The Peacekeeper Page 11

  And Rome was hungry for the dawn.

  *

  In the darkness of early morning, hundreds of slaves scurried over the marble stands of the great basin, as task masters scolded and fretted over last-minute details. Everything seemed ready for the naval games and the final day of the festival.

  Crispus, now a centurion and my aide-de-camp, gazed with me across the artificial lake that mirrored the stars above and the glimmering torchlights of workers below. The smell of pitch wafted through the stadium.

  “What’s on your mind, Marcellus?” Crispus asked. “You’re unusually quiet.”

  “Thinking how peaceful this time of morning usually seems to be,” I answered, bracing myself against the chill of a slight breeze swirling across the lake’s surface.

  “Aye, not for long.”

  “Soon, the sky will wax blue with the harsh light of the sun, and the murky waters and those scabby manmade islands in the basin’s center will lay naked before the empire.”

  “You’re sounding like a philosopher again,” Crispus said.

  I exhaled, disgusted with the whole matter. “I’m growing too cynical, I suppose, but what waste. We’ll see slaughter, gore, and carnage on a scale so grand that surely this bizarre circus will be our terrible legacy to Rome’s children—even if it never occurs again.”

  “Sometimes, there are events we can’t control,” Crispus reminded me, “and this is one of them.”

  “You’re right of course,” I said, “but there’s something wrong with a civilization that slaughters men like cattle for amusement.”

  “But you’re here, and nothing is going to change.” Crispus turned away and spat at the shadowy outline of a spider scurrying along on the marble walkway.

  I bit my lip. “Yes, and I’m part of it—no better than the rest. I was once told a thinking man shouldn’t be a soldier—at least not of Rome.”

  “Don’t tell that to anyone else—you’ll lose your position—maybe your life.”

  We slipped away from the basin and hiked to the location of the Seventh Cohort.

  I gave last-minute instructions to my centurions. Throughout the festival, the cohort had been held in ready reserve, providing squad-sized patrols in the neighborhoods surrounding the naval stadium and the public park known as the Grove of Caesar. The bulk remained on alert on a wharf by the banks of the Tiber, near the foul-smelling marketplace of the fishmongers. Placed in strategic positions around the area were other elements of the Watch and City Guard. Since the stadium was constructed in the Trans-Tiberina District, security surrounding the Augustan Naumachia was the responsibility of the Seventh.

  Suspecting Tribune Drusus’s murderers would be among the celebrants at the games, tension permeated the ranks of the Seventh. I overheard five or six bucketmen murmur they would find them. “May Jove have mercy on the bloody bastards,” one said, “because we won’t!”

  After leaving Centurion Casperius Niger in charge, Crispus and I joined Sabinus in the Watch prefect’s box at the arena. As part of a show of strength, he expected all his tribunes to attend him at the games. Scattering an army of cats, fighting over the remains of rotting fish by the entrance, we reached the secret passageway leading to Sabinus’s booth.

  Only upon entering the stadium could one truly appreciate its size and grandeur. During an earlier occasion when I stood at one end and viewed the far end—fifteen hundred feet away—the people appeared as ants. When I looked directly across, the distance was over eight hundred feet. It felt like a lake, not a manmade pond. Close to the center island, about four hundred feet away, two hippos created twin wakes as they paddled along. A water bird slapped footprints upon the calm water’s surface as it raced to become airborne, then suddenly disappeared in a cauldron of white water without a hint of its fate. Nearby, an Egyptian crocodile slumbered against a guard’s stand carved into the wall, as if staking out its territory, and waiting for him to take a careless step.

  Divided into three terraces sloping towards the turgid basin, the Augustan Naumachia held over two hundred thousand souls. The Alsietina Aqueduct fed the huge oval-shaped basin, bringing water from the mountains northwest of Rome. Protected from beasts and gladiators by a bronze trellis, the lowest level sat nine feet above the water’s edge. At fixed intervals along the wall, Praetorians stood guard duty in partial concave enclosures. This assured no gladiators or criminals would escape or hurl excrement into the crowd. After all, condemned men have little to fear and appreciate a dung-splattered senator as well as the next person.

