Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  He left Orwic on the far side of the square, for the Numidians were circling to attack on all four sides at once. Their leader, a lean Titan of oil-polished ebony with a leopard-skin over his shoulder, yelled, chose Tros as his own objective —

  And in a second they engaged, on-rushing like a wind-storm of their native desert — fierce as fire — undisciplined as animals. Their leader leaped, down-stabbing with his spear — Tros’s long sword took him in the throat. Crashing above the tumult, he could hear the crowd roar “Habet!” as another black man seized Tros’s buckler, bearing down on it to make an opening for two others’ spears. Out licked a Northman’s ax and bit into a feathered head. As suddenly, Tros’s long sword saved the Northman. A poniard, up-stabbing with the heft of all the Baltic under it, went home into encrimsoned ebony, and there was room again — time for a glance over-shoulder.

  “Odin! Odin!”

  The unbroken square was fighting mad, and through the corner of his eye Tros saw the unarmed Britons crawling between legs to seize Numidian spears — one Northman down, a Briton dragging him — and then a riot-roar as the spectators cheered on the Numidians — a howling onslaught, and the crash of battle in which no man knew what happened, except that the rush ceased and there were black men bleeding on the sand. A third of the Numidians fell back and hesitated, leaderless and numbed by the jeers of the crowd.

  “Lord Tros, we stand firm!” cried a Northman, and fell dead. A Briton dragged his body to the center of the square. The other Northmen closed the gap, their left arms measuring the space to make sure there was room to fight. Then Orwic’s voice:

  “All over, Tros! They have no more courage. Shall we charge and rout them?”

  The Numidians retreated and began arguing, until a few took dead men’s spears and, rushing to within six paces, hurled them; but the bucklers stopped those missiles easily and the spectators jeered again, beginning to shout for action, booing, whistling, bellowing “Ignotus!”

  “Tros, I beg you, let us charge!” cried Orwic.

  But Tros was aware of two things. Pompey was still talking to the Vestal — and the great gate at the end of the arena had been opened. Two long lines of gladiators, helmeted and armed with sword and buckler, began marching in with the mechanical precision of a consul’s bodyguard, saluting with a flash of raised swords as the last pair entered and the great gate closed behind them. Tros could hardly make his voice heard above the thundering ovation of the crowd:

  “Change formation — into two lines — backs toward the Vestals! Orwic, stand by me!”

  He bade them let the wounded lie. The pass was desperate. He formed his double line into a semicircle with its ends retired toward the side where the Vestals and Pompey and all the senators and equites were seated.

  “Now ye shall show me what Odin begat, and whether Lud of Lunden raised a brood of men! Behold — those gladiators drive the blacks against us. Slay or be slain! Give ground slowly toward the wall!”

  No time for another word. A blast of trumpets. The gladiators, forty of them, separating into pairs with the precision of a guard of honor on parade, came forward at the run, outflanking the bewildered Numidians, urging them forward with gestures, presently stabbing at those in the rear. The Numidians, clustering, not understanding, then suddenly desperate, broke, surged, gathered again, stabbed back at the gladiators — and then fled before them, frenzied, brandishing their spears — stark mad — a whirlwind. And then — shambles!

  It was cataclysm without sense or reason in it — slaughter wrought unconsciously, the muscles moving as the heart beat, without signal from the brain — sheer wanton instinct let loose in an orgy of destruction — with the rolling whites of men’s eyes, crimson blood on black skin — scornfully handsome Roman faces under brazen helmets at the rear — a deafening din, like a thunder of surf, from the onlookers — the only memory that survived.

  Thereafter, no pause, but a change of movement and a measured method in the madness, with a gradual return of conscious will. The gladiators smiled, and that was something. They invited death as if it were a playmate; they inflicted it with scientific skill aloof from malice; they were artful and deliberate, their recklessness a mask beneath which awful energy and calculation lurked. They were as sudden as forked lightning, with an air of having all eternity in which to study their opponents’ method.

  Tros found himself engaged by one young veteran of twenty-five, bronze- muscled, with a glow of health like satin on his skin, and on his lips the smile of fifty victories. He had the short sword of the Roman legionary and a big bronze shield, short bronze greaves and a gleaming helmet; with the exception of those he was almost naked, so that every movement he made went rippling along his skin.

