Rivals of the Republic Read online

  “Quintus, good to see you my boy, how’s the declamation coming along?”

  “Excellent,” interrupted Hortensius, having made his selection. “If anyone ever needs an advocate who sounds just like a cat being drowned in a sewer, Quintus will be their man. Now, if only your prejudice against women at the amphitheater did not also extend to women in the law court …”

  Caecilius’s brow creased and Hortensius’s smile widened.

  “Come now, I brought her along just so you could hear her latest lesson. Hortensia, show Caecilius how well you have learned Pericles’s funeral speech.”

  Hortensia glanced first at Caepio, then at Quintus, torn between the desire to show off and a sense of sisterly feeling. Sisterly feeling lost. She feigned a modest smile then cleared her throat, lifting her chin and fixing her dark eyes on a point in the middle of the crowd above.

  “If we look to the laws, they afford equal justice to all in their private differences.” Her surprisingly rich and melodic voice rang out like a bell, each syllable precisely enunciated. “If we look to social standing, advancement in public life falls to reputation for capacity, class considerations are not allowed to interfere with merit; nor does poverty bar the way, if a man is able to serve the state, he is not hindered by the obscurity of his condition. The freedom which we enjoy in our government extends also to ordinary life … but all this ease in our private relations does not make us lawless as citizens. Against this, fear is our chief safeguard, teaching us to obey the magistrate and the laws, particularly such as regard the protection of the injured, whether they are actually on the statute book or belong to that code which, although unwritten, yet cannot be broken without acknowledged disgrace.”

  The delivery was over-dramatic but she was clearly audible even over the hum of the stadium. Caepio led the applause of the spectators around them and Hortensia acknowledged their praise with a delighted smile. Only Quintus and Caecilius did not join in.

  “Superb, carissima. Superb. What do I always tell you? Give them a show.” Hortensius affectionately reached up a hand to his daughter’s rosy cheek, before patting the seat next to him and throwing a provocative sideways glance at Caecilius, whose face was etched with disapproval.

  “It’s a mistake, and so I have warned you before, Hortensius,” Caecilius muttered, shaking his head. “Rhetoric exercises … declamation practice …” He leaned in closer toward his friend again. “I know Quintus has been a disappointment to you, but if females were meant to speak in public, their voices wouldn’t grate so on the ear.”

  Hortensia looked around, flushed from her triumph. “Where is Quintus anyway?”

  “Oh dear. He was here a moment ago,” said Lutatia vaguely.

  “Don’t worry, my dear.” Hortensius sounded bored. “I can’t imagine anyone would kidnap him, he’s far too unprepossessing.”

  Hortensia stood up. “I’ll go and find him.”

  “I can go,” offered Caepio. “You shouldn’t go off by yourself.”

  “No, you stay here and talk to Mama.” Hortensia smiled at him. “She doesn’t like it when the fights begin, she’ll need someone to calm her nerves. Quintus won’t be far away.”

  She turned around, not realizing that a man had paused beside them while on his way to his own seat, and that he was now standing very close to her.

  “Excuse me.”

  She started, and hoped her face did not betray the sudden revulsion she felt. The man had black hair and a thin, creaturely face, and though he was smiling down at her, she thought his eyes were strange, yellow and glassy like a snake’s. He also wore some bitter green perfume she did not like. But it was the deep, raw scar etched across his cheek which had startled her.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to alarm you. I was just stopping to pay my respects to your father.”

  Hortensia glanced back at her father and saw that he was eyeing the man in shrewd recognition. Knowing him as she did, Hortensia thought there was something odd in his expression, a watchfulness, or perhaps it was simply dislike. He did not offer to introduce her to the man, who was now smiling at her in a way she found she did not enjoy.

  “I’m sorry. I believe you wanted to get by me.”

  He only just gave her enough room to pass, and she was glad to put herself beyond the reach of his twisted gaze.

