Lucius turned around. Catharis was standing in the doorway. “What?”
“Master wants you!”
Lucius stared at Catharis in a way that made it plain he was in no hurry. The bathmen noticed it and started to chuckle. “We’re talking business here,” he said. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
The laughter got louder. Catharis stood it as long as he could. “He’s in Arno’s!” he shouted, then fled. Lucius smiled.
“And the lists…?” asked Cestinius.
“It’s getting handled,” Lucius said, and strolled out like someone far more confident than he felt.
There was a sports bar on the second level; another under-the-stands space, but airier than some due to the air-shafts that vented through gratings behind the third-level seats. There were benches and tables, and a central island where the amphorae of wine and the ice and water and pottery mugs were kept. The back wall was whitewashed for weekly advertisements, like the gable-end of a house: on one side, somewhat faded because there was no need to change the sign, a block of russet letters said, THE FAMOUS GLADIATOR HILARUS EATS HERE ON TUESDAYS AND SATURDAYS. COME AND BE SEEN WITH HILARUS. COVER CHARGE 2 SESTERCII. Under the sign sat Mancipuer.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Lucius said. Seeing Mancipuer here made him nervous. He was famous for never taking his lunch hour off.
“Fine,” Mancipuer said, “fine. Flavia! Food for the boy, and a refill of Tuscan. Now sit down here and talk to me. The bathmen are going crazy: one masseur says he never saw a body in better shape, like some statue come to life. But he’s still just a tyro, so the betting—” Mancipuer took a swig of his wine. “Things have heated up since this morning. There are all kinds of rumors….”
Will they be enough to get him onto the freestyle list? Lucius thought desperately.
Mancipuer had another swig. His cheeks were glowing, and not just with excitement. “And this patron… Who is he, kid? Really?”
Another clay flask of wine arrived and Lucius had a moment or so to think until the server went away. “Sir, I can’t. Or I might just…vanish. But not yet. So far, he thinks I’m a lucky charm.” Lucius grinned. “I can be lucky for more than one person at once, though…”
Mancipuer grinned too. “Let’s see.”
They sat there together for the better part of an hour like old partners, eating bread and bacon and broad beans and drinking watered wine. Lucius kept fretting about where Cestinius was, how he was doing…but he also noticed, in the shadowy nooks of the bar, knowing looks being exchanged, whispers going around. Is the fix in? Who’s it in on? Which fight? …for no one in Rome would be crazy enough to think you could make money off the games by playing fair.
Men stopped by to talk to Mancipuer, a sly smile here, a wink there, a word or two about what the odds were likely to be. Most of them thought Mancipuer was the go-between, the link between Cestinius and some rich senator or racing-syndicate “name”. And Mancipuer thought that Lucius was the go-between… But he would never let on. He was having too much fun being the center of attention.
Lunchtime came to an abrupt end when they faintly heard the trumpets blowing outside. Lucius’s heart jumped inside him: there was still a certain list that his murmillo wasn’t on. “Oh gods…” he said “It’s time—”
“Go on,” Mancipuer said. “Luck, boy. Mars and the Fates go with him…”
Lucius ran off toward the trainers’ bay. When he got there, the place, so quiet earlier, was boiling with activity—gladiators heading into the baths, coming out of them, suiting up; trainers and managers all over the place, checking each other out, checking out each others’ talent. Cestinius was there, finally done with his massage, back in his armor and looking extremely fit. “Sir,” he said to Lucius as he came in, “the list—”
A big man in a white repeater’s tunic came bustling in and started handing out strips of parchment to the trainers. He almost went by Lucius, who caught the repeater by the sleeve of his tunic. “Hey, one for me.”
The man peered at him. “Who’re you?”
“I’m repping for Cestinius,” Lucius said.
“Who?” said the repeater. That was common enough: repeaters were famous for huge voices but no memory. Nonetheless, he handed Lucius a copy of the list and went out.
A hubbub of discussion went up as trainers and gladiators started arguing about placements and odds and everything else. Lucius found it hard to pay attention. All he could see at the moment was Cestinius’s face as the big murmillo peered at the list. “What does it say?” Cestinius said. “Who’m I fighting?”
