The Eternal Banquet

by Jennifer Macaire

  Then the gladiator who’d won came and made a show of chasing the demons away. The crowd roared, screaming curses at the costumed demons and throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them. The gladiator motioned to the priests, and the dead man had a proper ceremony after all, before his body was disposed upon the pyre.

  The fighting continued. A grim determination animated the gladiators. The crowd in the stands started shouting encouragement at their favourites. The mood of the public began to swing from nervousness to excitement. Hysteria was slowly building. Beneath the bleachers, the slaves stood and watched, their gaming forgotten, their eyes glittering strangely in the deep shadows.

  I tried to wrench my gaze from the two men fighting at our feet. The sound of their breathing and grunts as they gave and received glancing blows horrified me. I looked at Plexis, wondering what he thought of the whole thing. He was sitting back in his seat, a stunned expression upon his face.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘In Greece, the games are for proving athletic prowess, they are not bloody massacres. I had begun to think the Romans were like us, civilized, but I see they are not. They are the worst barbarians I’ve ever seen.’ His voice was tight – he spoke through clenched teeth. I was glad he was whispering; Romans surrounded us, leaning forward, shouting and encouraging the atrocity. I thought of Alexander down in the arena and shuddered.

  ‘Paul, are you all right?’ I asked him, touching his shoulder.

  He turned and nodded mutely. His lips were white, his eyes bleak. Then he hunched his shoulders and turned back towards the ring.

  The afternoon wore on, the ringing of metal upon metal setting my teeth on edge and abrading my nerves. Another gladiator fell and the crowd howled. He died kicking, with blood spurting from his neck. There was the same silence afterwards; the same pause while the clowns had a mock fight with the priests for the fighter’s body. Then the fighting began anew, and the gladiators seemed galvanized, somehow. Their movements were faster, the swords met with the sound of clanging, and the crowd screamed encouragement.

  In front of us, the Iberian suddenly got lucky and found an opening in his adversary’s defences. He lunged, stabbing the redheaded man in the groin. A fountain of blood confirmed his fate. The Iberian grinned wolfishly, his shoulders suddenly squaring. The other man knew he was doomed. He kept to his feet, somehow, staggering. In his pale blue eyes was the haunted look of a fox caught in a trap. He bowed his head and held his shield low, hiding the wound from sight, but the sand beneath him turned scarlet. The Iberian stepped back, waiting. He knew it was only a matter of time. They circled each other, the Iberian on the outside. He was forcing the other man to move, to follow him, parrying his sharp thrusts.

  I was crying. I couldn’t help it. My nose was bleeding and tears were practically blinding me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the ring. The scent of blood and urine was overpowering. In front of me, the three boys sat without moving. They were hardly breathing. Not one of us moved except Phaleria, who uttered a choked sound and hid her face in Demos’s shoulder.

  It was soon over. The redheaded man grew progressively paler. Sweat stood out on his brow, his face became ashen and he had to use his shield as a crutch to hold himself upright. He tried to parry another blow, and took a cut on the arm. The pain made him vomit, or it may have been dizziness from loss of blood. He retched, all the while keeping his face and shield turned towards the Iberian. There was a lull in the fighting when another gladiator screamed and fell not too far away. The cheers of the crowd distracted the two men. The Iberian went so far as to turn in the direction of the clamour. I thought the redheaded barbarian would take advantage of his opponent’s inattention to attack, but he was dying, and he knew it. There was no need to take his adversary with him. Perhaps they had been combat partners in the training school. Perhaps they were friends. Whatever the reason, he simply waited, staring at the sky, while the crowd and the Iberian concentrated on the scene nearby.

  When the Iberian turned again, his opponent was still standing. He looked perplexed for a moment; he must have thought the other man would be lying on the sand by now. There was no help for it; he would have to administer the coup de grâce. He drew a deep breath and uttered the first war cry we’d heard that day. The battle cry of the fierce Iberians, a cry that raised gooseflesh up and down my back and made my hair stand on end.

  There was a hush in the crowd after the cry echoed eerily around the arena, and every head swivelled our way.

