Arena by John Jakes Page A

open end of the Circus. Xenophon and I, among others, were given stout spears with round iron disks half way down the shaft. These signified that we were to go against wild boars in the opening animal hunt.
    Syrax drew a veil and sword for bears.
    Fabius was everywhere, now taunting, now encouraging. In the tunnel’s cool and dusty dimness, I had no time to fret over the countless angry looks thrown me by Xenophon. Out there beyond that square of sunlight at the tunnel’s mouth lay death, multiplied many more times than one.
    Out there, too, lay fortune. This was the start of a perilous road upward. I meant to make the first steps meaningful ones.
    Brazen trumpets signaled the arrival of the Emperor’s party. Slaves ran back to inform us that the priests had marched out to erect the altar to Jupiter Latista along the stone Spine which ran down the center of the Circus. Sun glared on the pure white sand strewn with gems, on the spotless robes and red scarves of the priests leading out the sacred white bull and the pair of rams with headdresses of gold.
    After suitable chanting and sprinkling of wine, the animals were slain. The priests examined their entrails to see whether the gods wished the games to proceed. With Nero sponsoring, naturally the omens were favorable.
    The priests retired. I was sweating. More trumpets blasted. The stone walls reverberated with cheers. A gilt chariot flashed by the tunnel mouth, drawn by black and white striped tiger horses from Africa. I had a fleeting view of the youthful Emperor adorned in his purple toga, a heavy gold wreath on his head, an ivory scepter crested with a golden eagle in his right hand. Behind the chariot marched drummers and pipers and flutists.
    The Emperor’s chariot circled the arena. There was another lull, followed by fresh trumpeting.
    The opening parade began.
    We marched into the blinding sun. Garlands showered down upon us. The mob screamed praise. Our company was directly behind a host of Dacians attired as Retiarii, the fighters with net and trident. In the parade were all the chariots scheduled to race, and gladiators by the score, and elephants from Ind and Numidia carrying ornamental booths, and girls nude to the waist whose breasts gleamed as red as the rose petals they strewed, and Thracians and criminals — in short, nearly a thousand fighters and entertainers.
    Each group marched down the arena along the Spine to the Emperor’s box. It was covered over with a canopy attached to four ivory statues fashioned in Nero’s image. Walking in a rank with four others from the Bestiarii School, I picked out several familiar faces in the lower stands.
    The slippery Tigellinus lolled on a couch with a jug of wine at his elbow. The Praetorian Julius was making a hasty last-minute wager. Serenus too occupied a box, and further down, beneath a parasol, the red-haired Locusta sat. I thought she moved her painted mouth in a smile as I passed, singling me out, but I couldn’t be sure.
    As we neared the Emperor’s box we passed before the six most sacred personages in Rome, the Sisterhood of Vestals. They were simply robed, sitting quietly, secure in the knowledge that theirs was the holiest task in the city — the tending of the immortal fire whose kindling, some said, dated from the time of Romulus and Remus. Of all the thousands present, only those six women of various ages who had vowed to remain chaste all their lives or suffer death, made no vulgar outcry.
    At the head of our company, Fabius halted before the Imperial box. From thirty-one throats the traditional cry was shouted.
    “Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute thee!”
    Diffidently the Emperor Nero nodded in return. He had more interest in the next group in line, Page 30

    bare-breasted Greek slave girls with dark mahogany skin. The Emperor’s wan, fleshy face looked sweaty in the shade of the canopy. His bulging eyes never once met mine, or even noticed me.
    Beside him sat a blonde woman,