Styg nodded sagely during this explanation, though Andreas could tell the younger man was fighting to hold back his laughter.
Leaving the horses with the two younger men, Andreas and Styg entered the arena through one of the narrow gates. They walked through a short tunnel that terminated in a short series of steps that brought them up to the first level of the audience. As they emerged from the unpleasant dimness of the tunnel, they were afforded their first glimpse of the sandy pit that was the arena proper, surrounded by the tall walls at whose crest began the stands in which the crowds sat.
Styg drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the filled stands, and Andreas felt a similar awe clutch his chest as he gazed upon so many different peoples clustered together for the singular purpose of watching men fight. The Colosseum in Rome had served a similar purpose once, and Andreas had heard his share of stories about the gladiators of old, but the sheer diversity of the audience here was much more worldly than the bloodthirsty crowd that gathered in Old Rome. His heart skipped a beat as he looked upon Saracens, Slavs, Germans, Franks, Mongols, Persians, Turks, and those of a number of other races he couldn’t readily identify; he saw the same rapt expression on all their faces. They were here to watch someone bleed. It would help them forget their own woes, Andreas knew; it was one of the ugly truths of the world. Steeling himself, he took a few more steps forward so that he could look down upon the killing field.
The sand had been raked, but there was still a shadow that resided in it, a ghostly smear of the blood shed in the last fight. The hint of blood in the sand had a tangible effect on the audience, and there was a pressing hunger in the air. The back of his throat constricted, and his tongue was numb in his mouth. It was not unlike battlefield nerves, but it felt so much more vile and wrong for the place and manner in which it crept into his blood.
“Remember why we have come today,” Andreas said to Styg. He swallowed heavily, pushing his revulsion back down into his stomach where it roiled angrily.
Styg pressed his lips together and gave Andreas a jerky nod. Andreas laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
CHAPTER NINE
Quoniam Fortiduo Mea
In the long, flat valley between the Palatine and the Aventine hills lay the overgrown ruins of the Circus Maximus. It had been hundreds of years since chariots had churned across the sand, and the ground had slowly been reclaimed by wild grass and narrow stands of trees. The only reminders that the ground had once been trampled by frenzied horses were a squat tower and a series of low stables at the southern end. The stables themselves were vacant of horses now, but the largest stall was filled with a confused collection of dirty and agitated Cardinals.
Fieschi remained on the periphery of the bare room. The chamber was not unlike many of the rooms they had so recently inhabited not far from here; the main difference was the large opening at the north end that looked out upon the empty expanse of the Circus Maximus.
And the guards. A line of a dozen of Orsini’s men stood between the Cardinals and the open field, just to remind them that they were still prisoners of the Senator of Rome.
The Bear was on his way, they had been told, though Fieschi surmised that the delay had more to do with Orsini playing to their fear and confusion than any real conflicting activity. What else could be more exciting in Rome this afternoon than a fire in an abandoned temple? he thought with a wry smile.
The other Cardinals milled about in the empty stable, still congratulating themselves on their narrow escapes. Bonaventura, especially, seemed particularly enlivened by the experience. His cheeks were ruddy with excitement, and he was deep in his fourth or fifth retelling of the experience of having been lifted out of the Septizodium by a brace of soldiers. Da Capua, who had heard the story at least twice already, hung on every word like an eager sycophant, and announced that he would write a ballad about the ordeal. Dei Conti, meanwhile, kept his annoyance off his face as he listened to Bonaventura’s rambling story—he had been, from what he had muttered to Fieschi earlier, standing next to Bonaventura during the rescue. Torres, inscrutable as ever, held council with Annibaldi and Castiglione, while de Segni tried—yet again—to open negotiation with the guards, who remained unmoved by the tall Cardinal’s exhortations. Colonna fussed over his friend, Capocci, who was seated as comfortably as possible in this Spartan environment.