Blood of a Barbarian (10 page)

No doubt Procurator Incintatus, who would be sitting somewhere near to the Imperial Box, was well-pleased that his gladiators were performing as they were. His own honour or disgrace rested upon our shoulders, for if we performed well, he was a hero, and if we performed badly, it would bring him into disrepute, not only with the people of Rome, but with the Emperor himself.

After about five minutes of fighting, both men were starting to tire, and it looked as though the Umpire was about to call a short rest, when Vulcan, summoning his last reserves, struck a vital hit to Decimus. The wound did not seem vital at first, but to my practiced eye I could see that it was only a matter of time. The blow had been struck into the upper left thigh, and Decimus now hobbled backwards, trying to hold off Vulcan with his small round shield. But it was no use, and with one swift movement, the Myrmillo dug his sword in, just behind the Hoplomachus's left shoulder blade. Decimus let out a cry, and as he did so, he threw back his helmeted head, which exposed his throat. Vulcan ruthlessly exploited the gap in Decimus's defenses, and struck upwards with his sword at the bare neck. His blade struck home, and Decimus, his friend of over two years, fell to the sands, dead.

Everyone in the crowd roared their approval. It had been a good, clean kill. The public loved to see a warrior who knew his business, and who did not hesitate to strike when opportunity presented itself. All in all, a good showing.

As Vulcan raised his arms in victory, two officials, one dressed as the God Dis Pater, ferryman who led the souls of the dead across the River Styx, and another, his assistant, dressed as Mercury, the God of the dead, made their way toward the body of Decimus. Dis Pater carried a red hot-rod of steel, which he touched to the the gladiator's exposed leg, sending up a puff of smoke from the charred flesh. Mercury then took the man's helmet off, raised a large wooden mallet, and brought it down with some force upon Decimus's lifeless head. And then again. All this was done in accordance with the rules, in order to make sure that the fighter was not merely playing dead, but was actually so. At this sight, I could not help but be sickened, not least because the man had been a fellow German, but also because he had fought and died so well.

This brutal ritual over, the body was now loaded onto a stretcher, and carried solemnly off the arena floor by two slaves. Decimus's body exited by way of the Port of Liberation, which was a small door in the wall. The Emperor, who had been sipping wine from his goblet, now signaled for the next pair to emerge. As a weary Vulcan returned to join us, I saw that he was disgusted with what he had had to do, and he went to sit alone on the recovery bench.

Doctore Furius, meanwhile, called us to attention, and looked down at the scroll which he had kept tucked into his belt.

Slowly he read off the names of the next two men to fight together.

"Magnus Scorpus, Secutor, Primus Palus," he intoned slowly, "will face off with Storax, Retiarius, also Primus Palus."

My heart leapt at the reading of the names! Not only was this to be my first fight in the Great Arena, but it was to be against the man I most hated in this world, the man who had taken the life of my friend Titus. This was to be my chance at retribution, and if I succeeded, and fought well enough, I stood the chance of being named the Grand Champion of the Games. This would bring me one step closer to my goal of earning enough money so that I might one day be able to buy my freedom.

As I began to step forward, I caught a glance from Furius, who looked at me seriously. "Don't take any chances out there," he said quietly. "Storax isn't like any of the other men you've fought before. He doesn't play by the rules, and has never been defeated."

"Neither have I," I said.

I was amazed that Furius had taken the time to give me this advice, and nodded respectfully to him.

As Storax and I walked towards the place where we would take up our positions, I felt his eyes boring into the back of my head, and knew that he was mentally sizing me up, the way one fighter does to another. Little did he know that I had been watching him as he trained for some months now, studying his moves and his bad habits, looking for any flaws to exploit. I had been planning this fight for some time in my mind, and wanted to go into it with my eyes wide open.

Both of us took up our places before the Emperor, and raised our swords to him in salute. From the musician's oboe came the long plaintive note that signaled the beginning of the match. We both turned and faced one another. Storax was pacing back and forth not ten steps in front of me, and looking for all the world just like a hungry black panther. I tried not to be disconcerted by his white eyes, as they stared at me unblinkingly in the flickering torchlight...

