Praetorian (41 page)

The leader of the gladiators lowered himself into a crouch and held his buckler forward of his body, ready to punch it into the face of the first enemy that dared to oppose him. His sword was drawn back, ready to stab. The other men quickly followed his example, spreading out to give themselves space to move. Cato could not
help wondering at the difference in fighting styles between the gladiators and the Praetorians. One side trained to fight as individuals, experts in the techniques required for the individual duels that defined their lives. Ranged against them were the elite soldiers of Rome, drilled to fight in disciplined battle lines, each man just one part of a machine.

Tigellinus called out to them, ‘Save yourselves! Give up that man and you will be spared.’

‘Fuck you!’ a voice screamed back.

Their leader’s lips parted in a feral grin and he slapped his cuirass with the flat of his sword. ‘Come and get me!’

‘S
o be it,’ Tigellinus responded coldly. ‘Sixth Century, halt! Ready javelins!’

Cato and Macro drew up with the rest of the men, and then adjusted their grip and hefted the javelins back and tensed their muscles ready to hurl the missiles when the centurion gave the order. Cato had lived through this moment in previous battles and waited for the enemy to flinch and waver. Instead the gladiators held their ground, unmoving, their eyes fixed unblinking on the Praetorians, their muscles poised to dodge the first strike of their opponents.

‘Try for their leader,’ said Macro. ‘If he goes down, the rest may give up.’

Cato nodded.

‘Release!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato hurled his arm forward, throwing his weight through the line of the javelin’s flight and releasing his grasp at the last instant. The dark shaft arced up into the air with the others javelins of Tigellinus’s century. They rose up between the two bodies of men and then seemed to slow at the top of their arc before plunging down. The gladiators had developed sharp reflexes as part of their training and darted aside as the javelins landed among them. Only a handful of men were struck down, one skewered through the top of his skull, the point passing down his neck and deep into his body. Cato saw the man stagger on the impact, then hold still before he pitched forward and was lost from view. Two more were mortally wounded as the deadly iron lengths of the javelin heads ripped through their torsos. The last, standing directly in front of Cato, howled as the javelin slammed through his boot and pinned his foot to the ground. The remainder, incredibly, had escaped harm.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Macro. ‘They’re good. Never seen men move so damned fast.’

‘Draw swords!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato grasped the handle of his weapon, taking care to lock his fingers firmly round the leather grip, knowing full well that it was fatal for a fighter’s sword to slip in his hand during battle. He pulled the weapon from his scabbard and held it level, the side of the blade resting against the trim of his shield with no more than six inches protruding beyond the shield. On either side of him the rest of the guardsmen continued to advance on the gladiators, sword points glinting.

Their leader, unharmed by the Praetorians’ javelins, swiftly sheathed his blade and snatched at one of the shafts angled into the ground. He yelled to his followers. ‘Come on, lads, give them some of their own medicine!’

He hurled the javelin towards the guardsmen, now less than twenty paces away. He could hardly miss the line of shields and gleaming helmets bearing down on him. The javelin punched through the shield of the man next to Macro, bursting through his shield arm and lodging hard against the guardsman’s mailed chest, before the weight of the shaft dragged his shield and arm down. He let out a roar of pain as his pace faltered and he dropped out of line, sheathing his sword, and then wrenched his shield arm free in a welter of blood.

‘Close up!’ Macro ordered instinctively. ‘Close the line!’

Several of the gladiators followed their leader’s example and four more of the guardsmen went down before Tigellinus could react to the danger and prevent the loss of more of his men.

‘Charge!’ he cried desperately. ‘Charge!’

Macro’s mouth opened wide as he let out a deafening roar of battle rage, then he lowered his head and pounded forward. Cato gritted his teeth and stayed close to Macro’s flank. Ahead of them the gladiators braced themselves for the impact. Those with javelins still in hand grasped the shafts tightly, ready to use the weapons as spears. There was a rolling clatter of thuds and grunts, broken by the sharp ringing rattle of blades clashing as the Praetorians surged in among their foes.

Macro made straight for a barrel-chested German with shaggy hair tied back from his face. The man raised his heavy round shield and held a falcata out to the side, ready to strike. He bared his teeth in a snarl and leaped forward. The shields crashed together forcefully, but the greater momentum was with Macro. He threw his weight in behind his shield for good measure, causing the German to stumble back a couple of paces. Even so he was trained to recover swiftly and savagely parried Macro’s thrust, sending the point wide. Good as his responses and technique were, it was his training for individual combat that did for him. His attention was fixed on Macro and it was only at the last instant that he recognised the threat from Cato, coming from the other side. Cato punched his shield in, catching the German hard on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He went down, his wide back bent over one knee. Cato struck without hesitation, ramming his blade deep between the shoulder blades, ripping through muscle and shattering the man’s ribs and spine. He wrenched the blade free, with a spray of hot blood, and instantly turned to guard against any attack.

‘Good kill, lad,’ Macro acknowledged.

The skirmish raged around them, the gladiators holding their own as they fended off the Praetorians’ blows with their shields or parried them away with deft flicks of their wrists. As Cato watched he caught sight of the leader as the man slammed his buckler into a guardsman’s helmet, snapping his head aside. Then the gladiator followed through with a powerful thrust into the exposed throat, ripping the blade free at once as he stepped back, lowering his body into a crouch, looking round for his next opponent. There were other Praetorians on the ground, Cato noted, and only two gladiators. Only the armour and larger shields of the Praetorians were saving them from suffering even more casualties in the uneven fight.

