Blood of a Barbarian (4 page)

By now, the sun had fully risen, and our only relief from the heat was when young servant boys came around with jugs of water for us to drink our fill from. By mid-afternoon my confidence had already begun to soar. Furius introduced us to the Palus, which was a wooden dummy, shaped like a man, with hard sticks of wood coming out of its side. The idea was to attack this post, and try to score a certain amount of different types of hits within five beats of time, pounded out on a large drum by a slave. I did well with this, and was also amongst the quickest of the men when furius trained us on how not to blink. He, or one of his assistants, stood before us with a Rudis, and swung it at our faces. Sometimes we were actually hit, and sometimes not, but the idea was not to blink, no matter what. Some of the Novicius blinked every time, but I managed to keep my head more often than not.

Next, Furius showed us the swinging Palus, which was nicknamed "The Iron Man." It, like the stationary Palus, was a large crude man-like figure -only this one rotated, moved as it was by several slaves. The idea was to stand beneath it and get in a certain number of different types of slashes and jabs with one's Rudis, while avoiding the heavy sandbags which hung down from the arms of this figure, and which swung about unpredictably. Getting a hit was no small matter, and several of the men were knocked out cold. I myself took a knock to the back, and felt as though I had been punched by a mythical giant.

As we were training, several dozen people, Roman citizens no doubt, took up seats in the front rows of the arena, and looked down on us as we trained. Such an activity was called "Spectatus," and they were reviewing us in a way, seeing who the up-and-comer gladiators would be this season. Most of them were older men, but I noticed that amongst them, sitting alone, was a very attractive young lady. I kept feeling her eyes following me as I went through my training, and could not help myself from showing off a bit for her. She looked young, no more than eighteen, and was dressed in the height of Roman fashion. Her long dark hair was done up in a pile on top of her head, which was the Roman way, and one could easily see, even from thirty paces away, that beneath her elegant robes she had a firm, lithe body. All of this I would barely have noticed though, so intense was the training, had it not been for the fact that whenever I glanced her way, she seemed to be smiling at me. Such a thing as this, as small as it was, after months of having been treated miserably, and not having even seen such a lady before, all boosted my ego. It also didn't hurt that Doctore Furius himself seemed to note my high level of stamina and quickeness of movement. Perhaps, I thought, being a gladiator wouldn't be so hard after all?

After a light lunch, taken thankfully in the shade, we returned to the arena. I looked up to the seats and my lady was still there. I wondered at such an interest from a person like her, and put it down to just one more strange thing that I would probably never understand about Roman culture. Our women back home, though sometimes as fierce as our men, would never have spent their days watching fighters train.

As we took up our positions, this time Furius said that he had a new, and infinitely more challenging test for us. I wondered what he meant by this, but was feeling elated by this point.

"Some of you," he said, as his weathered, though not entirely old face broke into a wry grin. "those of you who have not done too badly so far, are probably feeling pretty good about yourselves. That is about to change. You are now about to face your first true challange, and those of you who pass this test will earn from me a tiny lessening of my contempt and distain for you. I must warn you though, that it is very unlikely that any of you will ever reach such an elevated status, but we shall see... It is the task of the Secutor, as you know, to engage in mortal combat with the Retiarius, and a more sneaking, low-down opponent there has never been. And oh, aren't you lucky," he said, the wry grin returning to his face, and his one eye twinkling, "The crowd just happens to loathe the Retiarius, or Fisherman, as he is also known, and for some unknown reason prefer the Secutor in general. But do not imagine for a second that this will help you, for Retiarius is one deadly snake, and has a longer life-expectancy than you will ever enjoy, so be wary, and never underestimate him... For those of you wise enough, or cowardly enough, to want mercy from this skulking heathen, you need only raise a finger in submission to the Umpire of the games, in what is known as "Missio." This may very well spare you your life, but it will never spare you your pride, or my wrath, and any man who falls prey to this weakness on my training ground shall forfeit any of the bean-sized esteem I now hold him in. Remember, the greatest purpose of a true gladiator is not just to fight, and not even to die. It is to carry out the spectacle of death, as a form of ritual, and to bring to this spectacle all the dignity and honour which the people of Rome demand from their heroes. Is that clear?!"

