by Carol Ashby
“You’ll get your chance before the crowd in three days. My job is to make sure you make this ludus proud when you fight. Do what I say and train hard, and you have a chance of walking back here after the games. If you don’t…you’ll at least have your moment of glory on the sand.”
He tossed a sword to each of them. “Pick a palus, and let’s get started.”
Otto swung the sword, testing the weight and balance. It handled nothing like the gladius Gundahar had stolen from him. Then he focused his full attention on the gladiator. Any man who had survived the arena long enough to be the teacher of others must know something that could keep him from dying.
Galen was hunting for him, but where? Why hadn’t he caught up yet? Horses traveled much faster than the mule cart. But there were three major roads out of Argentorate, and two out of Augusta Raurica. Had Galen taken the wrong one? Even if Galen had traced him to Augusta Raurica, did he know Gundahar had sold him before riding east?
Otto shook his head to banish those thoughts about Galen and focused once more on the words and movements of the gladiator. He had only three days to learn enough from the expert to stay alive.
Chapter 15: First Fight
Day 10
Moonlight streamed through the small, barred window near the ceiling of Otto’s cell. He’d been staring for hours at the shadows of the bars as they moved across the wall. For three days, he’d been whacking at a man-sized wooden stake with a weighted wooden sword. Three days with a sword longer and heavier than the gladius he could wield second to none, except maybe Galen and Decimus, who’d trained them both.
Today the weapons would be steel. It would be human flesh, not wood, that he’d have to strike. And it would be experienced warriors like Lothar and Baldwin, not a wooden post, that faced him. Warriors as eager to stay alive as he was.
He was trained for fighting legion-style, deflecting thrusting and slashing attacks by a gladius and stabbing back in close quarters. But was that good enough for him to survive the arena?
What if his opponent stayed too far away for a thrust to strike home? What if he had to use a sword like he’d been given in practice, too long for the moves he’d mastered years ago? What if he had to use a battle ax instead of a sword?
It had been ten days since Gundahar abducted him. Nine days since Galen would have discovered he’d been taken. But it should have taken only five, maybe six days to ride to Octodurus from Argentorate. What could have delayed Galen? Was he even coming?
Would Galen arrive at the last minute to buy him out of the ludus? Even if he did, would the lanista sell him when he was already scheduled for a match tomorrow?
Otto willed himself to relax. Worrying over it wasn’t going to change anything that happened. If he had a choice, he’d get a gladius. If no choice, he’d just have to hope something Decimus taught him would prove useful in the first fight for his life.
He closed his eyes. Worry did nothing. Sleep would help more. He forced his breathing to slow.
If he could just make it through the first fight, Galen would come. Nothing would stop his friend until Galen rescued him…if he was alive when Galen came.
Otto stood in the dark tunnel with the other gladiators, waiting for his turn to march onto the sunlit sand. The lanista had lined them up for a procession to whet the appetite of the 5,000 spectators. Bare-chested and decked out in loincloths and armor that protected sword arms and legs but not vital organs, they would parade around the arena before standing in front of the sponsor of the games. They’d been drilled in what to say.
We who are about to die salute you. He’d speak the words, but he didn’t plan to die.
He’d been ordered to wear the helmet that blocked too much of his vision and a sleeve made of thick strips of leather to protect his sword arm, but he’d been allowed to pick his weapon. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the gladius he’d chosen. It wasn’t as well balanced as his own, but it was close enough.
After their march in front of the cheering crowd, he was sent back into the tunnel to wait with Baldwin, Lothar, and three other men who would be in his three-on-three match. They were the first event.
A trumpet blast called them out, and the arena master split them up into pairs. Baldwin was his first opponent. A battle-hardened warrior, even if it was only a single battle. Otto was half a head taller, but it was speed, not size, that mattered in a swordfight. Galen had bested him many times in a friendly match. It was speed and seeing the opponent’s move before he made it.
But this wasn’t sparring, and Baldwin’s eyes filled with fire. The Suebian warrior was hungry for the kill, like Otto felt when he rode up on a wild boar with a spear.
The next blast would start the combat.
Otto drew a deep breath, blew it out, and steeled himself for the first time he’d have to kill another man to stay alive.
The trumpet sounded. He pulled the helmet off and tossed it aside. Seeing the enemy was more important than any protection it might afford. As Baldwin swung the sword that was twice the length of his toward his ribs, Otto caught it with the gladius. With a twist and a shove, he flipped it out of the way before grabbing Baldwin’s sword arm. One step forward, and he drove his blade into the youth’s chest, slipping the blade between his ribs and into his heart.
Baldwin’s eyes saucered. The sword fell from his right hand, and his left hand grasped Otto’s shoulder in a vise-like grip. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came. Then his eyes lost focus, and his grip relaxed. The weight of his body settled on the gladius.
Otto swallowed hard to keep the vomit from getting into his mouth. Killing a man was nothing like spearing a boar or dropping a stag with a well-placed arrow.
As a gasp rippled through the crowd, Otto pushed the body off his sword. He kept his eyes off Baldwin’s face. He couldn’t let the surging regret over what he had to do keep him from doing it two more times.
