"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 worked on the construction of the great building and later had been killed there in the inauguration ceremonies.
The guards at the door slid back the heavy bolts, eagerly asking him for tips on the regular gladiatorial contests coming up late that afternoon. Carpophorus knew little about the / gladiators, but he told them to back Negrimus against Priedens, and entered the dark room. At this level, the only air vents led to the floor above instead of to the outside and there was no light except that cast by a single torch in a wall bracket. The people were singing some sort of chant in a foreign language and Carpophorus looked them over. Mostly women, children and old men with long beards. Nearly all the young men must have been killed in the fighting. That suited Carpophorus' plans perfectly.
The crowd paid no attention to him and he had to shout to stop their singing. Finally the hymn ceased and Carpophorus called, "Do any of you speak Latin ?"
No one answered so Carpophorus tried again in Greek.
An old man answered in the same tongue. "I speak Greek but in spite of that, I want it clearly understood that I am not a Sadducee nor do I have any sympathy with those of my people who learn other tongues and other ways."
"Sure, sure," said Carpophorus impatiently. "Now I have a proposition to make. We're using a bunch of raw lions and they won't attack unless you do exactly what I tell you to do. Now wait a minute," he went on, holding up his hand. "Even if the lions don't attack, it only means we'll have to use bears or wild dogs and they'll kill you much more slowly than the lions will. Here's my proposition. You have a lot of kids here. Only the kids who are sick or crippled and will die anyhow have to go into the arena with you. I'll use my influence with the Master of the Games to get the rest sold as slaves. I swear it by my gods."
"I am sure that we would all prefer to die together," said the old rabbi with dignity. "Nevertheless, I will repeat your offer."
He repeated it while Carpophorus waited impatiently. The lack of oxygen in the room was making him dizzy and the stink was sickening. There were no toilet facilities and the crowd of victims had been kept there over a week. No wonder, Carpophorus reflected, that prisoners often dashed out into the arena as eagerly as though they were being given their freedom. Any fate was better than being cooped up here, and even a few minutes' chance to get fresh air before the wild beasts attacked was a luxury. He also understood why these holocausts were generally given on the first day of the games. The prisoners had to be got out of these cells as fast as possible before they all died.
When the rabbi had repeated the message, there was a wild outcry from the women. They screamed, clung to their children, and rocked back and forth in an ecstacy of grief. Many of the men sank down and buried their faces in their hands, openly weeping. Carpophorus regarded this exhibition of emotion with disgust; as a Roman, he had been trained to conceal his feelings. He wondered how the old rabbi could make any sense out of the confusion for everyone seemed to be talking to him at once, waving their hands, tearing their rags of clothing and holding out their palms to him as though expecting help. The rabbi listened calmly to the outburst, occasionally asking a question and shaking his head. Finally he turned to Carpophorus.
"I still think it would be far better if we all died together, but the women are weak and will accept your offer. What is that you want us to do?"