Anacrites went straight in. Even Saturninus must have been startled. Anacrites plunged forwards and pushed his opponent, shield against shield. Good try. Almost an army move. Saturninus may not have expected this, but he reached around and stabbed inwards. Anacrites dragged himself sideways away from the blow but kept close, so they wheeled. Carried on by the momentum and still locked together, they continued to push each other in a wild stumbling circle while Saturninus hacked with his sword. Anacrites was already covered in Scilla's blood, but new streams of his own were flowing. I could hardly bear to watch.
Anacrites fell. He at once raised his finger, appealing for compassion. Saturninus stepped back, looking contemptuous. In the crowd I saw a few thumbs up and fluttering white handkerchiefs, though nowhere near enough. I dared not look at Rutilius. Saturninus took his own decision; in the time-honored move, he bent to hoick up his opponent's helmet by the chin, exposing his throat. He was about to give Anacrites the death blow.
Suddenly Saturninus reeled back. His sword fell to the sand. He had recoiled from Anacrites and was bent forwards, clutching his stomach. Blood welled between his fingers. I could not see the weapon, but I recognized his action-familiar to anyone who has seen a tavern brawl. He had been stabbed in the bowels with a knife.
Anacrites was the Chief Spy. No one should have expected a clean fight.
Saturninus made a desperate effort. He stumbled forwards, caught up his sword again, then fell onto Anacrites. The sword seemed to go in somewhere, but the knife found another target too. They both lay still.
There was uproar again, but even the crowd had seen enough by now. Justinus and I walked out to the corpses as steadily as we could. We pulled them apart. There was no sign of life. I found the knife Anacrites had used and managed to slide it up my sleeve unseen. We made a show of performing a formal inspection, then I tapped both bodies briskly with the mallet and signaled for bearers. Saturninus was afforded the honor of a stretcher. "Romanus," as a stranger, was towed from the ring faceup and feetfirst, with the back of his helmet dragging on the bloody sand. The only way he could have left was as a corpse. Had he survived the fight, the outraged crowd would have torn him apart.
Sixty-four
AFTER THE NECESSARY salutes to the president, I set off for the great doorway, with Justinus close behind me. The hubbub continued in the arena as we walked outside.
We surveyed the grim row of bloody bodies. I pushed up the beaked mask I wore, feeling as if my legs would give way.
Justinus looked at me somberly. "Your partnerships seem to get wound up rather roughly."
"He brought it on himself. Always consult your colleague-who will dissuade you from sheer stupidity."
I forced myself to walk over to the line of carcasses. Groaning at the effort, I knelt down. More gently than he would have expected, I released the helmet from Anacrites and laid it to one side. His face was as white as the time I found him with a smashed head, as close to dying as anybody could have been and yet survive.
"I shall have to tell my mother about this. We'd better make sure he's really gone this time. Hermes-" Justinus stepped forwards with the snaky staff. "Right: give him a quick shove somewhere with your hot caduceus."
A pair of pale gray eyes opened, very wide. As Justinus knelt down to touch the "corpse," a resounding yell of terror rose to the Tripolitanian skies.
I smiled to myself resignedly. Anacrites was still alive.
Lindsey Davis