“Uh…”
There was nothing Lucius could do but tell the truth. And then what happens to a magic gladiator who was born to fight and can’t? Does he just vanish? Or something worse? “Cestinius—” he started to say, and then a hand fell on his shoulder.
It was Hilarus.
He was in his full arena armor, helmet under his free arm; behind him were a couple of the gofers who perpetually seemed to be hanging around a gladiator of his caliber. “So you weren’t kidding when you said you were in the business,” he said. “I didn’t know you were agenting…”
“Uh, it was kind of sudden, sir.”
“It usually is. What’s the problem?” He plucked the list out of Lucius’s hand, glanced down it.
“I should be fighting this afternoon,” Cestinius said.
“Then somebody slipped up.” He looked at Cestinius, sizing him up: then held out a hand. “Hilarus.”
“Cestinius,” the murmillo said. “Cestinius Veneris.”
Hilarus looked around. “Where’s this man’s opponent?”
Gladiators of all kinds shrugged. Nobody knew. “Bad situation,” Hilarus said. “Nobody likes to lose a purse. Especially not…whoever you’re fronting for.” He took Lucius’s arm and steered him away. “I take it he has some kind of manager trouble?” he said under his breath.
“Uh—”
“Right. I know how it is.” He glanced briefly back at Cestinius. “Not a scar on him but that dent in the leg. A tyro?”
“He’s never fought in the ring before.” That much was true.
Lucius watched Hilarus watching Cestinius. “All right,” he said. “That last fight didn’t touch me, and I’m still warmed up. And I owe you a favor from yesterday.” He winked. “You have no idea how big a favor. Let’s shake up the betting a little.”
Lucius’s mouth dropped open. “But sir, your own manager—”
“Is under the stands with a couple of lady-friends. If I show a little initiative, and Velantinus loses his percentage because I had to set the match up myself… Well, serves him right, doesn’t it?”
Hilarus turned to one of his gofers. “Have you seen the Master around in the last hour or so? No? How about his assistant? Little skinny guy, hunched shoulder, red tunic, salt and pepper hair?”
“I saw him,” said another gofer. “Dantyles, yes?”
“That’s the one,” Hilarus said. “Track him down and tell him there’s a change to the second-half card. Another fight. Go on, we’ll wait here.”
The gofer ran off. Lucius then had to sit still while Hilarus and Cestinius started a long comparative discussion of the Thracian and murmillo styles. He would normally have been in raptures to be able to eavesdrop on a conversation like this, but he was terrified that Hilarus might ask some question Cestinius couldn’t answer. It had no time to happen, though, because very shortly the gofer was back with Dantyles in tow.
“What’s this about?” Dantyles snapped.
“It’s about that last fight being a waste of my time!” Hilarus said. “The guy took a dive! I barely touched him before his manager had the Help me! fingers up. And all of a sudden the umpire was so sympathetic. The fix was in, wasn’t it? But somebody forgot to let me know so that I could get a side bet in through an agent. It’s enough to make an honest fighter really annoyed.” He stared at Dantyles until the other man looked away. “But I’m sure that soci
ety gossipmonger Martial would love a statement about it from me for his morning scandal rag. It’d be all over town by afternoon. And the betting cartels would be so annoyed when their business went belly-up tomorrow, especially with the card you’ve got planned…”
Dantyles opened his mouth and shut it again.
“So here’s how you’re going to make it up to me,” Hilarus said, and put an arm around Cestinius’s shoulder. “My buddy Cestinius here just transferred up from Pompeii—the guy who bought him was negotiating with the Neronian, and now he wants him to go free-agent all of a sudden. As if that wasn’t enough, Cestinius’s match partner goes no-show—eaten by a lion or something, who knows around here—and on top of that, the match doesn’t make it onto the card to begin with. Lovely! And now, after my little fiasco, the crowd’s sitting around there getting bored because that last fight was so short, and already you’re losing what matters most—their butts on your seats. They’re going to drift off downstairs and right on out of here, because the rest of the afternoon’s card isn’t so hot until Demetrios fights Felix just before closing. If somebody doesn’t do something fast, you’re going to lose about a hundred thousand denarii’s worth of betting and concessions. Think about that.”
