by James Mace
“Yes, master.”
Why are you here, Vitruvius? The optio asked himself. Is it for glory, for prestige? No, these things mean nothing to you. What is it then? You are not one to stoop so low as to fight for money. Why then? He continued to pace back and forth along the corridor leading to the arena. He could hear the sounds of gladiators fighting and the crowd screaming for blood. He then looked down at his arms, his chest, and his body in general. He was thickly set with powerful muscle, but not so bulky that it would slow his speed. By Mars, God of war, but his hands had slain many men! He had fought brave and tenacious warriors, yet he had always gotten the best of them, and mostly with little to no effort. Perhaps that was it. In spite of the uncountable number of battles he fought, he had never felt himself to be in any danger. Not once had he even been so much as scratched by an assailant. That was it! He had never been truly challenged before!
The men say you are the best close combat fighter to have ever lived. Yet this Sacrovir claims to have a gladiator that’s better than you. You simply want to know if, in fact, there is somebody better than you, don’t you? They always say that there is someone better out there. Perhaps he is here. If so, it is time to meet him.
As he paced back and forth in contemplation, he saw a figure lurking in the shadows. Sacrovir strode towards him. Vitruvius forced himself to withhold a snort of disgust. Instead, he kept a hard yet unconcerned expression about him.
“Ready for your meeting with immortality?” Sacrovir asked as he stopped in front of Vitruvius.
“What do you want?” Vitruvius asked coldly.
“Just making sure the prey for my champion is ready and fit to meet his fate,” Sacrovir replied, shrugging. He then interlocked his fingers, his hands in front of his chest, walking around Vitruvius and looking him up and down. “I do hope the army has trained you sufficiently. The crowd will want a spectacle, and what a shame it would be if you should die too quickly.”
“If you’ve come to try and unnerve me, you’re wasting your time,” Vitruvius remarked, watching as Sacrovir continued to walk around him, looking as if he smelled something bad. By the Hammer of Vulcan, he really despised this man.
“But you are unnerved,” Sacrovir hissed, his face close to Vitruvius’ ear. “Your friends say you are some sort of god. They say you’ve killed more men than most of them combined. Yet you are assailed by doubts; doubts as to the true extent of your abilities. And you will never satisfy those until you can find the one who is truly your match. A god? All I see is a man, who when he walks down that corridor will begin his final journey to the land of the dead.”
With a flash Vitruvius slammed Sacrovir into a column, pinning him against it with his left arm. In the same instant he drew his gladius and placed the point against the smaller man’s throat. Remarkably, Sacrovir maintained his composure.
“You won’t even think about killing me. What a pity,” he said with much venom in his voice.
“And why not?” Vitruvius replied into his ear. “You said so yourself, I’ve killed more men than any. What does it matter if I add one more?”
“Because you are not above the law and to kill me would be murder. Then, instead of the privilege of dying at the hands of my champion, you’d have to settle for being strangled or perhaps thrown to the lions; how boring, how unoriginal,” Sacrovir sneered.
Vitruvius shoved his weight into Sacrovir, pressing his gladius point hard against the man’s neck. Sacrovir gasped now in near panic. A trickle of blood started to seep from where the weapon was cutting into him. Vitruvius then withdrew his sword and stepped back. It was true; to kill Sacrovir now would be murder. As the disgusting little man started to breathe more easily, Vitruvius lunged forward and slammed his forehead into Sacrovir’s. The Gaul screeched and fell back against the column, his hands over his face.
“I’m going to kill your champion,” Vitruvius growled. “I’m going to run him through and deny the crowd and you the pleasure of any spectacle. Today, scum from Hell, you will see how real soldiers of Rome fight!” He then turned, grabbed his shield and helmet, and coolly walked down the long corridor leading to the arena.
It was dark and foul smelling in the corridor, yet at the end shone a bright light. He could hear the chants and howls of the crowd. They were filled with blood lust and anticipation. Vitruvius slowed to a walk and started to breathe easier. He could not let Sacrovir unnerve him. To cause him to react in anger would only give his gladiator an advantage. He then started to calm himself, like he had hundreds of times before. This was nothing to him. He only had to face one man today. The threats and shouts from Sacrovir he heard from the dungeon only made him smile and relax.