The other two pairs kept fighting, and Otto watched them closely, gauging how each of them fought. A man with a long sword made for slashing dropped Lothar, who had an ax. Lothar raised his arm, asking for mercy, but the crowd shouted for the kill. The swordsman gave it to them, but he made no attempt to attack Otto.
The second pair both had gladii, and they fought longer. They were well matched, but one finally fell. This time, the raised arm received mercy. Two men loaded the wounded man on a stretcher and carried him into the tunnel.
The two victors moved close enough to each other to speak in voices Otto couldn’t hear over the yells of the crowd, but he didn’t need to hear their words. A two-on-one was coming.
They fanned out as they approached. Otto kept backing up so they couldn’t flank him. Then the one who killed Lothar came at him with his long sword, swinging at Otto’s unprotected neck. Otto caught the sword with his gladius and deflected the blow. As the man drew back his arm for another stroke, Otto lunged at him and made the lethal thrust to his heart.
Before he could pull the gladius out, his third opponent came at him from the side. Otto twisted to put the dead man between them and shoved him onto the attacker’s sword. He yanked his own sword free and finished off the third man with a thrust to the throat.
As the body crumpled, Otto looked away. His gaze fell on narrow steps built into the arena wall. Still clutching the gladius, he sprinted toward them. Three leaps up the stairs took him from the sand to the stands. As the spectators scrambled away from him, he ran along the edge of the walkway, heading for an exit ramp.
Then a net dropped over him. The net man who was to fight a secutor in the next match had thrown it from the sand below before charging up another set of steps.
Otto struggled free of the net, only to have one more tossed on him from behind.
The two net men pinned him as the lanista clamped shackles on his legs, then his wrists. A roar rose from the crowd as two brawny secutores stretched him out, one gripping his wrists, the other his ankles, a
nd carried him back into the tunnel.
The crowd was still shouting when they tossed him, still in shackles, on a bunk in his cell. The cell door closed, and he was left alone.
He stared at the blood on his sword hand, and it started to tremble. Three sharp shakes of his wrist, and the quiver stopped. He closed his eyes.
He’d killed three men. Something he’d never wanted to do. Something he hoped he’d never have to do again. But what choice did he have as a slave chained to the arena? It was kill or die…and he wanted to live.
The games were over…for now. Otto’s shoulders drooped as the lanista stood outside the cell, frowning. “You fought well today, Bjorn…for a man in battle, but that’s not what this is. We put on a show for the people. Blood and sometimes death are what they want, but not too quickly.”
“I don’t care what the people want. I’m not a gladiator. I was kidnapped in Argentorate, and I shouldn’t be in the arena anyway. I’ll fight however I must to stay alive. Killing isn’t some game, like you Romans seem to think.”
As the lanista watched Otto, shaking his head, a man who was obviously Roman approached. “This one is a wild man. Perhaps not what you want in your ludus. It’s too hard for most to tame and train Northland Germans. They stir up the others to rebellion as well.”
The Octodurus lanista shrugged. “I only bought him a few days ago. He acted tame enough before today on the sand.”
“He won’t be tame after that fight. He’s likely to kill or get killed in practice, and that takes money from your purse. Anyone going up against him in the arena will go for the kill as fast as possible to stay alive themselves. The crowd wants a drawn-out deathmatch for its money, and no one will want to book a fight with him. Let me take him off your hands.”
Otto’s owner rubbed his mouth. “You could be right. This is a small arena, but properly trained for the big show before 50,000 in Rome, he’ll earn you a fortune. Maybe I will sell him.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s worth at least 1400 denarii.”
That figure drew a snort. “Too high. A dead Class 6 isn’t worth that much, and this one’s too new to be more than Class 8.”
The lanista’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “But this one will be at least Class 5 after his first bout. He’s a bargain at 1400.”
The Roman buyer tightened his lips. “You want the prices of Roma in Octodurus. You won’t get that from me. But…” The Roman buyer stroked his cheek. “I can offer 1200. A fair price for a man you’ve spent no money training. That’s more than he’ll bring if he dies in his next fight.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Which is likely without months of training.”
Otto’s lanista opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“That’s probably four times what you paid for him. A good profit with no risk.”
The Roman buyer’s point struck home. The lanista offered his arm. “Sold. I’ll draw up the bill of sale.”
As the two men moved off, Otto sat on the long bunk that had been Lothar’s and hung his head. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Galen’s Roman-to-Roman bargaining always brought top prices for horses. But even in his worst nightmares, he’d never dreamed he’d hear two Romans agree to a price for him.
Chapter 16: Octodurus
Day 11
The sky was still mostly gray when Otto followed his new owner, Marcus Antonius Brutus, into the street, but the hint of pink washing the broken clouds over the mountains spawned a glimmer of hope as he left the cell and sand of the ludus behind.
The smile he was fighting as he considered the possibility of escape died on his lips when he saw the two gladiator bodyguards traveling with Brutus.
Brutus stepped aside as the larger guard shackled Otto’s wrists. “It’s two days on horseback over the pass to Augusta Praetoria. A long ride for some, but you’ll manage. Mount up.”