"Clear, Doctore!" we all yelled.

"Then you will be happy to meet your first and only worthy opponent thus far: A mighty Veteran Beast if ever there was one... Thus I give you, Fabullus!"

Furius then turned, and gestured toward one of the Retiarius who was busily training in the area just beyond our own. He used a real Trident spear when he trained, and was busily slashing and jabbing at another Retiarius, who looked equally lethal. Upon hearing his name, he turned, stabbed his spear into the ground with an easy thrust, and strode confidently over to Furius. In size and shape he did not look especially powerful, for he was lean and wiry, as all Fishermen are, and yet I noticed that what he did have, was pure muscle, and there was something violent and animal-like in the way he moved, and in the hard smouldering of his eyes.

"Fabullus," said the Doctore, "has killed eleven men in the Great Arena, and would like nothing better than to add you to his list. Is that not right Fabullus?"

"Yes, Doctore," Fabullus said, and to emphasize his point, pounded his fist into his hand.

"Good," said Furius. "First up... Priscus," and he pointed at one of the Gauls.

To his credit, I noticed that Priscus strode forward without hesitation, and readily lunged forward with his attack. He used his sword and shield well, but Fabullus, armed only with his bare hands, had soon knocked both weapons out of Priscus's hands, and soon thereafter had him down on the ground in an iron-tight wrestling hold. The fight was over almost before it had begun, with Priscus raising one of the fingers of his right hand in order to save himself from being choked to death. Fabullus let him go, though reluctantly, and while Priscus panted for breath, Fabullus didn't even seem to have broken a sweat.

"Ah, I see that Fabullus is in excellent form this afternoon," said Furius gloatingly, "Or is it just that we have not given him enough of a challenge. Next... Titraites."

By the time three fights had come and gone, I had begun to wonder how things would go for myself. By now I thought that Fabullus must surely be tiring. As great as his stamina no doubt was, even he could not go on like this forever, and by the time my turn came, he would surely have weakened somewhat. I was concerned about how I would look in front of my Roman lady. She was still sitting in the stands, and her pretty eyes continued to fall upon me. I in turn looked upon her, and smiled back. I wanted nothing more than to put on a good show for her, and if I could defeat Fabullus, this would surely elevate me in her eyes.

After all the other men had been defeated, it was my turn. I wondered why Furius had waited so long to call upon me, but consoled myself with the thought that he had wanted to save the best till last.

I need not have been so arrogant, for though I was more muscular than Fabullus, he had soon knocked me to the ground. I got up, just in time, as he came in with a crushing blow. I say just in time, because if I had been still on the ground he would have knocked me out for sure. As it was, his kick merely glanced off of my leg. But if I had thought that this would save me, then I was wrong, for he simply spun around and kicked me with the other leg, sending me flying. By the time I was left panting in the sand, I had done no worse, but also no better, than any of the other men, and I was forced to raise my finger in Missio to save myself from an even worse beating.

When I stood up, I ached all over, but my pride hurt worst of all. I caste a glance back to the stands one last time before retiring to the baths, but my lady was no longer smiling at me. She had turned away. Before this poor showing I had been her potential champion, a god of the arena, but was now just another slave, one whom she would never stoop to look at.

I limped slowly across the arena, as the blood-red sun began to set on the horizon.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dogs of the Underworld

It felt good to soak my weary bones and muscles in the warm bath water. I took a wet towel and draped it over my face as I leaned back against the rim of the large wooden tub. Many other gladiators also congregated about in the bath area, either soaking themselves in the cold, warm or hot baths, or rubbing themselves down with oil. Both my arms and my legs were weary and bruised beyond anything I'd known before, and yet it was not my body that had taken the real beating, but my pride. I had never before been subjected to the gaze of others in the way that I had that day, and was not sure yet if I liked it or not. True, it had felt good to show off, and to know that I had been doing well, but the chances of falling flat on my face had become great, especially in front of a woman.

