Wolf’s Empire: Gladiator (46 page)

The emperor seemed to be selecting stories from Ovid that he could use to remind Proconsul Aquilinus of his place. He was mounting his own propaganda campaign to counter that of the so-called New Gods. Scylla was supposed to represent Aquilinus and his genetic supremacy. In finding all others repulsive, he had become the monster, in which case Charybdis represented that monster's greed in seeking to devour the empire. Perhaps, though, the emperor meant me. I was Scylla and Crassus was Glaucus, and his quest to make me love him had ultimately transformed me into something so terrible that no other would love me, a monster with an appetite for blood and ambrosia.

Julius Gemminus offered another great prize. The winner would receive an engine boost that would allow a single chariot to run at maximum capacity for twice as long as usual without the engines suffering harm—a huge boon for tomorrow's final race.

Instantly, we picked up the pace, and the Caninines also sped forward, anxious to take the lead before there was no opportunity to pass. Their chariots showed signs of wear and the contestants themselves looked tired and grim but the announcement of the prize spurred us on, and the seven chariots all surged ahead even before the editor had finished his spiel. As the plateau narrowed into the channel, a lake at the left side transformed into a spinning whirlpool of white water, clouds of vapor rising up from its surface, a stout granite island twenty yards across, unmoving at its center. The fumes that it emitted burned my eyes and nostrils—not a place for a leisurely swim. The channel was partly blocked, but thankfully there was still plenty of unobstructed space between the pool and the opposite wall, allowing safe passage. Assuming, that is, that the enemy teams didn't butt and ram us into the deadly water. We had the advantage in that department, though. We were hugging the channel wall, so the Caninines were going to have to push in front of us to pass or be driven into the deadly waters. I was less worried about the encroaching Viridians, the team closest to us, and more concerned by the lack of a threat. If the whirlpool was meant to be Charybdis, where then was Scylla?

In answer, the ice on the other side of the channel, opposite the pool, cracked and suddenly burst open. Six great eyeless heads on tall stalk necks reared up high from below the ice near the channel wall, and we had to swerve to the middle to avoid going under.

The White Rams nearly lost their chariot. Four team members managed to escape by piling onto their two desultore skirmishers, the weighed-down speeders escaping just in the nick of time. The vehicle teetered briefly, then the skilled charioteers pulled the chariot away from the monster. Their best fighter went down, though: the plebeian league gladiator Faustus Arrius Cornicen, who fought with Phrygian rams' horns and used to crown every triumph by sounding his regimental bugle. Into the acid waters he went, screaming until the last.

All the monsters' heads split open like Venus fly-traps, revealing dozens of rows of thin, sharp teeth. The teeth were numerous and short, better suited to gripping than piercing armor and killing gladiators; but that didn't stop them from menacing us as the heads roamed everywhere, attacking both teams. There was no way past without risking the monsters' teeth on one side or the acid whirlpool on the other.

The Corvinus brothers tried to drive forward, and the Ovidian chariot came up alongside us, but three of the heads dropped to form a barrier, barring the way ahead, while the remaining three continued attacking the teams from above. Before the chariots could turn away, one of the heads shot out and ripped an arm off the Ovidian trainer Spurius Ovidius Ahala, devouring the limb and the net with it.

The Flavians were darting around, looking for a chance to run, when Licinus ordered Castor to use the single charge of the electromagnetic pulse generator we'd won the day before. It hit the Flavians and their chariot's engine temporarily cut out, leaving them unable to maneuver before the beast. Their gladiator, Achilius, wasn't fast enough to escape the attacking heads, and his screams filled the air as the gripping teeth sunk in and then flung his body into the acid whirlpool.

Marcus broke away on a skirmisher, lightening his chariot while he sped along the front of the three heads, ramming them side on as he passed. His distraction worked, allowing the main body of his chariot to speed past and out of the channel. Marcus didn't get clear, though—tendrils broke free from the stem neck belonging to the final head and ripped him from his speeder.

Our team wasn't faring much better. Each time we used our weapons to ward away the snapping teeth, the heads closed in and butted our chariot, pushing us into enemy craft and driving us all toward the acid whirlpool.

