by J M Hemmings
Spartacus turned away, choking down the retort he so desperately wanted to scream out, his face drawn into a contorted scowl that spoke volumes of the bubbling indignation and frustration seething just beneath the membrane of his glowing-hot skin.
‘You shouldn’t piss off them guards,’ Oenomaus mumbled. ‘They don’t like it none too much. They’s allowed to put us in the dungeon for the night, you know. You shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Fuck the guards,’ Spartacus spat through gritted teeth, the muscles of his neck tight with barely suppressed fury as the veins in his temple bulged and throbbed. ‘They’re pigs! Slovenly, dim-witted, flabby pigs! Look at them, and look at us here. Just look at us! There are ten guards in this room, and thirty of us, all highly skilled fighters … and yet we cower like frightened sheep before them.’
The General was quick to reply, and tone was stern and cool.
‘They have armour, Spartacus. Armour and weapons. We have nothing. We’re in our loincloths, and we have nothing else. The only time we have weapons at our disposal is on the training ground, and there’s no way in or out of there once those gates are sealed.’
Spartacus would not hear it; he was adamant that a plan for freedom and revolt could be wrought. He shook his head and thumped a defiant fist on the floor.
‘All it would take would be for one of us to wrest a spear or sword from those guards! Just one of us to get a sword or spear in our hands, and it’d be a battle we could win.’
‘Do not talk of such things!’ the General hissed under his breath, leaning in closer to Spartacus, his eyes darting from side to side as a lash of panic licked its stinging heat all over his skin. ‘It is folly! Dangerous, dangerous folly! If anyone were to overhear what you just said, we’d all be crucified!’
Spartacus retained his air of surly rebelliousness and spoke loudly and brashly.
‘I’d rather be crucified than live like this.’
N’Jalabenadou leaned forward and gripped Spartacus by both shoulders, his dark fingers digging deeply into Spartacus’s olive-toned flesh. His eyes were bright white against his ebony face, betraying a panic that was welling up with alarming rapidity within him.
‘Have you seen a crucified man die, Spartacus?’ he asked, his fearful gaze boring right through Spartacus’s green eyes, trying with the intensity of his own emotion to seek out the grub in this man’s brain that was spreading the venom of rebellion, and wither it immediately. ‘Have you witnessed the prolonged agony? Have you?! And let me tell you, while you are dying they defile you, and when it’s finally over they leave your corpse out there for the crows to eat, for beggars to mock and for children to throw stones at. Is that how you wish to leave this world? Is that what you would leave behind of yourself when your soul crosses the Great River?’
Spartacus was undaunted by N’Jalabenadou’s intensity, and with firm but non-confrontational determination he removed the General’s hands from his shoulders before making his reply. His tone remained as clear, resolute and defiant as it had been throughout the entirety of this exchange.
‘When I make my bid for escape, I will succeed – or I will die in the attempt. There will be no surrender, no capture, no crucifixion. There will only be freedom … freedom or death in the attempt to escape. Those are the only two possible outcomes. I will fight the guards until I win, or until I draw my last breath.’
The General shot a worried glance at the closest guard, who was chewing on a fig with bovine repetitiveness and staring absentmindedly at a spot on the floor. Thankfully, it seemed that he had not heard a word Spartacus had said. There was another pair of eyes focused intently on them, however – Crixus’s. The General breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew the mute gladiator would not breathe a word of what he may have overheard to anyone, but he nonetheless retained his paranoia and leaned in close to Spartacus, speaking in a hushed and urgent tone.
‘Alone you cannot succeed. And how many of us would die in an attempt to take the weapons from the guards? Look around you. Just in this room there are ten of them, and outside there are another ten! If you, or even all three of us were to rise up, right now, perhaps we could get a sword off one of them. Maybe. But in that time the others will have come charging in and cut us to pieces.’
‘Why do they call you “the General”?’ Spartacus asked suddenly. ‘Why?’
