A Gladiator Dies Only Once (22 page)

“I see. So this Cicero thought my boys put on a memorable show?”

“He did indeed. And as I happened to be coming to Ravenna on business of my own, and as you happen to have your camp here, I promised my good friend Cicero that I would call on you if I had a chance, to see what sort of operation you run—how many gladiators you’ve got, how long you’ve been in business, how much you charge, that sort of thing.”

The man nodded. The peephole banged shut. The barking resumed, but receded into the distance, as if someone were dragging the dogs elsewhere. A bolt was thrown back. The gate swung open.

“Ahala—
lanista
—at your service.” I had assumed the speaker was standing on something to reach the peephole, but I was wrong. Towering over me was a grizzled, hulking giant of a man. He looked like a gladiator himself, though few gladiators live long enough to attain such a magnificent mane of gray hair. Was Ahala the exception? It was not entirely unheard of for a fighter to survive long enough to buy his freedom and become a professional trainer; it was far less common for such a survivor to become the owner of a cadre of gladiators, as Ahala apparently was. Whatever his origins and history, he was obviously smarter than his lumbering physique and terse manner might suggest.

“Come in,” he said. “Have a look around.”

The compound within the palisade included several barnlike buildings set close together, separated by garden plots and pens for horses, goats, and sheep.

“You raise livestock,” I said.

“Gladiators eat a lot of meat.”

“And you grow your own garlic, I see.”

“Gives the fellows extra strength.”

“So I’ve heard.” Whole treatises had been written about the proper care and feeding of gladiators.

At a shouted command, the clatter of wooden weapons resumed. The noise seemed to come from beyond another palisade of sharpened stakes. “This is the outer compound,” Ahala explained. “Gladiators are kept in the inner compound. Safer that way, especially for visitors like you. Wouldn’t want you to end up with your skull decorating that gate out by the highway.”

I smiled uncertainly, not entirely sure the man was joking. “Still, I’d like to have a look at the gladiators.”

“In a bit. Show you the armory first. Explain how I do business.” He led me into a long, low shed festooned with chains, upon which were hung all manner of helmets, greaves, swords, shields, and tridents. There were also a number of devices I didn’t recognize, including some tubes made of metal and wood that looked as if they might fit into a man’s mouth. Ahala saw me looking at them, but offered no explanation. Some of the weapons also looked a bit odd to me. I reached out to touch a hanging sword, but Ahala seized my wrist.

“You’ll cut yourself,” he grumbled, then ushered me to the far end of the shed, where a trio of smiths in leather aprons were hammering a red-hot piece of metal.

“You make your own weapons?” I asked.

“Sometimes. A customized fit can make the difference between a good fighter and a great one. Mostly I keep these fellows busy with repairs and alterations. I like to keep the armory in tip-top shape.”

He led me past the smiths, into another shed, where carpenters were whittling wood into pegs. “Amphitheater seeds, I call those,” said Ahala with a laugh. “Some of the people who hire me want a temporary arena built especially for the games. Maybe they need to seat a hundred people, maybe a thousand. My carpenters can throw up a decent amphitheater practically overnight, provided there’s a good source of local timber. Client pays for the materials, of course. But I’ve found it saves time and shaves considerable expense if I’ve got nails and pegs ready to go. All part of a complete package.”

I nodded. “I’d never thought of that—the added expense of erecting a place to put on the games.”

Ahala shrugged. “Funeral games don’t come cheap.”

We passed through a small slaughterhouse where the carcass of a sheep had been hung for butchering. Certain parts of slaughtered animals that might normally have been discarded had been saved and hung to dry. I stepped toward the back corner of the room to have a closer look, but Ahala gripped my elbow.

“You wanted to see the fighters. Step this way.”

He led me to a gate in the inner palisade, lifted the bar, and opened the narrow door. “That way, to your right, are the barracks, where they eat and sleep. The training area is this way. Visitor coming!” he shouted. We walked through a covered passage and emerged on a sandy square open to the sky, where five pairs of men abruptly pulled apart and raised their wooden practice swords in a salute to their
lanista.

“Carry on!” barked Ahala.

The men resumed their mock battles, banging swords against shields.

“I thought. . .”

“You thought we’d be above them, looking down, like in an amphitheater?” said Ahala.