  The Iberian uttered his whooping screams, battering his opponent with his heavy sword, his face a frozen mask of dementia as the lust for blood suddenly hit him. The redheaded man gamely lifted his shield, but his sword wavered. He made a feeble attempt to ward off the blows that rained down upon him. Then he moved his shield to one side.

  I don’t know if anyone noticed what happened next. If you weren’t right in front, as we were, I think the scene would have appeared differently. But I saw, and Plexis, who was a swordsman, suddenly drew his breath with a sharp whistle. The redheaded man moved his shield and tilted his head to one side. The Iberian hesitated. He paused, just a fraction of a second, and in that moment his face changed. He lost his madness. He lost his crazed look, and he struck the redheaded man squarely on his exposed neck.

  The redheaded man had bared his own neck to end his suffering. He couldn’t endure any more, and crumpled at the Iberian’s feet without a sound. The Iberian threw his weapons to the ground and knelt next to his adversary. I couldn’t see his face; his back was to us, but I could hear his entreaties. I didn’t speak his language, but I got the gist of what he was saying. He was begging the other man’s forgiveness. I couldn’t take a breath without gasping. Shuddering, I pressed my handkerchief to my nose and watched as the clowns drew near, but they didn’t get close to the fallen gladiator. The Iberian stood up suddenly, his sword in hand, and threatened the clowns. He wouldn’t let them take the body away to defile it with mockery. Instead, he gathered his opponent’s body in his arms and carried him to the funeral pyre. He scattered the barley over the corpse and poured the sacred wine onto the dead man. He drew off his opponent’s armour, pausing when he came to the helmet. Hardly anyone was looking. They were watching the other combats around the ring. The end was drawing near for several gladiators. Blood was flowing freely from many wounds; there were viscous pools of it on the ground. The pale sand was streaked and splattered with scarlet.

  The Iberian was alone in the centre of the ring with his rival’s body. He carefully removed the helmet, smoothing stray locks of bright hair from the blanched face. Then he leaned down and kissed him. It looked as if he whispered in his ear. Next, he laid the body on the funeral pyre, stepping back quickly and rubbing his singed arms. The smoke roiled, billowed, and rose towards the heavens. The Iberian raised his face to the sky, and watched the smoke. His face was inscrutable. Had he lost a friend or an enemy? It didn’t seem to matter. He watched the smoke rise to the heavens, contemplating the path souls took as they left this earthly realm.

  When the last fight finished, abruptly, there was an expectant rustling in the crowd. The people were tense; a shiver ran through the air. The gladiators who’d triumphed, and the clowns, huddled together, all differences between costumed demon and gladiator forgotten. The sun touched the horizon and slid behind it. Deep shadows gobbled up the arena, and the funeral pyre cast a perfect circle of orange light upon the sand. It was almost burned down. Only an enormous heap of glowing embers and charred bones remained, with an occasional tongue of flame licking towards the sky.

  The puddles of blood turned black, the white glare of the sun on the sand disappeared. Everything was grey and muted. The colours became monochrome in the blue evening air. The air grew suddenly cooler. With a loud crash, the huge bronze doors guarding the entrance leading into the heart of the hillside, flew open. Inside was pitch-black. The silence grew. Everyone craned forward, but their faces were strained, nervous. There were fearful look
s. The Phersu was coming. The Game of Phersu was about to begin.

  Chapter Ten

  There was no clash of cymbals this time, no blare of trumpets announcing the demon’s arrival. In silence, he strode lightly out of the darkness, picking his way almost delicately past the blood on the ground. He traipsed towards the centre of the ring, standing near, but not quite within, the circle of light. He bowed to the four sides of the arena, but his bow was not met with the jeers and cheers the other clown demons had elicited. Instead, his cavorting was met with a watchful stillness.

  The Phersu wore strange garb, almost, but not quite, like the Harlequin of the future. He had the same black and white diamond patterned jacket and knickers and the same pointed hat with a red pom-pom bouncing gaily on its pinnacle. He wore a black mask, under which a white face could just be glimpsed. His mouth was wide and painted very red, and he never showed his teeth. In my mind they were pointed like little needles. My imagination attributed him a shark’s blank-eyed expression. Plexis reached down and sought my hand. He grasped my false hand and jumped, startled enough to utter a little cry. Then he grinned ruefully at me and wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. We sat on the edge of our seats. I swallowed and took his hand with my right hand. Our palms were slick with perspiration.

