I smiled. "Thanks."

"No bother," the soldier lied blatantly, and he walked away. What he'd brought me was a catapult ball; about the size of a cabbage heart, stone, and (as I confirmed by the light of the nearest lantern) stained brown with dried blood in one place. He'd found it on the practice range, among all the other catapult shot; I'd told him to find the one with blood on it. I guessed there'd be a bloodstained one when I saw those little dimples in the dust, the marks left behind by a neat stack of the things, just what you'd expect to find outside the stores, near where they store the horsehair they use to make spare catapult springs from.

I got rid of it on the way to the stables, where my horse was waiting.

Scipio didn't do anything overt about Laelius; they were friends and political allies, and besides, if he'd made any of it public he'd inevitably have been suspected of complicity. But from then on, the friendship waned, Laelius' influence grew less, his advice and policies were neglected, almost as if Scipio didn't trust him quite so much anymore. A pity, from Rome's point of view, since Laelius, though hardly a military or political genius, was at least cleverer and more sensible than Scipio himself, and had been responsible for a great deal of Scipio's better and brighter actions in the past.

In case you were wondering, by the way, I did get the job I was so anxious about. The job was a position I'd been after for ages; chief spy for King Philip of Macedon, last and strongest of Rome's substantial enemies, and the only hope of the Greek world against the shadow rising in the West. He was so pleased at the way I'd contrived to discredit such a key player as Caius Laelius, framing him for something he hadn't even done, that I was promoted to controller in chief of Macedonian intelligence operations in the Roman empire. I'm proud that I've been able to do something for the Greek cause, and I'll never forget Acer and his killer, who made it all possible.

Ah yes, Acer's killer.

Vitellius Acer was, of course, killed by the captured elephant penned up in the stockyard adjoining the plunder store. As everybody knows, elephants have a prodigious memory for past injuries, and an uncanny ability to tell humans apart. As soon as it saw the man who'd wounded it during the battle by sticking a spear through its lip, it pulled up the tethering-pins that were holding it down, rushed across the enclosure, grabbed a stone in its trunk (lucky for it that there was a pile of stones just handy, in the form of the catapult balls) and smashed Acer's head in for him. Acer did his bit by falling on one of the tethering pegs and smearing blood on it (I wiped chicken's blood on the other side before I showed it to Scipio); and by knocking over the pile of catapult balls. Some tidy-minded squaddie replaced them at some point before I got there, thereby conveniently smuggling the real murder weapon away from the scene - it was taken along with the rest of the pile to the range and used for target practice. It also helped that Licinius, worried about being accused because his hatred of Acer was so well known, exaggerated how long he'd been with Laelius so as to provide himself with an alibi, though it's just the sort of thing a clown like that might be expected to do. As for the blacksmith's hammer, that was pure serendipity, or, as I prefer to believe, the gods helping out a righteous cause.

I was proud of how few outright lies I had to tell Scipio, and how well I blended them in. I am, after all, a trained lawyer.

Elephants are a bit like Greeks, I guess. They never forget who their enemies are.

A Gladiator Dies Only Once by Steven Saylor As Steven Saylor states in his introduction, the following story is something of a homage to the film Gladiator. It's the latest in Saylor's popular Roma Sub Rosa series featuring Gordianus the Finder. The series began with Roman Blood (1991) and now runs to nine volumes. This story, set just before the famous revolt of the slaves led by Spartacus, takes place before the events in the novel Arms of Nemesis (1992). Gordianus finds himself trying to solve, not a murder but, a resurrection!

"A beautiful day for it," I said begrudgingly. Cicero nodded and squinted up at the filtered red sunlight that penetrated the awning above our seats. Below, in the arena, the first pair of gladiators strode across the sand to meet each other in combat.

The month was Junius, at the beginning of what promised to be a long, hot summer. The blue sky and undulating green hills were especially beautiful here in the Etrurian countryside outside the town of Saturnia, where Cicero and I, travelling separately from Rome, had arrived the day before to attend the funeral of a local magistrate. Sextus Thorius had been struck down in the prime of life, thrown from his horse while riding down the Clodian Way to check on the progress of a slave gang doing repair work on the road. The next day, word of his demise reached Rome, where quite a few important persons had felt obligated to attend the funeral.