  The moment he singled out Tros and engaged him the spectators began roaring “Glaucus! Glaucus” and it sickeningly dawned on Tros that, though this man might have promised Nepos, the spectators were in no mood to spare any wounded combatant. They were yelling for massacre, cruelty, death, for the uttermost peak of emotion; and Glaucus, all-wise in the signs, with a glance at the crowd beneath the buckler upraised on his arm, confirmed it:

  “Est habendum!”

  He was still good-natured. Attitude and smile were invitations to submit to the inevitable and receive the thrust under the breastbone that should end the matter swiftly. There was not a trace of malice in his smile when he discerned that Tros refused that easy death. He parried Tros’s long, lunging thrust and sprang in with a laugh to crush an instep with his heel and stab before Tros could give ground.

  Earth, sky and walls appeared to shake under the thunder of the tumult when the favorite of Rome went reeling backward and fell headlong, tripping over a dead Numidian. He had not realized he had a swordsman facing him — that that old instep trick, and the reply to it, was something Tros learned long before ever a razor touched his face. Glaucus rolled and sprang clear with a cat’s agility, and laughed, but he was at Tros’s mercy if a pair of gladiators had not cut in to protect him. Melee again; a Northman sprang to Tros’s aid. Three more Northmen battle-axed their adversaries and crashed their way to Orwic’s side. Tros slew two men. The crowd yelled his praises. Glaucus, venomous at last, called off two other gladiators and again opposed himself to Tros.

  There was a sharp command from Glaucus. The other gladiators formed themselves into a phalanx. The expectant crowd drew breath like one thrilled monster, greedy for the coming massed assault — the staggering, reeling line — and then, when Tros should have been separated from his men, the final single combat.

  But the art of generalship lies in unexpectedness. Not for nothing had Tros drilled and drilled his crew in deep-sea battle practice. They were used to his roar — obeyed it. Instantly he formed his double line into a wedge, himself its apex, bringing forth a roar of admiration from the crowd, who, loathing discipline themselves, adored to watch it.

  Gradually wheeling, with a crabwise movement, sullenly, Tros gave ground, offering his flanks to tempt the phalanx to an indiscretion. And because the gladiators knew Fabian tactics would only annoy the crowd, they shouted and came on, aiming their sudden rush so as to cut Tros off from the arena wall and drive him out toward the center where he and his survivors could be surrounded.

  The spectators stood on the benches and had to be beaten down again. An ocean of sound, as if the very sky were falling, drowned the clash of weapons. Tros moved on the arc of a parabola and struck the phalanx sidewise with his wedge, splitting it diagonally with the fury of a Baltic blast, his Northmen bellowing their bull-mouthed battle-cry.

  They burst into the left end of the phalanx. The gladiators lost formation. They tried to re-form and lost seconds doing it. Glaucus, skillfully avoiding Orwic, plunged into the melee, hurling men out of his way, challenging Tros. It was a milling shambles, weight against weight, fury against fury, with the gladiators losing — losing their heads, too, as their numbers thinned. All the axes were broken. Northmen and Britons alike fought now with poniar
ds and spears.

  Glaucus reached Tros, sprang at him from behind a gladiator whom Tros slew with a lunging thrust that bent his buckler and went past it deep into the man’s breast. That mighty blow left Tros extended, with his buckler useless on his left arm and his swordpoint in a man’s ribs. Glaucus sprang to stab him between neck and shoulder.

  “Ah-h-h!”

  The crowd roared too soon. Orwic’s buckler intervened. Glaucus, springing backward to avoid the Briton’s swiping scimitar, tripped over a dead gladiator.

  “Habet!”

  But the crowd was wrong again; Glaucus was uninjured — instantly on his feet. There were five Northmen and four Britons down. Twice that number of Glaucus’ men lay crimsoning the sand. The gladiators realized their case was desperate — sprang back into line again behind their leader.

