Atilus the Gladiator. E. C. Tubb
a lanista, and the reason why had been kept a close secret. Obviously, Racilia had made some investigations. Or perhaps she had been told. But, if so, by whom?
Aurelius, perhaps? I studied him as I helped myself to fruit. The man was a knight and would be close to the heart of the empire. In the society in which he moved, few secrets remained hidden for long and, even from a hint, deductions could be made. Cadius? I doubted it. He was too young and callow, too concerned in his own needs, and was a type I had met often before.
Now, washing his hands, he said, ‘Tell me, Atilus, when you fight, what is your major aim?’
‘To win.’
‘Of course, but I meant initially. When you first meet your opponent, what do you look for? His stance? I’ve heard that is important. The way he holds his weapons? That, too, must have significance.’ Cadius sipped at his wine and carefully dabbed his lips as he lowered the goblet.
I said, flatly, ‘Everything holds significance, but only one thing is essential. The determination to win.’
‘An attitude of mind?’ He pondered the thought as if it were new to him. ‘The killer instinct,’ he mused. ‘The determination to survive. But that is the attribute of a beast. A man, confronting it, would surely hold the advantage if he maintained control of his calm detachment. A combat is, in a sense, an art. The complex interchange of position and motion which should lead, inevitably, to the final, predetermined blow.’
The man was a fool, spouting theory, talking as if living men were pieces in a game. I had suffered such idiots before and, given patience, I would again in return for the hospitality, but it was never easy.
‘Atilus?’ Racilia was watching me. ‘Your goblet must be empty.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘More wine for my guest!’
The slave was closer than I knew. Turning, I knocked his arm and spilled a shower of ruby drops over my tunic. Terrified, he backed away, mouth open, strangled noises coming from his throat. Noises, not words, for him they were impossible. The boy had no tongue.
‘Atilus! Your tunic!’ Racilia rose, her cheeks flushed with anger. She clapped her hands and, as a hulking figure appeared, snapped, ‘You! Take that thing away! Beat him until he can no longer stand! Do it immediately!’
Bowing, the major-domo led the shivering wretch away.
Thoughtfully I chewed a grape. A slave, whipped, was nothing, an occupational hazard of his station in life, but if I crossed her, would she remember that I was free? Even if she did, there were many ways in which an offended woman could take her revenge. Assassins could be hired and false accusations made. The word of a gladiator would count for little against that of a patrician.
Mute slaves and guards hidden in the bushes around the house. Both belonged to those engaged in dangerous business, and my unease grew as, rising, Aurelius Licinius cleared his throat.
‘An excellent meal, Racilia. Now I think it time we had a little talk. Atilus, I’m sure you will be interested in what I have to show you in the tablinium.’
It was a large room normally used for the master of the house to greet his visitors, a place for private conversations and for study. Shelves along the walls were heaped with scrolls and tablets, the records of Cossos Bassius’ activities, and a table held a clutter of maps and reports from various agents.
Sweeping them aside, Aurelius settled his bulk on the polished wood. Racilia had accompanied us, leaving Cadius and the girl to their own devices. Faintly I heard the sound of a lyre.
‘He plays well,’ said Aurelius absently. ‘That, at least, should gain him favour with Nero.’
‘Which shows the extent to which Rome has fallen,’ snapped the woman. ‘Actors and musicians in the positions of importance which belong by right to those born to rule. Poets declaiming verse instead of military commanders discussing strategy. Money squandered on effete arts instead of being used to strengthen our frontiers.’ Restlessly she moved about the room, touching a phallus carved in ebony and inlaid with mother of pearl, the handle of a riding whip, a statuette of a couple locked in an amorous embrace. Odd things to find in such a room, but I’d guessed that its owner was an odd man.
I said, quietly, ‘You were going to show me something?’
‘This!’ Aurelius thrust his hand into his toga and withdrew it, filled with the weight of a purse. Opening it he spilled a shower of gold on the table. ‘A hundred gold pieces, Atilus, and there could be another four. How long would it take you to earn that in the arena?’
In Rome, not long—a man of reputation could claim a high fee for a single combat. In the provinces, the way things were, too long. I remained silent, looking at the gold, conscious of the others and their calculating eyes.
‘Take it, Atilus,’ urged Racilia. ‘It’s yours.’
‘To compensate for a soiled tunic?’
‘As a gift from a friend.’ Aurelius was bland. ‘Let us call it a delayed appreciation of a service you performed in the past. An errand you ran—and a mouth which you kept closed. Surely you remember?’
An incident five years old now and, yes, I remembered. A journey I had undertaken at night while still a slave to a house in Rome where a woman had waited to give me a certain vial. Locusta, the notorious manufacturer of poisons who had sat like a spider in a web in a house close to the Tiber. And, while I could never prove it, I was convinced that the vial had reached Agrippinilla’s hand.
Poison delivered to the mother of Nero, now the Emperor of Rome. A woman consumed by a burning ambition to rule but, being a woman, she could never openly do that; through her son she had power now in fact if not in name. Her husband, the Emperor Claudius, had been an obstacle to be removed. It could have been no coincidence that he had died shortly afterwards, to be deified by the Senate.
Lucius Junius Gallio, the brother of Seneca, Nero’s tutor, had made a joke about it based on the custom of public executioners of dragging the bodies of those executed in the prison to the Forum with large hooks, and from there into the river. Lucius had claimed that Claudius had been raised into heaven with a hook, and Nero himself had added to the jest, saying the mushrooms were the food of the gods since Claudius, by eating them, had become a god himself.
Mushrooms poisoned with the stuff I had obtained from Locusta—and now Agrippinilla was sending me gold!
I didn’t touch it. Instead I said, my voice slow as if baffled. ‘Remember what? I ran no errand for anyone. I was just a fighter, a gladiator-slave.’
‘And a discreet one.’ Racilia released her breath with a sigh, and I guessed that I had passed a test of some kind. ‘But you were more than that, Atilius. For a time you were Nero’s bodyguard. Once, at least, you saved his life before he became Emperor.’ Her voice changed a little. ‘And you know how he rewarded you.’
‘He granted me the rudis and my freedom.’
‘After you’d earned it,’ she said quickly. ‘Popular demand forced his hand and you know it. He gave you nothing he wouldn’t have given to another.’
‘But he gave it.’
‘Atilus, don’t play with us,’ she said impatiently. ‘Nero is a monster and you know it. Unless he is stopped, he will ruin Rome. He cares nothing for tradition and the sanctity of the past. Just remember what he did to the games. He banned the use of war-captives and even forced senators and knights to fight as if they had been common gladiators. All he thinks about are plays and concerts, dramas and recitals, singing and dancing. Did such things win us what we have? Does watching a play breed a good soldier? Is the strength of Rome to be wasted until we are no better than decadent Greeks? We have a painted fool sitting on Palatine and we must get rid of him before he destroys us all!’
‘Racilia!’
Aurelius was startled, not expecting the outburst, but the colour of her hair should have warned him. The Rubrius were notorious for their short tempers and lack of restraint.