Gladiators vs Zombies

by Sean Michael Argo

  Often, as in such matches as today, Octavian was put into the arena for provocatore bouts. He would battle other theatrically gifted gladiators, and they would dance, pose, and engage the crowd just as much as they would fight each other. The bouts were still at their core a battle of life and death, though they were meant to be more of a spectacle than a display of martial prowess. Men still died, and more than a few had been slain upon Octavian’s trident.

  Octavian looked across the arena and saw his opponents, letting his eyes flow over them as he sized them up. Lanista Laeca has outdone himself, thought Octavian, as he looked upon the three female golems arrayed against him. The lanista had discovered that highly trained fighters, like the gladiators, often maintained some rudimentary skills and instincts when they were turned into golems. As such, a fallen gladiator who turned as a golem more often than not could still use weapons with some minimal degree. No golem would ever parry a strike, or attempt a feint, though some of them were capable of basic slashes or thrusts, even if their form was awkward and their speed reduced.

  The three golems before Octavian had clearly once been gladiatrix, the rare and much debated female counterparts to the gladiators of Rome. From the horrific wounds already present upon their bodies Octavian guessed that they had been killed in some previous bout, though from the still fresh look of their wounds these gladiatrix could not have been turned more than a few days ago. The editor called for a start to the bout, and the chains binding the golem gladiatrix to the arena floor were unfastened, the arena tenders rushing being the closing gate as the golems began moving towards them.

  “If you are looking for a cock to fill you fair maidens, I, Octavian, have a tine for each of you!” boasted the retiarius as he brandished his trident, smiling widely as his jape was received with laughter and applause.

  Two of the golem gladiatrix were armed with the mediums sized oval shields and curved sickle swords in the Thracian gladiator style, and one carried the small buckler shield and long spear of the hoplomachus. The golems had to strategy among them, and each careened towards Octavian at their own speed. Wanting to open the fight with flair, the retiarius bounded towards the golems, and as he neared them feinted right, drawing a clumsy slash from the golem gladiatrix on the far left. As she was over-extended from her missed strike, Octavian cast his net across her, pulling it tight and binding her firmly as he circled around behind her.

  Keeping his momentum going and letting his superior weight do the work, Octavian pulled back on the net, and the golem fell backwards to the ground. The retiarius began running in the opposite direction of the golems, dragging the bound golem in the net behind him. He pumped his legs and began dragging her swiftly to the far edge of the arena, putting great distance between himself and the other two golems. He released the net and held his arms out to the crowd nearest him, letting the golem thrash around in the net, firmly bound.

  “Look my friends, a beautiful is caught in my nets! Shall I make a bride of her? Or do we say more fish in the sea?” he called out to the crowd, who began applauding and chanting “More fish! More fish!”

  Octavian bowed with a flourish, and took up his trident, holding it aloft as he spun it in his hands to reverse the grip. Then as the golem struggled in the net he drove the trident downwards, two of the three tines of his weapon disappearing into the golem’s eye sockets. By the time he pulled the trident from the fallen golem, he could see that the other two golems had closed the distance, and were soon to be upon him. He did not expect them to be as swift as they were, having seen several golem fights from the gladiator holding pens near the arena, and had to bring his trident up in a hasty block as one brought its gladius in a wide arc towards him.

  Octavian pushed aside the blade and swept the butt of his trident across the golem’s face, knocking it to the side and sending it crashing into the other golem. The retiarius danced several steps backwards, and then started strutting in a wide circle around the two golems as they thrashed and snapped at each other as they disentangled from each other and regained their footing.

  “You see how they hiss and argue? How lucky am I, a mere slave, to be so desired by such beauties!” voiced Octavian as he took a moment to flex his muscles and strike a pose, smiling as he was met with more applause. The faster of the two golems, a redhead with half of her face missing, reached him and again slashed at him in a wide arc. The veteran gladiator ducked under the strike and planted his feet while executing a perfect lunge into the golem’s mid-section. He lifted up on the trident, bracing the butt of the pole-arm against his foot, and used the golem’s momentum to carry it up and over his head. He kept his grip on the trident, turning on his feet and twisting his torso to maintain control of the weapon as the golem slammed onto her back against the arena floor.