Earlier that morning, not a few of the senators and bankers who gathered to watch the funeral procession had raised an eyebrow at the sight of Gordianus the Finder among them; feeling the beady gaze of a prune-faced matron on me, I distinctly overheard her whisper to her husband, "What's he doing here? Does someone suspect foul play at work in the death of Sextus Thorius?" But Cicero, when he caught sight of me, smiled grimly and moved to join me, and asked no questions. He knew why I had come. A few years ago, facing the prospect of a ruinous business scandal, Thorius had consulted Cicero for legal advice, and Cicero had sent Thorius to me to get to the bottom of the affair. In the end, both scandal and litigation were averted. Thorius had rewarded me generously, and had subsequently sent quite a bit of business my way. The least I could do on the occasion of his death was to pack my best toga, spend the night at a seedy inn in Saturnia, and show up at his funeral.

We had followed the procession of musicians, hired mourners and family members to the little necropolis outside Saturnia, where, after a few speeches of remembrance, Thorius's remains had been set alight atop a funeral pyre. At the soonest opportunity to do so without seeming impolite, I had turned to leave, eager to start back to Rome, when Cicero caught my arm.

"Surely you're not leaving yet, Gordianus. We must stay for the funeral games."

"Games?" I meant to load the word with irony, but Cicero took the question in my voice literally.

"There's to be a gladiator show, of course. It's not as if Thorius was a nobody. His family wasn't rich, but they'll have spent whatever they can afford, I'm sure."

"I hate watching gladiators," I said bluntly.

"So do I. But they're a part of the funeral, no less than the procession and the eulogies. One has to stay."

"I'm not in the mood to see blood spilled."

"But if you leave now, people will notice," he said, lowering his voice. "You can't afford to have them think you're squeamish, Gordianus. Not in your line of work."

I glanced at the faces around us, lit by the funeral pyre. The prune-faced matron was among them, along with her husband and numerous others from the same social set back in Rome. Much as I might hate to admit it, I was dependent on the trust and good will of such people, the sort who had occasion to call on my services and means to pay for them. I ferreted out the truth, and in return they put bread on my table.

"But I have to get back to Rome," I protested. "I can't afford another night at that seedy inn."

"Then you'll stay with me," said Cicero. "I have accommodations with a local banker. Good food. Comfortable beds." He raised an eyebrow.

Why did Cicero want so badly for me to stay? It occurred to me that he was the squeamish one. To watch the gladiators, he wanted the company of someone who wouldn't needle him about his squeamishness, as so many of his social equals were likely to do.

Begrudgingly, I acquiesced, and so found myself, that fine afternoon in Junius, seated in a wooden amphitheatre constructed especially for the funeral games to honour the passing of Sextus Thorius of Saturnia. Since I was with Cicero, I had been admitted into the more exclusive section of seats beneath the shade of the blood-red awning, along with the bereaved family, various local dignitaries, and important visitors from Rome. The local villagers and farmers sat in the sun-drenched seats across from ours. They wore brimmed hats for shade and waved brightly coloured fans. For a brief moment, bemused by the fluttering fans, I had the illusion that the crowd had been covered by a swarm of huge butterflies flapping their wings.

There were to be three matches, all fought to the death. Any less than three would have seemed parsimonious on the part of the family. Any more would have begun to look ostentatious, and added to the cost. As Cicero had said, the family of Sextus Thorius, while eminently respectable, was not rich.

The three pairs of gladiators were paraded before us. Helmets hid their faces, but they were easy to tell apart by their different armour and their contrasting physiques. One stood out from all the rest because of his coloration, a Nubian whose muscular arms and legs shone beneath the hot sun like burnished ebony. As the fighters strode before us, each raised his weapon. The crowd responded with polite cheering, but I overheard two men behind us complaining: "Pretty obscure outfit. Owned by some freedman from Ravenna, I'm told; fellow called Ahala. Never heard of him!"

"Me neither. How did the family settle on this crew? Probably came cheap. Still, I suppose the Nubian's something of a novelty . . ."

