by Lee Arthur
Again trumpets sounded, and now the two gates slid open and the combatants advanced into the arena: the Samnites proceeded to the circle closest to the Gate of Death; the Thracians went to the other end, near the Gate of the Gladiators; the fishman and net-wielder paired off in the center ring before the royal box.
When the first pair showed reluctance to engage, the whip-bearers brandished scourges and persuaded them. Then, suddenly, the arena rang with the honest clash of sword on sword and the crunch of shield on shield. Silently, the net flew through the air again and again. The crowd surged to its feet with delight shouting "Afflrin" or"Ma'dan," the sixteenth-century Arabic versions of the ancient Roman cry of "Habet!" When, within minutes, the first man went down, the mass of spectators gave voice to such a roar that the gladiators down below the arena surface heard it.
To the Moulay's delight, two of the first three matches did not result in instant death. With the fallen ones' helmets removed, as Aisha had commanded, he could watch the piteous faces turn pasty white and contort with anguish as each watched a downturned thumb signal his death.
Only when the last match of the three was complete and a leather-lunged crier announced the results did slaves drag the dead gladiators out through the Gate of Death: "The winners!—from Venice, the Samnite Corosco... from Egypt, the Thracian, ben Duailan. From Greece, the Fishman, Koropolus. May the peace of Allah descend on those who lost."
As slaves passed among the audience with refreshments, others scattered fresh sand within and salt around each circle. Thus was the pattern set for the day. First the fights, then the dead dragged out, then audience and arena refreshed.
Gilliver and Cameron had lost count of the matches when the next fighters entered the arena. Both immediately recognized the man in the high-crested helmet with the sharply angled brim who carried both scutum and long sword—John Drummond—they would have known him anywhere. A flick of his head as he entered the circle nearest the Gate of Death showed that he, too, was aware of their presence. Drummond was not a small man nor slight of stature, but the Sicilian he faced was so large he made him seem so.
Each was too good a swordsman to wade into battle without testing out his opponent's reflexes, moves, and defenses. Long the two circled and 'sparred, until suddenly the Sicilian pressed the attack. After a furious exchange, he fell back, and again they circled. Drummond, professional swordsman that he was, realized he had drawn too tough an opponent, a man who outreached him by a good six inches. His only chance was to husband his strength, hoping to find an unexpected opening or land a lucky blow. Again and again, the Sicilian sprang to the attack, only to be forced to fall back. Long after the matches in the other circles had come to a bloody end, Drummond still held his own. But Gilliver and Cameron, watching critically, soon began to detect signs of tiredness. Drummond held his shield ever closer and closer to him, blocking rather than parrying thrusts; his sword moved in smaller and smaller arcs, making not so loud a clatter on his opponent's shield. Yet, though he bled copiously from both arms and a gash in his side, he still matched thrust for thrust, swing for swing, despite sword and shield growing heavier by the minute.
Ali, pleased by one of his proteges showing and personally fond of Drummond as all who knew him were, signed to Aisha silently begging for the slave's life if he fell. She had already come to such a decision. Such dogged determination struck sympathetic sparks among the warriors looking on, but not from the Moulay who found the match interminably boring and urged the Sicilian on to the attack. Drummond just barely beat back each new sortie: Clearly his opponent had made the long sword, or its like, his specialty, so deft and practiced was he in its use.
Gilliver and Cameron, watching, found themselves yelling at Drummond to go down, to concede defeat, to save his life. No way did he show he heard. Barely holding up his shield and his sword hanging limply at the end of his arm, Drummond still stayed on his feet and circled wearily, dragging his feet in retreat about the circle and keeping the Sicilian always before him.
Tears blinded Gilliver's eyes as the bloodthirsty giant moved in for the kill, dropping his own shield and two-handedly launching such a whirlwind of arcing blows that none but an expert or a man big as himself could have turned them back. One sweeping blow sent Drummond's battered shield flying, the next—on his helmet— sent him to his knees, the third partially separated Drummond's head from his neck, blood spewing over victor as well as victim. The young Scotsman slumped forward to the ground; his head connected to his body by but a thin strip of flesh, and rolled over to stare unseeingly at the brilliant blue sky. so hard and different from the soft blues of his native Scotland.
