sand.
The remaining Thracian suddenly bolted and began to run from his opponent. The crowd laughed and jeered. The Gaul chased after him, but the Thracian outdistanced him, refusing to fight. There was a commotion in the stands, then a dozen or more attendants entered the ring, some carrying whips and others wielding long, smouldering irons, so hot that I could see the glow at their tips and the little plumes of smoke that trailed after them. They poked at the Thracian, searing his arms and legs, making him jerk and clutch himself with pain. They lashed him with the whips, driving him back toward his opponent.
Olympias gripped Alexandros's bare arm, sinking her nails into the flesh. 'This was a mistake!' she hissed. 'These people are mad, all of them. There's nothing we can do!'
Alexandros wavered. He stared down at the sickening spectacle, his jaw clenched. He gripped the reins so tightly that his arms began to tremble.
In the arena the Thracian finally began to fight again, running towards the Gaul with a high, mad scream that rose above the murmur of the crowd. The Gaul was taken unawares and retreated, tripping over his own feet and falling on his backside. He recovered enough to protect himself with his shield, but the Thracian was relentless, banging his shield against the other's and stabbing again and again with his curved blade. The Gaul was wounded; he threw his blade aside and frantically waved his forefinger in the air, signalling for mercy.
Handkerchiefs and clenched fists filled the air, together with a thunderous roar. At last the fists began to outnumber the handkerchiefs, and the crowd began to stamp and chant: 'Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!'
Instead, the Thracian threw down his dagger and shield. The attendants came after him again with their whips and irons, lashing and poking him from all directions, compelling him to perform a hideous, spastic dance. At last he picked up his dagger. They drove him back toward the Gaul, who was already covered with blood from the wounds on his arms. The Gaul rolled onto his stomach and pressed his hands to his visor, steeling himself. The Thracian dropped to his knees and drove the dagger into the Gaul's back again and again in time with the chanting of the crowd: 'Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!'
The Thracian stood and held his bloody dagger aloft. He began to perform a strange parody of a victory strut, lifting his knees comically and rolling his head on his shoulders, mocking the crowd. A great chorus of hissing, catcalls, booing, and raucous laughter echoed up from the arena; within the walls the noise must have been deafening. The attendants came after the Thracian with their whips and pokers, but he seemed not to feel the pain and only grudgingly allowed them to drive him toward the exit and out of sight.
'Do you need to see more, Alexandros?' whispered Olympias hoarsely. 'These people will tear you apart before you can utter a word! Crassus is giving them exactly what they want — there is nothing you can do, nothing Gordianus or anyone can do, to stop it. Come back with me to Cumae!'
I saw the fear in his eyes. I cursed my own vanity. Why drag him before Crassus, when it could only result in another needless death? What sort of fool was I, to imagine that the proof of his own guilt could humble Marcus Crassus, or that mere truth could sway him from giving the crowd the bloody entertainment they craved? I was ready to send Alexandros and Olympias fleeing back to the sea cave when the trumpets began to blare from the arena below.
A gate beneath the stands opened. The slaves trudged into the arena. In their hands they carried objects made of wood.
'What is it?' I said, squinting. 'What is it they carry in their hands?'
'Little swords,' Alexandros whispered. 'Short wooden swords, such as gladiators use to practise. Training swords. Toys.'
The crowd was quiet. There were no boos or hissing. They watched with hushed curiosity, wondering why such a sorry rabble was being paraded before them and curious to see what sort of spectacle Crassus had devised.
Gathered outside the eastern rim of the arena, where the crowd could not yet see them, a contingent of soldiers had gathered. Their armour glinted in the sun. Among them I saw trumpeters and standard bearers. They began to gather into ranks, preparing for an entrance into the arena. I suddenly understood and felt sick at heart.
'Little Meto,' I whispered. 'Little Meto, with only a toy sword to defend himself…'
My eyes met those of Alexandros. 'We're too late,' I said. 'To take the path to the road, and the road down into the valley — ' I shook my head. 'It will take too long.'