Dantyles’s face suggested that he was was thinking.
“So your guys will announce us in just a few minutes. We’ll go on in an hour—that’ll give everybody plenty of time to get to the betting shops. And because we’re doing you this big favor, I get fifteen percent of the house’s ten percent of net, and so does my buddy Cestinius. And get us a decent umpire, somebody who’ll make this fight look serious. Attilius did my last one: get him. He’ll be in one of the downstairs sports bars, bragging as usual. We’ll split his fee out of our take, yeah?”
This was directed at Lucius. “How much?” he said.
“Five percent.”
Lucius nodded. “My master will pay.” Then he and Hilarus both looked at Dantyles, who stood there chewing his lip.
Lucius strongly suspected that Dantyles had his mind made up from the first time he heard the words “my buddy Cestinius”. However, he saved face with a great show of deliberation. “All right,” he said finally, “we can do that. What’s your name again?”
“Cestinius Veneris,” the murmillo said.
“Got it.” Dantyles looked from Cestinius to Hilarus. “One hour.” And he was gone, bustling off as if this kind of deal was an everyday event.
“I hate it when they try to take advantage of us like that,” Hilarus said. “Because we’re fighters, we’re idiots? Right.” He turned to Cestinius. “Never forget: with these people, only squeaky wheels get greased.”
“I’ll remember,” Cestinius said.
“Better get yourself ready,” Hilarus said. “I’ve got things to do. See you out on the sand.”
He turned and headed for the door, gofers in tow, but Lucius went after him. “Hilarus,” he said. “Sir—”
Hilarus looked back at him, bemused.
“Don’t,” Lucius said, “please don’t, you know—”
Hilarus glanced out toward the gate and the stands. “You’re attached to him, huh?”
“Yes,” Lucius whispered.
“I can’t guarantee anything, kid. Even when the fix is in, I take my chances. He’s going to have to, too.” He paused. “You coaching?”
Lucius hadn’t thought of that. “Uh, yeah—”
“Then get a better tunic. When you go out there, if you’re somebody’s agent, you need to look like the gladiator’s worth something. Then get him a massage and get him warmed up. We’re on in an hour.”
That hour went by with shocking speed. Several of Hilarus’s gofers adopted Lucius and squired him around the posher part of the downstairs, getting him watered wine, a sausage roll to eat, a heavy silken tunic confiscated from one of the boys at the west-side brothel. Cestinius went back for yet another massage, so that the bathmen started joking about “the Rubdown Boy from Pompeii” before sending up runners to lay their own bets.
Finally one of the staging staff came to the room, and said, “Next up: Cestinius…”
“He’s ready,” Lucius said. The murmillo came striding out in his armor, helmet under his arm: and Lucius looked up at him, suddenly knowing this moment. He had dreamed it a hundred times.
“Now?” Cestinius said.
“Now,” said Lucius.
They walked to the gate. Outside it, the crowd was making that unsettled between-fights noise, more like a grumble than a roar. As they came to stand before the great oaken brass-bound doors, Lucius looked up at Cestinius.
“Don’t hurt him,” he said softly. “Don’t hurt him!”
Cestinius looked at Lucius with a terrible blank lack of understanding. “You want me to lose?”
Lucius gulped. “No, but I— I mean, you’re…”
“I am a gladiator. I was made for this day.”
Lucius swallowed. She says, ‘You have a day.’ And the gods could be very difficult if you interfered with their plans….
“Just,” Lucius said, “just try—”
Outside, the trumpets blew, and it all started to happen. The gate swung wide, not on unreal morning twilight, but on the real, hot, burning white fury of a Roman afternoon, and on a crowd that roared at the sight of the opening gate. Now Lucius looked across the arena at a doorway less lucky, the Porta Libitina, the Death Gate through which fallen gladiators were removed. For Lucius, as for many others, that gate had held a horrible fascination. Now there was only horror, and the thought that he might see Cestinius dragged through it heels first.