  Instantly Tros re-formed his wedge. He did not dare to take his eyes off Glaucus for more than a second, but he spared one swift glance at the Vestals. The Vestalis Maxima was still talking to Pompey, who leaned forward from his seat, apparently engaged in heated argument; his face was flushed. There was something unexpected happening. The spectators seemed aware of it; they swayed; there was a new note in the tumult.

  But there was also a new move in Glaucus’ mind; he spread his arms and shouted. Instantly his men split in two divisions and attacked the wedge on either flank, Glaucus watching his chance to charge at Tros when the weight of the assault should have driven the Northmen back a yard or two and left him unprotected.

  For a breath — ten — twenty breaths the wedge held — until suddenly the Northmen lost their heads and charged to meet the onslaught, breaking line and bellowing their “Odin! Odin!” as they locked shields against the gladiators’ and opposed sheer strength and fury against skill. As swiftly as leaves whirl and scatter in the wind the tight formation broke up into single combats.

  And now, again, the crowd went frantic. Glaucus, favorite of fortune, winner of a hundred fights, had met his destiny at last! Tros had at him in silence, grimly, minded to make swift work of it — ears, eyes, passion concentrated.

  There was a blare of trumpets — but it might have been a thousand miles away. There was a man’s voice pitched against the thunder of the crowd — but it was a voice heard in a dream. There was a yelping, snarling anger note in the crowd’s increasing tumult — but that only matched Tros’s own dissatisfaction with the gods, who had provided him no better opportunity than this to save the day. He had no desire to kill Glaucus. He knew he must, and anger substituted for desire.

  Glaucus sprang like a leopard — feinted — turned aside Tros’s lunge on his buckler — ducked in to get the advantage with his short sword at close quarters. The quick stab missed by a hand’s breadth. Tros’s next stroke shore away the crest of Glaucus’ helmet, the terrific impact hurling back the gladiator on his heels. There was never a doubt about the outcome from that second. Glaucus fought a losing battle with the desperate determination of a veteran — cunning, alert, experimenting with a hundred tricks, now giving ground, now feigning weariness, now swifter than a flash of lightning. Twice he drew blood. Once, with a whirlwind effort that brought tumults from the crowd, he forced Tros backward against a writhing gladiator’s body and then, buckler against buckler, almost tripped him. But the effort spent itself and Tros’s strength overwhelmed him. Glaucus’ own blood trickled in his eyes from where the long sword had shorn the helmet-brass and bit into his scalp. He shook his head, like an embattled bull and sprang in blindly trying to smash down Tros’s guard with his buckler. For a second they were breath to breath, and he spat in Tros’s face, stabbing furiously, until Tros hurled him backward and the long sword licked out like a tongue of flame.

  The sword was swifter than the eye, yet thought was swifter.

  “Habet!”

  The crowd’s yelp was like a thunder-clap. But swifter than a year’s events that flash by in a dream, was the vision of Nepos’ face — the memory of Nepos’ voice — the thought of Glaucus’ willingness to wound and then ask mercy for his victim. Between syllable and syllable of “Habet!” the point lowered and went lunging into Glaucus’ thigh.

  “Down with you!” Tros beat him to the sand with a terrific buckler blow. He set his foot on him. Glaucus tried to squirm free.

  “Lie still!”

  Now he became conscious of the trumpet blasts, and of the man’s voice pitched against the din. The crowd was screaming savagely for Glaucus’ death; they lusted for the last refinement of mob-cruelty, the fun of turning on their favorite, condemning him as he appealed for the mercy he had so often begged for others. Tros raised his sword and glanced at Pompey’s box. The triumvir was gone! The box was empty! Some of his Northmen were cheering. He could not count how many men were killed; his own head swam, but through the corner of his eye he saw the dungeon door was open. Nepos and his attendants were dragging wounded men into a group. There were thirty or forty simultaneous fights going on among the upper rows of seats, and officials were swarming up over the barriers to enforce order; others were already driving the spectators out through the exits at the rear. But the Vestals were still seated, although their attendants seemed to be urging them to go. Tros threw up his sword and asked for Glaucus’ life. All four Vestals waved their handkerchiefs. The next he knew, Nepos was nudging him.

  “Down on your knees!” commanded Nepos, signing to his men, who set their hooks under Glaucus’ armpits and began to drag him away.