The victorious Sicilian, with a maniacal cry, placed his foot heavily on the chest, forcing a gush of blood to spout from the dead man's throat. His upraised sword acknowledged the plaudits of a crowd that fickle-mindedly forgot its admiration for the fallen foe and now paid the victor his due. Cameron refused to look upon his fallen friend; Gilliver, retching, couldn't, as two slaves dragged Drummond feet-first through the Gate of Death, his head bouncing along behind.
Fionn, entering with the next group, didn't need to be told that Drummond had fallen. One look at Cameron still supporting a Gilliver racked with dry heaves, told him the whole story. Anger surged through the young giant, transforming him into a merciless avenger.
He never really saw the young Cypriot athlete who faced him within the circle. Forgetting caution, technique, everything but revenge, Fionn sprang with a cry of agony at the nearest object. Using his sword like an ax, he literally folded the scutum around his opponent's left arm, leaving the torso bared for the thrust that found a vital organ. As the breath gurgled hideously within the young Cypriot's throat, the anger cleared from Fionn's brain. With a cry he dropped shield and sword as if red-hot and fell to his knees to beg tearful forgiveness of the man he'd just killed, the first ever.
Gentle, lovable Fionn had intended if given the chance to knock the weapon from his man and ask the Moulay to deckle his fate. Too late, he remembered his plan. And there, beside his lifeless opponent's body, he buried his face in his hands and cried—for himself, for Drummond, for the young Cypriot whose name he didn't know.
In the center circle, John the Rob circled warily as he twitched his neady folded net and crouched behind the tri-points of a trident longer than he was tall. His partner in combat was a battle-scarred dark-skinned veteran of many a war, who had nothing but contempt for the funny-looking three-pronged spear and the flimsy net. John the Rob had cast the net but once, and that so awkwardly, that the Ashman easily warded it off on his buckler and made John the Rob scramble for his life, dragging the net behind him. Only the swift intervention of a silent one backed up by the whip-bearers kept a suddenly terrified John the Rob from leaving the salt-enclosed ring. Forced to turn back and face the fishman who stood arms akimbo roaring with laughter, he grew deadly calm. Laughter he, knew... all his life his monkey-face had inspired mirth at his expense. Laughter for him was like a cold shower, dampening emotion, restoring determination, leaving his mind keener and sharper.
Crouching slightly, John the Rob reeled in the net and shook it, preparing for another cast. The whip of the net stopped the Moor's laughter; he fended it off not so quickly as before. More deftly did John the Rob gather up his net this time, shaking it out for another try. Not ten times had he thrown the net, but already his dextrous juggler's hands were learning to control it. Now, he knew confidence. No muscle-bound lout would defeat the man who had escaped King Hal's warders, not to mention the Mayor of London's guards, a. good hundred times over. He had been caught the only time he was off guard—while in bed with a wench. No wenches were here today to slow him down or keep his mind off his work. All he needed was an opening that would give him a bit of an edge.
The Moor was in no hurry, preferring to wait until the net was cast, then he planned to pounce on the monkey-faced one as he busily reeled it in; or better yet, yank and cut the net from his hand.
Another quick toss of the net. A hurried sidestep. The deadly net slithered off the Moor's shoulder to fall harmlessly to the ground and be pulled back instandy by the wiry little cut-purse.
John the Rob swiftly gathered in the net, shaking it open with one quick jerk. He was realist enough to know that in a fair fight he had no chance against his bigger and stronger opponent; his only chance was to trick the man. Circling, he teased and tested his opponent, flicking the net first left, then right, then right again. While the Secutor watched, almost hypnotized by the movements of the net, John the Rob studied the fishman's movements. Finally, when he thought he detected a pattern to the man's habits, he feinted with a juggler's speed to the left and instead flung the net where a heavy foot should land. And snared himself a fishman.
Yanking with all the muscles in his right arm, he threw the fishman off balance. The buckler swerved to one side and the three-pronged fork rammed home, skewering navel, groin, and right thigh. The impact knocked the man off his feet and onto his back, John the Rob following and planting one foot upon the man's sword, the other on the base of the prongs, ready to drive it deeper into the man's guts if he showed any sign of battle. But the Moor had no stomach for more this day. Throwing aside his shield and releasing the hilt of his sword, he sued for peace. "I concede you the better man, friend. Only spare me to fight another day."