From off to their left came a flash of white; a Thracian whose helmet-crest was white ostrich plumes: Hilarus. Lucius saw his eyes clearly through the helmet’s grille. He nodded to his opposite number, Hilarus’s manager and acting coach. Velantinus was small, dark, and looked furious. Cestinius put on his helmet and its red-enameled crest gleamed in the fierce light off the sand. There was gold- and jewel-dust in it—the politician sponsoring these games for his election campaign was determined to show off.
They strode across that sand with their coaches behind them, towards the center of the arena where the noisy three-piece band was playing and the umpire waited. The crowd’s roar scaled up, and the repeater-criers around the arena started work.
“Continuing his triumphant return to the Flavian Amphitheatre,” they shouted in unison, “in an additional exhibition bout. With fourteen victories in fourteen fights, and thirteen crowns for technical excellence: the Thracian’s Thracian, the Man in White…Hilaaaaaaarus!”
A roar of approval went up from the thousands of men in the Colosseum, and a vast eager shriek from the women. Hilarus raised his sword and waved.
“And making his first appearance in the mighty Flavian, and hopefully not his last, the tyro from Pompeii…already famous under the stands as The Man Who Likes A Good Rubbing…” A tremendous girly scream of lust went up, accompanied by some lascivious noises from various men in the lower tiers. “Cestiiiiinius… Veneeeeris!”
Cestinius held up both his arms, turning slowly to greet the whole crowd. Lucius’s heart leapt at the sound of the roar that went up. He really had it, that charisma, the spark that made people look at him even though they’d never even seen him fight.
“Coaches,” said the umpire. “Purse details all sorted out?”
“Yes,” said Lucius. Velantinus growled something inaudible. The umpire eyed Lucius for a moment. Coaches could sometimes be very young men: sometimes gladiators worked without them at all. “Your master’s happy with you doing this job?”
“Yes,” Lucius said.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
The two fighters squared off, waiting for their signal from the Imperial box. Lucius started sweating. In a fight between established gladiators, who’d recouped their training costs and were steady moneymakers, fights to the death didn’t usually happen. First blood was the rule. But when one man was a tyro, nobody particula
rly cared. If he died, his owner replaced him and started over. But there’s no replacement for Cestinius! And though he was sure Hilarus meant well, accidents could happen...
A kerchief waved from the box. Both gladiators dropped into a crouch, then both instantly leapt forward to the attack. There had been no circling, no time spent in assessment: Lucius suspected that each had done all the assessing required down in the trainers’ bay.
Above and all around him, the crowd roared so that Lucius could hardly think…and the band behind him, blaring away, wasn’t helping either. Lucius tried to ignore it.
Cestinius feinted at his white-crested opponent, then cut, but Hilarus dodged the sword and merely lost some shoulder-padding before he was out of reach. “Not like that!” Velantinus bawled from beside Lucius. “Watch his left, get in and—” The crowd yelled at the miss, while from their ringside boxes knights and senators shouted new bets to their nearest bookies.
“Go on,” Lucius shouted, “go on, don’t let him—” Cestinius was already sliding forward, jabbing at Hilarus’s poised shield, hoping he’d try to smash the extended sword from his opponent’s hand. The shield flickered up and around, the move that Lucius had seen in his dream and since they came through that gate had been praying wouldn’t happen. “No!” Lucius yelled as Cestinius thrust. Not past the shield, but over it, at Hilarus’s left eye—
Hilarus ducked, just enough, and the blade screeched off his helmet. White plumes went flying. He overbalanced, staggered backwards as the crowd shrieked with excitement, then recovered and crabbed sideways. There was a look in his eye that Lucius hadn’t seen before: not the manic rage that he’d seen often enough when the fight heated up, but a chilly calculation that wasn’t entirely human. Yet it was also an amused look… and Lucius didn’t understand it at all. At least it’s not the dream…! But that raised other possibilities.
Like Cestinius getting killed.