CHAPTER SEVEN: PRIVATE SHOW

 

 

 

The crowd, although there were barely more than twenty of them, bayed as if there were thousands. A trumpet wailed. Somewhere, somebody held their breath.

At the end of the great chamber, where last night she and Nigel had had so much fun, stood Sydney Fox, prepped and ready for action.

She was clad in a tightly-trussed leather bodice, which covered her only from her cleavage to her thighs. Sydney had not been impressed by the design, thinking: ‘Xena looked way cooler than this. It looks like it's been designed by an ancestor of Madonna - in her conical braphase!’ Despite her predicament, she had been quite excited by the costume possibilities and was now oddly disappointed.

She was much more pleased by her weapon: a sword, polished and sharp, flashing in the light. ‘It's beautiful,’ she had mused. ‘It's the best Roman craftsmanship I’ve ever seen… if I can't bring this back, I'm going to have to hunt it some time…’

Reflections on the variable quality of the props aside, Sydney felt like a caged tiger just waiting for her moment to pounce. She'd spent the day in comfortable enough quarters, but each door had been guarded with a dozen armed soldiers. Each escape attempt, of which there had been several, had been foiled. Nobody would speak to her and, more to the point, nobody would tell her where Nigel was. The image of his face as he was dragged away had tormented her nearly to the point of madness. And now, seeing the man responsible, her blood boiled.

Agroitus, reclined on a couch at the opposite into the room, was feeling pleased with himself. He couldn't wait to see his new treasure in action, and seeing as there were no games at the arena arranged for tonight, he’d decided a private display would be a fine idea. He could show Sydney off to all the important people in the town, creating even more of a buzz for her first public appearance tomorrow.

It was certainly pleasing to Demetrius, who had been angry earlier when Agroitus had decided that he wouldn't sell Sydney to him outright, after boasting of her virtues, but display her only ‘on loan.’ Now, however, as the gladiator-trainer watched from the sidelines, he realized he would make a fortune in extra ticket sales anyway.

Then the music stopped. A man, brandishing a shield and spear, leapt at Sydney from the left. She twirled like a ballerina, blocked his blow, and struck. The challenger fell, injured not dead, but quite unable to continue.

Something tragic moved in Sydney's eye, but she had no time for compassion. Another combatant stepped from the right. This time, she leapt with the grace of a gazelle, avoiding a swipe at her legs. Landing crouched, she sprung, delivering a punch to the jaw, swiftly followed by a knockout high-kick.

The ritual was repeated, two, three, then four times, before the supply of challengers was exhausted. Then there was silence, until Agroitus deigned to honour her with a slow rhythmic clap. Others follow his lead, and the room resounded with the slap of hands. To Sydney, it was the clash of thunder, the toll of death. But not for her

The warrior princess had triumphed. But the fight was yet to begin.

…………………………

When the performance ended, Demetrius slipped away, rubbing his hands with glee. He had to plan how to pack extra people in the arena tomorrow night.

For Agroitus, however, there was one little problem. There was nothing that the randy Roman wanted more than to spend some time alone with this beautiful warrior. However, she was just a little bit too dangerous. He was quite aware that she would take the first opportunity to break his neck. He didn't want to hurt her in any physical way; that might impair her performance. What he needed was some way to control her…

From his couch, he leant forward and beckoned Sydney, who was still standing in the middle of the room, ablaze with anger.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied two soldiers stepping out to disarm her. Pre-empting them, she threw her sword to the ground with a clatter. Her mind was calculating quickly. There were only eight soldiers in the room now, less than she’d been guarded by all day, and Agroitus had been using a small knife to cut his food that still lay near him. She might be able to pull something off. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed her emotions with her motto: ‘go with the flow.’ She stepped towards him slowly, almost casually.

‘My dear, that was magnificent! But why did you not kill? It's obvious that you can, and my thumb would have been to the ground for all of those losers.’

‘Newsflash, Agroitus: The only person in this room who deserves to die is you.’ Her silky tones were laced with venom.’

Agroitus, wondering what on earth a newsflash was, laughed. The clapping had stopped, and their voices now cut through near silence. ‘What was it your tragic little husband called you?’ he asked with false cheer. ‘Boudicea? I like it. Maybe I'll call you Boudicea, my warrior princess!’

With the mention of Nigel, Sydney's commitment to her plan faltered. She didn't want to do anything which might make it worse for him if he was still in Agroitus’s power. Testing the ground, she said: ‘You can call me what you'd like. You can even do what you like with me. Just let him go.’

‘Out of my hands, my beauty. I sold him. I meant to sell you… but I realised I could never part with a thing of such loveliness and talent.’

‘That's a shame…’ said Sydney, as plan A flew back into action.