There followed the ritual inspection of weapons for sharpness and armour for soundness, performed by the local magistrate in charge of the games, then the gladiators departed from the arena. The magistrate invoked the gods and delivered yet another eulogy to Sextus Thorius. A few moments later, to a blare of trumpets, a pair of gladiators re-emerged and the first bout commenced. The shorter, stockier fighter was outfitted in the Thracian manner with a small round shield and a short sword. His tall, lumbering opponent wore heavier Samnite armour and carried an oblong shield.

"Samnite versus Thracian - a typical match," noted Cicero, who often fell to lecturing when he was uneasy or nervous. "Did you know that the very first gladiatorial matches took place right here in Etruria? Oh, yes; we Romans inherited the custom from the Etruscans. They began by sacrificing captive warriors before the funeral pyres of their leaders -" Cicero gave a start as the sword of the Samnite struck one of the iron bosses on the shield of the Thracian with a resounding clang, then he cleared his throat and continued. "Eventually, instead of simply strangling the captives, the Etruscans decided to have them fight each other, allowing the victors to live. We Romans took up the custom, and so developed the tradition of death-matches at the funerals of great men. Of course, nowadays, anyone who was anyone must be honoured with games at his funeral. I've even heard of gladiator matches at the funerals of prominent women! The result is a tremendous demand for fresh gladiators. You still see captive warriors among them, but more and more often they're simply slaves who've been trained to fight, or sometimes convicted criminals - murderers who'd otherwise be executed, or thieves who'd rather take a chance in the arena than have a hand chopped off."

Below us, the Thracian thrust past the Samnite's shield and scored a glancing cut across the man's sword-arm. Blood sprinkled the sand. Cicero shuddered.

"Ultimately, one should remember that it's a religious occasion," he noted primly, "and the people must have their religion. And quite candidly, I don't mind watching a death-match if both the combatants are convicted criminals. Then at least there's something instructive about the blood-letting. Or even if the fighters are captured warriors; that can be instructive as well, to take a good look at our enemies and to see how they fight, and to celebrate the favour of the gods, who've put us in the stands and them down there in the arena. But more and more the trend is to have trained slaves do the fighting -"

The tall Samnite, after a staggering retreat under the Thracian's relentless assault, suddenly rallied and managed to score a solid thrust at the other's flank. Blood spattered the sand. From behind his helmet the Thracian let out a cry and staggered back.

Behind us, the two men who had earlier complained now both roared with excitement.

"That's how to turn the tables! You've got him now, Samnite!"

"Make the little fellow squeal again!"

Cicero fidgeted in his seat and cast a disapproving glance behind us, then looked sidelong at the young woman seated next to him. She was watching the bout with narrowed eyes, one hand touching her parted lips and the other patting her heaving bosom. Cicero looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "And then there's the unwholesome glamour which these gladiators exert on certain women - and on more than a few men, as well, I'm sad to say. The whole culture has gone gladiator-mad! Roman boys play at being gladiators instead of generals, Roman ladies swoon whenever they see one, and do you know, I've even heard of Roman citizens who've volunteered to fight as gladiators themselves. And not just for the money - although I understand even some slaves are paid handsomely if they can survive and make a name for themselves - but for some sort of perverse thrill. I can't begin to imagine -"

His objection was abruptly drowned out by the roar of the crowd. The stocky Thracian had rallied and was once again relentlessly pushing the taller Samnite back. Sword clanged against sword, until the Samnite, tripping, fell backwards.

The Thracian stepped onto the shield the Samnite had drawn over his chest, pinning the man down. He pressed the tip of his sword against the Samnite's wind-pipe. The Samnite released his sword and instinctively grasped the blade, then drew back his hand, flinging blood from the cuts across his fingers.

The Samnite had been worsted. From behind the visor of his helmet, the triumphant Thracian scanned the stands, looking to the crowd for judgment. Following the ancient custom, those who thought the Samnite should be spared would produce handkerchiefs and wave them, while those who wanted to see him put to death would raise their fists in the air. Here and there I saw a few fluttering handkerchiefs, all but submerged in a sea of clenched fists.

"I don't agree," said one of the men behind us. "I rather liked the Samnite. He put up a good fight."

