Behind him there was a loud gurgling and rumbling, like the noises that issued from the drains of the Cloaca Maxima as it heaved and groaned under the weight of a heavy storm flow; like an archway about to collapse after a tremor; like a man’s digestive system trying to cope with enough poison to kill a hundred vermin.
All conversation stopped and Melicos found that he had halted mid-stride.
The emperor’s voice was shaky and a little high.
“Oh dear. I think I shat myself.”
Aftermath in the Ludus
Tarentius sat up slowly.
It was still dark and he was hungry. So hungry. When was the last time he ate? Must have been before the last bout. The lanista had given them all a good solid meal of pork, bread and vegetables to help build both strength and courage for the fight. And the fight finished hours and hours ago. Sometime in the early afternoon. It must have been half a day ago; no wonder he was so ravenous.
Throwing off his scant cloth cover, he climbed off the pallet and stumbled in the darkness. He knew the layout of the ludus intimately and could easily find his way to the kitchens with his eyes shut. This late into the night, all the others would be asleep in their cots and the only lights burning would be the torches and lamps in the lanista’s apartments and office. Perhaps in the kitchens too if it was more ‘early’ than late, the slaves preparing the gladiators’ morning meal.
Shuffling with a tired gait out into the hall, he could hear the rumbling snored of Braxus the Thracian, a sound like a collapsing insula. Beyond was the familiar wheezing, whistling snore of Paris and then the strange whimpering, dog-like night noises of the two young Numidians retiarii. Even with bad direction sense, and old hand here could navigate just by the sounds.
He must have been absolutely exhausted after that last bout, to have fallen asleep early and missed the evening meal. He couldn’t remember falling asleep or being shouted, but then the bastards who ran the place would hardly fall over themselves to make sure he got his meal. Even with five successful fights under his belt, he was still a slave, and any meal they didn’t have to cook was money saved.
Tarentius growled as he pondered on the unfairness of the situation. One day he might emulate Spartacus and give the lanista a taste of his own lash.
After supper, though.
Grinning, he saw the flickering torchlight from the kitchen doorway as he turned the corner. Someone was busy doing food for the morning. He wondered if they had something tasty to spare?
Rounding the corner, Tarentius entered the kitchen, fixing his gaze on the young Gaulish cook and licked his desiccated, shredded lips.
“Mmmm… braaaaaiiiinssssss….”
The cook fainted.
The Palmyrene Prince
Vaballathus, son of Odaenathus and Zenobia, crown prince of the Empire of Palymra, sat impatiently on the small, highly-decorated silk stool. His four guards stood by the outer door to the chamber, armoured but denied the right to wear their weapons within the palace. It galled him, as a member of one of the most noble royal houses in the world and heir to the throne of an ancient land, to be kept waiting in the entrance chamber by a fellow independent ruler.
He sighed and rubbed his knees. The ride from Palmyra, better part of four hundred miles to the west, had been a swift, desperate and uncomfortable one, with fewer in the entourage than he would have liked, but time was of the essence and the Palmyrene army had few enough men to spare at this point.
Standing, he strode along the walls of the great guest chamber, decorated with silk and gold, murals depicting Kings of Persia from the days of antiquity; faces long forgotten stared back at him from under glittering crowns and ruffled their huge beards grandiosely.
He ground his teeth.
“Erabas? What did the lackey say when you spoke to him?”
“Sire, he said he would consult with his master and find us upon his return.”
“Who does he think I am?” snarled the young prince, kicking the elaborate stool’s leg and chipping the beautiful carving.
Erabas swallowed nervously and steeled himself.
“Respectfully, your magnificence, your mother, may she bathe in the light and magnificence of a thousand suns, did make it clear that we were to be as polite as possible. Much rides on our success.”
Vaballathus’ head snapped round angrily. No one spoke like that to the son of the great Zenobia; yet the man was right. For all his insolence, they must maintain perspective on why they were here. Palmyra was not the power it had been when they freed themselves from Rome over a decade ago. Back then, the foolish Romans had neither the wit nor the power to prevent their cessation; now, with that strict and clever bastard Aurelian in the purple, they had all but brought Palmyra to its knees again. Hammered by the legions at Immae and Emesa, the shattered remains of the Palmyrene army had drawn itself protectively around the capital, preparing to fight to the last, for that was all that was left to them.
Unless Vaballathus could persuade the Persian King to send them more men; to support their ongoing resistance to Rome.
He ground his teeth again and snarled at the guard.
“Be grateful that we are here and not at home in a time to peace. The next time you presume to dictate to me I will have you flayed and then boiled.”
“Yes, your magnificence. A thousand apologies.”
It was an empty threat, of course. There was a very real possibility that when they returned to Palmyra they would find Aurelian sitting on the throne in his mother’s palace, heating up the oil for Vaballathus and his family.
He wandered impatiently around the walls. Prizes from a hundred campaigns filled this great chamber, placed here deliberately in the waiting room to impress and intimidate visitors. Roman standards were bolted to the wall in their dozens. No eagles, but many others, including a prized image of a long-gone emperor. There were jewelled weapons and silks and more from the peoples of the Indus to the east and a few furs, all that was worth taking from the nomad riders in the north. But Roman prizes were many.
His eyes settled once again on the most impressive and by far most grizzly of all prizes and he wandered over to examine it.
The body stood as though to attention on a wooden plinth, a post rising up from the base and entering the backside, rising to the head and forming a replacement for the man’s spine. Lifeless empty hollows stared out from beneath once-noble brows. Either the man had had bulky jowls, or the head had settled a little over time.
Valerian, once Emperor of Rome, had little to say these days. Having been taken in battle by the Persian King Sapor, he had served as Sapor’s footstool and mounting block for the next fifteen years until finally old age had rendered him incapable of performing menial tasks. When his bones grew too old, his muscles seized and his joints froze, Sapor had had him cut into pieces, emptied, preserved in the manner of the ancient Aegyptian Kings, and then stuffed and mounted as a palace decoration.
The Emperor Publius Licinius Valerianus Augustus stared desperately at Vaballathus with empty eyes, his jaw sagging. The decoration clearly needed re-stuffing before it sagged too much.
Vaballathus stepped back, his eyes taking in not only the ghastly emperor, but the many Roman standards, officer’s helms, flags and cuirasses. He smiled for the first time since their arrival three tedious hours ago. Sapor would have helped Palymra fight the Romans off. He would have made Aurelian eat his own lips. Sapor was a King to be reckoned with.
But Sapor had died almost two years ago, his renowned son following soon after. This new Persian King was an unknown quantity.
Oh, Bahram had sent troops initially to help his mother hold the Romans off, but they had been too few; too small a gesture, and the Persian contingent had been slain at Emesa with the rest of the Queen’s army. But he could yet do so much more. It was said that Bahram modelled himself on the great Sapor; that he wanted to be Persia’s next great ruler. Clearly there was only one solution: Bahram would have to send an army to save Palmyra. The Queen would repay him with riches beyond belief, and the Persians would acquire wealth and glory both. Aurelian’s body would soon stand next to Valerian’s… unless Bahram was kind and let them keep it in Palmyra as a prize.