  III

  HORTENSIA DID NOT EXPECT TO HAVE TO EXERT HERSELF TO ANY GREAT degree to find her brother. She assumed Quintus would be by the sausage stalls at the top of the staircase. When he wasn’t there, she walked down to see if he had returned to the carriage. But still her brother was nowhere to be seen. She was just starting to feel quite cross and that she had done all that could be expected of her, when she heard a strange distant roar somewhere beneath her feet and suddenly realized she knew where Quintus had gone.

  To her right, there was a narrow staircase leading underground. A thick, sour smell of sweat, mud and urine wafted up from the dark tunnel and she could hear short barks of male laughter from somewhere in the depths. She hesitated. It was too bad of her annoying little brother to put her in this position. But she also knew that Quintus would get a hiding from their father if it was discovered where he had gone. Her white silk-shod feet gleamed brightly against the dirty steps as she tripped down them.

  At the foot of the stairs was an ill-lit passageway scattered with gritty sand. Hortensia could hear the sound of a blade being sharpened and voices through the opening of a chamber further down, rough, male voices, speaking in a crude idiom that she had not heard before and which she found intimidating. The metallic clang of a door being shut drew her attention to the opposite end of the corridor where she saw a man with a patch over his eye emerging into view, a bucket in his hand. Pressing herself back into the shadows of the staircase, she held her breath as the man strode past, clenching her nose against the meaty stench of blood that lingered around him. As soon as he had disappeared, she looked around the corner again and saw her brother, creeping out from the alcove where he had been hiding, and peering through a gap in the door from which the one-eyed man had just exited.

  “Quintus,” Hortensia hissed furiously.

  He turned his head and scowled at her. She knew exactly what had brought him down here. Among their father’s many famous idiosyncrasies was the collection of wild and exotic beasts that roamed his country estate at Laurentum, just outside of Rome. They had spent their childhood playing among these specimens, and Quintus had long begged their father to add an Egyptian crocodile to the menagerie, but his requests had so far fallen on deaf ears.

  Hortensia watched her brother slide back the bolt on the cell door, shooting a defiant look at her as he did so. She shook her head furiously at him but he disappeared from view. Holding her veil under her chin, Hortensia hurried along the dark passageway, trying to tread lightly. She peered around the door and saw her brother standing with his back to her, curiously observing as the wizened crocodile crunched its way through a slithering pile of raw poultry carcasses. Like a vast piece of discarded armor, the beast’s shiny grey torso was stretched almost across the entire width of the narrow cell.

  “Quintus, you come with me right now,” she warned.

  Ignoring her, Quintus reached down and picked up a stray scrap of chicken from the floor with the apparent intention of throwing it to the animal. As he did so, Hortensia took a step forward, meaning to grab her brother by the tunic and haul him back. But the sight of Quintus taking a piece of its food had made the crocodile suddenly clamp its jaw shut and open wide its bulbous yellow eyes. Very slowly, like some monstrous puppet being operated by unseen hands, the beast turned to look at them and a rumble echoed from its belly. It shifted its weight onto its right foot, the scaly black claws gripping the sand tightly. Hortensia held the fold of her brother’s tunic clenched tight in her hand.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered. “Don’t move.”

  She didn’t have to tell him. Quintus was frozen to the spot just as she was. Horte
nsia had suddenly become very aware of her breathing and she imagined that she could hear the blood rushing around her body. How far behind them was the door? Would she have time to push Quintus behind her and give him a chance to get out? All the while, the rumbling noise was growing louder and the animal’s eyes were fixed on the piece of chicken flesh still clutched in Quintus’s fingers. Hortensia tried desperately not to blink, almost mesmerized by the animal’s jagged yellow teeth. All she could think about was what the pain would be like.

  The next thing she knew, she could feel someone’s arm around her waist and suddenly her feet had disappeared from beneath her. Both she and Quintus were dragged violently and unceremoniously backwards and out of the cell before she could see if the beast had reacted too. Loud voices were raised around them and she heard the sound of the door slamming shut again. For a few moments Hortensia kept her eyes clenched tightly shut. Then the arm around her waist relaxed its hold and she opened her eyes to see the one-eyed man standing in front of them, gabbling angrily in a foreign tongue and conducting his argument with someone behind her, who also spoke in a language she couldn’t understand. Finally, the one-eyed man looked down at Hortensia and Quintus and spat something at them, waving a finger in front of their faces before stalking off down the corridor.