He bit his lip. 'Straight down the slope, then?'
'Too steep,' protested Olympias. 'The horses will stumble and break their necks!' But Alexandros and I were already ready bounding over the edge and racing down the steep hillside, with Eco a heartbeat behind.
I held on for dear life. Once we were over the crest, my mount locked her forelegs and slid down the slope, her shoulders as rigid as stone while her hind legs kicked and stamped against the furrowed earth. She shook her head and whinnied, like a warrior screaming to his gods to steel himself for battle.
The desperate descent uprooted bushes and set off avalanches of pebbles and sand. Suddenly a half-buried boulder loomed directly below me. For an instant I saw the features of Pluto himself in its weathered face, grinning at me horribly; we would collide with the stone and be shattered to bits. Closer and closer we came to it, and then my mount gave a great leap and bounded over it.
She landed with a jolt that nearly snapped my neck. There was no more sliding with locked forelegs; she had no choice but to gallop full speed down the steep face of the hill. I fell forward, clutched her neck, and dug my heels into her hide. Sky became wind; the earth became a cloud of dirt. The whole world was a ball rumbling through space. All balance was gone. I shut my eyes, clutched the beast as tightly as I could, and sucked in the odour of torn earth, horse sweat, and blind panic.
Suddenly the plummet became a gradual curve. Little by little the earth became flat again. We raced with the accumulated speed of the descent, but no longer out of control. The world righted itself; sky was sky and earth was earth. I squinted into the wind and slowly asserted control, reining the beast in. I half expected her to throw me out of anger and distrust, but she seemed glad for the reassurance of my hands on the reins. She shook her head and whinnied again, and it sounded as if she were laughing. She submitted and slowed to a trot, flinging spumes of sweat from her mane.
Alexandros was far ahead of me. I turned and caught a glimpse of Eco close behind. I sped onward toward the arena.
We raced between the tents. Soldiers in tunics satin circles gambling, or played trigon stripped to the waist, enjoying their holiday. They scattered before us and shook their fists in alarm. We raced past the spits and ovens with their plumes of white smoke, kicking dust into the flames. The cooks chased after us, screaming curses.
Alexandros waited for me outside the arena, his face confused and uncertain. I pointed to the north, where I had seen the red canopy and the pennants that decorated Crassus's private box. We set off at a gallop. Eco had fallen far behind. I waved to him to follow us.
The periphery of the arena was mostly deserted, except for a few patrons who had left the stands to relieve themselves against the wooden wall. Entrances opened onto steps that led upward to the seats, but I gestured to Alexandros that we should ride on until we found the steps that would take us directly to Crassus's box.
At the northernmost end of the circle we came to an opening smaller than the others and flanked by red pennants that bore in gold the seal of Crassus. Alexandros reined his beast and looked at me quizzically. I nodded. He leaped from his horse. I rode a few paces farther and peered as best I could around the edge of the arena; outside the eastern rim the soldiers were still forming ranks and had not yet entered.
I rode back to Alexandros. Above us, on the rim of the arena, a movement caught my eye. I looked up but saw only a face that quickly disappeared.
I dismounted, and almost fell to my knees. In the mad descent down the hill and the race through the camp I had felt no pain or dizziness, but as soon as my feet touched the earth my knees went weak and the throbbing returned to my temples. I staggered and steadied myself against my hone. Alexandros, already bounding up the steps, turned and ran back to me. I reached up to my forehead, touched the bandage, and felt a spot of warm wetness. I pulled my hand away and saw something red and viscous on my fingers. I was bleeding again.
From somewhere behind me, between the pounding drumbeats in my head, I thought I heard a boy calling, 'Papa! Papa!'
Alexandros clutched my arm. 'Are you all right?'
'Just a little dizzy. A little nauseous…'