“Accala!” Licinus barked. “Engage! Throw your discus.”

I hung back, though. I needed to think things through; there was something missing. I didn't know this kind of alien creature, but its six heads had no eyes. First principles led to deep understanding. So how did it see us? Did it possess sensory organs that might be vulnerable to attack? What was it, in and of itself? As I studied its form, it occurred to me that the stalks the heads rested on were more like extensions of a greater body than a body in and of itself. Was the body protected beneath the ice, or somewhere else? Perhaps camouflaged to protect a weakness? The rock at the center of the whirlpool. There were no igneous rocks on this world. This was a creature imported especially for the tournament, like the Centaurii.

“Accala! Engage!” Licinus yelled.

I cast Orbis back toward the whirlpool, away from the threat before us. He hit the rock and ricocheted off the channel wall on his return path. Hundreds of small eyes suddenly burst open like flowers all over the surface of the rock and the tendrils reared up as if in pain, dropping Marcus to the ice. The noise was tremendous, a shriek of pain and rage. The opportunistic Flavians, their engine recovered, darted through the gap and escaped. Marcus remounted his skirmisher.

“The rock!” I yelled. “All teams, all Romans must attack the rock if we want to escape!”

Licinus didn't seem happy about that, but he ordered Castor to pull the chariot around, and we drove toward the pool. The one-armed charioteer responded at once, his expression one of total concentration, his spiked hair laced with sweat. Now all six heads came at us, trying to drive us into the deadly waters. I threw Orbis again, and this time he was joined by Darius' arrows, Pavo's darts, and needle arrows from Mania's bow staff. The combined effort created another gap, and the Ovidian chariot was able to escape. We were too close to the whirlpool, though, and the remaining heads butted our craft into the water. The current took us quickly, spinning us about. The chariot could float, but not for long. The acid fumes were burning my eyes, and I could only imagine they were eating away at our vehicle. Castor was trying to pull us out of it, but that was a mistake. We needed to keep up our assault. If the stalked heads were tentacles and the rock was the head, then this whirlpool must be some kind of digestive system for trapping and breaking down the prey it captured.

“More speed!” I yelled at Castor. “Ride the current as fast as you can!”

“I give the orders on this chariot!” Licinus flashed me a furious look but then nodded to Castor to proceed.

We needed to get closer to the center to strike before the current pulled us under.

“The rock!” I screamed. “Give it all you've got!”

As we drew close, Crassus' javelin struck out at the eyes again and again, and I used Orbis as a blade weapon, cutting in rapid arcs, and then the stalked heads were over us, knocking us away, sending us flying out of the pool and skittering across the ice until we were clear.

We did it! We were through and out into the hilly ground ahead.

Behind us, the creature withdrew into the water to lick its wounds, leaving only the swirling pool.

I was without energy, and as before, that brought on the buzzing headache. I could confirm without doubt my uncle's theory about ambrosia use's diminishing returns. The small amount the Sertorians were rationing me was having less and less effect, and I was so tired I could have keeled over and gone to sleep right there on the ice. The buzzing in my head was no longer an irritation, it sounded more like the morning traffic rush in Rome. At the back of my neck I could feel the pin starting to generate heat. What was going on?

Ahead of us came a sudden cry, and I snapped my eyes open, forcing myself to wake up. What was wrong now?

The chariots that had already made it through the passage were pulling up, which was surprising. I thought they'd be surging ahead toward the end. And then I realized that we were surrounded. On the high ground to our left and right were crystalline Hyperboreans. Tall warriors, spines shining, long war staves made of crystal spikes in their hands. Vacant alien expressions stared down at us. There was silence but for the buzzing song. It was so loud I couldn't believe no one else could hear it. From all around, they swarmed out of the ice, the rocks—they came from everywhere until there must have been a thousand.

This was the alien uprising, right here and now, and there was my boy, right up in front standing ten feet tall. My nightmare. Their barbarian Spartacus fighting for his people and their ichor.