"Bah!" said his friend, shaking his fist in the air. "They're both amateurs! The whole match was barely acceptable; I wouldn't give a fig to watch either of them fight again. Send the loser straight to Hades, I say! Anything less would dishonour the memory of Sextus Thorius."

"I suppose you're right," said the other, and from the corner of my eye I saw him put away his handkerchief and raise his fist.

The Thracian looked to the magistrate in charge of the games for the final judgment. The man raised his fist and nodded curtly, and the Thracian drove the sword into the Samnite's throat. A great fountain of blood spurted from the wound, gushing across the Samnite's helmet and chest and onto the sand all around. The man thrashed and convulsed, very nearly throwing the Thracian off-balance. But the Thracian steadied himself, shifting more weight onto the shield that confined the Samnite and bearing down on his sword until it penetrated the back of the Samnite's neck and was driven firmly into the packed sand beneath.

With a roar of triumph, the Thracian stepped back and thrust his fists in the air. The Samnite bucked his hips and thrashed his limbs, pinned to the earth by the sword through his neck. The Thracian performed a victory strut in a circle around him.

"Disgusting!" muttered Cicero, pressing a clenched fist to his lips and looking queasy.

"Delightful!" uttered one of the men behind us. "Now that's more like it! What a finish!"

Then, as a single body - myself included - the crowd drew a gasp. With one of his thrashing hands the Samnite had managed to grab hold of the Thracian's ankle, and with his other hand he had somehow managed to regain his sword. He pounded the pommel against the sand, as if to still that arm from thrashing, so that the blade pointed rigidly upright. The Thracian lost his balance and, making circles in the air with his arms, began to tumble backwards.

For a long, breathless moment, it looked as if no power in the heavens or on the earth could stop the Thracian from falling backwards directly onto the upright blade of the Samnite's sword, impaling himself.

Even Cicero bolted forward, rigid with suspense. The woman next to him swooned. The men behind us bleated with excitement.

The Thracian swayed back - regained his balance - and swayed back again. The upright sword glinted in the sunlight.

Making a tremendous circle with his arms, the Thracian at last managed to propel himself forwards. Wrenching his ankle from the Samnite's grasp, he took a few staggering steps forwards, then wheeled about. The Samnite had stopped thrashing, but the sword in his fist still pointed skyward. Approaching cautiously, as one might a snake that seemed to have writhed its last but might yet strike, the Thracian squatted down and snatched the sword from the Samnite's grip - then jerked back in alarm as a bizarre noise emerged from the Samnite's throat, a gurgling death-rattle that froze my blood. Gripping the pommel in both hands, the Thracian pointed the sword downwards. As one might strike a last blow to make sure that a snake was finished, he drove the blade deep into the Samnite's groin.

Again, the crowd gasped in unison. Like Cicero beside me, I put my hand to my groin and flinched. But the Samnite was now truly dead. Fresh blood stained the loincloth around the wound, but he did not move.

His chest heaving, the Thracian stood and recommenced his victory strut. After a moment of stunned silence, the exhilarated crowd rewarded him with thunderous cheering. The magistrate strode into the arena and rewarded him with a palm frond to mark his victory. Waving it over his head, the gladiator departed to raucous applause.

"Well!" declared Cicero, clearly impressed despite his avowed distaste for the games. "That will be hard to top."

The body of the Samnite was dragged away, the pools of blood were raked over with fresh sand, and the next match commenced. It was a novelty bout between two dimacheri, so-called because each wielded not one but two daggers. To compensate for their lack of shields, they wore more pieces of armour than other types of fighters - greaves to protect their forearms and shins, plated pectorals to guard their throats and chests, and various bands about their limbs and bits of metal over their naked flesh that suggested adornment as much as armour. Instead of the nerve-wracking banging of swords against shields, the sound of their match was a constant, grating slither of blade against blade as they engaged in a dizzying dance of parries and thrusts. One was swarthy and the other pale, but otherwise their physiques were much alike; not as muscular as either of the previous fighters, they had the lithesome bodies of dancers. Speed and agility counted for more than brute strength in such a match, and they were so evenly matched, and their manoeuvres so elegant, that their contest seemed almost choreographed. Instead of grunts and cheers, they elicited "ahs" and "ohs" of appreciation from the crowd. Watching them whirl about, I felt the pleasure one feels from watching dancers rather than warriors, so that I almost forgot that for one of them, death waited at the end of the match.