N’Jalabenadou looked up and stared intently into Spartacus’s eyes for a few tension-fraught moments before replying.
‘I’ve told you before … I do not like speaking of my past.’
‘Humour me, this one time. I don’t need all of the details. Just tell us why.’
‘It’s coz nobody can pronounce his real name proper,’ Oenomaus interjected, grinning. ‘Take you half a bleedin’ year to say it in its entirety, eh General?’
The General couldn’t help but chuckle at this, but in an instant the smile vanished from his face and his countenance once more assumed an air of cold severity.
‘What Oenomaus said is one reason that I have the nickname I do,’ N’Jalabenadou said, ‘but there are two others. The first is that I was supposed to die in my first appearance in the arena – yes, I was supposed to die along with the other members of the losing squad. It was one of those historical re-enactment performances, purporting to illustrate the battle of Zama, wherein the Roman general Scipio Africanus defeated Hannibal of Carthage. I was a raw recruit as a gladiator, but not as a fighter. The gladiator in my squad who was playing the part of Hannibal was killed almost immediately, as soon as the “battle” began. So, I took over and led my squad. We were poorly armed compared to those who represented the Roman Army, but thanks to some quick thinking and unconventional tactics on my part we managed to defeat them, to the complete surprise of the audience and our respective masters.’
Spartacus nodded.
‘I see. So this is what earned you the moniker?’
‘That yes, and the fact that in my pre-slave life, I was a general and I did lead an army.’
‘Your army clashed with that of Rome, then?’
‘No, never. I am from a place far south of Nubia. Many months’ journey, in fact. It is – was – a kingdom that no Roman will ever have heard of. In the halcyon era of my people, we were greater than Rome, but as the centuries passed we tore ourselves apart with greed and corruption, which eventually descended into civil war. A rebel faction split off from the royal family of my kingdom two hundred years ago in the time of my grandmother’s grandmother, and established a new kingdom to the north. They grew in size and strength, conquering and absorbing smaller tribes and kingdoms until they were large enough to raise armies against us. There were a series of wars, and in the last of them I became the head commander of my kingdom’s army. In the final battle, though, we were defeated, even though we inflicted heavy losses on the enemy. I was taken captive and sold into slavery. As far as I know, after the battle my city was razed to the ground, my people all slaughtered or taken as slaves by the victors … and that was the end for us. The ultimate, bitter end.’
‘How did you end up so far away from what was once your home? Nubia itself I thought was at the southern end of the earth, yet you say you are from a place many months south even of Nubia?’
The General nodded, and there was a great, near-crushing sadness in his tone as he continued.
‘None in Rome know of it, and indeed even many in the Egypt of today do not know of it, although their grandparents and great-grandparents certainly would have. The kingdoms of which I speak are cut off from the rest of the world by impassable mountains and dense jungles. Traders from our kingdoms used to travel up and down the Nile river. They needed slaves to row their boats, so they took the fittest and strongest for this task, for it is a long and arduous journey in which many slave rowers die of exhaustion. Those who survive are sold off in Nubia or, if they still have any strength left, further north in Egypt. I survived all the way to Egypt … but only just.’
‘And then?’
‘I was bought by an Egyptian who saw my worth as a fighter, and I was trained as a brawler to fight in cheap pit fights; base entertainment, and a means for sailors, thieves and other such lowlifes to place bets and gamble. I fought well though, for I had to to survive, and one day a visiting Roman merchant saw me fighting. He saw my potential as a gladiator and bought me from the Egyptian, and then brought me here to sell to Batiatus.’
‘Lucius Sertorius?’
The General nodded.
‘Aye, Lucius Sertorius.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the serving girl, who approached Oenomaus, Spartacus and N’Jalabenadou and squatted down next to them. N’Jalabenadou leaned back from Spartacus and coughed awkwardly and uncomfortably, putting on a charade of nonchalance.