  The Great Imperial Box sat midway above the water’s edge, about the center of the stadium. The enclosed seats of the city magistrates, including Sabinus’s, and the Vestal Virgins sat adjacent to the emperor’s section. Aurelia was attending the games as well, sitting alongside Sabinus. Eleyne would accompany Aurelia as her guest. Normally, my wife would not attend the games, but Aurelia had persuaded her to come to this event.

  “It’s almost time, Crispus,” I said. “All eyes will be focused on the lake.”

  He snorted. “Aye, and it will turn into a sea of blood.”

  In the basin’s center rose two large islands, shaped like hourglasses, and connected by a narrow bridge. Despite their size, ample room remained for maneuvering of two dozen half-sized war galleys and smaller boats in the surrounding waters.

  The sun peeked over the distant hills, splashing the city in a brilliant morning light. A pale-blue haze settled over the western horizon, beyond the gray aqueducts snaking into Rome. The day’s heat loomed almost as early as the dawn, followed by stifling humidity. Fountains surrounding the edge of the basin sprayed the heavy scent of saffron perfume as the noisy, jostling, and sweaty crowds entered the arena. My cuirass and bronze helmet became an oven. But the refreshing fountain mist cooled my face. How fortunate Sabinus’s box rested beneath a shaded red and white striped canopy.

  Ushers took numbered tickets made of flatbone from the festive crowd and escorted paying customers to reserved seats on the middle level. Retained for the nobility and wealthy, where the scent of blood was stronger, was the cushion-seated lower level.

  White tunic vendors wandered through the aisles hawking cushions to soften the hard, wooden benches and marble seats of the mid and upper sections. Others peddled wine and Gallic beer, sweetmeats, and pastries. Free bread was distributed to all, and sales of programs were brisk. Bookmakers in portable booths near the passageways took last-minute bets. Although they bought hand fans and sun hats at robber prices, the rabble sitting in the harsh sunlight were in a festive mood.

  The main event consisted of a naval battle fought by two fleets: the Blues, representing the Greeks, and the Greens, the Persians—the same colors used by the racing teams in the Circus Maximus.

  Crispus and I reported to Sabinus, who greeted us with an air of gravity. Required to wear the clothing of a magistrate, even for the public games, he wore a white linen toga with a purple-trimmed laticlavius, drenched in perspiration.

  Sabinus enjoyed the races and animal hunts but had little interest in gladiatorial matches. He appeared strictly for the sake of the emperor. Excusing himself from the consul and city prefect, he stood and motioned Crispus and I to follow him. We climbed the stairs to the secret subterranean passageway between the first and second levels. The smell of rodent droppings pierced my nostrils, and I noticed they were scattered along the tunnel floor. Dust motes drifted upwards in the sun rays that gleamed through the entry way.

  “Good day for the games,” Sabinus said in the dark coolness of the tunnel.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” I replied, puzzled by his attempt at small talk. What was his real motive?

  He grinned half-heartedly. “I even placed a small bet on the Greens—Candra’s team.”

  “Good chance his side will win,” I answered, puzzled by his real intentions.

  His lips curved into a frown. “For our sake, they better.”

  “Sir?”

  Sabinus glanced to the openin
g and back to us. “I never wanted to send Candra to the arena, he was a loyal slave protecting Eleyne. But he gave no choice. By touching Gallus, a Roman citizen, I would have to summarily execute him or send him to the school for gladiators where he would have a chance to live. Now, I fear for his life—this isn’t a typical gladiatorial match.”

  “You mean it won’t be the usual man-to-man situation, Lord Sabinus?” Crispus asked.

  “Indeed, Centurion Crispus, it’s to be a full-fledged battle, as if it were Salamis, only on a smaller scale.”

  “But why this type of fight?” I asked, realizing the ramifications of Sabinus’s statements.

  “This is a preliminary bout,” Sabinus answered. “The Emperor Claudius plans to conduct greater naval games after the canal from Fucine Lake to the River Latis is completed.”