  Turning around slowly, Hortensia found herself looking into the face of a tall, powerfully built young man with thick dark hair and a broken nose. His torso was bare, revealing a number of other healed wounds, some of which looked fresher than others, but he wore the wide leather belt, armband and thickly padded leg-greaves that denoted the heavyweight category of gladiator known as the Thracian. On his walnut-brown left forearm, Hortensia noticed a strange smeared mark burnt into his skin, circular in shape.

  “Hello,” she said, her sense of embarrassed gratitude making the greeting sound more offhand than she had intended.

  The gladiator nodded and replied with an ironic twist of politeness to his voice, “Hello to you, domina.”

  Hortensia did not recognize his accent, which was not Roman.

  “Are you Helix the Thracian?” demanded Quintus. Hortensia glanced down at him in exasperation.

  “Is that all you can think of to say? You idiot, I was almost killed because of you.”

  The gladiator smiled slightly. “No. I am not Helix the Thracian. I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Who are you, then?” asked Quintus.

  “I am Hannibal the Conqueror.”

  Quintus rolled his eyes scornfully. “I’m not a little kid, you know.”

  “You do not believe me? Look outside. That’s my elephant tied up there.”

  Hortensia was surprised to hear her brother laugh. She felt there was something improper in this gladiator’s manner of addressing them and out of nerves and embarrassment, she adopted a haughty tone of voice.

  “You should tell us your name. Our father is a very important man, you know. You might be doing yourself out of a reward.”

  “That is most intimidating, domina. But I am Hannibal after all. Is your father good with a sword?” The Thracian mimed a pass with an imaginary blade, much to Quintus’s delight.

  “Our father doesn’t need a sword,” said Hortensia slightly contemptuously. “He fights people with words, not weapons. He has won more than thirty cases in the law courts of Rome. How many fights have you won?”

  The Thracian gave a low laugh.

  “Not as many as your father. I see I will be no match for him after all.”

  “How many fights have you won?” asked Hortensia, her curiosity getting the better of her hostility.

  “None at all, domina,” he replied.

  “None?” she exclaimed.

  He shook his head slowly. “None in the arena.”

  Hortensia stared at him, taking in the scar lines on his face, forearms and shoulders. She knew from her father that some of those who fought on games-day were convicts, serving out their punishment in the arena as fodder for more experienced gladiators. But this strong man, with his cool green eyes and droll way of parrying her questions, did not fit with her notion of a criminal.

  “You are quite an unusual gladiator,” she said.

  “And you, domina, are quite an unusual girl.”

  Hortensia couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended by this statement.

  “Who’s your opponent?” asked Quintus.

  He pointed to the end of the corridor where a sinewy gladiator she recognized from his high leg-greaves and long spear as a hoplomachus was now talking to a heavy-set Samnite. They were glancing curiously at Hortensia, looking her up and down, and when they saw her looking at them, the hoplomachus whispered something that made his companion chuckle unpleasantly. Hortensia suddenly felt uncomfortable and the Thracian seemed to read her thoughts, moving to block her view of his fellow gladiators.

  “You should go back to your seat, domina. Your family will wonder where you both are.”

  Hortensia allowed herself to be shepherded along the dirty corridor once more and up the stairs into the light. Quintus was chattering away, asking questions about the different types of gladiators. At the exit, the Thracian beckoned a passing attendant and gave instructions for their escort. Quintus was still interrogating him and Hortensia waited until his attention was back on her, feeling rather reluctant all of a sudden to end the acquaintance. As he turned to take his leave of her, she favored him with a smile.

  “Good luck with your fight, Hannibal, if you truly won’t tell us your real name?”