Then, with a scraping noise that set my teeth on edge, a dagger slid over armour and successfully connected with unprotected flesh, and the first blood was spilled. The crowd exhaled an "Ah!" at a higher pitch than before, and I sensed the stirring of their collective blood-lust.

Both fighters seemed to be wearying, losing the unerring focus that had kept them from harming each other. More blood was spilled, though the wounds were minor, mere scratches that dabbed the blades with just enough blood to send red droplets flying through the air to mingle with the fine spray of sweat cast from the gladiators' glistening limbs.

Slowly but surely the pace of the parries and thrusts accelerated, even as their rhythm became more ragged and unpredictable. My heartbeat quickened. I glanced at Cicero and realized that he had not said a word throughout the match. He leaned forwards, his eyes glittering with fascination.

The swarthy fighter suddenly seized the advantage. His arms became a blur of movement, like the wings of a bee. And like a bee he stung, managing to prick first the right hand of his opponent, then the left hand, so that the pale gladiator released both of his daggers and stood defenceless. Pressing his daggers to the other's wrists, the swarthy fighter forced the disarmed man to spread his arms wide open, like a crucified slave.

It was a brazen gesture on the part of the swarthy gladiator to humiliate his foe, but it contained a miscalculation. At such close quarters, almost chest-to-chest, the pale gladiator was able to thrust one knee into his opponent's groin, and simultaneously to butt his helmet against the other's. The swarthy gladiator was sent staggering back. The hushed crowd erupted in shrieks of laughter.

The pale gladiator's advantage was short-lived. He made a dash to recover one of his daggers, but the distance was too great. The swarthy gladiator was upon him like a pouncing lion, hemming him in with his daggers, jabbing and pricking him, forcing him to perform a spastic, backward dance, controlling him at every step. To pay him back, the swarthy gladiator kneed him not once but twice in the groin. The pale gladiator folded forwards in agony, then abruptly performed the motion in reverse, straining upright onto his toes, for not one but two daggers were pressed against the soft, unarmoured flesh beneath his chin. The movement was so neatly performed that it seemed like the climax to a dance which the two had been performing from the moment their bout commenced. They stood like statues, one with daggers poised, the other on tiptoes, quivering, empty hands at his sides, helpless. The crowd roared its approval.

The victor looked towards the magistrate, who raised an eyebrow and turned his head from side to side to assess the will of the crowd. Spontaneously, the crowd produced a multitude of fluttering handkerchiefs. Voices cried, "Spare him! Spare him!" Even the men behind me took up the chant: "Spare him! Spare him!"

In my experience, the judgment of the mob is like quicksilver, hard to pin down and impossible to predict. If I had turned at that moment and asked the men behind me, "Why spare the pale gladiator?", no doubt they would have given the rote answer: "Because he fought well, and deserves to fight another day." But the Samnite had fought just as bravely, if not as beautifully, and they had been eager to see him die. I think it was the fact that the two dimacheri had fought so well together that swayed the crowd to spare the loser; they were like a matched set that no one wished to see broken. The pale gladiator owed his life as much to his opponent as to himself; had they not been so precisely matched and performed so well together, those two daggers would have been thrust into his gullet in the blink of an eye. Instead, one by one, the daggers withdrew. The pale gladiator dropped to his knees, his head bowed to show deference both to the spectators who had spared him and to the man who had bested him, as the victor received his palm frond from the presiding magistrate.

"Well!" said Cicero, breaking his silence. "So far it's been a better show than any of us expected, I dare say. I wonder what the final match will bring."

Sometimes, if the games are boring, spectators begin to vacate the stands after the first or second match, deciding they've adequately paid their respects to the dead and need stay no longer. On this day, for the final match, not a single spectator stirred from his seat. Instead, there was a new arrival. I was not the only one who noticed her; one of the men behind me released a wolf-whistle.

"Feast your eyes on that beauty!" he murmured.

"Where?" said his friend.

"Right across from us, looking for a place to sit."

"Oh, yes, I see. A beauty, you say? Too dark for my taste." "You need to broaden your palate, then. Ha! I'll bet you've never had a Nubian."