  The clown bowed one last time then clapped his hands sharply. The sound echoed like a shot, and they led Alexander out of the dark doorway. Four soldiers escorted him. He was wearing nothing but a short, pleated skirt. His arms were tied behind his back. I had thought that he would be blindfolded, as the game required, but thankfully, he was not. No hood covered his bright hair and no mask hid his parti-coloured eyes.

  ‘Why isn’t his face covered?’ I managed to whisper.

  Demos answered in a monotone. ‘We paid the lanista. Plus, I think they want the crowd to see him. Otherwise, it could be anyone beneath the mask.’

  Alexander walked as lightly as the demon had. This gave the crowd pause. Even the demon Phersu stopped gesturing and cocked his head. There was nothing in Alexander’s demeanour that gave the least indication of alarm. He was led to the circle of firelight, and then the soldiers stepped back. Each held a long rope; they were attached to Alexander’s ankles. And his arms, besides being fastened behind his back, had ropes tied just above his elbows. Alexander didn’t move. He stood in the firelight and waited. His hair glittered and his skin shone. Oil covered his body – the slick oil was his only defence. The Phersu bowed to him, tauntingly, and he bowed back.

  That, too, made the Phersu hesitate. It was ever so slight, but my heightened senses perceived it. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. A flame leapt up brightly, the air was as clear as a magnifying glass, and the faces of everyone in the arena were painfully distinct. I clenched my hand, making Plexis wince. In front of me, Paul stiffened, and Scipio began to mutter strange incantations in a low, furious whisper. Hirkan hesitated, then joined him, their voices weaving in the evening air.

  The soldiers handed the ends of their ropes to the Phersu. He wound them around his hand, making a great show of it, while Alexander stood in front of him, immobile. He wore an insolent look on his face as he stared at the demon. The demon stared back at him, his eyes two black holes in his mask, his mouth frozen in spite.

  Plexis breathed in painful gulps. I couldn’t disengage my hand from his to touch Paul on the shoulder, and I couldn’t turn my head to see if Plexis was all right. My whole being was focused on the scene in front of me.

  The four soldiers left the arena, and the rest of the clowns and the gladiators followed in silence. The Phersu was alone with Alexander and, for the first time, he spoke. His voice rang out, high and hysterical in its fervour and brilliance.

  ‘Welcome to the Game of Phersu!’ he screamed. ‘The Great Alexander has returned from the Underworld to compete in our arena! Let Cerberus come and take him back again! His shade has no business in the world of the living!’

  The crowd shook off its impassivity and screamed, urging the Phersu to call Cerberus, the hound that guarded the gates of Hades.

  The Phersu pretended to consider, tilting his head to one side and prancing back and forth. He tugged at the leashes binding Alexander, trying to unbalance him, but my husband was as quick as a cat, using his formidable coordination to stay upright and to appear nonchalant. The crowd howled its approval, and the Phersu bowed in mocking appreciation. He tossed all but one leash to the ground and raised one arm above his head. When he snapped his fingers another door opened, and a shadow slunk out.

  I choked back a cry. It was a huge, black dog. The animal was as large as a bear, with the long muzzle of a wolf and the broad head and muscled jaws of a mastiff. Covered in rough fur, he wore a metal collar with sharp spikes. The beast was acting strangely. Instead of a dog’s quick trot, he slunk. His head swung back and forth, his nose twitched, and white froth dripped from his gaping jaws.

  ‘What is the matter with him?’ Paul asked, twisting around and looking at us with wide eyes. ‘Why is the dog behaving that way? Is he mad?’

  Demos answered, ‘He’s been drugged to make him more aggressive. He isn’t rabid, that would be too dangerous for everyone.’