  Fucine Lake huddled in the Marsian Hills sixty miles east of Rome. Every spring the huge lake flooded the surrounding countryside, destroying valuable farmland. During the last ten years, thirty thousand slaves labored in building a canal between the lake and the River Latis, five miles away, to drain off the overflow. After tunneling through a solid mountain of rock, almost four miles long, the great ditch was nearly completed. Some considered the cost of three thousand slaves lost as cheap if it curtailed the flooding.

  “Next year,” Sabinus continued, “he’ll sponsor a massive naval engagement on the lake involving nearly twenty thousand criminals.”

  “He’ll have to clean out every prison in the empire to find enough,” I said.

  Sabinus nodded, and his lips tightened into a thin line. “True, and the lessons derived from today’s events will be applied on a grander scale. He’s expecting successful results.”

  “But Candra could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers,” I said, knowing the mob would turn ugly if he were slain.

  “Exactly,” Sabinus answered. “The emperor won’t have the time to grant him quarter—even if he’s inclined to do so.”

  “By Melkart, if it happens,” Crispus said, “the mob will go mad—you know how they worship Candra, sir.”

  “I do,” Sabinus replied. “I’ve seen his name prominently displayed all over the city.”

  So had I. The posters claimed Candra was everything from the darling of the maidens to the Lord of the Masses.

  “Are the troops in place?” Sabinus inquired.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered. “They have their orders.”

  Sabinus studied me intently. “Give me an honest opinion. Will the Seventh hold ranks if there is a riot?”

  “They will, if we receive reinforcements in time,” I answered without hesitation. “You’ve seen my reports.”

  He wrinkled his heavily lined forehead and exhaled. “I’m impressed, Marcellus. They’ve made significant progress since you’ve taken command. If there is trouble, I’ll require every manjack trooper. The First and Fourth are only moments away, and so is the City Guard. If the mob moves your way, you need only give the signal.”

  “They’ll contain the mob until reinforcements arrive,” I answered, determined not to fail Sabinus.

  “Good. If it comes to that, you shall hold at all costs.”

  “I will.”

  Below us two dozen galleys moored quietly at the north end of the basin next to the gray-stone jetty. By afternoon I pictured their holds swollen with gladiators. Stacked neatly at one corner of the dock laid dozens of flimsy flatboats. Approximately one hundred black Africans milled about the dock preparing canoes for one of the events—the hunt. To the rear a massive iron gate led to the chambers holding the condemned and the gladiators.

  We returned to Sabinus’s box, where he took his place next to Aurelia who wore a silk, white gown and matching stola. Eleyne, dressed in an emerald, ankle-length tunic, belted at the waist, sat to her left. Chulainn and a female mute slave, who attended to Eleyne, stood with the rest of the other guests, slaves at the far back next to the wall. Eleyne, whose pale neck was encircled by a slim, gold necklace, turned back to where Crispus and I were standing behind Sabinus. She motioned me to her side, and I bent down, my head level with hers.

  “I know I told you this earlier,” she whispered, “but I said another prayer to God asking that Candra’s life be spared.”

  “I share your hope, darling,” I whispered in reply. I didn’t tell her I doubted Candra would survive the day.

  “I had to come to the games, Aurelia didn’t have to persuade me. I can’t explain it, but my heart tells me this may be a critical day for all of us.” She touched her fine nose with a long, delicate finger.

  I was about to ask her to explain when Sabinus turned me and said, “Marcellus, the games are about to begin, you are on duty.”

  I snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

  I took my place behind his chair next to Crispus. His eyes gave me a questioning look.

  “Later,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

  A brassy fanfare sounded, drawing all eyes to the Imperial Box. Emperor Claudius, who grew more emaciated and sickly with each passing day, appeared beneath the great, purple awning. Beside him stood his scheming wife, Agrippina, and her sunken-eyed, fourteen-year-old son, Nero. Missing from the Imperial Family was Britannicus, Claudius’s son. The multitudes jumped to their feet and cheered the emperor with extended arms. “Ave, Caesar! Ave, Imperator!”