“Yes.”

He chuckled. “We don’t stage exhibition bouts here. Only way to see the training area is to walk right in. Stand closer if you want. Smell the sweat. Look them in the eye.”

I felt acutely vulnerable. I was used to seeing gladiators at a distance, in the arena. To stand among them, with nothing between them and me, was like entering a cage full of wild animals. Even the shortest man among them was a head taller than me. All ten wore helmets but were otherwise naked. Apparently they were training to receive blows to the head, because their rhythmic exercise consisted of exchanging repeated blows to each other’s helmets. The blows were relatively gentle, but the racket was unnerving.

From his physique, I thought I recognized at least one of the gladiators from the games at Saturnia, the bull-necked Thracian who had triumphed in the opening bout. About the others I was less sure.

“I wonder, do you have any Nubians among your men?”

Ahala raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“There was a Nubian that day in Saturnia, a
retiarius.
Cicero took particular note of him—’just the sort of exotic touch to ensure a memorable day,’ he said.”

Ahala nodded.
“A retiarius
? Ah, yes, I remember now. That fellow’s dead, of course. But it just so happens that I
do
have another Nubian in the troupe. Tall, strapping fellow like the one you saw.”

“Also a
retiarius
?.”

“He can fight with net and trident, certainly. All my gladiators are trained to be versatile. They can fight in whatever style you wish.”

“Yes, it’s all about giving the spectators what they want, isn’t it? Delivering a thrill and an eyeful.” I watched the practicing pairs of gladiators advance and retreat, advance and retreat with the rhythmic precision of acrobats. “Can I see this Nubian?” I said.

“See him train, you mean?”

“Yes, why not?”

Ahala called to an assistant. “Bring the Nubian. This man wants to see him train with net and trident.” He turned back to me. “While we wait, I’ll explain how I calculate my prices, depending on the size of funeral games you need . . .”

For the next few moments, I had to struggle to keep my face a blank; I’d never imagined that funeral games could be so costly. To be sure, a
lanista
faced considerable expenses, but I suspected that Ahala was making a considerable profit as well. Was that why Zanziba had come to him, because Ahala had the wherewithal to pay him handsomely?

“Are they all slaves?” I asked, interrupting Ahala as he was reciting a complicated formula for payment on installment plans.

“What’s that?”

“Your gladiators—are they all slaves? One hears occasionally of free men who hire themselves out as gladiators. They make good money, I’m told. Have their choice of women, too.”

“Are you thinking of taking it up?” He looked me up and down and laughed, rather unkindly, I thought.

“No. I’m merely curious. That Nubian who fought in Saturnia, for example—”

“Who cares about him?” snapped Ahala. “Gone to Hades!” He scowled, then brightened. “Ah, here’s his replacement.”

Seen at such close quarters, the
retiarius
who entered the training area was a magnificent specimen of a man, tall and broad and elegantly proportioned. He immediately engaged in a mock combat with the gladiator who had accompanied him, putting on a lively demonstration for my benefit. Was it the same Nubian I had seen in Saturnia? I thought so—or was I doing what I had accused Zuleika of doing, seeing what I wanted or expected to see?

“Enough fighting!” I said. “I want to see his face.”

“His face?” Ahala stared at me, perplexed.

“I’ve seen a Nubian fight—I’ve seen one die, at Saturnia—but I’ve never seen one this close, face-to-face. Indulge my curiosity,
lanista.
Show me the fellow’s face.”

“Very well.” At Ahala’s signal, the gladiators drew apart. Ahala beckoned the Nubian to come to us. “Take off your helmet,” he said.

The Nubian put aside his weapons, removed his helmet, and stood naked before me. I had never seen the face of the Nubian who fought in Saturnia. I had never seen Zanziba’s face. But those two brown eyes which stared back at me—had I seen them before? Were they Zuleika’s soulful eyes, set in a man’s face? Was this the face of her brother, Zanziba? The high cheekbones were much the same, as were the broad nose and forehead. But I could not be sure.

“What is your name, gladiator?”

He hesitated, as slaves not used to being addressed by strangers often do. He glanced at Ahala, then looked straight ahead. “Chiron,” he said.

“Like the centaur? A good name for a gladiator, I suppose. Were you born with that name?”