“I will have your heart on a spit before I’m done with you, Optio Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion! I curse you and all soldiers of Rome!”
Vitruvius laughed and shook his head. He stopped just short of the entrance into the arena, donned his helmet, took a deep breath, and waited for the orator to announce him.
The arena was packed beyond capacity for the final match of the day. Even the military seats were crowded with soldiers, anxious to see one of their own take down a famous gladiator in close combat. The orator stood in front of the Imperial box. Artorius was shocked to see that the Emperor Tiberius was in attendance for this event. Artorius sat towards the edge of their section and was surprised when he looked over into the next and saw Camilla with a man he could only assume to be her husband. To call him a ‘man’ was too generous. He was very thin with thick, curly hair, a hooked nose, and looked as if he were wearing some form of makeup. He turned his nose up at everything and talked in a loud voice to his friends who were gathered around him. Most looked equally effeminate. Artorius wondered if he was more interested in little boys than little girls.
He noticed that Camilla was sitting with the side of her head resting on her left hand. Her stola pulled up around her neck in an obvious attempt to hide her marks from the night before. Her eyes gazed over his way, and she seemed startled to see him. Artorius sat back, smiled knowingly, and winked at her. She gave a half smile back, readjusted her palla to cover her neck up once more, and turned back to the games.
Artorius then noticed the silence that had overtaken the arena. He glanced over to see the Emperor standing. Tiberius nodded to the orator who then turned to the crowd.
“Citizens of Rome!” he began. “On this final day of the triumphal games, commemorating the great victories wrought against the hordes of Germania, the Emperor is pleased to bring you one last match involving two of the most skilled combatants to have ever graced the arena. In an historic first, the Emperor has granted his blessings allowing one of the very legionaries who won victory for the Empire to compete in this match. Your Emperor presents to you Optio Marcus Vitruvius of the Twentieth Legion!”
The crowd came to its feet, applauding and shouting accolades as Vitruvius stepped into the arena. He looked very calm as he stepped to the center of the arena in front of the imperial box.
“His opponent,” the orator continued, “is not unknown to many of you. In thirty-two matches, he has not been defeated. His name is legendary in the east, as well as in North Africa. The Emperor is pleased to give you…Nubandi!”
On the other side of the arena, a gigantic African walked through the portal. Many in the crowd erupted in a frenzy of cheers. They had placed bets on whom the “mystery” gladiator would be, hoping he was a favorite of theirs, along with betting on the outcome of the match.
The African giant looked to be nearly two and a half meters tall, with muscles the size of tree trunks. He was completely bald with a slim mustache gracing his upper lip and reaching down to his chin, his black skin shone with oil. He wore no armor, only a leather loin cloth and studded metal belt. In his hands he carried a huge round iron shield and a broadsword that any other man would have required two hands to pick up, let alone use. He walked arrogantly and confidently into the arena, just a few meters from where Vitruvius stood eye
ing him.
The optio was surprisingly calm. He scanned his opponent, not in reverence, but rather in the method that a man looks for weaknesses in the one he is about to destroy.
Alright ,Vitruvius, he’s big and he doesn’t look too happy, he thought. He did not find that he was afraid of his opponent. Whenever it came time for battle, instinct took over. Perhaps he was the best there ever was. If he was, he was going to prove it to all of Rome soon enough. He started to assess his target.
He’s too tall to strike in the face, though if I get in close enough I might be able to catch him under the chin. I cannot tell how fast he is, though I must assume that if he’s used to putting on spectacles, he’s probably in good condition but slowed down by his bulk.
“Good gods, that man is big!” Praxus observed.
“That’s no man, that’s a fucking beast.” Camillus remarked.
“He makes even Vitruvius look small,” Magnus added.
“Since when have you ever been intimidated by the size of those you’ve fought?” Artorius asked. “Think about all those giants you slew in Germania.”
“Those giants were dwarfs compared to that…thing,” Magnus remarked.
