Calgaich the Swordsman (35 page)

Quintus Gaius nodded. He looked at the prisoners from under beetling brows. His eyes were seemingly as hard as basalt. "A rare lot, Centurion. But, I've had worse, and I've done well with them in the arena. You say they are to be kept together?”

“I understand they are to fight as a unit, with perhaps one or two exceptions.”

“Such as?”

The centurion pointed his vine staff at Calgaich. “That one. The tall Caledonian with the proud look about him.” “So? Why?”

Montanas smiled mechanically. “Know you not who he is, Quintus Gaius?” he exclaimed with exaggeration. “No, you would not, of course! That is Calgaich, son of Lellan, known far and wide in Britannia as Calgaich the Swordsman!”

The gladiator master studied Calgaich and nodded. “He has the look of a warrior about him, Centurion.”

“Don’t turn your back on him, Quintus. He is an untamed wolf.”

“I’ll remember that. And the other one?”

Montanas pointed at Fomoire. “The weasel there.” ”Why?”

“He is a trickster, a soothsayer, and only the gods know what else. He is not to go into the arena.”

Quintus nodded.

“Feed them well. Work them hard. They are in your charge. If anything happens to any of them, particularly the wild swordsman, Calgaich, you’ll have to answer to the quaestor.”

The faintest trace of a smile crossed the scarred features of the big man. “The Perfumed Pig?”

Montanas turned aside as though he had not heard. “I’m off to the baths, Quintus. I’ve got a thousand miles of dust in my pores.” He raised his vine staff in salute and strode toward the gate.

Quintus watched the centurion go. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head to look at his new charges. He walked to the head of the line. His eyes met those of Calgaich, and the tall Celt did not turn away or lower his gaze. There was no expression on Quintus’s scarred face. He stepped sideways, then stopped to look at the drink-ruined visage of Lutorius. He eyed the whitish line of the chin strap gall on the
calo’s
jaws. There was no recognition on his face as he looked at his old legion mate.

Quintus paused in front of Guidd. He suddenly looked sideways at Lutorius. “What legion?” he asked quickly.

Lutorius involuntarily snapped to attention. "Twentieth Valeria Victrix, sir!” he barked.

“Not the Drunken Lions!”

"The same, sir!”

Quintus rubbed his jaw. "You seem familiar, somehow. How did you get your nose ruined, eh? In the Twentieth?” Lutorius was trapped. "No, sir. That was when I was in the Fifteenth Apollinaria.”

"At Saiata in Cappadocia?”

Lutorius nodded.

Quintus looked more closely at Lutorius. "By Mars! But it can't be! Wasn't it Old Give Me Another who smashed in your beak after the battle at Carrhae?”

"The same, sir.”

"The Bottle Emptier!”

"That is so, master.”

For a few seconds Quintus studied Lutorius, and then he passed on to pause in front of Fomoire.

"What does all that mean,
calo?”
Calgaich asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Who knows?”

"You say he was condemned to the arena?”

"So I heard.”

"Then how did he get the position he has today?” Lutorius shrugged. "Only the gods may know.”

Quintus studied the Druid. "A trickster, eh, barbarian?” Fomoire bowed his head. "Men call me Fomoire, Your Honor. A healer of the eye sickness. A leech. A juggler. A teller of tales. A worker of simple conjuring tricks. I have some knowledge of the telling of fortunes. A singer of songs. A bard of some skill.” His lilting voice died away as he eyed the gladiator master.

Quintus reached out with his huge right paw. He grasped the front of Fomoire's ragged clothing and twisted it into a knot. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised the Druid up off the ground and then held him out at arm’s length. He shook him a little.

"I am not to harm you in any way, trickster, according to that asshole of a centurion who just left here, but, mind you,
I
am master here. If, by any chance, you try any of your trickery while in my charge, you’ll suffer for it in rather unpleasant ways, which will leave no outward marks on your body. But, your soul, if you have one, will be scarred for life. You understand, barbarian?”

Fomoire nodded.

The master set him down on the ground.
“Sir!”
he snapped.

“Yes, sir!” Fomoire barked.

Quintus laughed. “You learn quickly, wild man.”

The gladiator master walked slowly down the line, pausing here and there, studying certain of the men, and then he returned in front of the line. He placed his huge hands on his hips.

