The Games Men Play

or, The Ninth Move of the Civil War

Pollice Verso by Jean-Léon Gérôme

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The Eighth Move | The First Move | The Civil War Index | The Tenth Move

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The crowd roared. Forty-five thousand Elysians waved banners of their favourite teams or fighter, tossed white flowers to the sands, and chanted for victory. Bookmakers made their way up and down the endless steps of the Colosseum taking bets on everything from mock sea battles to chariot races and everything in between. Wine sellers yelled their vintages to prospective customers, always older than their neighbouring sellers yet never more expensive.

‘Opening the Annual Games is the great honour of Consulship. To celebrate our great warriors, poets, charioteers, and commanders. To revel in the excellence of our people,’ he lowered his voice, ‘and make a little money on the side.’

The crowd laughed. The cloudless sky was brisk with an early autumn chill yet Livicus sweated in the heat of the Colosseum. The press of people, not that he had to suffer such indignities, warded of the winter warning. He surveyed the sands from the Consul’s Box, a deep orange brushed smooth for the first auspicious competition. For the gods to bless the games required blood and the best way to spill blood was a fight to the death. A duel between champions.

‘This year promises to be the most spectacular games yet. Theodeus returns with a new tragedy! But I hear there is an upstart in the theatrical world. A young Flamma orchestrating dramas spanning decades,’ The crowd cheered. ‘Legate Valeri faces Tribune Kosostus at sea!’ The crowd cheered. ‘Elephants or lions, which will emerge victorious? Much and more will be decided over the next week,’ Livicus felt the crowd undulate on the precipice of rage and elation, already drunk on fine wines from Sharshoum and Qyrax. He had opted to perform the opening revelry in place of the official announcer to be seen. To be heard. To be known as a man of the people. A red flag appeared at the left wall of the pit. The blue flag shot out from the right hand side. ‘Make sure your wine goblet is full, find the bookmakers for a final bet, because our opening act is about to begin! The reigning gladiatorial champion, Priscus the Dancing Champion, is challenged by, Verus, the victor of this years Balar Festival!’ The crowd leapt to its feet stomping and screaming. Priscus emerged from beneath the red flag wielding a pair of sica with manica on both arms, the height of which rose to his ears to meet the brim of his helm. He flourished his curved swords in a silver blur dancing through the sand to elation and applause from the crowd. Verus charged out of his hold bashing gladius against scutum and bellowing into his enclosed, rimmed helmet. A flow of black horse hair came from the peak of the helm. Both wore a small plate of armour across the chest and greaves on their legs. ‘Blood must be spilled and may the best man win!’ Livicus clapped once and the horn blowers blasted out the single low note that marked the beginning of the games.

Priscus and Verus circled one another from a distance far greater than either man’s sword could reach.

Livicus inwardly sighed and stepped back from the edge of the Consul’s Box searching for a cup of watered wine. It was imperative he stayed sharp for the day, the week in fact. ‘That’s the worst of it,’ Herio Brutus said. He sipped from a goblet of pure wine of sufficiently expensive vintage and handed Livicus a cup. Julius Ursus lingered by the table of grapes and roast pig.

The Consul sipped, ‘Not by a long shot. I will be lucky to have an As to my name by the end of this week.’

‘There were other options,’ Herio said.

‘Funding the games allows me control over the games, rewards, gifts to the plebs, and all that. Every senator here drinks wine I bought, that’s a debt to me that many will feel the need to repay. To allow a potential enemy that power was unacceptable.’

‘Don’t drink so quick, I’m not sure if we can afford another cask,’ Antonia arched an eyebrow from her corner of the box. Livius was perched at the edge of the box in a red toga engrossed in the opening bout.

‘Your attire cost more than ten casks,’ Livicus scolded his wife. ‘Will you not enjoy the opening event?’

‘Blood makes me queasy,’ Antonia rolled her eyes.

The crowd roared and the announcer barked, ‘Verus’s blade catches Priscus on the thigh! First blood is drawn yet it is naught but a trickle!’

‘The gods are mocking you, Antonia,’ Julius Ursus slipped a grape between his teeth.

Antonia tsk’d.

‘Enjoy the games, I have alliances to forge,’ Livicus drained the cup of watered wine and climbed the steps out of the Consul’s Box.

‘Recoup the costs, my love,’ Antonia pouted from her shaded stool.

Livicus nodded and ducked away. Spinning his gold ring he searched for the nearest box of potential friends above the cloth roof of the Consul’s Box. He spied Cornelius Ahala surrounded by family in a box three rows higher. The Ahala were an old family of warriors now more famous for being vintners and in his dotage Cornelius’s ambition stretched only to grapes. Livicus climbed the steps. The crowd roared as the song of steel rang out. He turned at the entrance to the box draped with grape vines and highlighted with white lilies. Priscus danced across the fighting sands hammering Verus on shield and sword in measured swings.

