Читать книгу Atilus the Lanista - E. C. Tubb - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

Streaming through the tinted glass set in the roof of the solarium, the morning sun threw patches of soft, multi-­colored light over the chamber. Smears of red and orange, green, blue, pale violet, and amber dappled the floor, the furnishings, the figure of Aquilia Sabina in her stola of embroidered silk, and the man who stood respectfully before her.

“Domina.” His bow was deferential. “It is an honor to attend one so gracious.”

Praise that she ignored. “You have it?”

Again he bowed. He was a trader from Syria, smoothly plump with oiled and scented hair. His hands were heavy with gemmed rings and his robe was of the finest linen. Turning, he gestured to his slave and, lifting the lid of a long box the man carried, took out a sword. Offering it to the woman he said, “Here it is, Domina. Made in Damas­cus of the finest steel. The edge will cut through bronze.”

She made no effort to touch it. “Atilus?”

I took the weapon and lifted it to catch the light. The polished surface of the blade shimmered, a glow that rippled as I moved the steel.

“Note the markings,” said the trader. “The sure sign of a true, Damascened blade. One honed to perfection and hardened with countless blows. The edge is as sharp as a razor. The point also—rest it on your thumb and it will draw blood. I swear by the gods that no finer weapon was ever forged by the hand of man.”

A table stood close against a wall; my belt and sword lay on it. Drawing my sword from its scabbard, I rapped the blade against the one the trader had brought. The metallic chime was as sweet as a bell.

Aquilia was impatient. “Do you like it?”

“A moment.”

Again I tested the ring of the metal and then examined the balance of hilt and blade, turning to slash at the air, recovering to stab, to spring to one side, to thrust in a quick series of movements which sent their message into my hand and arm. The balance was perfect. The hilt fit my hand comfortably and, although it was gilded, it had none of the softness of gold. It was a good, workman-like tool, and I said so.

“My reputation is of the best,” the trader said quietly. “I would not offer an inferior weapon to any man whose life depended on it. And surely, only the best is good enough for the most noted gladiator in Rome. The blade will hold its edge longer than most. It will shear through toughened leather and, as I have said, cut bronze. The finish is as you see. The price—” he hesitated, looking at the woman—“is modest.”

The sword was good, but I had a sword, one I could trust. And it took more than an edge to cut through bronze or bone. Again I lifted the blade, prolonging my examina­tion.

“There is, of course, a scabbard,” said the trader quickly, reaching again into the box. “One worthy of the weapon.”

More than worthy. It was heavy with gold, encrusted with jewels, the product of a master artist. Real, easily disposable wealth, which the sword was not. For the first time I smiled.

“A good blade,” I admitted. “One I would like to use in the arena.”

“And you shall.” Aquilia settled the matter with a lift of her hand. “If you want it, Atilus, it is yours.”

I sheathed the blade as, bowing, the merchant retired with his slave. A gift, but one I had earned, one I would have to continue to earn.

“Atilus.” Now that we were alone, her voice became warm and soft. “Have I pleased you?”

“Always, Aquilia, you please me.”

“And you don’t think I’m a stupid old woman?”

To answer I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. Old she might be, but not that old, and certainly far from ugly. She could have given me ten years, but in the soft light no one could have guessed it. Tall, slim, hips and thighs smoothly curved, her breasts large and firm, she had a body many younger women would envy. Art had turned her hair into a mass of ebon; a startling contrast to the cultivated whiteness ofher skin. Only when her cosmetics were washed away could the tiny mesh of lines around her eyes be seen. They, together with the fine tracery on her up­per lip and the slight sagging of the skin beneath her chin, were the only signs of her advancing years. Minor flaws for which her generosity more than compensated.

And she had other attributes. In Rome a man was wise to choose his friends with care, especially a man who de­pended on his popularity. A gladiator had to stay in the public eye and be seen risking his life in the arena. Bedding rich women was an easier way of earning a living. It had been over a year now since I had last faced an opponent on the sand.

“I was speaking to Claudia Calvin the other day,” she said. “She was curious about you, Atilus. She kept wanting to know how good a lover you were. Naturally, I said noth­ing.”

“Is she rich?”

“Yes, but mean. You would be wasting your time with her.”

“And with any woman other than yourself, Aquilia.”

The flattery pleased her and she smiled, but she was a daughter of Rome, and as wise and as cynical as the culture which had created her. The culture of which I was becoming more and more a part. The blood price I had sworn to extract never seemed to be enough. To subject proud patri­cian women to the embraces of an ex-slave was a form of revenge. A revenge that I think Aquilia sensed and un­derstood.

We had met soon after Verdalia had died, and in the following years she had taught me how best to use the money I had won. Now I needed no advice and, while still lovers, we had also become friends.

“Atilus!” Her hand rested on my hair. In the upper chamber her bed would be waiting, slaves discreetly absent should she decide to use it. Then, as I reached for her, she shuddered and lowered her hand. “No, my darling, as much as you tempt me, I must be firm. It would take too long for the maids to restore my beauty and we haven’t the time. Already we should be at the Circus.”

