Calgaich the Swordsman (36 page)

“Good for you! I never knew my own father. Some say he was a satyr who crept up on my mother when she was asleep.” Quintus grinned.

“More likely a bull,” Lutorius suggested.

“Bottle Emptier tells me your grandfather knows you were captured in Caledonia, and did nothing about it.”

Calgaich shrugged. “I was a deserter from the auxiliaries —twice. You know what that means.”

Quintus nodded. “Don't tell me about it, friend. That's how I ended up in Rome ten years ago.”

“I never could figure you out for being a deserter, Oak Tree,” Lutorius said.

“I made the mistake of beating the shit out of a prick of a centurion when he called me a coward to cover up one of his own mistakes. I deserted. I was caught. It's as simple as that.”

“You?
You who had enough decorations to cover the front of your cuirass? You who had the honor of bearing the standard of our cohort? You who had been recommended for the
corona civica?”
Lutorius asked.

Quintus shrugged. “That was what saved me from the lash. I was shipped back to Rome with a load of prisoners for the Games—Cappadocians, Syrians, Cilicians and some other mongrels whose origin I never could remember. Most of them were driven, untrained, into the Games and they died there. I was lucky enough to get sent here to the Great School.”

“And you became the premier gladiator of all Rome.”

Quintus modestly waved a hand.

“Fifty-two victories,” Lutorius added.

“A paid killer,” Calgaich put in boldly. The wine was getting to him.

“That's right, barbarian,” Quintus agreed. “There was only one way out of the arena and that was the victorious way.”

“Yet you refused the wooden sword three times.”

“Why not? I was like a king. I became rich with the money and jewels that were showered on me. Women in the stands threw their undergarments to me as I paraded around the arena after a victory. You know what that means, barbarian? I had the best of everything. Everything, I tell you! Instead of retiring after twenty years in the legion, with worn-out teeth from chewing stone-hard legion-ration bread, with aching joints from sleeping on the ground in all kinds of weather, with scars of battle on my chest and the marks of the lash on my back, old long before my time, I instead became the commoner king of Rome! Look at me now! I have my own villa just outside the city. I have ten slaves to do my bidding. I am recognized wherever I go. Here, in the Great School, I am like a minor god. My word is law!”

Calgaich leaned back against the stone wall. “But there is nothing you can do for your old legion comrade there, to save him from the arena?”

“And, even if I could, what would the future hold for him?”

“I could follow in the footsteps of the Oak Tree here, barbarian,” Lutorius said. He hiccupped as he reached for the bottle.

“How long do you think you'd last?” Calgaich asked.

“Maybe you think I couldn't win victories in the arena?”

“I didn't say that. But it would only be a matter of time. I've seen some of the other students here, some of them half your age and half again as big as you are. You'd be matched against some of them in time.”

“Why, damn you! I can take care of myself! Why, in the old Twentieth, aye, and in the old Fifteenth I was the best in the business. Ask Quintus here! Tell him, Oak Tree!”

“You're getting drunk, Bottle Emptier,” Quintus said. He placed an arm about Lutorius's shoulders. “You drunken bastard. Remember the good old days? After Carrhae when we were drunk for three whole days? We were only recruits then.”

Calgaich studied the scarred face of the master. The faint grayish light from the window shone on the brutish face, seemingly devoid of all emotion. All the other times Calgaich had heard him speak his voice had the rasp of a hoof file in it. But now, it was different. Quintus seemed genuinely affected by seeing once again his old comrade of the Fifteenth Apollinaria.

“Fifteen years ago.” Lutorius hiccupped. He slid sideways from the protection of Quintus's arm and fell onto the floor. Quintus picked him up as though he were a child and placed him on the mattress. He pulled the rough blanket up over him.

Quintus turned and then sat down on the bunk next to Calgaich. “He’s one of the best, barbarian.”

Calgaich nodded. “I know.”

“He might last a few months in the arena.”

“Possibly.”

“But you, it is said you’re a master with your own weapons. Bottle Emptier has told me of that.”

“He talks too much, Quintus.”

“You know what is in store for you once you and the others are conditioned?”

