Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  Roman

  by

  K. M. Ashman

  Published by

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  WWW.Silverbackbooks.co.uk

  Roman

  Copyright K M Ashman 2010

  All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  All characters depicted within this publication other than the obvious historical figures are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  It was an age of fear. An age of brutality, yet overall, when all is said and done, it was an age of glory.

  Prologue

  The Roman Province of Picenum - 20AD

  Karim stood at the centre of the arena, every muscle aching as rivulets of blood oozed down his face to drip lazily onto the ever thirsty sand. Damocles the Greek, his comrade from the Ludus, knelt in the sun scorched arena, nursing a stab wound to his side, received just before he had crushed his opponent’s skull under the heel of his hobnailed Caligae, in a frenzy of aggression and self-preservation. Throughout the arena, those who had fought like demons to keep hold of their miserable lives and the faint promise of an elusive freedom, lay dead or dying, pathetic victims of gladiatorial savagery.

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  Governor Sibelus Augusta’s birthday celebrations had started earlier that day with an air of frivolity. A troop of travelling dwarves assembled from all over Europe, entertained the crowds with mock battles and races on tiny ponies around the amphitheatre. Oddities of nature rarely seen in Rome, let alone Picenum, paraded around the arena on display. Giraffes strode gracefully around the ring, eye to eye with those in the lower tiers, while giant apes, contained within barred crates, were wheeled into the centre to be taunted into banging their chests by their keepers. Teams of trainee gladiators followed, fighting violent but non lethal battles to prepare the crowd for what was yet to come. Throughout the day the level of passion and violence increased until eventually the faint rhythmic sound of distant beating drums permeated the arena, raising the crowd’s anticipation.

  The excitement finally exploded when two wooden gates were flung open and a herd of bulls, frothing at the mouth and mad with pain burst into the arena, seeking escape from the torture behind the scenes. This was the Venatio, the brutal spectacle of animal against man in a one sided contest of pain and gore. Another gate opened and ten Bestiarii, well-trained animal fighters, ran forward to screams of approval from the impatient crowds.

  As soon as the staged conflicts had ended, criminal classes with little or no training faced exotic animals ranging from tigers from the east and hippos and crocodiles from Africa. At last the first human blood had been spilt. It was what the mob expected and a simple prelude to what was to come.

  The crowd took a well-earned break. It was thirsty work watching so much violence and drinks and sweetmeats were offered for sale by vendors around the arena. A column of bare breasted female slaves bearing basket’s full of the cooked meat of the recently slain animals, circled the arena throwing chunks into the crowd, causing excitement and conflict as the mob fought to obtain the roasted flesh, eager to consume the dead animal’s spirits. Many had brought their own refreshments and picnicked on fruit and cheese, or, if they were well off, slabs of cold meat washed down by flasks of tepid wine.

  Eventually the crowd returned to their seats for the late afternoon’s entertainment. This was when the real excitement started and what everyone had been waiting for. Blood and gore, and preferably, human.

  First came the Noxii, the criminals condemned to the arena for a wide range of indiscretions punishable by death. Adulterers, escaped slaves, deserters or simply captured enemy, were made to fight each other to the death for the chance to live another day, depending on the whim of the governor. Mock battles were staged where groups of unarmed slaves representing the enemies of Rome were mercilessly cut down by soldiers dressed in their finest parade gear, poor re-enactments of famous battles known to the audience.

  Condemned women and children were released unarmed into the ring, momentarily relieved at the unexpected freedom before the snarls of the starving lions brought their short-term life expectancy into sharp and terrifying focus. Finally, the time came that everyone had been waiting for, the main event of the day, the Ludi Gladiatori.

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  Sixteen highly trained fighters at the physical peak of fitness and ability marched into the arena to the accompaniment of deafening cheers and music. This was what it was all about, the final celebrations for Governor Sibelus Augusta on his fiftieth birthday, a display of gladiatorial magnificence that had been awarded the Emperor’s privilege of Sine Missione.

  The crowd knew this was a rare occasion and many had travelled hundreds of miles to see a gladiatorial contest where every combatant knew he had to win or die. It was as simple as that. Sine Missione was rarely granted as the cost of training gladiators was so exorbitant and the compensation you had to pay the opponents camp so high that only the wealthiest of men could afford to sponsor such games. Luckily, Governor Sibelus was such a man or at least that was the image that he portrayed. In truth he was drowning in a sea of debt, due to a gambling addiction that threatened to destroy his privileged and influential position.

  But today was his birthday and he had an ace up his sleeve, a gladiator whose name was hardly known in the area. Sibelus was risking everything on this extraordinary man. He had made a huge wager with Gaius Pelonius Maecilius, a recently returned war hero who had retired with a substantial pension and extended lands granted to him by the Emperor in recognition of his lifetime achievement and bravery during twenty-five years of military service.

  Privately Sibelus gloated. What would a mere soldier know about such things? By the end of the day his debts would be substantially reduced at the ex-soldier’s expense. The bet was simple. He had wagered that in the finale, Karim, the jet black Numidian would be the last man alive in the arena.

