was turning grey.

‘How did you bend the Bucolics to your will?’ Syphax shook him. All around the sounds of fighting still raged. Flaminius snatched his hands away.

‘Stop throttling me and maybe I’ll tell you!’ he gasped.

Syphax gritted his filed teeth. ‘I’d rather kill you than listen to your serpent tongue!’ He went for Flaminius’ throat again but the Roman grabbed his wrists. With a manful effort of his exhausted body, he forced Syphax off him, rolled over, and pinned him to the ground. Syphax snarled and whined and struggled.

‘They captured me,’ Flaminius said, ‘but then I discovered one of them was an old friend. An agent. He had sent them looking for me.’

‘An agent?’ Syphax said. ‘Then you are a spy. I always thought so. Even Apuleius Victor had his doubts about you, that fool.’

‘Fool?’ said Flaminius. ‘He smashed your leader’s crime ring in the city. Now I’ve smashed this revolt.’ He gestured at the fighting figures on every side. ‘It’s all over, Syphax. All I need to do is take Arctos prisoner and bring him to justice. If you’re not a fool, you’ll help me.’

He rose. Grinning like a jackal, Syphax sprang up and tried to seize Flaminius. But the Roman had been expecting this, and even as Syphax came at him, he kicked the man in the chest. Syphax staggered backwards, then snatched a knife from his belt.

Flaminius flung himself at Syphax’s legs and brought him down in a confusion of limbs. The Nubian tried to stab him in the heart. Flaminius seized Syphax’s knife wrist in one hand, his throat in the other. The man’s windpipe constricted in his grasp; his face was livid with anger. He struggled to break free. Flaminius gritted his teeth and squeezed harder.

‘You are a fool, Syphax,’ he said. ‘You’re going to die, here, you and the rest of your kind. All because you’re following a bigger fool. I don’t have time for this…’

Eyes bulging, Syphax forced his knife hand downwards. The Nubian was fitter than Flaminius, and had not undergone the same tortures. Flaminius felt his hold crumble, and the knife plunged down. At the last second, he twisted out of the way, and the weapon scored a shallow gash down his side. Syphax threw Flaminius to the ground.

The Roman hit it with an impact that winded him. Wheezing, he tried to rise. Syphax stood over him, teeth bared in a cruel smile.

‘I don’t fear death,’ the Nubian boasted. ‘Death is my constant companion. I am a gladiator!’ He lifted the knife.

Flaminius tensed himself to roll away, but he was exhausted. He heard someone cry out. The knife flashed down.

Flaminius jerked out of its path. The blade jutted from the sand before his eyes. Syphax’s hand still gripped the hilt, but his fingers were crooked into claws. His mouth frothed. His hand shook spastically, then quivered into stillness.

‘Flaminius!’

Ozymandias stepped over Syphax’s corpse, stopping to inspect the wound he had made in the man’s back, then held out a hand. A small group of Bucolics was with him.

‘What are you doing?’ the Egyptian said. ‘We’ve got a battle to fight!’

‘Arctos…!’ Flaminius picked up a fallen sword and pointed at the hut. ‘He’s hiding in there.’

Ozymandias put a few of his men on guard outside the hut. ‘Arctos can wait. My people need all the help they can get.’

Men were fighting amid the darkness. Most of them had been forced back from the encampment by the gladiators. Ozymandias and his Bucolics had been attempting a pincer manoeuvre when they found Flaminius and Syphax struggling amid the shambles of dead men.

‘Now!’ shouted Ozymandias, and they flung themselves at the fighting gladiators.

The fight was bloody and confused. Flaminius swung his sword about, hacking and thrusting at unseen assailants. He must have wounded or killed several, but then he ran into a tree at full tilt and spent the rest of the fight sitting against it, rubbing at his already bruised head.

Sunrise found an island almost at peace. In the grey light a few gladiators still fought, but most of Arctos’ rebels lay dead. They were brave, Flaminius gave them that; they fought to the death. None begged for surrender.

Then the last one fell. Flaminius staggered to Ozymandias’ side. The Egyptian’s face was ashen. All around lay dead gladiators and Bucolics.

Kalasiris joined them. ‘Half my people dead,’ he said darkly. ‘And for what? For your emperor? What does he mean to us, except taxes?’

Ozymandias embraced him. ‘I’m so sorry, my old friend,’ he wept. ‘But Arctos had to be stopped.’

