The Road to Rome (25 page)

Romulus scanned the perimeter of the enclosure. There were no spikes to prevent animals jumping out, but at regular intervals stood spearmen and archers. Any attempt to escape would win them the same fate as the deserter a short time previously. He looked up at the sky, hoping against hope to be given a sign. A clue. Anything at all. He wasn’t. It was just another glorious autumn morning. ‘Don’t know,’ he said heavily. ‘I can’t think.’

Petronius barked a derisory laugh. ‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘Still, it was good knowing you.’

‘Aye, comrade,’ answered Romulus. ‘It was.’

Ignoring the shouts of the crowd, they gripped forearms.

A short delay followed. Initially, Romulus thought it was a cynical ploy by Memor or the master of ceremonies to increase their fear and terror. He caught sight of the
lanista
making his way to the seating area just to one side of the dignitaries’ box, which was protected from the hot sun by the
velarium
, a large cloth awning. As the man responsible for providing the deserters, Memor had to be on hand if the
editor
, or sponsor, wanted to quiz him. Today of course, this was none other than Caesar himself. The great general’s seat was empty, though. The box was occupied only by the announcer, a short figure with oiled hair and a self-important manner,
and a couple of bored-looking senior officers. Caesar probably wouldn’t turn up until much later in the day, thought Romulus. What interest would he have in watching men being torn apart by beasts? There was no martial skill in that.

‘Why haven’t they sent the damn thing in?’ asked Petronius uneasily. ‘I just want it to be over.’

Without answering, Romulus studied the crowd.

Even it had fallen silent.

Romulus cocked his head and listened.

A moment later,
bucinae
blared from outside the amphitheatre. An expectant air fell over the waiting citizens, and the master of ceremonies jumped to his feet, self-consciously patting his pomaded hair. Memor looked over his shoulder, and Romulus gasped. ‘It’s Caesar,’ he whispered. ‘He’s come to watch us.’

Petronius managed a laugh. ‘Us losers? He’d want to see the Ethiopian bull far more.’

Romulus smiled lopsidedly. ‘True enough.’

A party of legionaries led by a distinguished-looking centurion emerged into the box, giving it a quick once-over. When the officer was happy, the announcer was given a nod.

Raising his hands to attract attention, he stepped forward. ‘Citizens of Rome. Earlier than expected, we are to be graced by the presence of the
editor
of today’s games!’ He paused.

Excitement rippled through the spectators, and suddenly all eyes were on the dignitaries’ box. A few of the more enthusiastic in the crowd began to clap and cheer.

‘He is the conqueror of Gaul, Britannia and Germania,’ cried the master of ceremonies. ‘Saviour of the Republic. The victor at Pharsalus, in Egypt and in Asia Minor!’

Always happy to hear of Roman military successes won in their name or otherwise, the audience yelled its approval. Thanks to Caesar’s well-oiled propaganda machine, they were fully up to score with his awesome credentials, and loved him for it. Caesar had been immensely popular for years, and his recent victories over Pompey and the diehard Republicans were regarded by most in the same light as his previous triumphs. A man who lived by the same creed as his soldiers, who always
won when it seemed impossible, Caesar embodied the stubborn nature of Rome.

‘Descended from Venus herself, and the most important scion of the Julii clan,’ bellowed the announcer. He waved his arms, stirring up the crowd even more. ‘I give you the recent victor at Zela: Julius Caesar!’

This was met with the loudest roar of all.

A trio of slaves appeared in the arena. Each bore a placard upon which had been inscribed a single short word. The first read ‘Veni’, the second ‘Vidi’, and the last ‘Vici’. Yet again, Romulus was impressed by Caesar’s self-confidence. I came, I saw, I conquered. This succinct appraisal of the battle had swept through Caesar’s celebrating army, and now it was being used to win over the Roman mob. Judging from their uproarious response, the move was a shrewd one.