John the Rob had the feeling this same life-saving favor had been asked many times before; the man was too facile. Not trusting the Moor an inch and without moving his feet from atop sword and base of the still-buried trident, he looked over his shoulder toward the Moulay, who stood and surveyed the crowd. A sea of downturned thumbs confronted him, emphasized by cries of "Kill him" in a dozen different tongues.
The Moulay raised his thumb slowly into the air, only to reverse it and throw it downward as he screamed "Iugula!" the deathcry of the Roman Emperors. John the Rob, seeing it, did not wait for the slave with the hammer—"Sorry, friend, the man says no"—and jammed the trident home. As the man screamed and arched his back in agony, John the Rob reached down, picked up the man's own sword and said, "Next time, friend, don't be so quick to laugh." With that he deftly traced a bloody smile from ear to ear across the man's throat.
With fully half the matches complete, Aisha and Ramlah suggested a break for food, but the Moulay wouldn't hear of it. "Have food brought here. The games continue."
"We may run out of contestants at this rate," Ramlah cautioned.
"Then, get more. Use slaves or those half-men your daughter surrounds herself with. I don't care whom you use or where you get them, but the games will go on until I say stop!"
Mother and daughter exchanged glances. If anything, the Roman games were proving too successful. Steps must be taken to ensure that fresh combatants not be thrown into the arena, especially not Aisha's bodyguard, for its ranks could be cut in half by the Moulay's apparent refusal to spare a single victim's life.
Both women swung into action. Ramlah sent for food, giving instructions that every dish be heavily seasoned with hrisa, that hot red pepper-cumin sauce that made the eyes tear and the mouth cry out for water. But Ramlah would have the Moulay's thirst quenched not with water, not even wine, but with boukha, that potent native brandy distilled by Jews from figs. Let the Moulay empty a few goblets of this and he would never know when the games ended.
As for Aisha, her agile lingers sent silent instructions to-Ali ben Zaid to stall for time and why. It was Ali ben Zaid's idea to hold back the one gladiator-slave whose life he wished to save. Thus, one
after another of the companions bade farewell to de Wynter and stepped forth to face his fate in the arena:
The first was Carlby, who made John the Rob look clumsy with the net. Carlby's opponent was overweight and overmatched. Within minutes Carlby realized that he could kill his man at any moment. But he chose to play with him instead and make of the fishman a buffoon whose trident-inspired antics might amuse enough to save his life.
Thus, when Carlby cast his net and yelled, "Jump!" the frightened fishman leaped as if galvanized. When Carlby yelled, "Duck!" he dove and sprawled on the ground. When Carlby said "Back up," the man retreated so fast he tripped over his own sword and went sprawling. When Carlby said, "Move," the man crawled on his heels. When Carlby said, "Get up," the man buck-jumped to his feet. When Carlby said, "Down," the man tumbled to the ground.
And with every ludicrous move the lumpish fishman made, the crowd roared with laughter. They were genuinely sorry when the Englishman, running out of comic commands, drove his trident through the netting that encompassed the fishman's head, shoulders, arms, and waist, catching the man's head between two of the forks of the weapon and driving him to the ground. Carlby had but to continue pushing the prongs into the ground to strangle the man ... or pull it free and drive it through his heart.
As the two men froze in a tableau of death, the Moulay looked about him and saw only upraised thumbs; the crowd had laughed itself into a benevolent mood. Still the Moulay would have rejected mercy, but the her/him put a soft hand upon the Moulay's arm and said, "O master, save him for me that he may amuse us further, I beg this—" His voice of its own accord suddenly descended an octave and the her/him dared not speak more lest it play him games again. But the Moulay, already partially besotted with brandy, did not notice. For this lovely creature beside him, he was prepared to do most anything.
As Carlby and Pietro di Zecca watched anxiously, the Moulay played with his lower lip a bit in contemplation, then finally, slowly, the right hand, made into a tight fist, was outstretched. All eyes stared raptly at that fist. And then it opened, the thumb thrusting up. The man was saved. The first that day.
