The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  Flaminius was in no fit state to make any deals. He just wanted to crawl away into a hole somewhere and die. ‘You want to know what I know,’ he croaked. ‘Well, I’m nosy too. Maybe we can make some kind of exchange. Information in return for information. Or for freedom.’

  Arctos came into view, still wearing the gladiator helmet. He leaned over to bring his visored face close to Flaminius’. ‘What do you want to know?’

  Flaminius laughed. ‘I want to know how in Hades you think you can pull this off!’ he said, scoffing.

  Arctos drew back. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You really think you can conquer the Roman Empire with a few gladiators?’

  Arctos folded his arms. ‘I know I can,’ he said. ‘All I need is just a little bit more intelligence.’

  ‘You said it, chum,’ Flaminius muttered. A gauntleted fist slammed into the side of his head.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Arctos snapped. He circled round, visor turned towards Flaminius. ‘Do you think this province is so unimportant?’

  ‘No,’ said Flaminius. ‘I know that Egypt is vital to the empire. But there’s a loyal legion stationed here that isn’t going to put up with a rebellion of gladiators any more than it put up with the Judaean Revolt.’

  ‘Ah, the Judaean Revolt,’ said Arctos. ‘Now the Judaeans are a shadow of their former strength. The Greeks despise the Judaeans. It was a hatred that Rome encouraged. Divide and rule. But now the Judaeans are dead or fled for the most part, the Greeks, those oh-so-civilised and cultured Greeks who his imperial majesty rates so highly, now they have only one focus for their frustration and hatred: Rome.

  ‘And another irony: this festival in Hadrian’s name, celebrating his accession and his suppression of the Judaean Revolt, is celebrated by gladiatorial games, the so-called Games of Hadrian. Families of gladiators from provinces miles around have flocked here to fight in honour of the imperial majesty. And yet gladiators are unhappy men, ripe for revolt. Spartacus has not been forgotten. These tough, well trained fighting-men—and women—make ideal shock troops. The tax evading Egyptian robbers of the Thebaid and now the river pirates of the Delta will make others. And the crowning glory—Hadrian himself is coming here, to allow the mob to fawn upon him as they celebrate their liberation. It will be a true liberation. The emperor will ascend to Olympus in a blaze of glory before he even sets foot on the sacred sand of Egypt.’

  Arctos broke off, as if he had said too much. Flaminius lifted a quizzical eyebrow. ‘How do you hope to accomplish that? While he’s still at sea? I…’ He too broke off, a vision of the burning ship in the Great Harbour flashing through his thoughts. ‘A blaze of glory. That was you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been practising. But how?’

  ‘We mentioned an exchange of information,’ Arctos said. ‘I’ve told you rather too much. I should kill you here and now.’ He turned in Flaminius’ direction again. ‘Was it not that you also have information I require. Tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Flaminius asked, playing for time. ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  Arctos seized him by his harness, gripping it in two claw-like hands. ‘I will get it from you one way or another,’ he hissed. ‘When is Hadrian coming to Alexandria?’

  ‘Alexandria?’ Flaminius said. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You do know,’ Arctos said. ‘And you will tell me. You will tell me! Obviously, sometime in the next few days. But which one? It is vitally important that I know.’

  ‘So you can devise some means of destroying his ship?’ asked Flaminius. ‘Kill him before he comes ashore? What then?’

  ‘Then I will have my rebels at my back,’ Arctos said. ‘I will give that fool Avidius Pollio and that equestrian oaf Haterius Nepos an ultimatum: support me as emperor or face a revolt that will make that of the Judaeans seem like a gladiatorial contest.’

  Flaminius studied the visor. It made its wearer seem unhuman, like some steam driven automaton of the kind popular in the more forward-thinking temples. But Arctos was not an automaton, he was a man. Flaminius glanced covertly at the seal ring on Arctos’ finger. The design showed a bear. The ring itself was gold. Horrified realisation crept across him like an army of ants.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he whispered.

  —33—

  Silence hung heavy in the hut. All that could be heard was the distant soughing of the wind among the reeds.

