Calgaich the Swordsman (34 page)

‘These prisoners are the property of the emperor. I had intended to give them a few weeks’ training before turning them into the arena, but we ran out of arena fodder a few weeks back. No new shipments of any amount have come in. Oh, a few Scythians, some Thracians, a handful of mangy Greeks, and a dozen or so Illyrians. Most of them died this morning, without giving any kind of a show. That mob in there is restless, Quaestor, and I have no intention of letting them get out of hand.” The procurator was speaking to the quaestor, but his eyes were on Morar.
“Roma Dea . . .”
he murmured. Where did you find this golden goddess, Lucius?”

The quaestor smiled. He knew the character and sexual voraciousness of the procurator. Besides, he was only interested in women. He was no connoisseur of the many varieties of sex acts, and probably had
never
read that classic, the
Book of Elephantis.

“My betrothed, Aemilius Valens. Morar, daughter of Cuno, and a hostage from the wild northern Novantae.”

But Valens was not listening. He approached Morar. “Welcome then, to the Imperial City, Goddess!” he cried.

Morar smiled and extended her hand to the procurator.

“It is said that there are many goddesses of love—Venus and the others—aye, but in my rather short experience as a soldier in Britannia, I had not learned that the wild Britons had a living goddess of love in their midst— a veritable living legend.”

“Listen to him,” Fomoire whispered.

“We are anxious to get home to my villa, Aemilius Valens,” Lucius put in. “It is hot. We've had trouble. The sun will soon bum the pale white northern skin of my betrothed.”

Valens cut him short with an imperious wave of a hand. “You're right, Lucius! But you should have had an awning over her litter. To expose such a pale-skinned, golden treasure to our cruel Roman sun was carelessness indeed.”

“Then with your leave well be on our way.”

Valens stepped back and looked down the long line of prisoners. “What have we here!”

Decrius Montanas came forward and saluted. “Most of them are Britons or Gauls, sir. The wild fighting men of the north.”

“Good! They always fight well, no matter the odds. Losers always, but, as a rule, fighters to the end.”

The procurator eyed the first rank of prisoners. He studied Calgaich. “This one,” he said over his shoulder to the centurion. “What is he?”

“Calgaich mac Lellan, sir. A chieftain's son of the Caledonian Novantae, a tribe that has never been subjugated.”

“Is that so? Then what is he doing here?” Valens smiled a little at his own joke. “I’ll take him, of course.” He raised his head and looked along the long line.

“But, Your Honor,” the centurion began, instantly stopped by a stem look from Valens.

“How many prisoners do you have here, Centurion?” the procurator asked.

“About two hundred and fifty, sir.”

“I’ll take them all.”

“But, Procurator,” Lucius faltered.

Valens turned. He smiled a little, but it was not a very friendly smile. “Well, Lucius Sextillius?”

“I personally selected some of the prisoners myself. For the Games, which I hope to sponsor within the next few months. I had thought that they would make a good showing for me.”

Valens was amused. “In your quest for political fame?” “Well, one knows how it is here in Rome.”

The procurator shook his head. “No, Quaestor. These are prisoners of the state.”

“But they are not prepared for the arena!”

Valens came closer to Lucius. “Damn you, Sextillius! I don't give a fig for your opinions on the matter. You hear that mob in there!” He gestured toward the amphitheatre. The roaring sound was rising again, an eerie, spine-chilling massing of voices. “They want blood! And
every
day! It is my job to supply that blood!”

“The chief vampire,” Fomoire whispered to Calgaich. Aemilius Valens turned. “I have no more time for this bickering! Damn you, Centurion! Lead those prisoners out!”

"Procurator!” The melodious voice caused Valens to quickly turn his head toward Morar.

Morar smiled winningly. "Surely you can spare the personal prisoners of my betrothed, Procurator? He has gone to great peril and expenses to bring them here to Rome.” Valens was intrigued by her eyes. He had not experienced, as yet, the spell the Caledonian woman could cast upon men,
all
men. ... He turned toward Sextillius. "Very Well! How many of them do you consider to be your personal property, Quaestor?”

"One hundred?” Lucius asked hopefully.

"Impossible!”

"Perhaps seventy-five?”

Valens shook his head.

"Fifty?”

"That will leave me only two hundred.”