“Since when has size been everything?” Carbo asked, offhandedly.
Valens gave him a perplexed look. “Since when has it not?”
“Hey, we do need to have a little faith in Vitruvius,” Camillus replied, ignoring the off-color remarks of the young legionaries. “Remember, he doesn’t appreciate pain very much, so I doubt that he’ll let this guy hurt him.”
“Say, where’s Decimus?” Praxus asked, looking around.
“I don’t know, but the match is about to start without him,” Artorius said, leaning forward onto the edge of his seat.
On the arena floor, both men turned and faced the Emperor, weapons raised.
“Hail Caesar!” Both men said together.
Vitruvius was then silent as the huge African said the rest of the statement.
“We who are about to die salute you!”
“Speak for yourself,” Vitruvius said in a low voice.
Both men turned and faced each other. The African held his shield at arm’s length, his sword up at shoulder level, as if preparing to smash his opponent. Vitruvius settled into a comfortable fighting stance, his gladius low and at his side, shield arm cocked back, ready to punch. He quickly started looking for openings. He definitely wanted to end the fight swiftly. As the African giant raised his sword up slightly, Vitruvius saw what he figured might be a potential weakness.
“I’m going to spill your guts, Roman, and gain my freedom.” the African snarled. “You will beg for death before this day is done.”
“Unlikely,” Vitruvius replied with a smile.
The African’s eyes filled with contempt. Spittle sprayed from his mouth, along with a small stream of blood where he had bitten his lip in anger. He yelled a tribal battle cry and lunged straight at Vitruvius. He raised his sword high to smash his smaller opponent. The blow came hard, but slow. Vitruvius easily sidestepped as the gladiator’s weapon slammed into the ground. A vicious backhand slash followed, which the optio deflected off his shield. Both men settled into their fighting stances once more. As the gladiator raised his sword up to smash once again, Vitruvius’ eyes brightened in realization.
Got you! He thought to himself. The African was violating one of the most basic principles of close combat by leaving his flank exposed.
Vitruvius lunged in, raising his shield to protect himself from a potential blow. He stepped inside the African’s shield arm and smashed his shield’s upper edge into his assailant’s face. The shield impacted just below the giant’s chin. Without waiting to see the effects of his blow, using a straight thrust, he plunged his gladius into the gladiator’s belly, just above the belt. The blade sank all the way up to the hilt, the African giving a jolt of surprise as both arms fell slowly to his sides. Staring into the man’s surprised eyes, Vitruvius tensed and brought his gladius up in a hard slice directly through his guts and up to his ribcage. As blood started to flow from the gash, running down his hand and forearm, he angled his gladius up and thrust the point under the ribcage and into the gladiator’s heart. Just as quickly, he pulled his sword down and out, and stepped away. The African stood motionless, sword and shield dropping to the ground. His eyes were glazed, and he swayed momentarily like a tree in the wind, and then toppled forward. Vitruvius turned around, and started to walk away even before his opponent hit the ground.
The crowd stood in stunned silence. The fight was over, and it had barely begun. This was not the type of match they had expected. Vitruvius was halfway to the gate, when a lone figure started to slowly clap his hands together. The crowd looked around searching for the source. It was the Emperor Tiberius, sporting a rare smile, standing, and clapping for one of his finest soldiers, who had made a mockery of Sacrovir’s gladiator. The crowd suddenly broke into frenzied applause and shouts of adulation. Vitruvius turned back towards the Emperor, removed his helmet, and saluted with his weapon held high. The Emperor returned the salute as one soldier to another; then Vitruvius turned to salute the section holding the legionaries and walked out of the arena.
No, I guess the better man wasn’t here today, the optio thought to himself. He couldn’t help but allow himself a grim smile. It had felt good to dispatch that pompous fool Sacrovir’s prize fighter so easily. If there is somebody out there that can best me, I won’t find him in the arena.