“The arena, of course.”

Quintus leaned back against the wall and drank deeply. “There’s more to it than that. The Perfumed Pig is ingratiating himself into the highest places of Rome. You know of his sister?”

“Antonia? The one who stands behind the curtain and manipulates her puppet husband, her son and possibly her brother?”

“You know more than I thought you did.”

Calgaich shrugged. “I’ve heard things.”

“Have you heard that Sextillius has offered you and the Dirty Fifty to Aemilius Valens, chief procurator of the Games, for any use he may make of you?”

“Why, Quintus?”

“It’s simple enough. Valens ranks as one of the highest in Rome. He has the ear of the emperor. Further, he has slept with Lady Antonia, the dear sister of Lucius Sextillius. But that in itself means little, for Valens is a stud, a human satyr, and he’d screw a female snake if someone held its head. They say he now has his eye on some of the women Lucius brought with him from Britannia.”

Calgaich sat up straight.

“You know them, of course?”

What was he driving at? Calgaich had been warned about the devious, plotting Roman character, long before he had left Caledonia for his service with the Ulpia Torquata.

“Bottle Emptier tells me the golden woman, who is betrothed to the Perfumed Pig, was originally your betrothed.”

Calgaich raised the wine jug and drank deeply.

“Then it’s true?”

“She was,” Calgaich admitted.

“But she still means much to you?”

Calgaich shrugged. “I don't know.”

“I have seen this golden woman, barbarian.”

“She has a sister. You saw her too?”

Quintus nodded. “They say Lucius will marry the one, to get the other.” He slanted his eyes sideways to study the dim face of Calgaich. There was no show of emotion upon it. “There are strange things that go on in the villa of the Perfumed Pig. How does this affect you, barbarian?”

Calgaich shrugged, pretending indifference. “Why should it affect me?”

“I think it does, and so does Lutorius.”

Calgaich did not speak. He lifted the jug and drank from it. He looked sideways at Quintus. “There was another woman brought here by Sextillius, a dark-haired woman with great eyes like emeralds. Have you seen her?”

Quintus shook his head. “I have not been into the quaestor's villa, other than in the entrance hall. That was where I saw the two golden Britons. I went there at the request of the quaestor, but I did not see him. I spoke instead to that prick, Ulpius Claudius, the nephew of Sextillius.”

“I know him well, Quintus.” Calgaich's big hands closed tightly.

“The tribune informed me of the contemplated plans for you and your mates. Further, he wants me to arrange what is called a showing, for Valens, here at the school, to take place in several weeks, to exhibit this great skill of yours with your native weapons.”

“Like a circus performer.”

“More than that; you will be matched with some of the best men we have here.”

“To the death?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Quintus stood up. “I hate the guts of those people, barbarian. When I stood in the arena dripping blood from many wounds, raising my sword in the victory salute, acknowledging their plaudits as the greatest gladiator of all time, I hated them for turning men such as myself into beasts without feeling, eager only to kill, and kill again. I have not forgotten. I think of it every day and sometimes long into the night, and not even the good Cyprian wine can dull those hated memories. I swore then that somehow I would make fools of them, and get away with it."

"Why are you telling me this? It’s a dangerous secret to tell another man.”

Quintus laughed harshly. "Who would believe you or that drunken Bottle Emptier there? It would be my word against yours, if they would listen to you. Me! Quintus Gaius, the Oak Tree! The greatest gladiator Rome has ever known! Gladiator master of the Great School! Friend and confidant to the mighty of Rome. They come here to my school and sit in the practice arena for my judgment on the best of the present crop of students, and for tips on the betting in the forthcoming games. Who would they believe, barbarian?”

"You're right, Oak Tree."

Quintus leaned forward. "Further, if I suspect in the slightest that you have carried this tale to other eager ears, you will die very suddenly here in the school, and no one will ever know who was the cause of your death. You understand?”

Calgaich nodded.

"Empty your jug. I can't leave the wine jugs here. Get drunk, but remember, you've a full day ahead of you tomorrow on the practice field, and, by the gods, I will be there as gladiator master to see that you do not shirk!”