Then the man himself appeared in the box. Clad in a white toga with a purple stripe running around its edge, Caesar acknowledged the peoples’ cries with languid waves of his right hand. A good number of staff officers, senators and hangers-on crammed in behind him, eager to share in the glory. Of course the watching citizens did not give a jot for anyone except Caesar. The applause went on long after he’d taken a seat.

Meanwhile Romulus and Petronius stood on the hot sand, waiting to die.

After several circuits, the slaves bearing the placards disappeared from sight, and the self-important announcer waved for calm. There was a gradual reduction in the noise levels as the excited audience sat down, eager for the next part of the show to begin.

‘In his generosity, Caesar has today arranged for an animal never seen before in Rome. Captured in the wilds of eastern Africa, it has been transported here for your pleasure. Many men have died to bring it to this arena. Now it will kill two more: the
noxii
before you.’

There was a deliberate pause, and the crowd shuddered with anticipation.

‘Bigger than the largest of oxen, fiercer than a lion, and with an armoured skin tougher than the legionaries’
testudo
, Caesar presents – the Ethiopian bull!’

Romulus and Petronius exchanged a glance full of fear – and determination.

Moving silently on oiled pulleys and chains, a large iron portcullis opposite Caesar’s position rose up. Soon a gaping black square was visible: the opening into a cage. Nothing emerged, and Romulus had a momentary fantasy that the creature within had already managed to escape. Loud shouts and the sound of weapons being dashed off bars deep inside the bowels of the amphitheatre soon dispelled this hope.

There was a series of annoyed grunts and then an immense brown-skinned animal trotted on to the sand. Hairless except for the tips of its wide ears and the end of its tail, it had a long, sloping head. From its nose projected two sharp, fearsome-looking horns. Its feet were large and three-toed, and there was a prominent hump of bone at the base of the skull, between the ears.

The rhino paused, its small, piggy eyes squinting as they adjusted to the bright light.

As one, the audience gasped with shock at the creature’s outlandish appearance. This was stranger than the giraffe and zebras imported by Pompey, and more exotic than the elephants they were now used to seeing on a regular basis.

Romulus’ heart stopped. It was bigger and more dangerous-looking than he remembered. ‘If we stay still, it won’t see us,’ he whispered to Petronius.

‘What damn good is that?’ the other retorted.

Knowing that the two soldiers might try this ruse, Memor nodded at the archers, who loosed half a dozen arrows into the air. Aimed carefully, they smacked into the sand a few paces short of the pair’s position. Their message was clear: move, or the next ones won’t miss.

Romulus took a step forward, his mouth dry with tension.

Smirking, the bowmen relaxed.

The rhino’s head turned at the movement. It snorted with suspicion.

Romulus froze. So did Petronius, who was picking up an arrow.

The armoured beast squealed a few times, and then pawed the ground. It had seen them.

Closing his eyes, Romulus prayed with all the fervour he could muster. Let me die fighting at least, great Mithras. Not like this.

Lowering its head, the rhino charged.

W
ithin a few heartbeats, the rhino was thundering towards them at full gallop. Although the arena was large, it would be upon them in a few moments. Despite this, Romulus’ feet felt anchored to the spot. His life was over. In slow motion, he scanned the watching crowds. The wealthy toga-clad nobles and the grimy poor in their threadbare tunics. Caesar, on his velvet cushion, with his followers and soldiers arrayed around him. The greasy master of ceremonies. Memor, who looked delighted now that Romulus’ fate was sealed. The guards on the edge of the enclosure with their bows and spears.

A daring plan took root in his mind.

‘Quick! Grab an arrow,’ hissed Petronius. ‘It’ll be some kind of defence.’

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ muttered Romulus. ‘You go left, and I’ll go right.’

‘Why?’

‘The beast can only follow one of us. When it does, the second can try to grab a spear from a guard.’ Romulus jerked his head at the nearest. ‘Look. It’s pointing downwards, in case he needs to use it quickly. A lot of them are standing like that. Jump up, give the shaft a hard yank and there’s a chance of gaining a weapon which would actually be useful. Then the one who’s armed can protect the other.’