“No!” Sacrovir screamed. He pulled at his hair frantically. The African giant he had paid so much for, who had won him many victories and great wealth, slain by a lowly legionary. His hatred only intensified when he saw the Emperor applauding the man. This, in turn, fueled his loathing. He turned and started to run down the tunnel, out of the arena as the crowd continued to chant the name Vitruvius over and over again. Sacrovir placed his hands over his ears. The name had become an abomination for him. In that moment he swore he would have vengeance upon not only Optio Vitruvius, but on all legionaries of Rome.
The men of the Second Century were still applauding loudly for their friend and optio when Decimus suddenly came running up to their seats, excited about something.
“You have got to come with me.” he panted.
“Hey, where have you been? You missed the match.” Praxus shouted.
“Oh, I saw it. Good on Vitruvius. Don’t worry I saved one for him,” Decimus said, waving his hand dismissively.
“One what?” Praxus asked.
Decimus smiled and winked. He then took off running down the steps.
“Well, don’t just stand there, come on!” he shouted back at his companions.
Shrugging, Artorius, Praxus, Gavius, Magnus, Carbo, and Valens all stood and followed the excited legionary into the atrium.
In the foyer, behind the seats there was a number of rather striking young women. All wore revealing gowns, and many had laurels in their hair. They smiled and waved at Decimus, who waved back, smiling.
“Who are they?” Artorius asked, mouth gaping. Decimus put his arm around him, eyes never leaving the young ladies.
“Those, my friends, are courtesans. They are the very best ladies of love that money can buy.”
“You mean the ones who only rich, old senators can afford?” Valens asked.
“The ones they can afford, yet cannot perform properly for, yes,” Decimus answered.
“So how do we as lowly legionaries afford such supple beauty and grace?” Artorius asked.
“We don’t. That’s the best part. They’ve already been paid for!” Decimus was giddy with anticipation.
“By who?” Magnus asked.
“Who cares?” Artorius retorted. “Maybe Severus used a share of his winnings from the fight as a way of saying ‘thank you.’ Or maybe they’re just doing their patriotic duty to the State. Either way, does it matter?”
“Indeed.” Decimus laughed as he shoved Artorius towards one of the waiting ladies.<
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She was a couple of centimeters shorter than Artorius, with curly hair that reached just past her shoulders. Her green eyes contrasted with the color of her skin. He could tell by the way her gown lay that she was well-endowed with a firm, tight figure. Her smile betrayed her lack of innocence. She was definitely something he could understand rich men paying a lot of money for.
“Hello there,” he said, trying to sound casual. She slipped an arm underneath his and around his waist.
He looked around and saw that all of his friends were similarly engaged. “So, um, anything in particular you would like to, well um,” he was embarrassed that he was stuttering.
She was a prostitute after all, even if she was a really expensive one that probably hadn’t had a real man bed her in years.
“We could go get some wine, find a nice place to dine, and pretend we are courting,” she said sweetly, albeit sarcastically. “Or we could just skip the preliminary nonsense and get right down to business.” She raised her eyebrows as she said so.
Artorius looked away for a second in mocking contemplation.
“Hmm…alright then,” With that, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her aggressively and passionately.
The girl yelped in surprise at first, given his initial awkwardness. She then moaned in pleasure and anticipation as she placed her other arm around him and kissed him back.
Chapter XXVIII: The Rewards of Triumph
***
Artorius, with most of his friends, was escorted to the courtesan house. It had taken no more than a few minutes to get there, though with eroticism about to consume him, it seemed like much longer. He was quick to observe how lavishly decorated the house was from the moment they entered the main foyer. The floor and pillars all gleamed of polished marble. An elaborate fountain with a bronze statue of Pan on the top stood in the center. Vases of heady-smelling flowers and statues rested on pedestals throughout, exotic and erotic mosaics decorated the walls. As they walked down a wide corridor, Artorius saw a familiar face walking towards a room, a beautiful woman in each arm. One was young and fetching, the other was much older, though still very striking. He assumed she was the “lady of the house.” She looked aroused and flattered to have drawn the attention of the strapping legionary who was probably twenty years younger than she. Artorius laughed to himself when he caught the face of the young legionary. Valens smiled, winked, and shook his fist in the air, as if celebrating a conquest. Artorius returned the gesture and continued on his way with his new friend in tow.