‘Cornelius your view is better than my own!’ Livicus grinned, he entered the box and extended his hand.

Cornelius Ahala thumbed his iron ring and tongued his molars. The hesitation ended as quick as it began and the senator grasped Livicus’s hand, ‘You must try my latest vintage. Only just brought up from the vaults.’ One of his younger sons, barely up to his father’s waist, shuffled over with a goblet of burgundy.

‘I thought I bought all your best wines?’ Livicus laughed and accepted the wine. The scent was heady, the colour almost opaque. He sipped. Strong, too strong. Better suited for the halls of the barbarians. ‘Delicious, do you mix it?’

‘Oh no. Too good for water. This is the family wine, not for sale.’

‘I am honoured.’

His brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, spread about the box like a fungus ringing a sentinel tree. The patriarch of gens Ahala glared down into the pit as Verus parried a blow and drove his sword for Priscus’s neck. The dancer spun out of the blow and rang Verus’s helm with his sword. Half the crowd jeered, the other split with laughter. Cornelius guffawed, ‘Did you see that? Priscus is playing with the poor fool.’

‘Verus isn’t the one bleeding,’ Cornelius’s son, Corlanius, said, a ruffle of black hair atop his head.

Cornelius raised his eyebrows in response, ‘Have you picked a fighter?’ He eyed Livicus over the rim of his silver goblet, replete with emeralds in the shape of grapes.

‘No. I thought it poor form for the hosting Consul to pick a side.’

‘The Consul Andronicus fought in his own games and was loved for it. Made me plenty of denarii too,’ Cornelius smiled toothlessly. He ran a hand over his bald pate. ‘I hear whispers of a legion lost in the desert.’

Livicus took a mouthful of wine and let it sit on his tongue. The flavour deepened while the scent clung in his nose, he swallowed slowly. How much does he know? ‘It is true King Saloman of Solluba will accept ransom for Legate Otho and the survivors. He gave no suggestion of number.’

Cornelius shouted, ‘Press him Priscus! You have him!’ His words lost in the crowds undulating cawing, cheering, and rapturous chanting. ‘We must secure his release. It will not do for Elysia to be seen forsaking her Legates in the field.’

‘I concur but timing is everything. I hear you have your eyes set on lands south of the city?’ Livicus said. And now I will have you.

‘Your wife’s been talking to someone,’ Cornelius eyed his sisters and daughters, nieces and aunts. The brood all shared the pitch black locks the patriarch had lost in his wizened years. ‘No point denying it. Vineyards, hardy grapes in tougher soil. The wine is different to mine and would make a fine accompaniment at market. The land is owned by an eques, gifted to his grandfather in some war long ago, I don’t know which. The fool spent his youth perfecting the method rather than finding a wife. His family ends yet mine will prosper.’

‘And how old is this eques?’

‘Oh… sixty-five, seventy? I tried befriending him but he rebuked me once he learned I wanted his vineyard. I even offered for him to remain rent free in the villa.’

‘You’re both a similar age.’

‘Yes but I am spritely, he is frail,’ two deep brown eyes weighed on Livicus. ‘When he dies, and it will be soon, I would have the land before it falls into the custody of the State. Whichever legionnaire who receives it as retirement would only ruin it. I would see it prosper. What say you, Consul?’

‘I will not break the law over a vineyard, Cornelius.’

The bald man jutted out his chin and rage bubbled behind his lips.

Livicus leaned in close, ‘But there is another way. I will see you have first claim when the lands enter into State ownership. Of course this may rely on me remaining Consul after years end and we both know the path I take to secure that.’

‘First claim? No auction? No contestation?’

‘None.’

‘You have the support of gens Ahala, Consul.’ Cornelius turned and whispered, ‘In the Diet and in the field.’

The words were warm and sweet with the fine scent of a strong vintage. Livicus exhaled in satisfactory relief, ‘It brings me joy to hear those words, Cornelius. We will speak details over dinner in a week. Antonia will be in touch with Julia.’ He finished his cup of wine and set it on the wall. Priscus darted backwards. Verus’s scutum severed the sand where the Dancing Champion’s foot had been. The crowd sucked in a collective breath. ‘Cornelius I wish you the best of luck in your gambling.’

‘Many thanks, Consul,’ Cornelius lifted his goblet to him.