CHAPTER ELEVEN

We Salute You

I knelt upon the ground, panting and gasping, my hands clutching at palmfuls of sand. Storax, who had been revelling in the cheers of the crowd, now turned towards me, and the smile slowly vanished from his lips as he lowered his gaze. The intensity of it was searing, and it is obvious that now the time has come for me to die. Slowly he raised his spear, and then let out a primeval cry, something from the depths of his being, as he charged towards me. Little did he know that while I knelt, I was actually resting myself, and now, with a renewed burst of energy I leapt to my feet in a single bound, and threw my handful of sand straight into his blazing eyes.

The howl he let out was not one of certain victory, but of pain, and confusion. I knew that his surprise would not last for long though, and I took advantage of every second that I had to rush over to where my sword lay. My choice was simple: Do I keep the shield, or do I abandon it, and try to get the sword instead? The answer was obvious, and so now brandishing the sword, I spun around to meet Storax's rage.

He looked at me with hatred, his eyes blinking, and his vision no doubt unclear. Still, I couldn't become too overconfident. He did not need to be able to see me very well to be able to aim his spear, and in the meantime he had regained his net. The roar from the crowd was terrific, and many people were leaning over the edge of the wall in order to get a better view. It was difficult to see and to hear what was happening with my helmet on, so in a fit of frustration, I took it off and flung it to the side. This caused Storax to grin again -he thought me a fool for removing my helmet- but I knew that at this point in the fight, with my energy flagging, I needed the advantage that more air and greater range of vision would give me.

At once I felt my strength returning, as I sucked in deep lungfuls of air, and even took the time to spin my sword in my hand and strike several poses for the crowd. This was the Magnus Scorpus that they knew and loved, not the one who fought desperately for his life, but the one who thumbs his nose at convention, and who plays by his own rules. They had been waiting for me to make my move, and seemed to collectively sense that now was the time.

It was obvious from his body language, that Storax too had sensed the shift in the mood of the crowd. They had been cheering for him, but were now on my side. To see a downed man rally himself, and then to strike back at his tormentor was for them the highest point in the games, and they let me know they were with me by chanting out my name over and over, "Magnus! Magnus!"

Storax would not give in without a fight though, and I saw that his footwork and agile spear-handling were as skillful and as deadly as ever. He spun, and side-stepped, and ducked with as much agility as though he were fresh from a good night's rest. The points of his Triton brushed against my greaves and shoulders several times, sometimes leaving shallow slash- marks, but I swung my sword with purpose, and he was forced into a general retreat, and at last I found a weak spot in his seemingly invulnerable defenses.

In many ways, Storax was a pure fighting animal, his timing was perfect, both for his attacks, and for stepping back to defend. His strength was obvious, and the thrusts of his spear, either when sweeping, or with slashing, were both powerful and precise. And yet there was something almost a little too memorized about his fighting style. I had noticed it before while watching him train -it was as though he had too perfectly memorized the correct moves for a Retiarius, and did not think outside of the box. Most of the time, this served him well, but I wondered how he would do against someone who was unpredictable.

I thought that a little counter-intuition was called for now.

One last time, I looked up to the heavens, and asked the gods to help me clear my mind, so that I might think less, and do more.

"Storax!" I yelled out at him. "You are the greatest gladiator I have ever seen. I wish I did not have to kill you."

In a way, I meant what I said, for even though he had killed Titus, and even though he was trying his best to kill me, I had very little taste for vengeance anymore. I realized, in this moment, that one way or another, as gladiators, life itself would finish us all off in the end, both the just and the wicked. Whether I killed him or someone else did, it will all be the same. The same, except that was not my intention to die, and if I was to live, than Storax would have to be killed, for he would never surrender.

"I would hate to die," he replied, and the intensity of his gaze never wavered.