  He bowed. “My name is Lucrio, domina.”

  “I am Hortensia and this is my brother Quintus. Our father is Hortensius Hortalus,” she added with a grand flourish. “I’m sure he would wish to thank you.”

  The gladiator inclined his head and his lips creased slightly.

  “No thanks necessary, domina. Goodbye Quintus. Goodbye Hortensia, daughter of Hortensius Hortalus.”

  “Goodbye,” she said and watched him disappear back down into the dark tunnel.

  IV

  HORTENSIUS OBSERVED HIS SON AND DAUGHTER’S RETURN.

  “Where was he? Carousing with prostitutes?”

  Lutatia gasped.

  “Don’t be silly Papa,” said Hortensia reprovingly. “He was just buying something to eat.”

  Hortensius shrugged. As Hortensia sat down next to Caepio, he gave her an approving smile and she felt everything she had just been through had been worth it. She was relieved to see the scarred man had gone.

  A great cheer went up from the crowd around them. The gladiatorial entertainments had begun and a decision was awaited by the referee, now standing between a triumphant Samnite and his badly wounded opponent. All faces were turned in the direction of a group of men sitting just along the row from Hortensius and his family, and for the first time, Hortensia noticed the presence of their neighbor from the Palatine Hill, Marcus Licinius Crassus, consul of Rome and the sponsor of the games. A tall, broad-shouldered figure, Hortensia didn’t think she had ever seen Crassus without his all-embracing smile. Now he rose to his feet as the crowd appealed to him for a verdict, and theatrically cupped his ear as though he couldn’t hear the crowd urgently begging for the order of death.

  “Doesn’t he make you want to open your own veins?” sighed Hortensius.

  “Speaking of which …” Caecilius leaned conspiratorially toward Hortensius. “Did you hear the news about Albinus? Found dead in his bath, poor fellow. Looks like he made a bloody botch of it, terrible mess all over the place. Left a letter saying he’d run up too many debts. I thought you would have heard, didn’t he help you with a trial a few years ago?”

  Hortensius’s reply was drowned out by the crowd. Urged on by the others in his party, Crassus had finally pointed his thumb in the gesture sanctioning a kill and the people cheered as the loser was dispatched with a clean thrust to the neck. Lutatia’s whimper of disgust was drowned out by her son’s howl of ecstasy, but Hortensia did not see the moment of slaughter
as Caepio had put his hand over her eyes at the last moment.

  Then a Thracian gladiator emerged from the competitors’ entrance just below them. Even though their rescuer’s face was now hidden by a griffin-crested helmet, Hortensia recognized him by the strange mark on his arm. She watched intently as he and his opponent raised their arms in salute to Crassus, who gave a lazy acknowledgement in return. The Thracian was armed with a short curved sword and oblong shield, while the hoplomachus wielded a long razor-tipped spear in his right hand and a circular shield in his left. The fight referee brought his cudgel down and immediately the hoplomachus lunged with his spear in a bid to catch his opponent off guard. But the thrust – aimed squarely at the heart – was deflected by the Thracian’s shield, and he countered with a swinging blow from his own sword, which left a brilliant red gash of blood on the hoplomachus’s right shoulder. There was a great roar from the crowd, its temperature quickly rising at the prospect of a hard-fought contest.

  “That’s got their blood up,” remarked Caecilius.

  Now the combatants began to circle each other, each looking for an opening. The hoplomachus kept darting forward in a bid to sneak the point of his spear past his opponent’s guard but the Thracian was lightning-quick in his response, often turning defense into attack. Allegiances were already being declared among the audience, and although there were some who admired the hoplomachus’s quick footwork and cunning, the loudest, most partisan cheering was for the Thracian, who was acknowledged by seasoned games-watchers to be a prodigious new talent.

  Hortensius, who in-between glances at the action had been trading idle gossip with Caecilius, suddenly leant forward and peered closer at the combatants, now exchanging blows by the fence just in front of them.

  “So that’s why he’s so good,” he remarked to no one in particular.