  Upon impact the trident spit in two along the fracture that had been caused by the previous blocked strike from the gladius. In grim realization Octavian released his grip on the broken half of the trident he still held. The overhead throwing of an opponent had been his signature move, and this time it had cost him his weapon. This was not a time to lose composure he told himself, and he quickly turned to engage the golem he knew had been coming up behind him. The golem gladiatrix made a clumsy thrust with her spear, which Octavian sidestepped, pirouetting on the balls of his feet to move outside her grasp. As he did he set one hand on the shaft of the spear and with the other delivered a bone crunching forearm strike to the golem’s unarmored wrist.

  The golem lost its grip on the spear and careened forward as Octavian brought the spear into a guard position with a spinning flourish that brought cheers from the crowd. He sprang forward and thrust the spear into the golem’s back, then pulled the weapon free, and as he danced in a circle around the golem thrust the point home several more times. The crowd was going wild with the display, and Octavian bathed in their adoration.

  As Octavian raised his arms in a final salute to the crowd, the golem gladiatrix he had previously impaled had managed to stand. So focused was Octavian, and most of the crowd, on the showmanship of his perfectly executed deathblow thrust into the golem he had been harassing, that none saw the growing danger. The golem gladiatrix stood for a moment, as if confused, its hands questing inquisitively around the shaft of the trident protruding, then ripping it free from its body.

  A cry of horror went up from the crowd, and Octavian turned just in time to block the trident with his forearm as the golem gladiatrix drove it down towards him in an overhead strike. Octavian fell to his knees in pain, the tines of the trident having impaled his arm in three places. He yelled and punched the golem in the mid-section, knocking it back a pace, then swept its legs aside with his own. As it fell to the ground Octavian, all theatrics forgotten, scrambled backwards and pulled at the trident in his arm.

  The golem gladiatrix crawled forward on all fours like a ravenous beast, and leapt upon Octavian. The retiarius brought the trident up to defend himself, stabbing the golem in the neck, though to little effect. The golem tore a piece of flesh from his face with its teeth, and they both fell prone. The golem was swiftly atop the gladiator, tearing out his throat with savage bites, all while clawing at his unarmored flesh.

  The crowed that had so loved Octavian while he yet lived cheered ever so more loudly as he died. Moments later the arena tenders removed two golems from the arena.

  THE MAIDEN

  Hesta looked at herself in the mirror-like surface of the water basin. Despite her hard life her face was still as beautiful as the day when she’d first been taken as a slave. The men of her city-state had risen against Roman rule, and the city had been engulfed in riots and reprisals. The local Roman garrison had crushed the dissenters swiftly, preventing the riots from turning into a full-blown revolution. As part of the reprisals levied upon the city the Romans had taken slaves from the local population. She had heard in the camps that there was an official order given to take only known dissenters, though as with many such orders given throughout
the empire, it amounted to wanton capture and enslavement.

  She was a beautiful woman, and young, so was valued above many others. The men were sent to labor camps, most of them to be shipped off to fill quotas on the vast building projects across the empire. Those men who were not fit for building were consigned to the mines, which for most of them was tantamount to a death sentence. For children it was much the same, with some few being held for duty as household slaves and work in stables, as children were known to have a natural aptitude for animal husbandry. Women were treated far less roughly, though many would have gladly chosen the mines. The old or unattractive of them were sent to the sculls and kitchens, to cook and clean, to weave and craft if they’d the skill. Those women, and some of the fairer men, who were of a younger age or possessed of particular beauty were sold at a high price to brothels and to the households of wealthy Romans. For many Roman households there was a certain unspoken status enjoyed by those whom owned beautiful slaves.