For days now all Rome had been in a ferment, the air filled with talk of nothing but chariots, teams, noted drivers, and the prospects of victory. Blood had been spilled in ugly battles between rival factions as wagers had risen and tempers grown short. Now, like the roar of distant surf, voices rose from the great amphitheater, the seats crammed with all who could beg, buy, or steal a ticket.

The ivory tokens Aquilia had obtained gained us en­trance. The attendant smiled when he recognized me.

“Atilus! This is a pleasure. The last time you fought you won me a score of denarii.”

“You should have sold your wife and backed me with what she would fetch.”

“Sold her? I couldn’t give her away.” He frowned as he looked at the tokens. “These are in a bad position, Atilus. You won’t get much of a view.”

“Can you do better?” I slipped coins into his hand. “Something close to the finishing line and not too far from the podium?”

In Rome gold would buy anything, and we both were wise in the way things were done.

Settled, program in hand, I studied it as Aquilia made herself comfortable at my side. The races were numbered and each consisted of four teams, one from each stable. Each chariot was pulled by four horses harnessed abreast. Their names and colors were listed on the program to­gether with details of their charioteers and the position from which they would start.

We’d arrived late and the first two races were over. Slaves were busy clearing away the debris of the last, among it a dead horse and the torn body of a man. The horse had a broken neck; the man, trapped by the reins that he’d wound around his waist, had been dragged from his chariot and trampled beneath the hoofs of a following team. A common occurrence, especially when, at the end of a race, each team strove to take the lead.

With nothing happening at the moment, there was time to look around.

The attendant had found us good seats close to the fin­ishing line, on the second tier above the podium. We had a clear view of the stalls and were high enough to see a little beyond the Spine, which ran down the center of the amphi­theater. It was built of stone and supported small altars and images of the gods. At each end was a column surmounted by a crosspiece. On one was set seven marble eggs, on the other an equal number of carved dolphins. One of each was taken down at the completion of every lap. A race was about four miles.

“Atilus! Look!” Aquilia dug her elbow into my side, her finger pointing to an entry on the program. “See?”

The fifth race and a name: Lucius Domitius Aheno­bar­bus. Nero’s name.

“It must be a mistake.”

“No.” Her eyes told me she had secret knowledge. “It’s no mistake.”

“A joke then.” I still found it hard to believe. Nero was an artist dedicated to the Muses, not a sweating charioteer. “A joke,” I repeated. “A name used to cover another’s identity. The Emperor would never take part in a race.”

“But if you’re wrong, Atilus?”

A chance to make some easy money. If Nero was racing, it was certain he’d be allowed to win. I rose and went in search of someone to take my wager. I didn’t have to look far.

“A bet, Atilus? Certainly.” Silannus Regulus produced his tablets. “On which race and for how much?”

“The third. Green for five gold pieces.”

“Taken! And?”

“The fourth. Red for ten.” As he made the notation I added casually, “And the fifth. Green for fifty.”

Lowering his stylus, the man slowly shook his head. “No bets on the fifth, Atilus.”

“Why not?”

“The omens are bad,” he said blandly. “Last night a dead man came to me in a dream and held up five fingers, at the same time shaking his head. And this morning I tripped on the fifth stair. A man must pay attention to such omens.”

“I don’t believe in them.”

“No?” He shrugged. “Well, I do, so no bets on the fifth.”

Not with him and not with anyone in his trade. To try would be a waste of time, and the next race was about to begin.

“They’re off!” Aquilia rose in her seat as the chariots raced from their stalls. “They’re off!”

The cry was taken up and repeated by others until the air shook with the roar.

Tense in their flimsy vehicles, the charioteers made no acknowledgment to the crowd. Dressed in swaths of leather, hard round hats on their heads, their hands gripping the reins wrapped around their waists, they had thought only for their teams. Eyes wide, mouths open, the horses pounded over the sand. Trained beasts each worth the price of a hundred slaves.

The first curve was reached and taken without incident; one of the symbols resting on the crosspiece was taken down as they passed. Completing the lap, they came into sight again with Red in the lead, Green close behind, Blue and White at the rear racing wheel against wheel, swinging wide, and hoping to race ahead and cut in front of the others.

White, on the outside, saw his chance and took it. His inside wheel slipped behind the outer wheel of Blue and, as he swung out away from the Spine, the metal rim ripped into wood and tore the wheel from its axle. Immediately the Blue chariot toppled, shattering into splinters, the driver snatching his knife and cutting the reins. He was fast and lucky. As his team raced on, dragging the ruined char­iot behind it, he rolled free and ran to the safety of the stands.

At the fourth lap the others were running nose to tail, Red in the lead, Green in the middle. For two more laps they held that position and then, as they entered the last lap, White made his attempt. Again he tried to catch a wheel but Green was too clever for him. The chariot swung wide, bumped against the inside horse of the White, and broke its stride. It took the next-to-last turn and vanished beyond the central barrier.

Close to me a woman screamed, “Win, Orestes! Win and I’m yours!”

Orestes, the driver of the Green chariot, would be show­ered with similar offers if he managed to snatch victory.

Incredibly he did.

