appetizer for the main event. After all, the mob is going to want to see real blood at some point. We will play every arena in Rome, and when everyone in the city has seen us, we'll go on tour. I can just see it — '
'I'm not going out there again.'
Fronto gaped. 'But the crowds, the money, the… But…' He stuttered to a halt.
Rufus turned to Cupido. 'I can't go out there again.'
Cupido nodded gently. He, of all men, understood what Rufus was saying. For some, the cheers of the crowd were a drug. The waves of acclaim that flowed down from the stands mesmerized them, and when they strutted from the arena they lived only for their next performance, even though they knew it might be their last. But for others, the wall of sound chilled the blood and shattered the nerves. If these men were gladiators they died, reactions slowed by the same power that gave others incredible speed. If, like Rufus, they were given a choice, they never returned. He had used every ounce of his courage to perform before the mob. He had nothing left to give them.
Rufus turned to Fronto, who still stood with his mouth open. 'I won't go back,' he repeated. 'But I can train men who will.'
'What?' The word came out as a strangled croak and Fronto grasped dramatically at his chest. 'Are you trying to kill me, boy?'
'I'll train our animals to work with athletes and clowns who know how to please a crowd better than I ever could. And you're right, we should go on tour. When the Romans think they have seen everything we have to offer we will come back with a bigger and better performance. We can use other animals, other combinations. We cannot fail.'
Tears ran down Fronto's cheeks into his beard. He hugged Rufus to his chest. 'You are like a son to me. I always knew I could put my faith in you. Come, we will discuss this further over some wine.'
They walked away, leaving Cupido in the darkness. What might have been a smile touched his lips.
Rufus was proved right. Their initial celebrity proved a powerful attraction and entertainers flocked to the menagerie asking for work. Rufus trained man and beast hard and anyone who did not make the grade was quickly weeded out. The lions were soon joined in the arena by the other big cats, even bears, but it was the rhinoceros that always drew most cheers. Only the bravest would take to her broad back to escape the teeth and claws of the hunters.
They were successful, but their fame never matched that of Cupido, whose reputation grew with every kill he made. And he made many, particularly in the great games held in memory of the Emperor Tiberius, who died that year, the twenty-third of his reign. The games were sponsored by his joint heirs, his great-nephew Gaius and his grandson and namesake Tiberius Gemellus.
VIII
Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus studied the view from the great pillared window overlooking the house of the Vestals. He wondered idly what they did in there apart from keeping the flame. It might be interesting to find out. His eyes moved over the arched frontage of the venerable Basilica Aemilia, the walls of the forum of Augustus and the octagonal dome of the temple of Mars, and onward over the villas and mansions to the terracotta plain of pitched roofs that disguised the slums and cesspits of Subura the way a blanket covered the sores on a leper's legs. How many years was it since Romulus founded this city? He should know, but the date escaped him. Now it was all his. Or almost.
He turned to face the other man in the room. 'Well put, Tiberius; you have the wisdom of your grandfather. We must concentrate on the domestic issues that plague our people before we embark on the great building projects I have planned. The arch to my mother's memory can wait until we have constructed the new aqueduct system we discussed.'
He smiled at his cousin. Tiberius Julius Caesar Nero Gemellus really was a fine-looking young man. Intelligent too, and one of the most eloquent orators to grace the floor of the Senate. They had been friends since his great- uncle, Gemellus's grandfather, the Emperor Tiberius, took them both to his palace at Capri; they played together, fought together and swam together, were taught the skills of oratory and debate together and had been beaten together when they failed to convince. It was the Emperor's genius that he divined the separate talents which, in his joint heirs, would complement each other to create a Rome greater than ever before. They had learned how to govern.
How well it had worked. In six months, they had achieved more than the old Emperor had in the last ten years of his reign. And the power. Gaius had always known power, but this was different. The power to do anything. The power to sweep aside the mundane and the ordinary. The power over life and death. So much power he could feel it surging through his veins like an elixir, freeing his mind and filling it full of plans and schemes and ideas.
The brilliance of it all made him smile again.
His cousin smiled back.
A pity he had to die.
In the late spring of the following year Rufus took the troupe on a tour of the south, performing in a series of rude stadiums, before even ruder crowds. But Fronto sent him word of Cupido's progress and successes.
Rufus was pleased to receive the letters, but their contents, though they spoke of victories won, blood spilled and survival against great odds, gave him little pleasure. He remembered the day he had berated his friend for not appreciating his talent, and the mental scars he had exposed.
As the tour progressed there was a worrying trend to the notes. The victories continued, but Fronto, in his guarded way, hinted at hurdles placed before the crowd's favourite. Of displeasure in high places and of danger not only within the arena.
Fronto travelled south at the beginning of July to join Rufus in the thriving city of Pompeii, a prosperous harbour on the Bay of Neapolis. Pompeii lay in the shadow of a large mountain carpeted with vines and olive trees, and had a fine amphitheatre. Rufus had been surprised to discover its citizens were almost as cultured as those of Rome. The wealthiest Pompeiians owned elaborate villas overlooking the city from the lower slopes of the mountain, but Rufus was lodged in a former hospitium the city authorities used to billet visiting entertainers. Naturally, Fronto was too grand to stay in such humble surroundings and took himself off to the home of his cousin, Marcus Lucretius Fronto, a compact but rather fine house which fronted a wide alley off one of the main streets.
A house slave led Rufus through wide double doors into the atrium. It was a small, bright area, which opened directly on to the tablinum, and he could not take his eyes off the exquisite paintings that covered the walls of the room.
In one, a bronzed god in a toga of the most brilliant azure blue, wearing a golden helmet crested with eagle feathers, stood over a beautiful dark-haired goddess in a dress of shimmering turquoise. Rufus thought it must be a wedding scene, for the pair were surrounded by attendants in equally elaborate costumes. He was still gawking from the atrium when Fronto swept in.
He noticed Rufus studying the painting. 'Not bad, eh? Old Lucretius does well for himself. Who would have thought a backwater like this would be such a gold mine. We could do worse than stay here for a while, don't you think?'
Rufus was surprised; the itinerary had been finalized months before. Fronto's latest letter even suggested they might cut the tour short to return to Rome and cash in on the resurgence in the games under Tiberius's heirs.
'The new sequences are almost ready. The performers are at their peak. It's time they were given the chance to show what they can do on a bigger stage. You said yourself there has never been a better time to be in the entertainment business.'
Fronto sniffed and ran his hand over his beard. 'Yes, I did say that. But things have changed in Rome.'
'What do you mean? I thought Gaius Germanicus and his cousin loved the games?'
'Oh yes, Gaius loves the games. No one loves them more. Rome is one big spectacle day and night and the mob loves him for it. It's the type of games that's the problem. The young Tiberius has disappeared, by the way.'