Livicus felt his mind swim as he searched for his next target. The crowd of senatorial observers cackled and crowed, cheered and chanted, as much as the plebs in the stands. He scanned the faces of a century, skipping over known supporters of the Emperor, before finding his next mark in deep discussion with another potential ally. Two for one, he hoped and cut along from one set of steps to another on a path above the box reserved for the Emperor. It was empty.

‘Nautilinius, Selunis, enjoying the show?’ Livicus patted both young men on the shoulder. The pair shared a look before turning to smile weakly with synchronicity.

‘Consul,’ Nautilinius Cossus barely moved his thin lips. His pale eyes lacked focus and depth as they bore into Livicus.

‘How come you are both on the steps and not a box? Looking for a last minute bookmaker?’ Livicus made sure to smile with his eyes. ‘You both need wine too. Come there’s wine and food in mine.’

‘Is that snake Brutus there?’ Selunis Hesio remarked.

‘Probably. I can send him to his own box if you like, or you can repair broken bridges?’

‘Not today, Consul. Besides I don’t believe he has the will to repair bridges, or the know how. No, I’m happy here,’ Selunis said.

‘Me too. Besides it’s too early for wine,’ Nautilinius curled his nose up at Livicus.

‘Ahala, wouldn’t let me say no to his private store,’ Livicus said. Good grief what were these two discussing? ‘It is obvious you were deep in negotiations, the only question is why on a day of celebration?’

Selunis ran his finger along his lobeless ear, pulling at the scarred tissue. He straightened out a clump of dirt coloured hair with each movement. ‘We are in agreement, the discussion is on method.’

Livicus stepped closer, ‘A conspiracy? Against whom?’

‘Nothing so sinister, only when to approach the Sophus sisters,’ Selunis pointed with his eyes to the gens Sophus box a few tiers down. At the front where the sisters, radiant in their white and blue togas, rust-blonde hair curled and braided down their backs. They giggled, and the younger, by ten minutes, spilled her wine over the wall. The twins doubled over with laughter. ‘I’d say now is a good time, though their father hasn’t touched his wine and sits like a hawk to the rear of the box.’

Livicus inwardly raged at the youths priorities yet fondly remembered his own foolish days of romantic conquest. Antonia had not been the first but rather the only one to secure his heart, how time alters love. ‘You won’t get within ten feet. Marcus will gut you with a look and hang you with a quip. You aiming for the wrong person, go through the father, and mother, to reach the daughters,’ the Consul said.

Nautilinius was the first to laugh, a fire surged behind his pale eyes, ‘I never took you for the sort, Consul.’

‘We were all young once.’

‘Marcus Sophus sees no one he doesn’t choose too.’

‘No, which is why you’ll need an audience. A reason to meet him.’

Selunis chewed his lip, ‘I suppose my uncle might have need of… what is it the Sophus do beside fighting?’

‘Iron mines,’ Livicus sighed. A nightmare to the Diet. A monopoly we must reclaim for the State. ‘It just so happens I am arranging a dinner a week from now. Marcus, and his wife, will be there,’ as soon as I invite him, ‘you are both young men looking to establish your own families.’

‘It would be easier if our father’s hadn’t died young. Difficult to make marriage contracts without parents to negotiate,’ Selunis said. Nautilinius elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Both of you have much to learn and Marcus would be an excellent teacher. He has no sons only daughters and only two left at home. I can introduce you,’ Livicus spelled it out for the youths too blinded by lust to speak in riddles.

Nautilinius shared a wide eyed expression with Selunis. He cocked his head and murmured wordlessly. Selunis lifted his chin. ‘Deal.’

‘Deal? I’m inviting you to dinner not bartering.’

‘Oh, we accept. What should we bring?’

Perhaps they’re just idiots, ‘I require your loyalty.’

‘Done,’ Nautilinius said.

‘Hold on, in what?’ Selunis looked dumbfounded.

Livicus shoved his rage down into his gut as the strong wine clouded his mind and stepped closer, ‘In the Diet and on the field. You may be young but you are both entitled to a legion when beyond the Rock of Tarkus. Or have you forgotten the rights of senators?’

Selunis laughed, ‘I know, just wanted to hear an old man speak plain for once. Next week it is.’ He tapped the side of his nose and leapt up the steps two at a time. Nautilinius shrugged and mouthed an apology as he followed.

‘Oh the arrogance of youth,’ Livicus sighed. He stalked for his next new alliance promising himself to insist on watered wine this time. Priscus and Verus fought on, their steel singing faster and louder with each swing. Neither seemed to be tiring even though both sported a collection of cuts and gashes, none deep enough to inhibit the prime warriors. This is going to be a long day, Livicus climbed the steps to his next target.

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The Eighth Move | The First Move | The Civil War Index | The Tenth Move

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