To the crowd's delight, once freed of the trident but still draped in the net, the fat man crawled after Carlby and attempted to kiss his feet. And men the chase was on, as the fat man pursued his savior, the savior tripping overthe fishman's forgotten shield and landing on his behind. No one but Garlby heard Pietro's promisef "If ever there is aught I can do for you, you have but to ask. I, Pietro di Zecca swear it, or may my mother sleep uneasy in her grave."
Ogilvy was the next of the slaves to enter the arena, saluting his fellows at the Gate of Death at the other end of the arena from the ring of the Thracians. His was a typical thrust, parry, engage, disengage, slash, smite, hack, close. It was rhythmic, it was deadly, it was nothing extraordinary, simply a repetition of workmanlike swordsmanship. The same swordsmanship that had been seen over and over throughout the day.
Eventually, Ogilvy's hard conditioning wore down his opponent, and the match ended, as others had before, with Ogilvy finding an opening and taking advantage of it to skewer his opponent below his wide leather belt. A half-turn of the curved sword and his opponent was disemboweled. While Ogilvy watched, no expression crossing 'his dark saturnine face, the hammer-bearing slave removed the mortally wounded man's helmet and gave the blow of death.
The next occupant of the Thracian circle was Angus. Those within the crowd who had gulped deeply of the lagmi poured so freely by slaves began to wonder if perhaps they had had enough, so much did Angus look in build and swordsmanship like the Thracian who had just competed.
Indeed, this match ran much the same course as the previous one, with Angus also wearing out his opponent and finding an opening in his guard. A swift slash of his curved sword and, with a piercing shriek, the man's left arm went flying. As he dropped his now-* useless shield and grasped at the stub of his shoulder in' a vain attempt to stop the bleeding, the crowd turned thumbs down in imitation of their Moulay, whose eyes were really seeing double. But Angus did not wait for the hammer-bearer, instead matter-of-factly stopping the man's shrieks by driving his sword to the hilt through the man's gaping mouth. He would have continued on over to see his friends at the other end of the arena, but the scourges of the whip-bearers dissuaded him from that course. He had no choice but to turn and leave by the Victor's Gate as had the others before him.
&nbs
p; Two groups later, it was Menzies-Gilliver' s turn to enter the arena. His double recognized him immediately and only Cameron's restraining hand kept Gilliver from leaving his station at the Gate of Death and confessing the deception. But before he could, Menzies had moved quickly into the fighting area to face an opponent a head shorter than he. And despite the fellow's persistence, Menzies's quickness stood him in good stead as he effectively kept out of the net wielder's range. A disquieting thought crossed his mind. Any injury or visible wound on himself could make the transition back from Gilliver to Menzies all the more difficult.
The next time the net hit his sword arm, he deliberately entangled it by swirling his arm, men gave a mighty pull and relieved the man of one of his two weapons. Throwing the net out of the ring, he concentrated on blocking the trident with his buckler and countering with sword thrusts.
The net-man, bleeding from half a dozen superficial cuts by now, desperately jabbed and lunged at Menzies with the trident. But still the net-man refused to take the one gamble that Menzies feared—the trident used as javelin when his shield might be out of position.
Another furious rush. Menzies sidestepped and ran his buckler up the shaft of the trident as he charged forward, thrusting his short sword into his opponent's naked chest and holding him up by the uptilted blade until he was sure he was done for, then letting him slide down it onto the dirt to writhe in agony until stilled by a hammerblow.
It was past midafternoon when the last of the combatants entered the arena and saluted the Moulay, who sprawled in his chair, eyes closed, breathing raucously through slackened, drunken mouth. With but three circles for four pairs, one of the two pairs of Samnites had to fight in a narrow corridor, directly below the royal box, which was bounded by the solid wall of the arena on one side and an invisible wall created by the combatants' circles on the other. Shadows infringed upon it, those created by the high arches on the upper tiers of the colosseum... and one enormous one caused by the protective awning stretched across the royal box. The longer the contest went on, the greater the advantage the man had who stood with his back to a descending sun. By the luck of the draw, de Wynter and his opponent were given the corridor in which to fight Slaves with metal-tipped bars stationed themselves between them and the other gladiators to prevent their straying into one" of the circles and interfering with the combatants there.