Again he hesitated and glanced at Ahala. “I don’t know.”

“Where do you come from?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“How odd. And how long have you been at this camp, with Ahala as your
lanista
?.”

“I. . .”

“Enough of this!” snapped Ahala. “Can’t you see the fellow’s simple-minded? But he’s a damned good fighter, I guarantee. If you want the personal history of each and every gladiator, put some sesterces on my table first and hire them! Now the tour is over. I’ve other things to do. If your friend Cicero or some of his rich clients have need of funeral games, they’ll know where to find me. You men, get back to your training. Gordianus, allow me to show you the way out.”

As the gate to the compound slammed shut behind me, the dogs, silent throughout my visit, recommenced their barking.

_______

“It’s him!” insisted Zuleika. “It must be. Describe him again, Gordianus.”

“Zuleika, I’ve described the man to you a dozen times. Neither of us can say if it was Zanziba I saw, or not.”

“It
was
him. I know it was. But if he died in Saturnia, how can he be alive now?”

“That’s a very good question. But I have a suspicion . . . “

“You know something you’re not telling me. You saw something, there in the compound!”

“Perhaps. I’ll have to go back and have another look, to be sure.”

“When?”

I sighed, looking around the little room we had been given to share at the hostel in Ravenna. It was a plain room, with two hard beds, a small lamp, and a single chamber pot, but to my weary eyes, as the long summer day faded to twilight, it looked very inviting. “Tonight, I suppose. Might as well get it over with.”

“What if the
lanista
won’t let you in?”

“I don’t intend to ask him.”

“You’re going to sneak in? But how?”

“I do have
some
experience at this sort of thing, Zuleika. I noticed a particular spot in the palisade where the posts are a bit shorter than elsewhere. If I climb over at that point, and manage not to impale myself, I think I can drop right onto the roof of the slaughterhouse. From there I can easily climb down—”

“But the dogs! You heard dogs barking. The man on the road said a dog tore a slave’s leg off.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, the dogs do pose a challenge. But I think I know, from the sound of their barking, where their kennel is located. That’s why I bought those pieces of meat at the butcher shop this afternoon; and why I travel with that small pouch full of various powders and potions. In my line of work, you never know when you might have need of a powerful soporific. A few pieces of steak, generously dusted with pulverized harpy root and tossed over the palisade . . .”

“But even if you put the dogs to sleep, there are all those gladiators, men who’ve been trained to kill—”

“I shall carry a dagger for self-defense.”

“A dagger! From the way you describe Ahala, the
lanista
himself could kill you with his bare hands.” She shook her head. “You’ll be taking a terrible risk, Gordianus.”

“That’s what you’re paying me for, Zuleika.”

“I should go with you.”

“Absolutely not!”

Some distance from the compound, I tethered my horse to a stunted tree and proceeded on foot. Hours past midnight, the half-moon was low in the sky. It shed just enough light for me to cautiously pick my way, while casting ample shadows to offer concealment.

The compound was quiet and dark; gladiators need their sleep. As I drew near the palisade, one of the dogs began to bark. I tossed bits of steak over the wall. The barking immediately ceased, followed by slavering sounds, followed by silence.

The climb over the palisade was easier than I expected. A running start, a quick scamper up the rough bark of the poles, a leap of faith over the sharp spikes, and I landed solidly atop the roof of the slaughterhouse, making only a faint, plunking noise. I paused for breath, listening intently. From outside the compound I heard a quiet, scurrying noise—some nocturnal animal, I presumed—but within the compound there was only a deep silence.

I climbed off the roof and proceeded quickly to the gate that opened into the inner compound, where the gladiators were quartered. As I suspected, it was unbarred. At night, the men inside were free to come and go at will.

I returned to the slaughterhouse and stepped inside. As I had thought, the organs I had seen hanging to dry in the back corner were bladders harvested from slaughtered beasts. I took one down and examined it in the moonlight. Ahala was a frugal man; this bladder already had been used at least once, and was ready to be used again. The opening had been stitched shut but then carefully unstitched; a gash in the side had been repaired with some particularly fine stitch work. The inside of the bladder had been thoroughly cleaned, but by the moonlight I thought I could nonetheless discern bits of dried blood within.