Otto fought the smile again as he settled into the saddle. The old, swayback mare was nothing like the fiery stallions he liked to ride, but a horse was a horse. The dark-skinned guard with curly black hair still held the mare’s halter, but as soon as Otto had control, he could plan his break for freedom.
Brutus snapped his fingers. The red-haired guard clamped the first iron band around Otto’s right ankle and flipped the long chain under the horse’s belly.
Otto’s shoulders drooped as the redhead walked past his horse’s rump and fastened the second ring above his free foot. The heavy chain dragged his legs down until he bent his knees and gripped the mare’s sides. The jangle of the links under her belly made the old girl dance, even with the guard stroking her nose.
Brutus stepped closer and patted her neck. “Settle down, girl. You’ll get used to it.” He glanced at Otto and the corner of his mouth pulled up. “So will your rider.”
As the long lead rope was clipped to the halter, Otto squared his shoulders and pulled a deep breath. He raised his eyes and scanned the snow-capped mountains that towered over the town.
No matter how hopeless it might seem, there was still hope. Somehow, Galen would find him.
Vivisco, Day 11
Adela’s eyes were drawn to the naked crags of the rugged mountains rising to the east. What had seemed like a line of distant hills when they first headed south from Augusta Raurica had grown closer and taller with each passing day.
They were five days into their six-day ride to Octodurus, Tomorrow, they should reach the town where Galen expected to find his friend, but she was in no hurry. So many things along their route had intrigued her, from the sun sparking on the lake just north of Aventicum to the eight towering columns with leaves and curls cut into the white stone where it held the roof of the Roman temple.
Galen said it was dedicated to the emperor. When she asked him if he worshiped in a temple like that, his lips curved into a smile as his eyes crinkled. He’d simply answered, “No,” but what was so funny about her question?
At the top of a hill overlooking a lake at least as big as the one at Brigantium, Galen reined in. “That’s Vivisco down there. Last stop before we reach Octodurus.”
He wove his fingers together and rested them atop his head as he arched his back. “We’ll ask at the garrison about a safe place to camp.” He turned his smile on her. “Are you starting to understand some of what I ask now?”
Adela’s smile mirrored his. “Some. You’re a good teacher.”
“I have a good student.”
“But I still don’t understand much of what they answer.”
“That will come.” He dropped his arms and picked up the reins. “You can tell me what you caught after I get directions to the camp.” His eyes crinkled again. “I bet it will be more than you think.”
He nudged his horse into a walk and started down the slope. She settled in beside him where she could watch his profile. There was that hint of a smile.
One more day to catch up with his friend, then ten, maybe eleven days to take her back home. Her lips tightened. Why was it time sometimes crawled, but it raced when you didn’t want it to?
Octodurus, Day 12
Adela twisted in her saddle for a final look back down the river valley. Tall hills that would have been called mountains in Hermunduri country rose almost at the river’s edge. It was half a day back to Vivisco and the blue waters of the lake. Now the tallest buildings in Octodurus rose ahead of them.
She expected Galen to kick his horse into a trot to reach his friend sooner. The closer they got to the town, the bigger his smile had been when she glanced at him.
Instead, he reined in. “Adela.”
The tension in his voice jerked her gaze from the river to his face.
His smile had vanished. “I want you to keep your eyes on me or on the ground. This is the provincial capital. We’re riding past the execution field, and someone is on a cross. I don’t want you to see that.”
She perked up and leaned in the saddle to look past him. “That
’s what they did to Gundahar?”
Galen shifted to block her view. “Yes. But don’t look. You don’t want to see it.”
She wasn’t so sure of that, even though she nodded. Gundahar deserved whatever the Romans had done to him.
Galen nudged his horse and crossed in front of her to put himself on the side away from the cross. “Keep your eyes on me.”
He watched her, so she did as he said…until they were beside the man. Then she turned her head to see.
A wave of nausea swept through her as she stared at the naked, bloody body hanging from the nails through his wrists. Another nail impaled his feet.
Then Galen took her chin in his hand and turned her face back toward him. “I said don’t look.”
She swallowed several times to keep the cheese she’d had for lunch down. “How can they do that, even to someone who deserves to die?”
“It’s the Roman way. It’s meant to keep anyone else who’s not a citizen from breaking Roman law.”
“I would have killed him quick. You should have let me.”
“Then you might have been the one up there.”
Adela fought against it, but her lip still quivered. Galen blurred as tears filled her eyes. “The Roman way is wrong.”
Galen released her chin. “Yes, it is. Mercy is not considered a virtue in Rome. May you never be in a place where you need it.”
She squeezed her eyelids shut, but the image of the man wouldn’t fade. She squeezed them tighter, and the tears that had pooled in her eyes dribbled down her cheeks.
Galen’s hand wrapped around hers and squeezed. “Let’s go find Otto.”
She kicked her horse into a trot, and he followed suit. The sooner she got away from Roman “justice,” the better.
Galen’s pulse rate rose as he rode past the main entrance to the amphitheater. The sign on the building next door drew a smile.