  Tros knelt. The Vestals waved their handkerchiefs again. “That is enough for me,” said Nepos. “Swiftly!”

  The men in masks were dragging out the dead. One was killing wounded gladiators, drawing a heavy sword across their throats, but Nepos would not let him kill Tros’s wounded men. Orwic, bleeding and breathless, came to examine Tros’s wounds, but Nepos was impatient. The crowd was raging.

  “Come!” he commanded. He appeared to think Tros knew what had happened. “Bid your men carry their wounded. Swift before your gods reverse themselves!”

  The dungeon guards hustled them out as swiftly as the wounded could be dragged and carried. The great door of the carceres slammed shut behind them, deadening the angry tumult of the crowd.

  “That is the first time in the history of Rome!” said Nepos. “What gods do you pray to? I myself would like to sacrifice to gods who can accomplish that!”

  Tros answered sullenly:

  “Eleven good men dead — and all these wounded! Rot me such a lousy lot of gods!”

  Nepos brought a doctor, whose accomplishment was cauterizing wounds with red-hot iron and was bitterly offended because Tros preferred the pine-oil dressing that the druids had given him and which he kept in his haversack. Tros dressed the Northmen’s wounds, then Orwic’s, then his own.

  “There is magic in this,” he said, offering the flask to Nepos. “I will give you what is left of it. Tell me now what happened.”

  “Julia died!” said Nepos. “Didn’t you hear the announcer? There came two messengers, and one told Pompey, but another told the Vestals. Pompey would have let the games go on, not daring to offend the crowd, but the Vestals said shame on him and — so the guard near Pompey’s box told me — they threatened to predict a great disaster to the Roman arms, and to ascribe the blame to Pompey, if he disobeyed them. They thought a deal of Julia. So did everybody. Rome will have to go in mourning. I will bet you fifty sesterces that Pompey will do all he can to keep the news from Julius Caesar until he can get ready to defend himself. The link that kept them from each other’s throats is broken.”

  “And what now?” Tros asked.

  “You are free, my friend. The Vestals ordered it. But not yet. I will keep you in the dungeon until darkness makes it easier to pass unrecognized.”

  There was wisdom in delay, particularly as Tros did not want to be seen escaping down the Tiber. But it was hardly an hour before Helene came and sent a message by Nepos.

  “Speak through the gate with her,” he advised, and came and
listened in the shadow where the great steps turned under the entrance arch.

  “Tros!” exclaimed Helene, her lips trembling with excitement, “you would do well to make haste! All Rome knows the Vestals have released you. Zeuxis is afraid of you; he knows Conops came; he has warned one of Pompey’s men that your ship will try to pick you up in Ostia. The gallopers have gone to warn the captains of the triremes! If you try to go by chariot to Ostia they will find excuse to bar the road against you; they will certainly seize your ship! But I have permits to take stage to Gaul. None will expect you to take that route. Leave your men. Come with me!”

  Tros wondered whether it was she or Zeuxis who had contrived that danger to the ship — even whether it was true at all, although he knew that either of them would be capable of doing it. Helene was as treacherous as Zeuxis. He could read determination in her eyes. He had to invent subterfuge, and suddenly.

  “Here are half of the pearls I owe you,” he said, pulling out his leather pouch. “Take them. Give Zeuxis this.” He produced the ivory tessera. “Tell him, I renounce hospitium; from this hour we are enemies, to the death unless he can explain how he sent my Northmen rotten axes. You shall have the other pearls I owe you — after I reach Britain — after Caesar manumits you. Go tell Zeuxis.”

  “You will come by road to Gaul?”

  “If there is no other way. I must see to my men. They are good men. The gods would rot me if I gave them no chance; also some of them are badly hurt. I have arranged to send them down the Tiber. If all goes well they may find some way of escaping to their own land. Meet me one hour after dark down by the fish-wharf near the bridge. I will be free to answer you then. Bring Zeuxis, but see that he doesn’t betray me again. Make him believe I love him and would welcome a fair explanation. Manage so that I shall find him where he can’t escape — down there beside the fish-wharf in the dark. I think the gods would not approve if I should miss my reckoning with Zeuxis.”