She lunged, and in a swift, singular movement she seized the little pearl-handled fruit knife and pressed it up against Agroitus’ throat.

‘You’re very good, my beauty,’ he wheezed.

‘Get up or I’ll do it, Agroitus!’ With Sydney gripping the back of his robe, the patrician staggered to his feet. Three of the soldiers had drawn their swords, but Sydney pressed the knife closer. ‘One step nearer, and I’ll cut… then I'll kill you all. You know I could… ’ The men glanced at each other, unsure what to do. Agroitus glowered, but gave no clear orders.

Sydney backed towards one of the exits, praying that there was no legion of guards outside. As she neared, however, a slight movement from the side of one of the pillars caught her attention. A young girl with caramel hair – Lydia – was standing there, her eyes wide with alarm. She was shaking her head, almost imperceptibly, but just enough for Sydney to catch her meaning. Don't go that way. Lydia's shifted her gaze to an open window. Go that way.

It had to be quick. Sydney released Agroitus with an almighty shove, and gave his backside a hefty kick that sent him sprawling unceremoniously across the floor. As the soldiers charged, she leapt for the window and dived out, landing with a roll. She ploughed through the beautiful, ornamental garden, pushing statues and urns behind her, covering her trail and confounding the soldiers who had climbed out after her. She then scaled the villa wall and ran like the wind.

………………………………

Sydney was fast, and already too far away from the Villa to hear Agroitus’ screams of rage, as he dispatched soldiers, left and right, to find her.

This was not a man used to being bettered. When they did not come back quick and successful, he was livid. He now knew he had made a mistake in getting rid of the one thing he could use to control her. He dispatched one of his best lieutenants with clear instructions: ‘you find the boy before she does and bring him here. Then she'll come back.’

………………………………….

Nigel awoke to find himself lying on the cold ground, his head rested on a pile of rags, and his lower body covered by threadbare blanket. For a moment, he had not a clue where he was. Then the dull ache of his limbs, and the sharp throb of his ankle, prompted the memory of the previous, horrendous day, which washed over him, bringing with it a wave of anxiety.

‘Derek?’ Nigel's voice sounded as a small croak but, to his relief, it was answered by a voice very close by.

‘I’m here. How are you doing?’

‘I'm alright’ lied Nigel, and began to push himself up into a sitting position. As each of his muscles crunched with pain, it took a moment for him to realise that there was no metallic clunk as he moved: the chains were gone.

Twisting to look at Derek, Nigel could see that the Special Agent was crouched just beside him, restlessly fiddling with a large, blunt nail that he had appropriated from somewhere or other. He was keenly eyeing the other inhabitants of the room, his steely stares obviously aimed at keeping them at bay.

Derek caught Nigel’s confused expression regarding the chains. ‘I broke those things off, earlier,’ he said with a gesturing nod. ‘I’m not sure it made me too popular with the locals,’ he added. ‘I had to negotiate to get something to pick the shackles with, and the blanket, but unfortunately I didn't know any words.’ Nigel could picture the scene. Derek certainly knew how to use force to get what he wanted!

‘I am amazed none of it woke you up. I was kinda worried.’

‘Oh, I'm heavy sleeper,’ rejoindered Nigel. ‘Well, usually…’ He recalled that there had been a few places on his travels with Sydney, where he hadn't got a wink, notably that ‘Roma’ tent with all those snoring men. But, back then, he hadn't had quite such a dramatic day to get over.

‘Thank you, anyway,’ said Nigel, rubbing his wrists, where the skin had become a bit sore. ‘And thanks for last night. I know what you said, but I was still an idiot.’

‘No - you - weren't,’ articulated Derek emphatically. ‘But if it helps, let's not talk about it again.’

Nigel nodded. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful, but he did want to forget the tears.

‘Hungry?’ asked Derek, changing the subject. Nigel was hungry, but he didn't quite feel like food. The relief of being found by Derek last night, and the subsequent outpouring of emotions, had been a bit like being drunk. Compared to how he had felt before, it had been absolute euphoria. Now it was the 'morning after,’ he couldn't help thinking that things were still pretty bad. Ultimately, Derek couldn't save him. Unless a miracle - or Sydney - intervened, they would eventually be separated, and he would be killed. Or maybe they'd just feed him straight to the Tigers! What was the point of eating?

When Derek shoved a piece of dry bread in his hand, Nigel smiled wanly and pushed it back.

‘No thank you. You have it.’

‘Nah,’ grinned Derek. ‘Couldn't manage it. I feasted like a king this morning.’ When Nigel hesitated, he added, tongue-in-cheek: ‘You wanna start a fight about it?’

Nigel shook his head and popped a piece in his mouth. It was dry and gritty, and took some chewing before he could choke it down. He began to wonder why he ever wanted to know anything about the Ancient World. Resorting to an Americanism, he decided ‘it sucked.’