It did not help me much that several of the other men were deeply engrossed in a boisterous conversation about the merits of the gladatorial life. One, an especially loud and grunting Gaul by the name of Melo, now known as Vulcan, who was a well-built Myrmillo, kept on boasting of all the victories he was going to have in the arena when he got his chance, and the women who were going to adore him. The other two, one named Osthryth, a fellow German, and now called Decimus, and another man whom I did not know, were laughing and encouraged Vulcan. They too, they said, had plans to lie with "The Quality," meaning wealthy Roman Ladies, once they were famous for their prowess in the arena.

"I," shouted strutting Vulcan for all to hear, "shall spawn a thousand sons, some of whom, after a generation or two, may become the quality themselves. Ha!" and he let out an uproarious laugh that the others joined in with mirthfully.

Decimus the German, not to be outdone by a Gaul, shouted even louder, "I will not rest until I have ten thousand sons, and will cut short your short sword, Vulcan, before you have the chance to do any breeding!"

"Not if I can help it!" shouted Vulcan, and he lunged at Decimus, grabbing him by the throat. What followed was a playful tussle, and all the other gladiators took notice, and began cheering them on. I had had quite enough of this racket, and was in no mood for it. I didn't need what they were saying rubbed in my face after the day I had just had.

"Why don't you all just be still!" I yelled, "Save your energy for the sands."

Everyone was silent all of a sudden, not because they took what I'd said seriously, but because they wished to see how Vulcan, who was notorious for his temper - even for a gladiator - would react to this challange.

"Oh, and what's it to you?" said Vulcan, pushing Decimus aside. "Is someone upset because they got a hiding today?" He said this in a mock conciliatory tone. "You know, if it had been me, rather than Fabullus with you today, I would not have let you get up again."

I had met far too many men like Vulcan in my time before to believe that he was making idle threats. Men like him usually meant what they said when they threatened, and I knew that I was not yet ready to take him on in a fight, especially without a sword. But still, I could not back down, or I would be forever-after viewed as a coward by the other men, men whom I would be training and living with for some years yet, and so I decided to battle Vulcan with words instead. I was still angry and resentful, not so much at this Gaulish fool, but at myself for having been bested and humiliated, and I was not going to let it happen again.

"You boast about your prowess in the arena," I said, "and of how you will lie with the quality, but don't you realize that most of us will die very soon, and if we get these women, it will be they who possess and choose us, not the other way around. We are just like stud horses to them, and they wouldn't be caught dead with us except in some darkened corner somewhere. And if they ever do have your sons, they will never admit to them or to anyone else that they are the result of a gladiator. They would be ashamed, for they would be looked down upon by their fellow citizens."

I could not stop myself now, and just kept going.

"And as for the great glories and the fortunes, one has to live long enough to see those things, and I have a feeling that you, Vulcan, are not long for this world. How many gladiators truly live to see freedom? And even if you do fulfill your four years, what will you do after? You will be a social outcast, and will hardly be able to return to your own people... We are slaves, first and foremost, and will always be. We are the dogs of the underworld, damnatio who live somewhere between the darkness and the light, in a world of shadows, and always condemned to be shackled and whipped, should it so please our masters. Even our three meals a day, and these baths, and every other luxury, are only there to ensure that we put on a good show for a baying crowd that neither loves us nor hates us, and who calls for our blood merely as a kind of spectacle. We are likened unto the gods by the Romans only as a form of amusement."

It felt good for me to say those things, as they were things that I had been thinking about for many days now, and yet somehow I regretted having said them nonetheless. True, Vulcan was a Gaulish dog who would have kicked a lame man just for fun, but there had been no call for me to have taken my frustrations out on him, or on the others. After all, was he not a slave just like me? Perhaps he was wise to try to find the best he could out of this life.