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Arctos said at last, disengaging his hold from Flaminius’ harness. Brutus looked from one to the other, then lifted his gauntleted fist as if to strike Flaminius. Arctos shook his head warningly and the Sicanian relented.

  ‘So,’ Arctos said, ‘we’ve had our trade of information. I should let you go.’

  Flaminius didn’t know how to react. ‘You’re setting me free?’ It was impossible. Surely if he strayed one foot out of the encampment the rebel leader would send men after him to kill him. There was no way Arctos could afford to let him go, knowing what he knew now.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Arctos. ‘I’ll let you go. But first…since you posed as a gladiator in your attempts to infiltrate my network, you must surely have learnt the trade. Tiro, I hear they call you. But it’s a profession that encourages swift development. And I like nothing more than to see a good Roman tradition like a fair contest between two professional gladiators.’

  ‘You want me to fight for my freedom?’ Flaminius was in no fit state. After the torture, physical and mental, he felt weak, and more than half expected a relapse into fever.

  Arctos whispered something to Syphax. The Nubian vanished from the hut, returning shortly afterwards leading Camilla.

  The gladiatrix looked wide eyed at Flaminius. Just whose side was she on? Arctos’? Or Flaminius’ own?

  Arctos welcomed her. ‘You will fight Tiro,’ he told her. ‘If he wins, he may go free with all that he has learnt here. If he loses…’

  ‘If he loses, what happens to me?’ Camilla asked.

  ‘You will have my favour,’ Arctos said. ‘Villas and estates will be yours when the empire is mine. A life of luxury. Everything that you have never known. What do you most desire?’

  ‘I would like to see the head of the slave driver who sold me as a gladiatrix,’ she said. ‘On a charger before me.’

  Arctos laughed, and slapped her on the arm. She glowered at him, but he said, ‘Very well, if you win this fight, I will ensure that you find that man and see him killed.

  ‘Get them both properly equipped,’ he told the others, ‘one as retiarius, the other as secutor. Rouse everyone, gladiators and Bucolics, and have them light torches and form a ring. Tonight we shall see a fight such as the emperor watches in the Colosseum itself.’

  Syphax and several others took Flaminius to the hut that was their armoury. Camilla also came, and together they chose the best weapons and armour. ‘A pity we do not have the armour Arctos was promised by the Ethiopians,’ Camilla commented, equipping herself with an oval shield, a metal armguard and gauntlet, a longsword and a visored helmet.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  Her choice of weapons left Flaminius to take the part of retiarius. He lifted up a trident and tested it for its balance.

  She shot him an enigmatic glance. ‘Don’t you?’ she asked. ‘If I kill you, I will get my revenge. If you kill me, you can go free with everything you’ve learnt here.’

  ‘Even if I believed that for a second,’ said Flaminius wearily, ‘I still do not wish to kill you.’ He had a soft spot for her, despite her betrayal. She reminded him of Drustica.

  Syphax jeered. ‘You’ve made a friend here, woman,’ he said.

  Defiantly, Camilla placed the helmet on her head. She stood there, faceless as Arctos, breathing heavily but saying nothing.

  ‘Hurry,’ said Syphax to Flaminius.

  Flaminius strapped the armguard on to his left arm, picked up the trident in one hand, the net in the other. He had always thought the retiarius’ equipment
pitifully meagre. And yet he would have the advantage of speed, while Camilla would be slowed down by her heavier armour.

  Outside the rebels were gathering, gladiators and Bucolics. Ozymandias stood amongst the other native Egyptians, speaking to the red haired Kalasiris. As they passed, the assistant librarian looked up. His eyes met Flaminius’, but Flaminius looked away.

  At the far end of the impromptu ring stood Arctos, like an emperor in the imperial box, flanked by Brutus and the two gladiators who had accompanied him. As Flaminius and Camilla entered the ring from the far side, a harsh yell of acclamation came from a hundred or more throats. Flaminius had not realised how many men were gathered on this island. And yet this could only represent a small fraction of Arctos’ forces, if he truly thought he could challenge the Twenty Second Legion. But of course, he could draw on the robbers of the desert, and all the dispossessed and discontented of this dark land. Certainly, as the rebel leader stood there with his features hidden behind the visor of his helmet, he gave every indication of confidence.