I heard the roar of the crowd, the screaming of women and men as, swinging out, he urged on his team. A burst of speed, expertly timed and maneuvered, sent him racing down the finishing stretch well in the lead.

“We’ve won, Atilus! We’ve won!”

Aquilia was on her feet, her face flushed, her eyes spar­kling, every muscle in her body tense with excitement. An emotion reflected all around and one that would intensify as the day progressed. Worked into a mania, spectators would shriek and tear at their clothes, fondle each other, make ridiculous wagers, and even claw at their own skin.

From a vendor I bought wine and handed it to my com­panion. Sipping it, she calmed and resumed her seat.

“Aren’t you going to collect our winnings?”

“They can wait. I know Silannus. He won’t run away.”

“What have we on the next race? Ten on Red?” She frowned at the program. “Diocoles, a good driver, but he starts from a bad stall. I’d back White.”

“Even odds?”

“Yes. A hundred gold pieces. Taken?”

“Taken.”

She had judged well. White made a good start, gained the inside, and held the lead for three laps. On the fourth, Red, taking a chance, forced the White chariot close to the three cones set at the foot of each end of the Spine in order to protect the stone. White, misjudging, veered too close and the inside wheel hit and lifted. In a flash, his chariot had overturned.

“Clocchis!” The crowd yelled the driver’s name. “Cloc­chis!”

He couldn’t hear them. Trapped by the reins, he was dragged after the horses, the overturned chariot slewing to­ward him, wood splintering, bright metal fittings strewn over the sand. I saw his hand snatch at his knife, the gleam of sunlight from the blade, and then it was over.

Diocoles, unable to avoid the wreckage, drove straight at it, hoping that the speed and skill of his team would pull him through. He almost made it, then the offside horse trod on Clocchis, stumbled, and pulled the other horses after him.

At once the sand was a mass of kicking, screaming beasts, smashed chariots. A red stain of blood stretched out behind the body of Clocchis as, crushed to a pulp, he was dragged over the sand. Diocoles, favored by the gods, had managed to cut his reins and lay against the stone as the other chariots thundered past.

As slaves rushed to clear away the wreckage, Aquilia slumped back into her seat.

“I’ve lost,” she said. “Curse the luck. Atilus, you’re the richer by a hundred gold pieces.”

And the poorer by the ten I’d backed on Diocoles, but still the day showed a good profit. As the race ended I bought more wine.

In the tier before me a knight spoke thoughtfully to his companion as he studied his tablets.

“A private wager, Mercallus? On the second team in the next race to pass the finishing line. I’ve fifty pieces which says Ferdo will be the one.”

“The Blue charioteer?”

“Yes. Is it a bet?”

Mercallus grunted, studying his program. Out of curios­ity, I did the same.

Ferdo’s inner horse was a Centenarius, one that had won over a hundred races, and would wear a specially adorned harness. The driver himself had a good reputation and was a favorite of the Blue faction, but his team consisted of Sicilian horses which, though fast, were unreliable. The ne­cessity of slowing them to allow Nero to win would unsettle them—a fact which the knight had overlooked.

Leaning forward, I touched him on the shoulder.

“My pardon, but I overheard your conversation. If you would be interested in extending your wager, I would be grateful to be accommodated.”

He was younger than I had thought, with a sharply de­lineated face and deep-set eyes of pale blue. They widened as, turning, he saw me.

“Atilus! This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

“A holiday.”

“One which I hope will soon be over. You fight all too rarely these days. We miss you. It isn’t kind of you to deny your supporters the spectacle of your skill.” His eyes moved to the woman at my side. “Hello, Aquilia. I was telling Atilus that he is needed on the sand. Good sword-work is rare and a man shouldn’t neglect his skills.”

“I agree, Drusillius.” Her hand closed with warm inti­macy on my thigh. “Perhaps, if the offer was large enough, he would be interested.”

“In a private display?” His eyes clouded with thought. “Perhaps it could be arranged. But, in the meantime, the bet. How much did you have in mind, Atilus?”

“A hundred pieces.”

“That Blue will not come second.” He made a note on his tablets. “And you, Mercallus?”

As he turned away Aquilia whispered. “A fortunate meeting, Atilus. Drusillius Augustus has wealth and influ­ence. With him behind you, you could go far.”

As far as my sword would take me. Drusillius was one of those who was more interested in a display of skill than the butchery the crowd demanded. Such skill was best appre­ciated at close hand, and that was the reason he’d men­tioned a private bout. The spectators would be rich and, with such patrons, a successful gladiator could live like a prince. For as long as he could hold his own.

There was no mercy for the fallen and I was aware of it. The rooms beneath the amphitheaters were full of remind­ers: broken-down fighters who had been lucky to escape with their lives, victors too badly maimed ever to fight again, freedmen who had lost their nerve and had quit while they still had the chance. Cripples, men with missing limbs and empty sockets where once there had been eyes, those with faces pounded into nightmare masks, some who dragged themselves over the ground with calloused hands, their bodies useless below the waist. Victims never men­tioned by those who lauded the games.

The trumpets sounded and the fifth race began.