‘The archers will be ordered to shoot us down if we do that,’ breathed Petronius. A fierce spark lit in his eyes nonetheless. ‘Won’t they?’

‘Probably. It’ll be dangerous for both of us.’

There was a heartbeat’s pause as both considered the obvious: whoever the rhino pursued would die.

‘It’s worth a try,’ said Petronius after a moment’s consideration.

‘Better than just dying like cowards.’

‘It is.’ Petronius took a deep breath. ‘Ready?’

The ground was already shaking from the rhino’s approach. Its head was down, presenting the most terrifying of sights: its long front horn, which could gore deep into flesh. If it missed, the creature’s wide skull, backed up by the weight of fifteen men, would smash bones, crush ribs, or both. Helpless from any of these injuries, its victim would then be trampled to death.

‘Go!’ shouted Romulus. Arms and legs pumping, he sprinted off to one side. His fear gave him an extra turn of speed, but he dared not look around until he’d counted fifteen or twenty paces. Then, not having been run down, he glanced back. His heart rose to his mouth as he saw the rhino charging after Petronius. With a daring jink to one side, the veteran avoided its first attempt to gore him in the back. He was now running in the opposite direction to it. Not for long. The enormous beast turned remarkably fast and pounded after Petronius again. With nowhere to hide, it would only be moments before it caught up.

Romulus turned away. Every single instant was vital. If both of them weren’t soon to be bloody corpses on the sand, he had to forget Petronius. The guard he’d seen slouching over the low side of the enclosure was about two dozen steps away. Gripped by the action, the man hadn’t moved, and his dangling spear was just within arm’s reach. Acting as if he was searching for an exit, Romulus ran along the brickwork, silently counting his strides. He was careful to keep his gaze averted from the spearman.

The air filled with insults as the nearby spectators showed their contempt for his perceived cowardice. ‘Miserable dog!’ ‘Trying to save your own skin? Fool!’ ‘Spineless whoreson!’ Romulus ran on regardless. In the distance, he could still hear the angry snorts of the rhino. There had been no screams however, which gave him heart that it had not yet killed Petronius. Ten steps. Fifteen.

Romulus gritted his teeth as he drew closer. The guard had to be watching whatever was happening to poor Petronius, or he was lost. Twenty paces and he risked a look up. The broad-leafed blade was pointing downwards, its dull-witted owner oblivious to his approach. Mithras, help me, he thought. One more step, and Romulus bent his knees, leaping high into the air. With both hands, he grabbed hold of the shaft just below the head and pulled downwards. There was a strangled cry of surprise as the guard
followed his weapon into the arena. Landing awkwardly, he found himself staring up at his own spear, which Romulus had reversed to point at his heart. The man had enough sense not to reach for his sword.

‘Stay there, you bastard,’ growled Romulus before tearing off to help Petronius. As he ran, he could hear the angry shouts of the other guards and the shocked cries of the spectators. Arrows and spears would be loosed at him any instant, but he couldn’t think about that. What was happening before his eyes was far worse than that. Romulus cursed himself that he had not run faster. The rhino had already struck Petronius a glancing blow. Although his friend was still running, he was listing to one side and clutching his ribs. His free hand clutched his only weapon, the useless arrow. The damn beast was right behind him too.

Romulus gauged the distance between them. Thirty paces at least.

If he threw the spear now, it had little chance of even hurting the rhino.

If he didn’t, Petronius was a dead man.

Romulus slowed down, and closed his left eye. Taking aim at the armoured beast’s shoulder, he hurled the spear forward in a powerful curving trajectory. As he did, his gaze locked with that of Petronius. The veteran gave him the tiniest of smiles. It spoke a thousand emotions. Pride that Romulus’ attempt had been successful. Respect for his courage and ability. And the love that comrades bear each other.

The spear came down at speed, striking the rhino squarely between the shoulder blades. It glanced off its thick hide.