Calgaich emptied the jug. He handed both jugs to the master. "Thanks, Quintus,” he said.

"It is nothing. Lutorius was my friend, and you are the friend of Lutorius, so that is the same to me. Good night, barbarian.”

The door closed behind the gladiator master.

Lutorius opened one eye. "The fates work in mysterious ways, barbarian,” he murmured. He laughed softly.

The blazing Roman sun beat down upon the practice arena of the Great School. Although it was long before midmorning, the students had been out for hours upon the sands, learning and practicing the high art and science of killing other men. The sand burned up through the soles of their sandals, and greedily sucked in the sweat that dripped from their taut faces.

Some of the students lifted and manipulated weights designed by Quintus Gaius himself to develop the particular arm and shoulder muscles necessary for sword fighting. Pairs of wrestlers strove against each other, grunting and panting in the tense struggle. Runners sped around die track that encircled the arena and leaped over hurdles. New students, those eventually to be designated as
tirones,
who had yet to fight their first duel in earnest, practiced with wooden swords. The
tirones
themselves, those who had passed beyond the fundamental wooden sword stage, used blunt, lead-weighted swords twice as heavy as the regulation type to practice cuts and parries against thick wooden poles set upright in the sand.

No student was shirking or laying back. They had the best of reasons. Their only hope of survival was to perfect their skill. The profession they were learning must be a total way of life. Another reason for the practice field dedication was the presence of the trainers and instructors, the muscular hard-faced veterans of the arena who had survived to win the coveted
rudis
, the wooden sword that signified retirement. These scarred worthies paced about the arena, holding long-lashed whips in their hands, the same type that was used in the actual arena to force reluctant combatants to close in against their opponents. They could take a patch of skin as big as a sesterce coin from a man's back, with hardly an effort.

Calgaich finished running around the track. He was naked except for a loincloth. His muscular body streamed with good sweat mingled with the dust. The long weeks in which he had been in the school had served him well. He was back in excellent condition.

Ostorius, a
doctor,
or instructor, in the Thracian School of gladiatorial lore, paced toward Calgaich. “Barbarian! Get cleaned up! No more exercising for you this morning!” He grinned secretively. He studied Calgaich. “They have a treat for you, later on this morning.”

“Yes, sir!” Calgaich snapped out.

The instructor eyed the muscular body, with its blue chest tattooing and multiple scars. “You look as though you had been in the arena in Britannia,” he suggested.

Calgaich shook his head. “We have no arenas in my country, sir.”

“That is not so! I know there are arenas there.”

“In Britannia, yes, but in Caledonia there are none.” Ostorius nodded. “I see what you mean. Well, you'll soon get your chance here in Rome,
tiro.”

Calgaich watched the instructor pace off. He picked up a
strigil,
a curved bit of metal, and began to scrape the dust and sweat from his skin.

Lutorius wandered over and sat down on the sand beside Calgaich. He intently examined the heel of one of his calloused soles. “I think T know what that was all about. The Oak Tree tipped me off that Aemilius Valens will be here with a large party of guests, for a private showing, this day.”

“And I'm to perform?”

Lutorius nodded.

“Who will I be matched against?”

Lutorius shrugged. “They said some of the best.” “Students, or veterans?”

“Veterans, most likely.”

“To the death?”

“I think not. However, they will not let
you
get killed here. You're too valuable a prize for that.”

“It's not that which bothers me. I was thinking of the man who will be matched against me, for I will surely kill
him
.”

“Don’t be so damned sure of yourself.”

Calgaich grinned. “Have you no confidence in me?” “The most, and you know it, barbarian. But what is bothering you about this match? There is something in your eyes that warns me, Calgaich.”

Calgaich looked across the heat-shimmering arena to where slaves were erecting a large, many-colored awning over the podium seats, which were always reserved for the most important spectators. There had been a private showing the past week, in which three students had died on the bloody sand, while the Roman audience had become sick with laughter, watching their unskilled efforts against Togatus, a veteran of twenty-one victories in the arena, who had fought all three of them at once.