  The animal circled the edges of the arena, his gait slow, but determined. Every now and then, he would stop and snarl at nothing, his teeth snapping ferociously at thin air, his hackles raised. Neither Alexander nor the Phersu moved a muscle. The dog had almost completed his circle, when something burst in the fire sending a popping shower of sparks into the air. The dog spun around, barking and snapping at the sudden movement. He attacked a shadow then, leaping on it and finding a pool of blood. He howled in rage, rushing back and forth through the blood, teeth clicking madly together, glittering in the firelight. Then he stopped and began his deliberate search again. It didn’t take long for him to catch the scent of the two men standing near the fire. He crouched low, muzzle in the air, his lips drawn back in a silent snarl. Alexander didn’t move. I saw his eyes gleam, though, as he turned his head slightly.

  The Phersu stayed immobile. He stood, arms crossed, as if he were at a garden party waiting for a glass of champagne. Then he gave a vehement tug at the rope, causing Alexander to shift his balance. That was the stimulus the dog needed. He gathered himself and launched his huge body at the puny human helpless before him.

  Or not so helpless. Alexander waited until the colossus was nearly upon him before rolling onto his back. With his legs, he caught the dog under the belly lifting him up and over his head and tossing him into the bonfire behind him.

  The dog disappeared in a shower of red sparks, but he shot out instantaneously, screeching in pain, his fur smouldering. He rolled in the sand, then stood squarely again, snarling mistrustfully at his prey. This time he didn’t rush in. He feinted, waiting for Alexander to drop to the ground again. Instead, Alexander jumped backwards out of range of the snapping jaws. He would have escaped unscathed from that attack, but the Phersu jerked on the ropes that held him and he stumbled. The dog managed to sink his teeth into his calf, but Alexander was moving too fast and the beast didn’t get a good grip. Flesh tore, though, and the dog stood a moment and licked fresh blood from his muzzle, a weird growl vibrating in the air.

  I uttered a low sob and Paul cried out, but his voice was lost in the roar of the crowd as they screamed for blood, more blood.

  Alexander stood, his legs braced, and for the first time, he looked directly at the Phersu. His lips were moving, but I don’t know what he was saying. He held his head low, like a bull about to charge, and the Phersu took an involuntary step backwards. The dog was upon the Phersu in a second. Movement was all the beast needed to spur an attack. The Phersu easily evaded the sharp teeth, and as he dodged, he gave a mighty pull on the leashes, forcing Alexander to follow him. Ungainly, bound and hampered, Alexander looked easy prey. However, the dog missed again when he leapt at Alexander, and the crowd’s howls grew in volume until the stadium trembled.

  The dog’s next at
tack was more careful, and the Phersu gave a pernicious tug at the ropes as Alexander tried to twist sideways. His arms, fastened behind his back, made his balance precarious. Alexander came away with a chunk torn out of his thigh and slashes under his ribs. Fresh blood ran from his wounds, exciting the dog even more. I saw Alexander’s muscles tense as he waited for another attack.

  My heart was hammering wildly. Blood trickled from my nose and my eyes stung with tears. The man I loved more than my life was being torn to pieces while I watched, and I could do nothing to help him. If I’d had the strength, I would have left the arena, I couldn’t bear it any longer, but I was paralyzed with horror. Plexis could hardly breathe. Each time he drew a breath, it sounded like a sharp gasp. We sat with our trembling shoulders pressed together, our gazes riveted to the ghastly scene before us, waiting for the inevitable end. In front of us, Scipio and Hirkan kept up their whispered chanting while Paul sobbed bitterly, his body shaking.

  Alexander staggered, his hands still fastened behind his back, trying to keep his feet underneath him while the Phersu yanked at the ropes. The dog darted in and out again trying to hamstring his weakening quarry. The beast was confident now, sure of the outcome. Alexander bled from many wounds. The Phersu had reverted to the motionless statue he had been before, only moving his hands to twitch the ropes. His eyes glittered when his victim stumbled, but otherwise he showed no emotion.

  Despite his injuries and the apparent hopelessness of the situation, Alexander didn’t look frightened. His expression grave, he concentrated upon the dog’s savage strikes, but there was no panic in his movements. I thought it very strange, until I noticed that he’d worked one hand free.