‘Good evening gladiators,’ the girl said in a husky voice as she handed each of them an apple with her still-trembling hands.
Her dark eyes were rimmed with tears, and her bottom lip was still quivering from the trauma of her abuse at the hands of the guard.
‘I’m sorry about what that brute just did to you,’ Spartacus said in a gentle tone, with genuine sympathy radiating from his unremarkable face.
‘Thank you, gladiator,’ she replied, her voice cracking. ‘But I am just a slave. This is how things are for us. I must accept my lot, as fated by the gods.’
She set the platter down, and the gladiators began biting into the apples she had just given them. On the platter was a large melon, which Spartacus was eyeing out.
‘Girl, could you cut me a slice of melon, please?’ he asked.
‘Certainly.’
She picked up a large knife from the platter and sliced through the melon. Spartacus watched closely, narrowing his eyes as she cut up the fruit.
‘Thank you,’ he said with a warm smile as she handed him the melon. ‘Tell me, what is your name?’
‘My name is Euphemia.’
Spartacus chuckled softly as he took the slice of melon from her.
‘That’s a Roman name, girl. I meant, what is your real name? I can tell that you’re not Roman just from looking at you. What was your name before they took you? The name your parents gave you, I mean.’
‘I am from Carthage. At least … from what little remained of it after it was destroyed by the Romans. Slave traders took me when I was but five years old. My name used to be Arishat.’
‘Oy! What the fuck is going on there?’ the closest guard shouted in a brassy tone of voice. ‘You scum aren’t allowed to talk to each other! You gladiators, you shovel that food down like good little dogs, and you, you slut, you get your tight little cunt back to the kitchens!’
‘I have to go,’ the serving girl murmured as she hastily gathered up the remaining fruit and the platter.
Spartacus’s eyes were locked on the large fruit knife all the while, his gaze both unwavering and terrifying in its intensity. A trickle of melon juice ran down his lip, spreading its sweet stickiness over his chin as he stared, and his focus remained pinned to the blade as the girl picked it up, set it down on the platter and hurried away. Spartacus’s stare did not escape the attention of N’Jalabenadou.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Spartacus. You must stop this. You cannot think such thoughts, you cannot,’ he hissed, his eyes blazing white and protruding slightly from their sockets.
As he replied to the General, however, Spartacus’s eyes remained locked on the body of the serving girl, who was now hurrying out of the room.
‘That knife,’ he murmured, ‘a top-tier gladiator could take any of these guards if he were armed with it, even if he was unarmoured and had no other weapon. Viridovix certainly could. As could you Oenomaus, and you, General.’
‘Stop! Do not speak of this!’ the General whispered harshly, his eyes crackling with sudden panic.
Spartacus remained defiant.
‘I’ll wager that the kitchen is full of knives like that one. See how the masters gorge themselves on beef and pork and chicken and all manner of fruit while they watch us train? There’ll be large, sharp butcher’s knives in there too. Plenty of them…’
Oenomaus smiled, and a dark light sparkled in his eyes.
‘If I had a butcher’s cleaver in each hand, them guards wouldn’t stand a chance against me.’
The General flashed a glance to the left and the right, terrified that someone was listening to this seditious conversation. Crixus seemed to be paying close attention, if he could even discern any of what they were saying from where he was sitting, but thankfully nobody else seemed to have heard anything.
‘No, no!’ the General hissed. ‘This is too dangerous to speak of, you must stop this! All of you! Stop speaking of these things! Stop! It is madness to even speculate about this!’
Spartacus stared straight into the General’s eyes and curved the corners of his lips up into a wicked devil’s grin.
‘You, General, you could defeat any of those fat guards with ease, just armed with that fruit knife we have just seen. I know it. I’ve seen you fight in training. Listen, you spoke to me of freedom just a few days ago. You once led an army! Why now do you cower like a frightened lamb? Why?!’