I approached him now, knowing that this was the final test, the final clash, and tried to keep my mind clear. The movements I made seemed to come from deep within, not conscious movements, but much more spontaneous, flowing and connected, not staggered and disjointed. These blows I struck caught Storax off-guard, and he reeled backwards under the onslaught. His spear thrusts were easily parried, and I finished with a final flourish, a quick, lethal stab to Storax's neck, just above the galerus shoulder-guard.

All at once, he knew that he was finished, and slumped forward, not dead, but slowly dying. The crowd erupted into wild applause, and began to chant out the words "Ferum Recipere!" or "Receive the Iron!"

This was their way of telling me that they wanted him to be killed with my iron sword. I looked up to the people, and up to the Emperor. All were shouting for blood. They wanted me to kill Storax. I looked down to the man beneath me, my sword raised high. To his credit, he decided to make his last moments as dignified as he could, and turned and knelt, exposing the back of his neck. I waited a moment, as the people cheered all the louder, and then brang the sword down in one swift motion. The blade slid easily into his spine, severing it completely. His nervous system twitched and fluttered for a moment beneath my blade, and then he went still, falling forward into the blood-stained sand.

Immediately, the trumpets of victory sounded, and the Umpire of the games ushered me up a long flight of marble steps. I was incredibly weary, but managed to struggle up. At the top of the steps was the Editor of the games, who sat on a gilded stool. He gestured to a slave-boy, who held in his hands a crown made out of laurel leaves. I took the crown, and turning towards the crowd of cheering fans, placed it upon my head.

The Editor spoke solemnly. "Young beast," he said. "Today you have won one of the highest honours that may be bestowed upon a gladiator. Today you are the Grand Champion of the games... Such glory though, will be yours but for a brief moment... And what of tomorrow?" He asked, seeming earnestly interested.

"Tomorrow," I replied, "I will seek my freedom."

"A noble goaI, and one to be envied," he said philisophically.

"Envied?" I ventured boldly. "But you yourself were born free."

"Freedom," he said, "is something that few men truly possess. We are all subject to the will of the gods, or to fate. It is a state of mind, and I wish you well on your journey toward it, so long as this freedom of yours serves Rome."

Only a man born into freedom, I thought to myself, could believe that it is something intangible, something granted by the gods. It was far more difficult for those of us in chains of iron to reconcile ourselves to our fates.

I then turned, and began to descend the long flight of marble steps, until I came down again onto the sands. I knew that I was expected to complete a victory lap around the arena, thus giving the spectators one last chance to express their enthusiasm. Once I completed the lap, I again went through the Gate of Life, and joined my comrades, who congratulated me.

"Now I can rest," I thought, and began to walk back through the maze of underground passages, until I arrived back at the Ludus. Things were quiet there, as almost everyone was at the games. Only a few guards milled about, playing dice on a flight of steps.

All at once I heard a cheer coming from the arena, and I knew that a man, a man not unlike myself, had either been spared from death, or had died. One has gained his life for another day, I thought, and one has left this cruel world behind for good. I remembered the words of Furius, who had said that in this Ludus, untold numbers of dreams have been, and would be, shattered. Today I was Grand Champion, and that meant something, of course. It meant coins in my hand, and glory, and yet another step on the way to the end of my bondage. More than anything, that was what I now craved.

I looked to all the statues of fallen gladiators that lined the Ludus walls. Great men all, but at what price did I buy a place for myself in history? To have my name scrawled all over the dirty walls of Rome, and to have my deeds recounted in grisly detail by children and Senators alike -was that honour? Titus was dead, and many more would surely follow, all so that a few might receive the crown of glory and the cheers of the mob. Must a thousand men die just so that one can be free? And yet I knew that there was only one real way to escape this life, only one way out, and that was to become so proficient at the art of blood-shedding, that the Emperor himself would willingly hand you the wooden Rudis sword, the symbol of freedom. Only when you had either fought so heroically that the people demanded that you be released, or until you have served out the full four years of service -only then might you walk without chains.