"As if you had!"

"Of course I have. You forget that I spent a few years travelling around Libya and Egypt . . ."

I grew deaf to their prattling, fascinated by the newcomer. She was strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones, full lips and flashing eyes. Her dense black hair was piled on her head in the latest style and tied with ribbons, and she wore a tunic of pale blue that contrasted with the ebony sheen of her naked arms and throat. Her burnished copper necklace and bracelets glinted in the bright sunlight. Her breast heaved slightly, as if she were excited or slightly out of breath. One seldom saw a Nubian in Italy who was not a slave, but from her dress and the fact that she appeared to be out and about on her own, I took her to be a free woman. While I watched, a row of male spectators, clearly as struck by her beauty as I was, nudged one another and obligingly made room for her, giving her an aisle seat.

The two gladiators who strode into the arena for the final bout could not have been more different. The first was stoutly built, his chest and legs covered by curly red hair. He was outfitted in the manner of the Gauls, with a short sword and a tall, rectangular shield, a loose loincloth and bands of metal-plated leather wrapped around his mid-section, leaving his legs and chest bare. His helmet covered not only his head but, tapering and flaring out again like an hourglass, extended down to cover his neck and breastbone as well.

Following him into the arena was a retiarius, to my mind the most fearsomely attired class of gladiators. Retiarii carry not a sword and shield, but a long trident and a net. This one was all the more striking because of his contrast to the red-haired Gaul, for he was the tall, smoothly muscled Nubian we had seen in the opening parade of gladiators, as ebon hued as the woman who had just found a seat in the stands. I wondered briefly if there might be some connection between them - then drew in a breath as the Gaul made a rush at the retiarius and the combat commenced.

Sword clanged against trident. Already heated to fever-pitch by the previous matches, the crowd became raucously vocal at once, jumping from their seats and crying out for blood. The gladiators responded with a bout that exceeded anything we had previously seen that day. For two men so heavily muscled, they moved with surprising speed (although the retiarius, with his long legs, was considerably more graceful than his opponent). They seemed almost to read one another's thoughts, as blows were deflected or dodged at the last possible instant, and each attack was followed at once by a counter-attack of equal cunning and ferocity. Beside me, Cicero repeatedly flinched and gasped, but did not look away. Neither did I, swept up by the primal fascination of watching two men in a struggle for life and death.

As the match continued, the attributes of each fighter became clear. The Gaul was stronger, the Nubian quicker; he would need to be, if he were to succeed in casting the net over his prey. Several times, when the Gaul closed the distance between them in order to slash and thrust, the net almost captured him, but the Gaul eluded it by dropping to the sand, rolling out of harm's way, and springing back to his feet.

"At this rate, the Gaul's going to exhaust himself," said one of the men behind me. "Then watch the Nubian catch him in that net like a fish out of water and start poking holes in him!"

Irritated, Cicero turned to shush the man, but I was thinking exactly the same thought. And indeed, almost more quickly than my eyes could apprehend it, the very thing happened. The Gaul rushed in, slashing his sword. Wielding the trident with one hand, the Nubian parried the Gaul's thrust, and with his other hand he spun the net in the air and brought it down directly over the Gaul. The lead weights sewn at various points around the edge of the net caused it to collapse around the Gaul and swallow him, sword, shield and all.

If the Gaul had tripped, which seemed almost inevitable, that would have been the end of him. But somehow he managed to stay upright, and when the Nubian, wielding his trident with both hands now, rushed towards him, he managed to spin about so that the three sharp prongs landed squarely against his shield. The prongs, failing to penetrate flesh, instead became enmeshed in the fabric of the net. The Nubian yanked at his trident to free it, but the net held it fast, and the Gaul, though pulled forwards, managed to stand his ground.

Sensing more than seeing his advantage - for the net must have greatly blocked the view from his narrow visor - the Gaul rushed forwards. Holding fast to the trident, the Nubian was unable to stand his ground and was pushed back. Tripping, he fell onto his rump and released the shaft of the trident with one hand, still gripping it with the other. The Gaul, using his bull-like strength, twisted to one side. The Nubian, his wrist unnaturally bent, gave a cry and released the trident altogether.