  Pelonius had accepted the wager in a drunken haze and now, three weeks later, having seen the gladiator train, regretted that evening terribly and in particular his love for un-watered wine, the curse that had so often cost him much. However, the die was cast and there was nothing he could do.

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  Karim had trained as a Provocatores and fought with sword and shield, protected by a breastplate, arm guard and double feathered helmet. Provocatores usually fought each other but in this instance they could be paired against other gladiators, ranging from the Retiarii, who fought with trident dagger and net, through to the Hoplomachi, who fought with the standard Roman issue sword, the Gladius, and a small round shield.

  The bloody conflict started and when the original sixteen had been reduced to eight, the mix was altered by the sudden addition of two chariots bursting unexpectedly into the arena. The chariots were from a different Ludus and each held two further combatants armed with spears. These were the feared Essedarii and their sole purpose was to kill the remaining combatants.

  The home gladiators worked together to bring the chariots crashing down. Spears were driven between spokes and horse’s legs cleaved from beneath them with blade or axe. Without the advantage of their chariots the riders were ineffective and though they put up a frantic defence, they were no match for the local gladiator’s overwhelming expertise in the administration of bloody and painful death.

  Just when the remaining eight had started to believe they would survive, they were instructed to fight each other. Each exhausted combatant drew on every last ounce of strength and skill to try and defeat his opponent, each as skilled as the other in their own speciality until eventually the evening’s extreme activities left two bloody
gladiators standing, Karim the Numidian and Damocles the Greek.

  Karim looked over again at Damocles. It was clear now that there would indeed be no Missione and that the governor would make them fight to the last man standing. The Greek was his friend and both had trained together at the Ludus. It was never a good idea to make friends because of the probability that one day you would have to fight each other, but over the last year the two had formed a close bond borne out of mutual respect and understanding. Karim realised that despite his friendship the time had come and they would have to meet each other in the final contest. It was what they trained for and they both knew they would one day die in the ring. Death held no fear for either but it was the manner of dying that was important. He limped over to the Greek and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Come, friend,’ he said, ‘We have a corrupt Roman and a bloodthirsty crowd to entertain.’

  Damocles looked up at the cheering mob.

  ‘Have they not tasted enough blood?’ he asked.

  ‘They are Roman,’ came the reply, ‘They will never have enough.’

  ‘Then let’s give them a finale to remember.’

  They walked towards the centre of the arena and stood twenty paces apart facing the sponsor. Both gladiators dripped with blood, standing proud amongst the carnage that surrounded them yet gaining strength from the screams and chants of the adoring crowd.

  High in the stand, Governor Sibelus and his guests enjoyed the spectacle from their comfortable seats, picking on sweetmeats and fruit and drinking the best chilled wine from the deepest cellar in the governor’s villa, an extravagance he could ill afford. Sibelus called for silence.

  ‘Citizens of Picenum,’ he announced when the crowd had settled, ‘Behold your two remaining champions, Damocles of Greece and Karim the Numidian. I think you will agree that the contests have been fair and both have earned the Rudis.’

  He caught the eye of the referee whose impartial pairings had ensured Karim had a favourable draw through to the last two. The official felt no guilt. These were hard times and two hundred Denarii were a year’s wages for a minor official and anyway, he had a family to support.

  The crowd cheered in appreciation. The wooden sword of freedom was seldom awarded and never to two combatants. Sibelus raised his hand, waiting for the crowd to settle.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘There can be only one Rudis.’

  ‘Release them both,’ someone shouted from the crowd. Once again Sibelus raised his hand with a benevolent smile.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘The contest is not yet over.’

  Silence fell again and he turned towards the two bleeding gladiators staring up at him from the arena.

  ‘One last contest,’ he thundered, ‘Against a common foe. Survive this and you are free men.’

  Both men straightened their tired bodies and held up their swords in acknowledgement. Raising his voice to its maximum, Sibelus turned towards another gate and, with his voice echoing around the walls of the arena, called out the final challenge.

  ‘Citizens of Picenum,’ he shouted, ‘Behold the Gauls!’

  The crowd screamed in excitement as two dozen warriors spilled out of the gate into the arena, but then fell silent, confused at the sight before them. These weren’t warriors, they were women. Their hair was wild and stuck up into terrifying shapes with horse glue and their naked bodies were daubed in blue dye. Each woman held a skinning knife and they searched the bloody arena for the targets that held the key to their survival.

  The spectators weren’t the only ones confused, Gaius Pelonius didn’t understand either. He had expected to be cheated by Sibelus but this was completely unexpected. Women or not, their numbers were many and there was a definite chance that Karim could be killed.

  ‘Happy with your wager?’ asked the governor, sitting back down alongside his guest.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not, the odds are in your favour.’

  A horn resounded around the arena followed by the screams of the women as they rushed towards the two wounded gladiators, both sounds drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the last battle commenced.