"Surely that is enough, Procurator? At least for today?” Morar said softly.

Valens glanced sideways at Morar. He saw the fullness of her magnificent breasts, the rounded thighs beneath the thin, almost transparent material of her gown.

"Fifty, Procurator,” Morar said. "His choice.”

Valens shrugged. "Very well! But what will you do with them now, Quaestor?”

"They are destined for the Ludus Maximus, the state gladiatorial school.”

Valens laughed. "You’d take these wild-eyed, long-bladed swordsmen to the Ludus Maximus? Why? To teach them the arts of the Thracian School, or perhaps the
murmillones?
Surely not! These barbarians can be no match for Roman gladiators and swordsmen, even with "their own weapons.”

"I’d like to get him out into the heather for a little swordplay and bloodletting,” Calgaich murmured.

The procurator turned his head quickly and looked into the cold gray eyes of Calgaich. He opened his mouth to speak.

The roaring of the crowd suddenly raised to a new pitch of hysteria. "Procurator,” Morar put in sweetly, "you had better hurry. As you said, the mob wants blood every day; it is your job to supply it.”

"Take your pick, Lucius,” Valens said.

The quaestor nodded to Montanas, who walked slowly along the line, reaching out to tap the shoulders of those he selected—Calgaich, Guidd, Lutorius, Fomoire, Niall, Lexus, Chilo, Loam, Girich, Conaid, the Little Hound. There were others—several Saxons; a Jute or two; Garth, a Silurian harper and singer of songs; a trio of Picts of the Niduari, one of the tribes of the “Picts of the North”; two brothers of the border Votadini; and a miscellaneous mixture of border Britons, some of whom had deserted the Roman auxiliaries in Gaul. The fifty selected were unchained from the rest of the column.

The Mauretanians cracked their whips. The prisoners destined for the arena obediently shuffled off across the wide, sun-bright street toward the amphitheatre. Calgaich was the only one of the fifty prisoners still standing in the street who turned his head to watch. He knew the men went to their death. They were not too tired to fight—they had the spirit for battle always—but
they were too tired to win.
Morar had saved him from their fate. Morar, with her golden hair and musical voice, had cajoled Valens into allowing Lucius to keep a few prisoners. Calgaich was grateful for that, for the chance to live a little longer before he was taken to the Games. But his destiny seemed to be determined by Morar once again, and that trick of fate he did not trust at all.

“Put it out of your mind, barbarian,” Lutorius advised as the last prisoner disappeared into the amphitheatre. “Just thank your gods it’s not you this time.”

Calgaich turned and looked at the
calo.
“I can't put it out of my mind. I’ll never be able to put it out of my mind.”

'Then I am sorry for you, barbarian.”

The fifty were marched toward a triumphal arch that dominated the street. Nearby was a cone-shaped fountain, spouting a feathery plume of spray which glistened in the bright sunlight. A man came from the direction of the amphitheatre. He wore a cuirass, which shone in the sunlight. He staggered a little in his walk and then recovered. His face was dripping with sweat that had cut tiny channels through the dust on his face. He walked on toward the fountain and then dropped to his knees beside it to plunge his face and forearms into the water.

"A gladiator,” Lutorius informed his mates. “That fountain is the Meta Sudans, where the victorious gladiators wash off after their duels.”

“How did it go, Thraxus?” a passerby called.

The gladiator raised his streaming face from the water and nodded. “Victory, of course, or I wouldn't be here. My third.”

“But you're bleeding, eh?”

Thraxus stood up and thrust a hand up under his
cuirass.
As he felt about a strange look came over his face.

The passerby came close to the gladiator. “What is wrong?” he asked.

Thraxus walked a few uncertain steps and then fell face down flat on the street. Some latecomers hurrying toward the amphitheatre paused for a few seconds to look at the fallen gladiator. “He's done,” one of them said. They hurried on.

The prisoners marched past Thraxus. A thin thread of blood had run from under the dead man. The prisoners' feet passed through it.

“Get the cuirass off of him,” a bystander said. “We can turn it in at the Ludus Maximus and they'll pay us for it.”

Calgaich looked up at the towering facade of the immense bowl that was the Flavian Amphitheatre. Maybe it was his powerful Celtic imagination, but it seemed to him that the smell of blood and death came from that place of hell.