  Dressed in a billowing gold and purple toga, the emperor slowly limped to the edge of his box. The people silenced as he raised his hand containing a purple, silk handkerchief. His entourage followed behind, including the president of the games, Gallus. By co-sponsoring the games, an expensive undertaking for even the wealthiest of men, he had ingratiated himself with the old man. If the games proved successful, he would obtain a higher position with the Imperial Government, such as governorship in the provinces. Then, he would recoup his expenses by collecting higher taxes. Gallus wasn’t missing a Chaldean’s trick.

  After finishing a brief speech on the glories of Julius Caesar, the emperor nodded to Gallus.

  The crowds hushed in expectation, and an eerie silence descended the Naval Arena. A gust billowed the emperor’s silk canopy, and colorful streamers snapped above the top rows of the stadium. A hawker’s cry drifted into the silence from a distant section, as Gallus stood majestically.

  He stretched forth his hand displaying the blood-red handkerchief, apparently savoring the fact that all eyes of the world that mattered were upon him. Every ear strained to hear the ceremonial words.

  “LET THE GAMES BEGIN,” Gallus commanded in a loud voice heard across the basin. He dropped the weighted scarlet cloth into the lake. A cheering wave began on both sides of his stand and rippled to the far, distant side of the Augustan Naumachia.

  Gallus nodded to the cornus players. A long blast swelled from the circular trumpets, joined by a deep-throated hydraulic water organ. The spectators cheered again and took their seats.

  *

  The morning passed quickly. A contingent of Praetorians herded hundreds of chained criminals onto the jetty five hundred feet away for the first event. Unshackled and armed with cheap swords, the prisoners were forced onto canoes stacked upon the dock. I realized why they hadn’t been placed in the waters before the games. Within minutes after setting sail, the little vessels, constructed with a thin layer of whitewashed pulpwood, began dissolving and sank.

  As murderers and thieves alike struggled to stay afloat, the crowd screamed for their deaths. As if on cue, submerged crocodiles, deliberately starved prior to the games, surfaced and attacked the condemned, savagely tearing them apart to the mob’s cheers.

  Standing behind Sabinus’s chair, I glanced towards Eleyne’s back. Her body stiffened, and she gasped. She shook her head, loosening strands from her simply coiffed jet hair.

  Aurelia leaned toward and whispered something to Eleyne. She raised an arm, and her hand gently stroked Eleyne’s shoulder.

  For a few seconds, my wife relaxed, nodded to Aurelia, and mumbled, “Thank yo
u.”

  Aurelia straightened and turned back to Sabinus. But thereafter Eleyne seemed to stare straight ahead, not moving a muscle in her body.

  Torn limbs, entrails, and shredded clothing floated and mixed with the lake’s bloodied waters. Those escaping rowed frantically for the islands, only to melt into the jaws of frenzied beasts—although one swimmer circled dazed, treading water for some time.

  The surface churned with hungry animals. Victims screamed. The murky, brown waters between the dock and the islands became a sickening red slick, reeking of the smell of blood and bodily fluids, lazily drifted with the current to the south end of the basin, draining into an underground cistern. Was this the ideal of Roman justice? I doubt if the writers of the constitution, the Laws of the Twelve Tables, had envisioned this kind of butchery five hundred years before. Like so many other things, the laws of Rome had been perverted.

  After the premier slaughter ended, a wrestling event followed pitting gladiators against crocodiles. On the heels of this carnage came the hippopotamus and crocodile hunt by spear-wielding Ethiopians—a bloody spectacle lasting the rest of the morning. The losses on both sides were about even.

  During the noon break, Crispus and I were invited by Sabinus to join Aurelia, Eleyne, and him for lunch. Upset by the bloodshed she had witnessed, Eleyne could not choke down her food. I did not blame her.

  Meanwhile, Gallus’s servants scattered lottery tickets through the crowd, redeemable for jars of wine, food, and money. A small villa on the seashore near Puteoli was the grand prize. A mad scramble for tickets broke out into fights between wealthy and poor alike. For a treasured ticket many a man emerged with a torn toga and bashed head. But Gallus triumphed as the rabble shouted his name in praise. Condescending, he took a half dozen sweeping bows, and the delighted crowds rained flowers upon his person.