Kalasiris’ face softened. ‘We love to fight, my people,’ he said. ‘It was a good fight. I swore a vow that I would always fight for you, my brother in arms. You led us to rich pickings in the tombs of the desert—back in the old days, before the Romans caught you and made you one of their own. I’ll fight for you even if you are a Roman now.’

In the Bucolics’ village Flaminius learnt that after their last meeting Ozymandias had joined with the tribe he befriended when he was a tomb robber and they had been searching the Delta for the rebel encampment. Hearing word of Flaminius at large in the Delta, Ozymandias sent a patrol to bring him in. Together they conceived a plan to fool the rebel leader, and waited for the opportune moment to strike.

‘Where is this Arctos?’ Kalasiris added. ‘I would like to see the man who was worth the lives of so many of my people. Who is he, anyway?’

‘He’s under guard in his own hut,’ said Flaminius, speaking for the first time. ‘I haven’t seen his face yet, but from speaking to him I think I have quite a good idea who he is.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Ozymandias.

‘Well,’ Flaminius prevaricated, ‘I’ve narrowed down the suspects to about six hundred men.’

‘Six hundred?’ Kalasiris gaped.

‘He’s a member of the Senate,’ Flaminius told them. ‘Which one remains to be seen. Though I had a feeling I’d heard his voice before…Well, whoever he is, he’s the head of this rebellion. Without him, the rebel forces will be like an asp crushed underfoot.’

‘Let’s find out,’ said Ozymandias.

As he entered the corpse littered clearing, the Egyptian stopped dead in his tracks. ‘What is it?’ asked Flaminius. Then he saw.

Kalasiris followed their gaze, and swore, ‘By Set!’

The men Ozymandias had left on guard lay dead. Flaminius went to inspect the hut. It was empty, except for two reed mats, and the coffer was gone. Arctos himself was also gone.

‘He’s escaped!’ Flaminius cursed. ‘But he was an old man! How could he have done this?’

‘He had help.’

Flaminius whirled round at the voice.

Camilla stood between two tents, clutching painfully at her belly. Blood was seeping through her fingers.

‘You!’ Flaminius spat. ‘You did this?’

‘It was Brutus,’ she said, ‘Brutus and Arctos’ two guards. And I helped them.’ She sobbed; with grief or pain, Flaminius didn’t know.

‘Kill her!’ said Kalasiris.

‘There’s been enough killing today,’ said Ozymandias. ‘Why did you not go with them, girl?’ he added. ‘Where are they now?’

She pointed to the west. ‘They went that way just as the sun rose,’ she said. ‘I wanted to join them, but Brutus wouldn’t let me. He stabbed me, left me to die.’ Betrayal filled her voice. ‘He could no longer trust me, he said.’

‘And you come to us expecting better treatment?’ Flaminius said harshly.

Ozymandias encouraged the gladiatrix to sit down, back against the wall of the hut, and he inspected the wound. He looked up, and his face was grim.

‘I’m dying, I know it,’ said Camilla. ‘I thought Brutus would have me back. But he knew my heart was no longer his.’ Sightlessly, she reached out as if to touch Flaminius. ‘Have them burn me,’ she said, ‘Don’t let me be embalmed.’

A bitter taste in his mouth, Flaminius knelt beside her. He tried to speak but the words evaded him.

‘Is that you, Tiro?’ she asked weakly.

‘My name is Flaminius,’ he told her. ‘I’m an imperial agent. But I’m the man you called Tiro when we fought together in the arena.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Brutus told me. But then he….’

‘Sssh now,’ Flaminius said.

‘Listen to me!’ she said urgently, her voice only a little above a whisper. ‘Brutus didn’t say where they were going. But as I lay there in the sand, I heard Arctos speaking. I couldn’t make out all the words, but I did hear him say something about the emperor’s death…the light of the world… and a meeting.’

‘A meeting?’ said Flaminius.

She nodded. ‘A meeting… with a man in the Library…’

Her head fell forward on her breast. Flaminius looked up at Ozymandias. In confusion Kalasiris turned from one to the other.

‘We’d better get back to Alexandria,’ Flaminius said. ‘Right away!’

The story continues in THE GAMES OF HADRIAN: THE ARCHIMEDES STRATAGEM (available in March 2018).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gavin Chappell has been involved in writing and editing for over a decade. He has written numerous short stories, translations, poetry, novels, and non-fiction.

Also a qualified teacher of further education, Gavin taught English and Creative Writing for many years. He has been published by various publishers including Penguin, and is a member of the Society of Authors.

[1] Roman midwinter festival.

[2] Roman festival of the dead.

[3] Gladiators surviving until retirement were awarded a wooden sword.