They'd brought the fight to us, shining liquid ichor flowing through their bodies, like quicksilver in the sunlight. Their ability to create their own tunnels must have made it easy for them to slip in beneath the energy fields that demarcated the arena zone.

We were exhausted after surviving Julius Gemminus' monster. Hands shaking, eyes stinging as they struggled to focus. The backs of my hands took on a yellowish hue. Ambrosia withdrawal. The barbarians had chosen their moment perfectly.

XXIV

T
HE CHARIOTS WERE PULLING
up, no one volunteering to charge into the small army of Hyperboreans. This was not part of the games, and there was no point risking losses without gaining any advantage in the tournament. I looked up to the sky, searching for Julius Gemminus. No sign. They were deliberating on what to do. The emperor needed only to wave his hand, and the massive ion cannon beneath the orbital stadium would rain down hell on the Hyperboreans. They'd be melted back into the ice they came from in a matter of seconds. Ah, now Julius Gemminus came. “Well, isn't this exciting? We've asked the audience if they want to go with this and start the bestiarii round a little early, before the essedarii round has officially finished—what fun! Hold tight for the answer!”

There were now thousands of them, swarming toward us. All warriors, none of the pencil-thin workers I'd seen transporting ichor. These monsters were here to keep us from taking their precious elixir. Crystal spears and ice-pick arms sliced through the air. We couldn't take them all. Was Julius Gemminus really going to let the barbarians end the games here? But then the ion cannon from the Rota Fortuna arced down and carved a canyon between us and the majority of the Hyperborean forces. A loud screech sounded as ice and energy beam met, throwing up walls of water and mist. Segregated to either side of the newly created canyon, the ion cannon proceeded to vaporize the Hyperborean forces, leaving the odds at approximately three to one against. Romans, being innately superior, were expected to rise to the challenge and overcome adversity.

“The audience gave the thumbs-up,” Julius Gemminus announced. “The people want to see how this turns out. Survivors will return to the normal schedule to complete the chariot races, but for now we're going to count this as the first round of the beast hunt.” A trumpet blared. The armilla on each person's wrist chimed and would log the number of kills made while we put down the uprising. As the barbarians charged toward us, Gemminus explained that a worker Hyperborean was worth ten points; a warrior, twenty; the bull chief himself, the alien from my dreams and the leader of this uprising, had been allotted five hundred points. Whichever team brought him down was almost guaranteed to win the bestiarius.

“And here's the added incentive. Since we're fighting a war in miniature, there must be some real-world stakes. The side with the winning count will receive a thousand times that number of barbarian slaves from the losers.”

Gods. If the winners killed a hundred Hyperboreans, the losing faction would have to cough up a hundred thousand slaves.

“Bag as many as you can in the first few minutes,” Licinus barked.

Our chariots surged forward to meet the barbarians.

“The emperor has blessed you with his intervention, but now you're on your own down there. Good luck!” Julius Gemminus cheerfully exclaimed.

I'd have loved nothing more than to switch sides and help the Viridians, leaving the Sertorians to be massacred at the hands of the barbarians they'd wronged. How poetic that would be. But I couldn't blow my mission. For now, the Sertorians must live until I had my brother. And that meant that these aliens, however righteous their cause in defending their world, must die.

The Hyperboreans moved in, undeterred by the ion cannon attack. The lines between arena game and all-out warfare were about to be blurred for the entertainment of the mob. Furthermore, with the disorder among the different teams and factions as contradictory orders from different leaders were screamed, we were about to throw ourselves at our enemy like a pack of wild barbarians, disorderly and without strategy, while the Hyperboreans, not Romans by any stretch, came at us at a disciplined pace in orderly lines. They were calculating, not driven by passions and fears like creatures with blood and organs. Their nightmare chief ran up front, leading the advance. We needed to mobilize in an orderly fashion, or the games would end, every contestant dead at alien hands.

But I had momentum. It was I who led the fight against Scylla and Charybdis. It was up to me to make them remember that they were something more than contestants, more than warring houses; they were, above all else, Romans, and seven millennia of cooperative warfare, more than any spurious claims of genetic superiority, really were in our blood and bones. They just had to be reminded of that fact.