The Gaul, slashing at the net with his sword and thrusting upwards with his shield, managed to push the net up and over his head, taking the trident with it. Stepping free, he kicked the net behind him, and with it the now hopelessly entangled trident. The Nubian, meanwhile, managed to scramble to his feet, but he was now without a weapon.

The Gaul might have made short work of his opponent but, eschewing his sword, he used his shield as a weapon instead. Rushing headlong at the Nubian, he struck him with his shield, so hard that the Nubian was knocked backwards against the wooden wall of the arena. The spectators directly above him, unable to see, rushed forwards from their seats and craned their necks, peering over the railing. Among them - not hard to pick out in that crowd - I saw the Nubian woman. Even greater than the contrast of her dark flesh next to the paleness of those around her was the marked contrast of her expression. Submerged in a sea of faces that leered, gaped and howled with bloodlust, she was silent and stricken, wearing a look of shock and dismay.

The Gaul played cat and mouse with his prey. He stepped back, allowing the Nubian to stagger forwards, gasping for breath, then stuck him full-force again with shield, knocking him against the wall. Over and over the Gaul struck the Nubian, knocking the breath out of him each time, until the man was barely able to stand. The Gaul delivered one last body-blow with his shield, and the Nubian, recoiling from the wall, fell forwards onto his face.

Casting aside his shield, the Gaul grabbed hold of the Nubian's ankle and dragged him towards the centre of the arena. The Nubian thrashed ineffectively, seemingly unable to catch a breath. To judge from the intermittent red trail he left in the sand, he was bleeding from some part of his body, perhaps from his mouth.

"Ha!" said one of the men behind me. "Who's the fish out of water now?"

The Gaul reached the centre of the ring. Releasing the Nubian's ankle, he held up his fists and performed a victory strut in a circle around him. The crowd gasped at the man's audacity. The Thracian had behaved with the same careless bravado, and had very nearly paid for it with his life.

But the Nubian was in no condition to take advantage of any miscalculation by his opponent. At one point he stirred and tried to raise himself on his arms, and the crowd let out a cry; but his arms failed him and he fell back again, flat on his chest. The Gaul stood over him and looked to the spectators for judgment.

The reaction from the stands was mixed. People rose to their feet. "Spare him!" cried some. "Send him to Hades!" cried others. The magistrate in charge turned his head this way and that, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the lack of consensus. Whichever course he chose, some in the crowd would be disappointed. At last he gave a sign to the waiting gladiator, and I was not surprised that he did the predictable thing. Mercy to a defeated fighter had already been granted once that day; mercy was the exception, not the rule. The crowd had come expecting to see bloodshed and death, and those who wanted to see the Nubian killed had more reason to see their expectation gratified than did those who preferred the novelty of allowing him to live. The magistrate raised his fist in the air.

There were cries of triumph in the stands, and groans of disappointment. Some cheered the magistrate, others booed. But to all this commotion I was largely deaf, for my eyes were on the Nubian woman directly across from me. Her body stiffened and her face froze in a grimace as the Gaul raised his sword for the death blow; I had the impression that she was struggling to contain herself, to exhibit dignity despite the despair that was overwhelming her. But as the sword descended, she lost all composure. She clutched her hair. She opened her mouth. The sound of her scream was drowned in the roar of the crowd as the Nubian convulsed on the sand, blood spurting like a fountain around the sword thrust between his shoulder blades.

For an instant, the Nubian woman's gaze met mine. I was drawn into the depths of her suffering as surely as if I tumbled into a well. Cicero gripped my arm. "Steady, Gordianus," he said. I turned towards him. His face was pale but his tone was smug; at last, it seemed to say, he had found someone more squeamish at the sight of death than himself.

When I looked back, the woman had vanished.

With their palm fronds held aloft, the victors paraded once more around the arena. The magistrate invoked the memory of Sextus Thorius and uttered a closing prayer to the gods. The spectators filed out of the amphitheatre.

"Did you notice her?" I asked Cicero.

"Who, that hyperventilating young woman next to me?" "No, the Nubian across from us."

"A Nubian female?"

"I don't think she showed up until the final bout. I think she was alone."

"That seems unlikely."

"Perhaps she's related somehow to the Nubian gladiator."