Calgaich felt his anger, dampened for so many long days, being fanned into flame again. “I'm no damned gladiator!” he snarled. “I'm Calgaich, son of Lellan! Grandson of Evicatos the Spearman! A warrior! A
swordsmanl”

Lutorius shrugged. “It's all the same to these Romans, barbarian. The only difference here is that instead of fighting for pay in Hibernia, or patriotically for your tribe in Caledonia, you'll end up fighting for your life, and nothing else, here in Rome.”

“Bring on any Roman!” Calgaich sneered.

“You won't find any of the mob in the arena. You'll likely face professionals, like that poor, stupid bastard lying in the dust back there. He didn't even know he had been mortally wounded. You saw that prick Valens back there, marching those poor bastards into the amphitheatre, right off the street and into the arena, likely without time to get a drink and take a leak before they face sudden death.”

Calgaich looked at the prisoners closest to him. "That bastard of a centurion selected us for his own reasons, as well as those of the Perfumed Pig. Good! He picked the best of the lot. In so doing, he's joined us together in a common purpose. And I don't have to remind you what that is. From now on, each one of us will hold that allegiance to this group. To the last man
...”

"And, if there are none of us left alive?” Chilo asked quietly.

Calgaich smiled wryly. "Then we will have died like men.”

The huge double gates of the Ludus Maximus, the great gladiatorial school, swung open at a hail from Centurion Decrius Montanas. The prisoners plodded through the gateway and came to a halt. The heavy gates swung closed again with an echoing crash.

The prisoners stood within an immense rectangular quadrangle, surrounded on three sides by many buildings along the fronts of which were fluted columns supporting the red-tiled roofs of open passageways. At the far end of the quadrangle was a large open area with tiers of seats arranged on each side. The floor of the area was covered with sand. Men, whose figures were small to the eye at that distance, moved about on the sand, exercising, or practicing with weapons.

"That training area back there is about half the size of the arena in the Flavian Amphitheatre,” Lutorius whispered. "These buildings are the barracks, a headquarters, mess hall, an armory and a hospital. This is the biggest of the four state-operated schools here in Rome.”

Calgaich looked about, noting that the "school” had its own large guard detachment. Some guards were in the gate towers and the arena area. Others were patrolling the wall walks.

The prisoners were lined up just outside the headquarters building. Montanas entered the building and then, within a few minutes, reappeared accompanied by a powerfully built Hercules of a man, who seemed to have been hewn from the solid trunk of a weathered and seasoned oak tree. His large, rounded head was shaven, and seemed to sit directly upon his broad shoulders, so short was his muscular neck. His chest was deep and broad. His bare arms stood out from the sides of his body, so thickly layered were they with corded muscles. The whitish cicatrices of old wounds showed on his face, arms and thick thighs. Across his low, broad forehead were the parallel lines of old helmet welts. Still, with all his weight and build, he moved easily on his feet like a huge hunting cat.

"By the gods,” Lutorius muttered. “It's Quintus Gaius, one of the greatest gladiators in the history of Rome. The Oak Tree!”

"You know him?” Calgaich asked.

"Shit yes! He was in my maniple of the Fifteenth Apollinaria in Cappadocia. Many's the time we got drunk together. I heard later he had been condemned to the arena for striking an officer. That was years ago.”

"You're sure of this?”

"How can I be mistaken? Have you ever seen such a man?”

Calgaich shook his head.

Montanas looked along the line of prisoners. "You have reached the end of your journey here, barbarians. This hero of all Romans is Quintus Gaius, master of the Ludus Maximus, once the greatest gladiator in the history of the Flavian Amphitheatre. Four times he was offered the
rudis,
the wooden sword of honorable retirement from the arena, after three years of service there, and three times he refused it. He carried the palms of victory fifty-two times in the arena during those years of service. He was finally forced to retire by Aemilius Valens, procurator of the Games, upon the direct order of the emperor Valentinian, so that his skills might be taught to others.” Montanas turned toward Quintus. "I leave these prisoners in your tender care, gladiator master. You understand, of course, that these men are destined for the Games, which will be sponsored some time later on this summer by the esteemed Quaestor Lucius Sextillius. It is also to be understood that they will fight in the arena with their own weapons and in their own style.”