Quintus raised his chin. “There are rules here. This is the Great School. The best of them all. And the hardest. We are proud of our production for the arena. We have our own prison, suitably equipped with leg irons, shackles, branding irons and whips. We have a solitary confinement cell with a ceiling so low a man can’t sit up, and so short he can’t stretch out his legs. Twenty-four hours in there and you’ll kiss a camel’s asshole to get out.”

“You will be guarded twenty-four hours a day. You will be locked in your cells each night. The food is good. Meat for killing energy and barley because the rich grain covers the arteries with a layer of fat and so helps to prevent a man from bleeding to death from a wound.

“Once you pass your apprentice training and are ready for the arena, girls are brought in to you once a week. It might not be a bad life for most of you at that, compared to your home life. I don’t know what the plans are for you Dirty Fifty, but if any of you survive the arena after the quaestor’s games, you might very well get to join the professionals and, if you’re a winner, you’ve got Rome by its hairy ass. Money, food, wine and women; women such as none of you have ever seen before. You understand?”

The long line of prisoners nodded.

“Let me hear from you! Dammit! Show me some spirit! Yell with delight! You’ve made it to the Great School!”

A ragged cheer went up from the Dirty Fifty. The guards who were watching them from the sidelines and the wall walks broke into wide grins.

Quintus held up a ham of a hand. “One more thing. You must take the oath. Raise your right hands. Repeat after me—I will suffer myself to be whipped with rods, burned with fire, or killed with steel if I disobey while here at the Great School.”

The oath was duly repeated by the prisoners. Their voices died away.

Quintus looked along the line. His eyes rested on Lexus, die giant Gaul. “You! Come out here!”

Lexus stepped forward with clanking chains.

Quintus beckoned to a guard. “Strike off his chains, Aelius.”

The chains jingled on the hard ground. The guard withdrew.

“Here!” Quintus snapped. He pointed at the ground in front of him.

Lexus walked slowly forward and stood face to face with the huge master.

“Your name?” Quintus asked.

“Lexus.”

A block of a fist drove out so fast it caught the Gaul unawares. It struck the point of his jaw and drove him flat on his back. He lay there dazed, looking up at the impassive face of Quintus. A slow trickle of blood leaked from the Gaul's mouth.

Quintus leaned forward. “You forgot
sir,”
he reminded Lexus. “Get up!”

Lexus staggered to his feet.

“Your name?” Quintus asked again.

“Lexus, sir.”

The fist lashed out and again Lexus lay flat on his back, half-stunned.

“I want you to
snap
that out, Gaul!” Quintus roared. “All of you remember that!” He beckoned to the guards. “Take this stinking rabble to the baths. Bum those clothes. Issue them school garb. Take them to the mess hall and have them fed. Then lock them up.” He turned on a heel and strode back to his headquarters.

“Lovely man,” Chilo murmured.

Bathed, issued fresh clothing, and, fed to the fullest, the prisoners were marched to the barracks as the sun slanted far to the west. As they entered the long, arcaded passageway in front of the building they could hear the cell doors being slammed shut and barred for the night, as the regular students finished their hard day in the practice arena.

"Two to a cell!” the chief guard Aelius called out. “You’ll be crowded for a few days, but after the Games this weekend, there will be plenty of room.” He grinned.

Calgaich and Lutorius were paired off for the first cell. The door slammed shut behind them. On each side of the cell was a stone shelf upon which was a straw mattress. There was a niche in the wall over each bed, for whatever personal god the occupant favored. A large earthenware jar served as a chamberpot. A very small, barred window opened on the outer wall.

“By the gods!” Lutorius exclaimed. “Look at the girl’s names and addresses! Paetina! Lepida! Antonia! Callina! Eunice! The last occupant must have been a real boar!”

“How long do you suppose those names have been there,
calo?”

Lutorius shrugged. “There might be one or two of them still around, barbarian.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get to look them up?”

“I can always hope.”

There were crudely drawn pictures of naked women scratched on the plastered walls, with exaggerated breasts and hips. Some literate had scratched prayers to his god into the dirty plaster.

“Look here,” Lutorius said.