The General bit his lip and stared at Spartacus with his wide white eyes. His hands were trembling at his sides, and when he spoke his quavering voice began cracking with raw emotion.
‘I’m begging you, stop this. Don’t awaken these old dreams of freedom that I’ve fought so hard to quash. You cannot understand how difficult it has been to suppress these dreams, to force myself to accept this life, over the past seven years, to—’
‘You’ll die like a dog on the sands with that attitude, General,’ Spartacus retorted flatly. ‘You’ll die like a cur, whose entire life and existence is worth nothing but a cheer or boo from a crowd of bloodthirsty plebs. If you stand with us, however, you’ll have your freedom … or at the very least you’ll die like a hero, fighting for freedom until your last breath. Which would you have?’
The General clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, and stared at the ground for many long and drawn-out moments. Eventually he looked up, and his eyes were ablaze with a phosphoric fire that had not burned in them for many a year.
‘Freedom,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I would have freedom.’
PART TWELVE
40
MARGARET
5th October 2020. T’Kalanjathu
The light thrown from the room into the secret passage did not extend very far, and soon Margaret was creeping along in complete darkness. Fear burned with a nauseating sickness in her core, chilling the very marrow of her bones, but curiosity and a determination to escape this place drove her on.
The tunnel, for the most part, seemed smooth and straight. A thick layer of dust underfoot made it obvious that it hadn’t been used in a very long time, and Margaret wondered if the General knew of the existence of this place. A flare of wicked pride blazed like a naked light bulb for a brief instant in Margaret’s heart; here she was, in the heart of the General’s castle, privy to a secret that he did not know.
‘Looks like you don’t actually know everything, smart-ass,’ she mumbled to herself as she crept onward. ‘Even right here under your nose, there’s stuff that you don’t know. I’ll find a way out of this, before you can “enlighten” me, as you’ve been saying. I’ll enlighten you as to just how determined and resourceful Margaret Green can be!’
She noticed the floor starting to slope gently to the right and suspected that this indicated a curve coming up. Sure enough, when she gently bumped into a wall on her left, she realised that this was indeed the case. Keeping both hands on the wall, she edged through the curve until it straightened out again.
‘On we go,’ she whispered to the black tunnel. ‘I wonder how far I’ve gone. Feels like I’ve been walking for at least ten minutes. Gosh darn it, if only I had a flashlight! Then I could make much faster progress, instead of creeping through the darkness like a timid lil’ mouse.’
After what felt like an eternity in the stifling darkness, which included a few more bumps into walls and stumbles over crooked stones underfoot, she began to see a hint of light shining up ahead. Like the lighting in the Moon Chamber, this was not the warm and fiery brightness of tungsten, and nor was it the harsh starkness of fluorescent strip lighting. Instead, it was the cool, bluish hue of the full moon above, diffused and amplified by the crystal domes of the castle and enhanced by the glow of the bioluminescent fungi.
What was more, it was not only light that was spilling into the secret passage; there were also voices. One in particular was quite familiar to Margaret: that of the General. She hurried forward, doing her best to move with stealth. The carpet of matted dust underfoot aided greatly with muffling the sound of her footsteps, at least, but she also had to worry about maintaining her balance. To fall and cry out now would be a certain giveaway of her presence, and God only knew what that maniac would do if he discovered her spying on him from a secret passage in his fortress.
With bated breath and a violent drumming of her heart, Margaret pressed her hands against the stone wall and inched forward, with a pervasive fear weighing every step she took with the leaden ponderousness of dread. Still, she pushed on. She had to; there was no turning back now.
The voices became louder and clearer, and soon she was able to hear the entire conversation. The General’s voice was booming through the passage, and causing the very walls to vibrate, it seemed, with its authoritative ferocity.
‘You, the vile scum who calls himself “Colonel Reaper” of the LRA, you are hereby convicted of the crimes of rape, murder and the wanton destruction of nature! And for committing these crimes, I sentence you to death.’