  Karim braced himself. He had no problem killing women, he had done so many times before and these women were no different. He prepared himself for the onslaught. Legs shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent, shield presented and Gladius held in the attack position but the expected impact never came as the screaming women swerved around him and made a beeline for Damocles. Karim span around, confused as the screaming mass enveloped his friend and though many fell victim to the Greek’s sword, he was quickly driven to the floor by sheer weight of numbers.

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  Their jailer had made it clear to the slave women.

  ‘If you kill the white man first,’ he had said, ‘Any survivors will be taken back to their homeland and released. If the black man is killed first, all who survive will be fed to the lions.’

  The lie had worked perfectly. As far as they knew, this was the women’s only chance to escape the hell of slavery and return to their homelands. So, with false hope in their hearts, they had endured the pathetic attempts of other slaves to make them look fierce with paint and glue before being herded into the arena.

  Karim realised the danger too late and roaring in anger, charged forward into the fray, slashing indiscriminately at anything that moved. The women panicked and those hysterical few that were left, fled around the arena seeking refuge behind anything they could find. Karim knelt beside his comrade already aware that it was too late.

  Damocles had lost his sword in the onslaught and fell mortally wounded, pouring with blood from multiple stab wounds.

  Karim picked up the Gladius and folded the Greek’s fingers around the hilt, ensuring the fellow gladiator died with his sword in hand.

  ‘So it ends,’ said Damocles weakly.

  ‘You die well,’ said Karim, ‘I will mark your stone as such.’

  ‘Bury me deep, Numidian,’ smiled Damocles, ‘That wooden sword was almost mine.’

  ‘You too will soon be free, Greek,’ he answered, ‘Sleep well.’

  Damocles’s eyes closed as his life slipped away, his blood greedily soaked up by floor of the arena.

  It was a dishonourable fate for a gladiator to die at the hands of a woman and Karim knew the Greek’s shade would wander forever in shame. He gently lowered his friend’s body to the floor and stood up to raise his gaze to the heavens before releasing a primeval roar that chilled the blood of all watching. He turned around with cold murder in his eyes, seeking those responsible for the death of the Greek.

  The next few minutes were the bloodiest of the whole day as Karim went berserk. Seeking out each woman in turn and screaming blindly as he found each one, he hacked them into pieces, ignoring their desperate cries for mercy. The crowd were frenzied in their enjoyment of the spectacle and screamed instructions to Karim, taking untold pleasure in this unprecedented display of savagery. Finally, Karim stood again in the centre of the circle, Gladius hanging limply from his hand, his head hanging in exhaustion as the crowd threw flowers from the stands.

  ‘Karim, Karim, Karim,’ they chanted, over and over again.

  Governor Sibelus was beside himself with glee, realising his carefully laid plans had come to fruition. Surely these were the best games seen in his generation. Even Emperor Tiberius would be impressed. He grinned at the sullen Pelonius and raised his hand for silence, waiting as the bloodthirsty crowd settled again.

  ‘Karim of Numidia,’ he began, ‘Today you have…’

  Suddenly a woman in the crowd screamed.

  ‘Another!’ she shouted, ‘One of the heathen still lives.'

  Karim spun around, alert to the danger, and ran towards the dead horse behind which the barbarian was hiding. Again the spectators were hysterical as the Gladiator dragged his enemy from the hiding place by her hair. Casting her to the floor in full view of the crowd, he raised hi
s Gladius to administer the decapitating blow but stopped suddenly, confusion and disbelief in his eyes.

  ‘Do it!’ someone screamed.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ cried another, ‘Kill the witch!’

  Karim placed the tip of his sword under the woman’s chin, forcing her to her feet. He had fought in many countries, killing more men and women than he cared to remember, but never had he killed a foe such as this. The terrified woman looked at her executioner, tears streaming through the blue dye on her face, hope dawning in her eyes as she realised she had a chance.

  ‘Please.’ she whimpered, in her strange language, ‘Please, don’t hurt us.’

  Shaking in terror she offered him the ragged sackcloth bundle she had been hiding enfolded within her maternal arms, a tiny sleeping baby.

  Karim stared at the child fast asleep in the young mother’s arms and lowered his sword, all fury spent. He walked slowly back to the centre of the arena.

  Someone in the crowd seized the opportunity to restore some sense and started to clap. His appreciation was mirrored quickly by the rest of the crowd and the applause eventually escalated into wild cheering. Soon the occupants of the amphitheatre were again standing on their feet, celebrating not only the skill and savagery of the gladiator but also his humanity and mercy.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Sibelus to Pelonius over the roar of the crowd, ‘But it matters not, the wager is complete. My gladiator is the last man alive and I will make arrangements to receive the deeds of your estate in due course.’ He stood to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ said Pelonius.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked the governor.

  ‘The wager has not ended,’ said Pelonius quietly. ‘There is another survivor!’

  ‘What other?’ snapped the governor, ‘The Greek is dead, and the games are over. Now I must go. I have a slave to free and a farm to inspect.’