‘We’re losing this,’ Macro observed. ‘We’d better do something. We have to take charge.’

Cato nodded, keeping his eyes on the fight. It would draw attention to them, and there would be those who might wonder at their easy assumption of command - if they survived the skirmish.

Macro snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Praetorians! On me! On me!’

Cato echoed the cry. The nearest of their comrades began to edge towards them and quickly a small ring formed, shield to shield, as the guardsmen sought the protection of the formation.

‘Hold your position!’ Macro called. ‘There’ll be help any moment! Hold on!’

Tigellinus had echoed the cry and a second ring of Praetorians had formed a short distance away. The rest fought back to back or were locked in a series of individual combats across the open ground. Cato kept his shield up as he stood beside Macro. Glancing to the other side he saw Fuscius breathing heavily. The optio’s eyes were wide and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Despite the fierceness of his expression his arms were trembling and the end of his sword wavered as he pointed it at his foes.

‘We’re safe enough,’ Cato said to him. ‘If we keep together and hold the formation.’

Fuscius glanced at him quickly and then looked back, nodding vigorously.

The gladiators surrounded the ring, but there was no coordinated attempt to charge home. Instead each man seemed to have chosen a particular soldier as his opponent and either stood sizing them up or darted forward to attempt to slip their weapon round the shield. Some made feints and then tried to strike. In all cases the presence of the soldiers on either flank of their chosen target foiled their attempts. This was not the kind of fight they had been trained for and their frustration was evident. There was a lull in their attacks. Cato sensed the opportunity to make a fresh appeal to them to end the fight.

‘You cannot win!’ he called out. ‘There’ll be more soldiers here any moment. You’ll be cut to pieces if you resist. Lower your swords!’

‘We die either way, brothers!’ the leader called out. ‘Out there fighting to entertain Romans, or here and now, fighting Romans! Fight on!’

With a bellow of rage the gladiator charged at the man just beyond Fuscius and punched high with his shield, forcing the Praetorian to raise his shield to counter the blow. At the same time he drew his arm back and swung it in a hooking arc, under and
round the bottom of the guardsman’s shield, then up in a vicious thrust into the Praetorian’s groin. So hard was the blow that it drove the air from the man’s lungs and almost lifted him off his feet as the blade punched up into his vital organs. With a savage cry of triumph the gladiator ripped his sword free and leaped back, then punched the gore-stained blade into the air.

‘Kill them! Kill them all, my brothers!’

There was a chorus of roars and shouting from his companions as they closed round the two rings of Praetorians and hacked and slashed at the shields and helmets.

‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’

Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily down on the scene.

‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’

Macro nodded and braced himself in a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Ready, lad?’

‘Ready.’

‘Now! Disengage.’ Macro stepped back into the ring, closely followed by Cato. At once Macro called out another order. ‘Close up!’

Fuscius and the man to Macro’s right edged towards each other while Cato and Macro sidestepped round until they were lined up with the gladiators’ leader. Cato moved forward, pushing between two of his comrades. ‘Make way there! Make way.’

The guardsmen shuffled aside to let them in and Macro stared intently at the man no more than eight feet away. ‘We’ll take him when he next strikes. On my command.’

Cato tightened his grip on his sword and felt his blood surging through his veins, making his muscles tingle with the familiar tension of battle. The gladiator fixed his eyes on Macro who
grinned and beckoned with his sword hand. ‘Go on then! Try me, if you dare!’ Macro moved his shield arm to the side to expose his chest, taunting his opponent.

The gladiator’s brow creased and he roared, ‘Then die, you bastard!’

He sprang forward, sword angled up at Macro’s throat. Macro kept his shield low and swung his sword up to parry the blow. At the last moment the gladiator did a cut over and redirected his attack at the angle between Macro’s helmet and his shoulder. The same instant Cato leaped forward, slamming his shield into the gladiator’s side as his sword hacked down into the other man’s extended sword arm. The edge cut deep into muscle before jarring against bone. The arm spasmed and the fingers exploded away from the sword handle so that the weapon clattered clumsily off the double layer of mail on Macro’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from his wound as he let out an animal howl of rage and pain. His followers parted around him, pulling back from the Romans, staring aghast at their leader. His sword arm hung uselessly at his side. He cast his buckler to the ground and clamped his shield hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

‘Come on,’ Macro muttered to Cato. ‘Let’s finish this.’

They stepped forward warily, watching for danger, but the gladiators kept their distance. Their leader had slumped down on to his knees, eyes clenched as he fought to contain the agony of his injury. Macro stood over him while Cato faced the others, his shield up, ready to deal with any man who sprang to the gladiator’s aid.

‘Your leader is beaten!’ Macro called out. ‘He is finished! Sheath your weapons if you don’t want to die with him here!’

There was a pause as the other men waited for a response from their leader. Macro ground his teeth in fury before he snarled, ‘Do it! Do as I say, or there will be no mercy for you!’

The first of the gladiators hesitantly returned his blade to its scabbard. Another followed his lead, then more as the rest drew away from the Praetorians and did as Macro ordered. Their wounded leader remained on his knees, gazing around him fiercely.
‘Fight, damn you! Fight back. You were promised freedom by the Emperor. Now fight for it, or it will be taken from you!’

‘The man’s a bloody l-l-liar!’ Claudius shouted drunkenly. ‘I said no such thing! The cheek of the fellow! Kill him. K-ki-kill any of them who refuse to lower their swords. Quickly.’ He gestured to the far side of the lake and the sound of a slow mocking clap carried across the water. ‘Don’t test their patience any longer.’