“What’s all this?” Carolyn asked.
“You won’t want to watch,” Felix warned her.
“Why? The crowd seems very excited.”
At the sound of yet another trumpet call, the gladiators marched to one side, leaving two men behind to fight each other, a murmillo and a hoplomachus. The latter looked young, maybe twenty years old, and was lean and wiry; his opponent was older — his hair was grey — yet was muscular and vastly experienced (or so his many scars suggested). The pair faced Pompey, their arms upraised in a salute. Together they chanted, “Ave Imperator, morituri te salutamus” (“Hail general, we about to die salute you”). Pompey nodded and signalled them to begin.
The pair drew apart, crouched low and circled each other, like two dogs warring over a cut of meat. The hoplomachus feinted with his spear, then lunged at his opponent, who blocked him with his shield but staggered back at the impact. He also missed his footing and had to catch himself quickly. The two men started circling again, as the crowd egged them on with catcalls and cheers.
“The older man will win,” Carolyn said, considering the pair with a professional eye. “He’s pretending to be weaker.”
“What did she say?” Pompey asked, remembering her prowess from the previous day.
“She said the murmillo will win,” Felix translated.
“I believe her.” Turning to Crassus, Pompey said he would bet a dozen aurei that the murmillo would triumph. The general smiled and accepted the wager, adding Pompey never learned his lesson and always backed the weaker party.
The young man was closing in again. He kept thrusting his spear at his opponent’s face, causing him to duck from side to side. Pressing home his attack the hoplomachus lunged and grazed the man’s forearm. The murmillo avoided further harm to himself by striking with his shield and shoving back his rival. He was standing more than thirty metres from Felix, but the blood on his arm was no less glaring than had it been on a snowbank.
The crowd was ecstatic.
“How far will they go?” Carolyn asked.
“It’s up to Pompey to decide.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I told you not to watch.”
The crowd’s cheers and the sight of blood stirred the young man’s zeal. With a bull-like roar he charged the murmillo and a dozen times his spear groped for his flesh, missing its target by no more than a hair. The mob was urging him on. “Skewer him!” cried a matronly woman near Felix. “Stab him like a chicken!” And his spear was poised for a final blow when the murmillo lashed out with his leg and swept the young man’s feet from under him. In the process the latter dropped his shield. He flailed wildly with his spear, but the contest was over. Knocking the heavy spear aside, the older man stabbed down and pierced his rival’s thigh.
The crowd was standing and shouting itself hoarse. “Celadus! Celadus!” they screamed — the murmillo’s name. For his part, the hoplomachus had rolled over on his side and was facing Pompey with his thumb upraised.
“Ask your sister if I should spare him,” Pompey told Felix.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She has won me twelve gold pieces. She will decide if this man lives.”
With a pang of horror, Felix translated Pompey’s words. Carolyn was shocked when she heard his proposition.
“You mean to say, this man could be murdered in public?”
“I’m afraid so. Only this crowd doesn’t think of it as murder. Instead it has a religious meaning.”
“There you have it! Religion again! Still, my choice is simple. I’ll let the man live.”
“You can’t. I mean, you’re not allowed to decide.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have to think about the butterfly effect. If you let him live, when he would otherwise die, you might substantially alter the future.”
The blood drained from Carolyn’s face. She knew he was right and she could not intervene, but a man would possibly die as a result. With a look of pain and utter disgust, she covered her eyes and ears with her palla.
“She seems upset,” Pompey commented. “She can’t make up her mind?”
“Our traditions don’t allow us to meddle in life and death affairs,” Felix explained, concealing the catch in his voice. “It is part of our Druidic way.”
“All right,” Pompey said, in an agreeable tone: like any good Roman he respected other people’s customs. “I’ll decide myself.”
He stood and surveyed the mob in the stands. They were watching him in silence now, some with their thumbs upraised, a sign they wished the man to live, but the majority with their thumbs downturned. With a pitying glance at the figure in the sand, Pompey motioned downwards with his thumb. Murmuring parting words to his opponent, and stroking him with something close to affection, the murmillo stabbed him in the neck and killed him instantly.
The crowd almost choked on its excitement. Felix had to struggle hard to keep himself from vomiting.
“Is he dead?” Carolyn asked from under her palla.
“Yes,” Felix croaked. “You were wise not to watch.”
“There’s religion for you,” she sneered.
“Yes. But it will be religion that brings an end to this barbarity.”
By now two new gladiators were squaring off with each other, a thraex and a retiarius. Aware that Felix was new to this game, Pompey began explaining the techniques of the retiarius, and how it took colossal skill to make good use of his net. Halfway through his explanation, someone called his name. Glancing round, Felix spied Cicero approaching; he was dragging an older man in his wake. The fiery glint in his eye stirred Felix’s discomfort.
“See whom I have found,” Cicero spoke, when he and his companion were standing beside Pompey.
“This is indeed a pleasure,” Pompey exclaimed, clasping the old man’s arm with his hand.
“Adulescens,” Cicero continued, addressing Felix this time “Surely you recognize our friend?”
“No, domine.”
“You don’t?” Pompey asked, “How’s that possible?”
“And how about you, Sextus? Do you recognize this foreigner?”
“I have never laid eyes on him,” the older man spoke, “Are you sure he claims …?”
“Yes,” Cicero announced. “He claims to be your adopted son.”
Felix felt his limbs stiffen to ice. There had always been a chance that his story would be seen through, but the odds had seemed incredibly remote. Now he was confronted by a group of angry noblemen who knew that they’d been lied to and were insisting that he explain himself. Indeed, the slave Flaccus had seized his arm and was forcing it backwards, to prevent him from escaping and to make him talk. Sensing a threat, Carolyn had bared her head.