  Hesta was such a beauty, no matter how she wished it were not so. As such a prized slave she was not abused or raped, her virginity kept intact so that she could command a greater price upon being sold. She worked as a household slave to her dominus, the slaver who had contracted with the garrison to collect the levy. Over the following year she had learned the art of silence, and had learned about the darker side of being a household slave. While her dominus was particularly concerned that Hesta and several of the three other young virgins remain unspoiled, he had no such concern with the others. A cruel man, he had forced Hesta and her slave-sisters to watch as the other women were brutalized by any man with coin to pay. The slaver insisted that the virgins know their place, and be prepared to give their dominus pleasure when he took their maidenhead. To demonstrate the cost of displeasuring their future masters, the dominus callously used and murdered one of the other women. It was in that moment that Hesta vowed to herself and her gods that she would not die a slave.

  After her first year as a slave Hesta was told to present herself before the dominus. When she arrived the remaining virgin, Gorgo, was already attending the dominus. Gorgo stood naked before the dominus and a newcomer, whom was introduced to her as Lanista Atticus Laeca. “Disrobe girl, and let us feast the eyes of our friend Lanista Laeca,” said the dominus as he sipped his wine. Hesta did as she was told, and her heart fluttered as she saw the look of appreciation in the eyes of Lanista Laeca.

  “A feast indeed Tiglath, you know my tastes well old friend,” smiled Lanista Laeca as he devoured Hesta with his eyes.

  “I suspect that a man in your profession is, like myself, wise in his judgment of flesh, and what potential is hidden beneath appearances. Be it a fine fighting man to bleed for you in the arena, or an unspoiled woman in which to plunge your cock!” boasted the dominus, as he bit down on a greasy chunk of meat spitted upon his knife. Lanista Atticus Laeca nodded his agreement in silence, never taking his eyes away from Hesta, his gaze causing her to flush.

  Hesta looked at her reflection in the water basin, the memories coming to her in a flood as she looked upon herself. The lanista was a soft-spoken man, and handsome enough, carrying himself with the confidence of a man accustomed to having power over others. He came to her on the first night in the villa above the ludus. Unlike the dominus and the cruel men that were his usual companions, the lanista was surprisingly gentle, at first.

  Hesta had only been a slave in House Laeca for a few months when the lanista’s wife died in childbirth. Atticus, which she had come to call him as they lay sweating in the darkness when his desire was spent, was a changed man. He was deeply wounded by the death of his wife, whom all knew he loved dearly, and all for a daughter. The lanista began to change, as if his soul had grown dark, and he soon became a cruel, cold, and hard man. The ludus was falling on hard times financially, and more so once the lanista had lost his wife. The man pulled away from most human contact, spending nearly all of his time in his office, brooding over accounts.

  Lanista Laeca spared no love or time for his daughter, leaving her to the care of his household. He brooded often, and seemed only to think of coin and the games. His desire for her had grown, and more than any other slave he would slake his lust upon her flesh. His passions had grown as equally dark as his spirit, and his coupling with her grew ever more abusive. Hesta often turned to her prayers for comfort, finding so little in the life that she lived in House Laeca.

  Such was his newfound passion in humiliating her that Atticus would force her to attend him in the ludus while his gladiators trained. He would take her down into the empty pens while the men worked their fighting skills above. Once in the madness of his lust Hesta had chipped a tooth on the cell bars as he forced her to bite them while he took her.

  Most of the gladiators hated the lanista, and all were slaves of the same dominus, so resolved to show Hesta respect. Little did they know that doing so only spurred Atticus to ever more deviant acts, such was the simple ignorance of good men. The ludus had become a grim place, more so now that the golems were part of the games, as the men contemplated their looming deaths doing battle against the creatures. For many gladiators the sight of the beautiful slave girl was enough to keep them going, seeing that some spark of beauty remained in the world.

  Hesta knew this of the gladiators, and drew strength from it. Though it cost her dearly when Lanista Laeca would notice her smiling at one of the gladiators, or see her linger a moment longer than needed as she tended their bruises or gave them water. The men kept her spirit from breaking, and she kept them fighting. Perhaps Lanista Laeca knew of this, and used it to his advantage, for surely gladiators who fought bravely and clung to life while in the jaws of death were far more profitable than the slaughter of men without hope. She could not tell, and it would have mattered little so long as they felt hope, as all slaves know.