Derek could see that Nigel was despondent, and decided he had to do something about it. Frankly, he hadn't a clue how long he could keep on saving himself, let alone Nigel, but he'd realised soon enough that it was time to reinstate his old motto: ‘kill or be killed.’ Nigel, on the other hand, appeared to have resigned himself to the latter part of this mantra alone.

‘Hey, chin up, Nigel,’ said Derek, almost chirpily. ‘Surely you and Sydney Fox have got out of worse spots than this?’

Nigel chewed contemplatively. He had always been the pessimist of the pair. Nevertheless, each time that he'd been convinced the end was nigh, such as when they were up to their neck in sand with the tide coming in, Sydney had been right: they had survived. The worst time had been when he was locked in that madman’s basement in Russia, believing she was dead. But she hadn't been dead. She was alive and, as ever, she'd got them out of there. Nigel said nothing. His thoughts never settled themselves into a reply, but the flicker of hope was rekindling.

As soon as Nigel had finished his un-appetising breakfast, and obliged Derek by consuming some revolting tasting water out of a dirty clay bowl, the Special Agent demanded that he got up and practiced ‘his moves.’

Nigel was not keen. ‘I don't really have any,’ he admitted. It was true. Most of his ‘moves’ were made up on the spot, such as wacking someone over the head with a vegetable, or a sucker punch. It all seemed inadequate.

‘Come on,’ encouraged Derek, now standing over him and jumping from foot to foot, like a boxer limbering up. ‘You must have picked up something from Sydney, after all those adventures.’

‘I usually just let her get on with the fighting,’ conceded Nigel. ‘In fact, the best ‘move’ I can think of for later is still running away. So, if you don't mind, I’ll save my ankle for that by not getting up right now.’

‘Not good enough. You're going to have to fight.’

Nigel clutched his ankle and looked up petulantly, but Derek could tell the fake from the genuine. ‘Get up, Bailey. Pouting might work with Sydney Fox but it won’t do it for me.’

Nigel scowled and clambered up, taking Derek's proffered hand as help. Maybe he had been exaggerating his discomfort, but only a little bit! Once on his feet, he felt kind of groggy, and it took a moment before the world stopped spinning and he could let go of Derek.

‘Okay?’ said Derek, concerned again.

‘See? I wasn't pouting about nothing!’ said Nigel indignantly, then quickly added, ‘not that I was pouting…what do you want me to do?’

‘Right,’ said Derek, bouncing keenly and now scarily resembling Nigel’s old P. E. teacher: ‘Let's try this. I’ll come at you like so… you block like this…then you strike right back like that.’ As he spoke, Derek demonstrated with precision movements of his limbs, which swished through the air like lethal weapons. ‘Got it?’

Nigel acknowledged him with an expression of studied comprehension. ‘Okay…’ Derek feigned a punch in Nigel's direction, at half the pace of before. Nigel, reflexes kicking in, ducked rather than blocked, and concluded by kicking Derek on the shin, with some determination.

‘Ow!’ The cry came from Nigel. The kick had left all of his weight on his bad ankle. He swayed and lost his balance, falling backwards onto the floor with an ‘oomph.’

‘Shall we give that another go,’ suggested Derek, offering his hand again.

‘It's no good, Derek,’ said Nigel, resignedly. ‘I'm not going to be good enough by this evening, and you know it.’

‘I'm not having you giving up on me!’

‘I'm not giving up, Derek. I just think I should play to my… strengths. I’m much better at running away, and seeing as I can't exactly, well, run, I think time would be better spent looking for some way to get out of here.’

‘No can do,’ said Derek, settling himself on the floor next to Nigel. ‘Believe me, I've tried.’

‘Yes, but I bet you haven't looked for any secret passages, hidden staircases, or mystic opening mechanisms. You'd be surprised how Sydney and I have found our way out of spots.’

‘I'm sure I would,’ laughed Derek. ‘But, tell me, my friend, why should there be any hidden passages in an amphitheatre.’

‘I know there’s at least one hidden compartment,’ conceded Nigel. ‘And I sort of know where it is.’ He informed Derek what he’d found out about where the relic was hidden.

‘If we have to go down to the arena for training, which is likely, we’ll pass one side of the lion's cage,’ said Derek. ‘It’s within the sealed off area, so we can't be suspected of escape. I'll slip away and have a look.’

‘Hadn’t I better do that?’ said Nigel. ‘After all, this is the stuff I'm good at. I’ll know what to look for. That repulsive slave owner said he wasn't going to bother training me much, anyway. I doubt I'll be missed.’

Despite reservations, Derek agreed, and the plan was set. At the first opportunity, Nigel was going relic hunting - and to search for an escape.

