Now gladiators were a mixture. Many were slaves, sold into the life. Some were ex-soldiers who entered the arena for their own reason, most to make money, but some with a darkness inside that only found solace in combat. Falco was both, having been born a slave and sold to the Ianista while still young. Then he’d been drawn into the army during the desperate civil war of ’69. When his service was up, he returned to the arena.
Falco saw the darkness not only in his own heart but also in most men’s souls, and nothing could quiet the voices in his head. If his blood were to flow on the arena sand, he could say little, but in all his fights, he had always won. He knew, in a way, his lack of normal fear of dying gave him a large advantage over those who entered the arena with debilitating fear. And every time he was in a situation, as today, where he could have allowed death to over take him, something had burst forth and caused him to fight, to survive, but he didn’t know what that was.
A legionnaire ran out with a red-hot poker in his hand and laid it against the skin of each of the retiarii to insure none was faking. Occasionally, gladiators used bladders of pig’s blood inside their armor to simulate wounds. Certain they were all dead, slaves ran out and began removing the bodies and raking the sand, covering the blood, preparing for the next contest.
In the shadow of the imperial box, he saw her. Smiling as she always did, leaning forward, scented scarf covering her mouth. He had been freed years earlier, but she owned him as securely as any of his former masters.
Falco slowly walked toward the entrance that led to the tunnels below. Today was only the first day of the games, which were to last a month. There would be much more death.
He paused just before going into the tunnel, and his head turned toward the south. Unbidden, a vision came to him. A mountain, looming above a city, a cloud at the peak of the mountain. He’d seen that peak before, that city, but it would not come to him at first; then he recognized it. The city was Pompeii, where he had fought on occasion. And the mountain, Vesuvius.
It was as if he could see into the Earth itself, and he saw a darkness, like a disease, boiling up below Vesuvius, clawing its way toward the surface. An overwhelming sense of dread blanketed him.
Then a gladiator entering the arena bumped into him, the man’s eyes glazed with fear, knocking the vision from Falco’s head.
Falco entered the tunnel.
Kaia had both hands on the grass that covered her mother’s grave. A small piece of marble marked the spot. She was surrounded by the trees of the sacred grove, where only the priestesses of Delphi were allowed to enter. She turned as she sensed someone behind her. The oracle stood there, wrapped in her fine robes. The old woman’s face was lined and pale.
“Why did you never tell me who I was?” Kaia asked as she stood.
“Your thoughts must be pure,” the oracle said. “There is so much that I do not know, that I thought it best not to influence you one way or the other. It is the way it has been for a long time.”
That made little sense to Kaia, but she said nothing.
The oracle held out a crystal. “This is yours. As it was your mother’s once, and mine before her.” As Kaia took the crystal, the oracle crooked a finger. “Come.”
Kaia followed her out of the grove and into the temple. Going to the altar, the oracle pointed. “Lift the top stone.”
Carefully, Kaia lifted the heavy marble. Underneath was a black slab with writing etched on it.
“This is the list of oracles, dating back to the first to come from Thera, Priestess Kala.” The oracle ran her old fingers over the markings. “Here is your mother’s name, the last to be etched. I will have yours added.”
“And if I don’t return?” Kaia asked. “Does the line end with me?”
“The things I see,” the oracle said, “are uncertain. The visions come from the gods, but who are the gods?”
“The gods are the gods,” Kaia said simply.
The oracle smiled. “So you have been taught. Let me tell you what I do know. I have spoken of the Shadow, but there are those on the other side, where the shadow comes from, who oppose the Shadow. They are called the Ones Before. They might be gods, I do not know, but they have helped us. Long ago they gave us the power to stop the Shadow.
“You need to talk to the Akrotirian Oracle at Thera. She knows more of this than I do. It was where our ancestors fought the Shadow last.” The oracle placed a hand on Kaia’s shoulder. “I suggest forgetting everything you have been taught. You must trust the visions you have. They are the gods speaking to you.” Her finger slid over the long list of names to the very first. “Priestess Kala was the first. She escaped the destruction of Thera. Let us hope you are not the last. It is time for you to go.”
Gaius Marcus slapped Falco on the back. “An excellent fight, old friend.”
Falco barely acknowledged the praise, his eyes moving along the rows of tables in the banquet hall. He could feel her presence, a malignant tumor obvious even on the cancer that was Rome.
“On the last day of the games, I want you to do an exhibition with Corlius,” Marcus continued. “Wooden swords in between some of the fights.”
Falco nodded. “All right.” He had done many such exhibitions where neither man was injured. Gladiators of his skill level were rare and could not always be risked in mortal combat.
Falco saw her. “Excuse me.”
Marcus followed Falco’s gaze. “Careful.”
“I am always careful,” Falco said.
“In the arena, yes,” Marcus agreed. “You have something very special there. But this” —he waved, taking in the elite of Rome dining on their couches—“is a very different arena.”
“What would you have me do?” Falco asked. “Ignore her? Her brother is commander of the Praetorian Guard. Her family has links everywhere.”
“With the new emperor, things are liable to change,” Marcus noted.
“She has promised to tell me where my children are after the games,” Falco said.
“Why?”
“She says because of her love for me.”
Marcus laughed. “She loves only herself. She is playing a game with your mind, with your heart.”
“Does that make her worse than you?” Falco asked. “You only play with my life.”
“I do it as a job,” Marcus said. He looked at the woman. “She does it for sport.”
“You are the one who sent me to her in the first place,” Falco said.
“You know I had no choice. Servicing women like her is part of your life. You know that also. Everyone knows it.”
“But she is different than the other women,” Falco said.
“She wanted you,” Marcus said simple. “Be careful.”
“I will take care of myself. “ Falco walked around the edge of a table, greeting various noble men and women nodding at their praises for the day’s fight.
“Ah, Centurion Falco,” General Cassius raised a hand as Falco reached the head table. “Come here and join us.”
Falco settled down on a cushioned couch. A slave ran up and poured him some wine and setting a plate of food. He was rarely called centurion now, the rank he had held in the army, but he had served with Cassius in Palestine, where they had been members of the famous X Legion and present for the fall of Jerusalem. Cassius was a tall, thin man with a large nose, sunken, sad eyes and thinning white hair. His right arm was crooked at an unnatural angle at the elbow, where a javelin had pierced it many years ago in battle and the surgeon’s efforts at repair had not taken well.
“Greeting, General,” Falco said as soon as the slave had moved away. He knew Cassius had retired from the army, disgusted after what had happened at Jerusalem, and gone to live on his country estate. He had not had much of a future in Rome given that he had brought a Jewish woman back with him to live on his estate. Even among the debauchery of Rome such a union was considered ill advice. “How is Lupina?”