Those About to Die

trained eye, he also saw that it was not nearly as dangerous as it seemed to the crowd. Although he had never seen crocodile wrestling, he knew that it had been exhibited in the Roman arena at the time of Augustus—in the Bestiarii School the teacher had read accounts of the feat from Pliny and Strabo. He watched attentively while three more of the Egyptian's team wrestled crocs after they had first been caught in the nets, each time to tremendous applause. When the Egyptians finally withdrew and the gladiators marched in, led by a band, Carpophorus made a point of meeting the Egyptian in the dressing room and standing him a cup of cooled wine.

The Egyptian was more affable than Carpophorus had feared he might be. Generally, a performer didn't care to discuss the technique of his routine; there was too much danger some ambitious rival would steal it. But this man was obviously flattered that a Roman—and although only a free­man, Carpophorus was a Roman— would deign to praise his act. After a couple of mugs of strong wine, the Egyptian relaxed.

'Well, it's a good act, a good act,' he said modestly. 'I'm from Tentyra—that's on the Nile in southern Egypt—and the traditional business in our village has always been hunting crocs for their skins.' Carpophorus nodded. Nearly every small town had some traditional profession and crocodile skins brought a good price as leather. 'Some of the young men used to wrestle eight and nine-foot crocs for fun. It's not as dangerous as it looks if you watch out for the tail and jaws. Crocs are pretty sluggish, you know, not like trying to tackle a leopard or a lioness as you do.'

'Every man to his own. I'd hate to tackle a twenty-foot croc,' said Carpophorus, filling his friend's cup again and already making plans to add crocodile wrestling to his reper­toire.

'It takes practice, but with enough leverage you can turn one over on his back just as you would a man. Not one twenty feet long. That would weigh over a ton, and besides they don't come that big often. That one you saw me wrestle was fifteen feet long, and let me tell you, that's plenty of croc!'

'I could have sworn he was bigger,' said Carpophorus flatteringly. 'What was the magic charm you used to keep him on his back?'

'Oh, that was business for the crowd. They think we Egyptians are full of magic. Any croc will lie still if you turn him over on his back like that. I don't know why it is; they just da'

'But think of the strength it took to hold his mouth closed,' Carpophorus exclaimed admiringly.

'Nothing to it. A croc's jaw power comes when he closes his jaws. They've got tremendous power there. But any good men can hold the jaws shut'

'Well, well, you certainly know your business,' said Carpo­phorus. Privately, he was thinking, what a fool the man was to give away this information. At the next games, Carpophorus would put on his own exhibition of crocodile wrestling.

'The big problem is getting them tame,' the Egyptian went on, holding out his cup for more wine. 'Some of the sacred crocs get very tame. The priests can call them out of the water and feed them by hand. If a croc isn't tame, he won't eat in captivity, and also they're too nervous to attack swim­ming humans unless they see others start doing it'

'We have the same trouble with lions ' Carpophorus told him. 'You have to put a ^‘make-lion' who's a real man-eater in with a new bunch. Once they see the make-lion start killing, the others will join him.'

'I had an idea that was the way you worked it. There's a big tame croc on a great lake in the heart of Africa. He is nearly twenty-five feet long and must weigh as much as an elephant. The natives use him as a combined judge and execu­tioner. A suspected criminal is led to the lake shore and the priests call the croc by beating on drums. The croc knows what the drums mean and comes swimming across the lake and crawls up the bank. Then the victim is pushed toward him with long poles. If the croc eats the man, he's con­sidered guilty. If for some reason the croc won't bother with him, he's set free. That croc's so old and feeble now that a native has to help him climb the bank by carrying his tail like a train. I'd love to get my hands on that animal. What a sensation he'd make in Rome!'

'Just how do you go about getting them tame in the first place?' asked Carpophorus casually, refilling the empty cup.

'That, dear friend, is my little secret,' said the Egyptian calmly as he drained the cup and rose. 'I've got to see how those four crocs are getting along that we saved. Those are our tame stock; we don't let them get killed. Thanks for the wine. Don't get drunk and start giving away secrets.'

Black-bellied bastard, thought Carpophorus to himself as he watched the Egyptian's retreating back. Who does he think wants to steal his lousy act anyhow? That's the trouble with those Egyptians, always suspicious. I hope that damned croc of his eats him next week in Verona.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was after noon now. The gladiators who had gone out after the crocodile hunt were Meridiani, second string men who fought during the middle of the day when most of the patricians had gone home for lunch and only the mob re­mained. In the stands, baskets of food were opened, flasks of wine produced, and the mob picnicked while the unfortu­nates below them fought to the death.

During this slack period, the Master of the Games stopped long enough to speak to Carpophorus. 'How are you holding up?' he asked, glancing at the mass of bloody bandages covering the venador's right side.

'I'm all right,' said Carpophorus sullenly. As an experi­enced bestiarius, he hated to think of any animal, even a tiger, getting the best of him.

The Master of the Games considered. 'Immediately after the noon period, we're going to have a holocaust of prisoners. They're to be killed by lions, but I want to save the good man-eaters until the next day. If the man-eaters are used today, they'll be gorged and won't work in the legendary pageants scheduled for tomorrow. But we don't want any hold-ups in the show. The new lions will have to attack the prisoners at once; no running around against the barrier or crouching down in the sand'

'What do you expect me to do?' snarled Carpophorus. 'Wild lions won't attack people without trained man-eaters in the arena.'

'Don't argue with me, just see that it's done,' retorted the Master of the Games coldly. 'Remember that there are five more days of these games ahead of us. Give me any more of your lip and I'll have you in there with another tiger and your hands tied behind you.' The Master of the Games strode away.

After grumbling to himself Carpophorus began to think. It was not the Master of the Games' threat that bothered him; it was his own reputation as a bestiarius who could perform miracles. For a long while he sat with his head in his hands, snarling at the slaves dragging the dead Meridiana over his feet, but refusing to move from the passageway. Then he had an idea, and rising painfully, headed for the lower pits where the prisoners were kept.

He went down ramp after ramp. Because they were easier to move and also not so valuable, the prisoners condemned to death in the arena were kept in the lowest levels while the animals were in the upper cells. Carpophorus had seldom been down here and had to ask his way constantly of the guards stationed at intervals by the torches burning in brackets on the wall. Finally he reached the level he was seeking and after a long walk and many turns arrived in front of the oaken door where the captives to die that afternoon were kept.

They were Jews, taken prisoner during one of the many spasmodic uprisings in Palestine. Carpophorus vaguely remembered some account of the business. Three villages high in the Masada hills had revolted. Why, he couldn't recall. Either they had objected to the eagles on the legionnaires' standards, calling them graven images, or they had attacked a caravan because it was owned by Sarmatians or some such thing. Anyhow, it had taken a three months' campaign to unearth them from their forts in the cliffs and men, women and children had been sent to die in the arena. The Jews were always a troublesome people, but if it wasn't for them the Colosseum might never had been built. After the fall of Jerusalem in 72 a.d., twelve thousand Jewish prisoners had