  Her god was Dionysus, and she sought solace in her prayers to him. An ancient religion, the gods of her people in faraway Greece. She prayed, and she kept her covenants, and sometimes, in the darkness, with incense in the air and wine coursing through her veins, he would answer.

  THE THRACIAN & DIMACHERI

  Asur moved his arms back and forth as he pounced from one foot to the other, keeping his muscles warmed up and his heart pounding. This was just another bout, he told himself, one more contest of arms. He was trying to keep himself calm, to keep his wits sharp, there was no good to be had in letting himself think of this battle as more difficult than any other. That last proved near impossible, as the stomping in the stands and the roar of the crowd echoed in the holding area. Asur stood alone on the ramp leading to the arena gate, only the grizzled doctore watched him from the shadows below.

  The gladiator was a relative newcomer to the games of Rome, having been a provincial fighter in the arenas of Judea and Egypt. In his youth Asur had been a stable tender, though an uprising against Roman rule had seen a punitive expedition bring harsh justice upon the city. In the madness of reprisals Asur had been captured and enslaved. Asur was lucky to escape being sentenced to the mines, his skills with horse and mule saving him from that harsh fate. For several years the boy Asur had served as a stable slave, until such time as he’d grown to be a young man.

  One day, without warning, he was taken by rough handed mercenaries from the stable of his dominus, and told that he had been sold to a new dominus. His new master was the owner of a traveling slave caravan. The new dominus wanted slaves to tend his horses, and Asur was resigned to a life of travel, or so he had thought. He had distinguished himself well in a battle with raiders who attacked the caravan, and his new dominus was so impressed with the ferocity of the young man that he sold him to a lanista in Judea.

  He was a long way from the bloody pits of Judea and Egypt, thought Asur as he ruminated on his past exploits. They had taught him to fight with sword and spear, though because of his Thracian blood he was naturally chosen to fight in the Thracian gladiator style. He was taught how to fight with honor, kill upon com
mand, and to wield the shield and sickle sword of the Thracian with deadly skill. Soon enough the tales of the golems reached the ears of his dominus, who sold Asur to Lanista Laeca.

  Asur quickly discovered the radical difference between life as a provincial gladiator and that of a fighter in the capitol of the empire itself. He found that he rather enjoyed the creature comforts, being oiled and bathed, as much hearty food as he liked, and the tender attentions of women. He told himself that nothing better could be hoped for by a meager slave, and that glory and death in the arena were small prices to be paid for this life of luxury. Asur, who had labored all his life, cared little for the regimented and often grueling training, as a hard life was a hard life, and he could do little to change that. He had been a slave his entire life, if not a slave to the Romans a slave to someone else.

  Here in Rome the whim of the crowd often determined if a man lived or died, unlike in the provinces where it was the editor who decided. He knew that the editor’s power in Rome was in title only, and that the mob of the populace ruled the arena sands. While not handsome or charming, Asur was a good gladiator, and fought with skill and honor. For this he may not have the love of the crowd, but in his time fighting the golems for House Laeca he had earned their respect.

  In the few months since being purchased by Lanista Laeca, Asur had fought four times in the arena against the golems, sometimes in matched pairs, once in a mass battle against a vast horde. Though Asur knew he was meant to fight a duel with another living gladiator, who was to know what additional horror awaited him today, dreamt by the ever-increasingly cruel imagination of Lanista Laeca. He bowed his head, and sent a whispered prayer to the gods of his fathers, as the gates of the arena creaked open.

  The Thracian stepped out into the arena to be greeted with cheers and applause, many in the crowd chanting his name. On the other side of the arena stood the gladiator Prax, also of Ludus Lacea, who fought in the dimacheri style, a razor sharp gladius in each hand. The two gladiators walked towards the center of the arena, each basking in the applause of the crowd, Asur noticing that an equal number of voices chanted the name of Prax as they did Asur, such was the reputation of the dimacherus. While neither were champions, they had been awarded the secundus bout, and both had gained position. House Laeca was certainly on the rise, on the backs of gladiators and golems as much as the wit and savvy of Lanista Laeca.