  Someone else was concealing their face and true demeanour behind a mask: Camilla. All Flaminius could see was his own face reflected in the burnished metal of her visor. The torches held by the watchers roared in the night air, flickering wildly and casting highlights from their armour.

  Arctos stepped out into the ring between them.

  ‘These gladiators have been given the chance to fight for the things they most desire,’ he said, his voice ringing out from the helmet like an orator’s as he took up a declamatory stance. ‘They have fought together side by side, become comrades. But now that is all behind them. All they have now is the fight to the death. To the victor, the spoils. To the loser—death, death, death!’

  The torchbearers took up the chant, and soon everyone was chanting, ‘Death! Death! Death!’ The din would travel for miles across the flooded Delta. Flaminius tried to ignore the chanting figures. They seemed more like baboons or jackals than human beings. He remembered the mob that had watched his fights in Nicopolis, that many headed monster. It had thrilled him, yet repulsed him, as he knew it did all gladiators. The superiority they prated, it was gone. The gladiators had become another mob. And with them were the Bucolics, and Ozymandias.

  The latter had watched in uneasy silence. Dwelling as they did in these backwaters, they knew nothing of civilised sport. They had no idea of how to behave in society. But now they added their voices to the never-ending chant:

  ‘Death! Death! Death!’

  Arctos gave a flourish of his cloak then stepped back into the mob, which almost swallowed him up. Flaminius turned resignedly to Camilla—and leapt back as her blade whistled past his unarmoured head!

  The mob booed and jeered. Camilla cut at him again. He lifted his trident awkwardly in his left hand, weighed down by the folds of the net in his right. Neglecting the net, he lunged at Camilla. She leapt back as deftly as him, despite the armour she wore. She was bigger than him, of course, and stronger. Better able to carry that weight…

  He raced after her, and the crowd moved back. Another lunge, and this time she was ready with her shield, using it like a pugilist’s glove. The prongs of Flaminius’ trident caught in the ornate tracery of the shield and he had to yank hard to pull it free. As he did so, she sliced at him with her blade. Though he twisted away, tearing his trident free with a pinging sound as he did so, he felt a white-hot flame of pain along his ribs.

  He feinted with the trident then brought the net down cracking like a whip. It caught on the crest of her helmet, but she ducked and it flopped flaccidly to the floor. She stomped on it vengefully with her sandaled feet, then stabbed at him as he tried to tug it away. He parried the attack with a lunge of his trident and metal met metal with a screech as if of pain. She knocked the trident away with her shield but he kicked it back with his right foot, slamming into her side. As she staggered, he tugged at the net again and she was down, enmeshed in its folds.

  Flaminius loomed over her, trident lifted. On every side, fists were clenched, thrust forward, thumbs pointing downwards. He peered into her eyeholes, trying to see her reaction. He didn’t want to kill her, but if he did, he would be set free.

  Or would he? How could he trust Arctos?

  His head was clear. His weakness had gone. His blood was on fire. He knew that after the fight was over he would be weak again, weaker than ever. But now he was triumphant.

  Arctos stepped forward from the crowd. The rebel leader’s arm was extended, his fist clenched. And then he raised his thumb.

  Live. Camilla would live.

  The mob roared angrily. Arctos motioned for silence. ‘Best of three,’ he said.

  Flaminius allowed Camilla to rise. Angrily, she tore the net away. He took it and bundled it up under his right arm, slung the trident over his left shoulder, and stepped away, allowing the heavily armoured gladiatrix to ready herself for the next bout.

  Camilla was panting and grunting. She pushed her visor back and looked long and hard at Flaminius. Then she lowered it, clanged her sword against her shield, and advanced.

  Flaminius sank into a low crouch, trident jutting upwards, a fold of mesh in his hand but most of his net pooled on the cold sand. Shadows from the torches flickered on Camilla’s armour. Did he intend to kill her? No. He might have to, though. He would have to wait for the optimum moment.

