Chapter XXXIII
XXXIII
TELEMACHUS LOOKED AT THE THREE MEN sitting around the table with him.
Felix Cassianus the elder had aged ten years since Telemachus had bid Matthew, the young monk-turned-ludus guard, to repeat what he’d revealed to Telemachus hours before.
That Felix was a prisoner of the Ludus Gallicus and there was nothing any of them could do about it.
Going to the authorities would only officially incriminate Felix as a thief of imperial slaves—and they would reveal their participation in the scheme in the process.
Cassianus had listened in silence, his posture melting and reforming beneath the news.
A father’s concern for his son. Is this what it looked like? Telemachus could recognize a father’s revulsion, his hatred, but not this concern and straight-shouldered resolution.
“I will offer to you what I offered to my son,” Cassianus said, leaning forward, eyes sharp and focused as an archer.
“I have been commissioned to repair the public latrines near the Flavian Amphitheatre. We’ve been working day and night to finish the work before the games—and in the meantime, I have access to many of the ludi and the amphitheatre itself.
If we can get the gladiators into the sewer tunnels, we can get them out of the city. ”
Telemachus laced his fingers together. “Tell me more.”
“There are ancient tunnels beneath the amphitheatre, built back when the arena was flooded for naval battles. None of them have been used in well over a hundred years, and many have been sealed up—but one has been left open and it leads to the medical bay. When wounded gladiators are dragged from the arena, they are brought to this room and are either cared for by the medici from their ludus or dispatched and shoved into this tunnel. When the nearby Baths of Titus are drained, the water rushes through, sweeping the bodies into the Tiber and out to sea.”
Rivers were helpful like that. Sweeping away the body with the trash, but never the guilt.
The fear that rage, unchecked, might strike again.
And why did it plague him so? He’d had fifty-two victories to his name, had killed men for those victories, and yet, why did the one never leave him alone?
Telemachus drew in a breath, calming his pulse, forcing himself to try and remember the medical bay.
He’d been carried there once, but he recalled little of the room, only the pain as his wounds were sutured.
“And what is your plan?” Dead gladiators wouldn’t do them much good.
“The medici are strong, but they will not be able to withstand a surprise attack from the sewer.”
Gaius raised both hands. “We cannot attack innocent physicians—”
“Don’t have to kill them,” Telemachus broke in, catching the plumber’s vision and silencing Gaius’s protest. “Just kidnap them for a while. Put our own ‘medici’ in their places and rescue every wounded gladiator we can.”
“Yes,” Cassianus said, sudden hope lifting his shoulders. “I was thinking something of the kind. Are there enough men willing to play the part?”
“More than enough,” Gaius confirmed with a nod.
“The ludi are hiring more guards,” Matthew spoke up. “And the amphitheatre will need cleaners and ushers and hypogeum staff. Could we infiltrate as many places as we can, try to slip gladiators out of cells and into the sewers?”
“I like it.” Telemachus nodded.
If the battle reenactment happened, it would be later, the pinnacle event of the games, allowing them most of the day to slip Visigoth gladiators out of the amphitheatre cells and into the safety of the tunnels.
And God willing, when the moment for the battle came, there would be no Visigoth army.
Emperor Honorius would be shamed—but should he not be ashamed after ordering such a spectacle?
Especially when such games had been banned in the Eastern Empire for nearly eighty years?
There would be consequences. No one defied an emperor, even a sixteen-year-old one, and escaped unscathed. But no matter the consequences, they would be worth it.