There were other drawings, this time of gladiators in combat. One of them lay on the ground with his left arm extended, forefinger raised from a clenched fist, in the traditional plea for mercy from the arena mob. The victor stood with poised sword, ready for the death thrust into the throat. Over the victor’s head had been written “Astactus, 13 wins,” while over the head of the vanquished was the inscription “Baccibus, 7 wins.” Below Baccibus was a sign: 0.

Calgaich placed a finger on the circular sign. “What does this mean?”

“Habet,
barbarian.”

“
Habet?”

Lutorius quickly drew a forefinger across his throat. “Killed,” he replied quietly.

Lutorius dropped onto one of the bunks. He laced his fingers together at the nape of his neck and looked up at the cobwebbed plaster of the ceiling.

Calgaich sat down on his bed. The wind had shifted with the coming of the dusk. The faint roaring sound of the wild animals penned up in the menagerie near the Praenestine Gate came to him.

“Strange, isn't it, barbarian,” Lutorius mused, “that there must be hundreds of men confined in this barracks and yet not a sound can be heard from them? But listen to those wild animals roaring."

Calgaich shook his head. “It's not strange at all,
calo.
The prisoners here in the Great School know something the wild animals do not know.
They know their destiny
...”

Calgaich opened his eyes. The cell was semidark except for the faint gray opening of the barred window. Calgaich sat up and reached over toward Lutorius. His questing hand touched the rough cover of the straw mattress. It was cold. The
calo
wasn't yet back in his cell. Calgaich turned his head quickly. There was a faint sound of movement outside the cell door. He stood up and reached for the heavy chamberpot.

A week had passed since Calgaich and his comrades had been in the Ludus Maximus. Not once had Quintus Gaius made any indication of recognition toward his old legion mate, Lutorius. Even out on the practice arena, where the instructors had begun to put the Dirty Fifty, as they called them, through their preliminary training, there was no sign of recognition from the gladiator master, who sometimes paced the edges of the arena, watching impassively as the training went on. This night, long after dark, when the prisoners had been locked in their cells, a guard had come for Lutorius. That had been hours past.

A key grated in the cell door lock. Calgaich raised the chamberpot. He trusted no one in this place.

The door swung open on creaking hinges.

"Calgaich?” Lutorius whispered. He hiccupped.

"Who's with you?”

"You'll see.”

A huge form had filled the semidarkness behind the
calo
. Lutorius swayed a little as he walked into the cell. Calgaich stepped back against the wall beneath the window. The door was locked from the inside. The sour and fruity odor of wine came to Calgaich.

"It's the Oak Tree,” Lutorius whispered.

"Put down the chamberpot, barbarian,” the gladiator master requested. “By the gods, I’ve been hit with all different kinds of weapons, but never with a chamberpot in the hands of a barbarian. I hope it's not full.”

Calgaich lowered the pot to the floor.

“Replace it with this,” Lutorius suggested. He passed a wine jug to Calgaich. “It’s Cyprian. The best.” He chuckled. “The Oak Tree does well for himself, eh, barbarian?” Calgaich did not question die offer. He took the jug and drank deeply. He lowered the jug and nodded in satisfaction as he wiped his mouth. “Like mother's milk,
calo
.” Lutorius and Quintus sat down on the
calo o's
bunk. “Drink your fill,” Quintus invited. He held up another jug. “There is plenty for all of us.”

“To follow that which you've already downed, sir?” Calgaich queried.

Quintus waved a ham of a hand. “Forget the sir, at least this night.”

“I don't want any of your gentle reminders, master.” Quintus grinned. “Oh, that? I do that to impress newcomers. It's part of the business. It's how I hold my job. If I didn't, the procurator of the Games would soon have me out of here.”

Lutorius nodded. “Under that hard outer shell old Quintus here is as soft as butter.”

“I can believe that,” Calgaich agreed dryly. He drank again. The wine
was
good.

“If it were found out that I had been a comrade of Quintus during my legion service in Cappadocia, and he had gone easy on me here in the school because of that, there would have been trouble.”

Quintus drank from his jug and then passed it to Lutorius. “Bottle Emptier has told me you're a grandson of Old Give Me Another. He's such a damned liar, I had to hear it from your own lips, barbarian.”

Calgaich nodded. “It is so, Quintus.”

Quintus shook his head. “Well, the old bastard must have been quite a stud. Does he know you're his grandson, or are you an unknown product of one of his bastards?” “He was legally married to my grandmother.”