  She blundered forwards, shield lifted. He lunged at her, rising from his crouch. She deflected the blow with her shield, cut at him with her sword, but as he rose he swung the mesh. It opened out like a Lake Mareotis fisherman’s net when he casts it. The sword was caught in the folds, more folds entwined themselves around her sinewy arm. But this time she anticipated the move, snatched her arm back, slicing through the net with her sword, then whirled round to give herself the momentum needed to make another hack at Flaminius’ neck.

  He ducked and her sword swooped impotently like a frustrated hawk. He dropped the tattered net and thrust the trident with both hands. She countered the attack with her shield; she swung her sword and he leapt back. He charged in again, aiming at her armoured face, but as she lifted her shield he darted under, wounding her in the arm. She half staggered half fell back, dropping the big shield and staring disbelievingly at her forearm which was weeping blood.

  Snarling like a wounded animal, she pushed herself back to her feet and flung herself at him. He fended her off with his trident. Now both were at a disadvantage; he had lost his net, she her shield.

  Not so long ago they had both been friends, he thought, but all that was long gone.

  Swinging her sword she lopped off the head of the trident and Flaminius was left holding a pole. He lifted it in both hands to deflect an overhand chop, but the sword cut through and sank into the sand. She tried to haul it out, he kicked her in the face, she sprawled backwards. The crowd was chanting its bloodlust. Flaminius seized Camilla’s sword hilt and tore the blade free in a fountain of sand. He levelled it at her throat as she got to her knees. She tore off her helmet.

  Her face was savage with hate, her eyes desperate with fear. The mob had their hands out, thumbs pointing downwards. Flaminius looked to Arctos.

  ‘One more round,’ said the rebel leader. ‘Whoever wins the third and final round is the victor.’

  Flaminius dropped his sword and stepped back. ‘Hardly fair,’ he commented, allowing Camilla to gather together her gear. Syphax brought out a new trident and net and flung them to him. ‘After all,’ Flaminius went on, ‘I’ve won two fights already. Best of three, you said.’

  ‘I’m changing the rules,’ Arctos told him.

  ‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to set me free,’ Flaminius mocked him. ‘Cheat!’

  He backed up so Camilla had enough room to manoeuvre. Arctos signalled to them. ‘Begin.’

  This time Camilla did not intend to pussyfoot around the ring. Running at him she rammed into him with her shield so he backed up rapidly, then clumsily parried a rain of blows with his new tr
ident. Then something wrapped itself round his sandaled feet. As he fell backwards to hit the sand with a thump that knocked the breath from him, he realised that it was the old net.

  ‘Should have thrown that away,’ he said reflectively as Camilla stood astraddle him. ‘I always was a bad housekeeper.’

  The thumbs of the mob were pointing upwards. Camilla moved as if to step away and let Flaminius rise. Then Arctos gave the thumbs down.

  Flaminius rolled over, grabbed her legs, and pulled her to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he shouted, ‘Ozymandias!’ as if it was a war cry.

  Halfway across the ring, Ozymandias produced a knife from his kilt and plunged it into the unsuspecting breast of the gladiator beside him.

  —34—

  Arctos’ helmet flashed in the torchlight as he turned to watch. ‘Treachery!’ he boomed. The Bucolics produced hidden weapons and set upon the gladiators. Arctos ran.

  Camilla looked about uncertainly. Flaminius shoved her to one side and as skirmishes broke out all around the ring, ran in pursuit of Arctos, who had vanished into his hut. As he ran, Bucolics cut down gladiators, gladiators cut down Bucolics. A brawny man in gladiator armour screamed in pain as a Bucolic stabbed him in the kidneys; he fell to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. Another gladiator, armed with a longsword, was surrounded by several knife wielding Bucolics. He brought his weapon upwards in a glittering arc of steel and split one of them from crotch to gizzard, before another river pirate plunged his dagger into the man’s suntanned chest.

  Flaminius ran on. Just as he reached the doorway to the hut, a figure barrelled out of the torchlit gloom and smashed him to the ground, pinning him there. Flaminius felt strong fingers tighten around his throat. Choking for breath, he fought to throw off the heavy body, seized the arms by the wrists and tried to haul the hands away. A dark face glared down at him.

  ‘You! Tiro!’ It was Syphax. ‘This is your doing!’