……………………..

On the other side of town, Sydney Fox was considering whether it would be bad practice to give a member of the Oxford historical faculty a good, hard kick to the head.

Having got over the shock of seeing Professor Bluthus, a face she recognised from books and conferences, back in the ancient world, she was becoming particular angry. He was deliberately withholding information from her. Whether it was from fear, guilt or wickedness, she could not yet tell.

Her demands to know where Nigel was were answered by an increasingly nervous ‘Hhhhmmmm.’

‘Okay, time’s up, Bluthus,’ growled Sydney, seizing the Oxford don by the front of his tunic. ‘That sleazy trader told me that he sold Nigel to you. He also said Nigel was ill. If you don't tell me where he is, then I don't care what period we’re in - I'm going to get mediaeval on you!’

Bluthus stared at her, openmouthed. After a second, Sydney realised he wasn't staring at her face, but down towards her chest. The cloak she had stolen as a disguise had slipped open, and underneath she was still clad in her dominatrix-style leather outfit from last night.

She gave him an angry shake: ‘Bluthus! This is your last chance!’

Bluthus stopped drooling, shut his mouth, and began to talk. ‘Yes, I bought Nigel, and he wasn't ill. That was just a genius plan of mind to get his price down,’ Bluthus sighed, self-satisfied. ‘Sometimes I surprise even myself by my brilliance.’

Sydney shook him again. ‘Alright, Professor Fox, I'm getting to it. Anyway, he was in spankingly fine fettle when he got here…I'm not sure he was in quite such a good nick when he left, though.’

‘Left? Where did he go? Was he hurt?’

‘He got into a bit of trouble and, well, my master gave him a bit of a thumping and sold him to the arena, I'm afraid. I’m not entirely sure he could walk when they hauled him off…’

Sydney’s heart thumped. Her poor, sweet, defenseless, Nigel! The thought of what they'd done to him, and what might have happened subsequently, made her feel physically sick.

‘Why didn't you do anything?’ Her voice cracked as she wrestled back the tears.

‘I tried, I tried,’ bleated Bluthus, genuinely worried that Sydney was about to murder him in cold blood. ‘But what could I do? And what can you do? None of us can ever go back to the 21st century, you know? We can't risk the relic getting into the hands of that witch, Veronica. Nigel wasn't prepared to accept that and, as much as it is tragic that his life should be so short, maybe it's all for the best. Veronica could change the entire course of history. Millions of lives could depend on it… ’

Sydney, letting her grip of the professor slip, was at a loss for words. In the end, she said quietly: ‘So that's how you justify your cowardice, is it?’

Bluthus began to blather nervously: ‘Hhhmmm. Logically speaking, it's your fault he's in trouble. Nigel would have been fine if he hadn't learnt such bad habits from you…you’re a rash woman, you know?’

Sydney never even heard the end of this spiel. She was already running towards the amphitheatre.

………………………………..

Meanwhile, Demetrius was having an intriguing interview with an agent of Agroitus. With the help of a large team, the consul’s henchman had traced the current whereabouts of Nigel rather quicker than Sydney had.

Fortunately, however, Demetrius was not one to be cowed into a quick sale when he spied moneymaking potential.

‘So let me get this straight,’ he barked at the agent. ‘Agroitus’s warrior princess has escaped, even though I have canvassed all over town that the daughter of Boudicea herself will be on display in the arena tonight.’

The agent nodded sheepishly.

‘And then, as a form of compensation, he offers me five hundred denari in return for one of my slaves. Granted, the one he wants is a useless little wretch, and I only paid ten for him, but five hundred is not going to make up what I will lose if I have a disappointed crowd tonight. Tell Agroitus, if he wants the slave, he needs to pay me at least one thousand denari.’

The agent balked at this. ‘I'm going to have to ask my master. One thousand denari is a lot of money.’

Demetrius dismissed him with the flick of his hand. ‘Tell him I won’t take a penny less!’ The agent scuttled off.

‘Interesting’, thought Demetrius. He had worked out there must be some sort of link between Nigel and the warrior princess. After all, she fitted the description the slave had given him yesterday, which Demetrius had answered carelessly. He enjoyed telling slaves that their loved ones were dead, even if he hadn't a clue who they were talking about.

He realised that there was certainly some more moneymaking potential, here. If this young man was going to lure the warrior princess back to Agroitus, why shouldn't he lure her to him, Demetrius, at the arena, instead? If this failed, he even had a tenuous plan B: he could use the slave as a bargaining chip to get his hands on the treasure that it was rumoured Agroitus had hidden somewhere in the arena.

Musing on these possibilities, but mainly about the money he could make with the warrior princess in his power, he stomped off to find Nigel.

 

Continue to chapter 8