by Nick Morris
Elsewhere in the arena, the attendants went about their grisly work, wielding heavy wooden mallets which they used to crack the skulls of downed combatants. Their corpses, like ripped wineskins, were quickly dragged from the arena; long, bloody smears trailing in their wake. The spattered surface was then hurriedly raked over and fresh sand applied, ready for the next spectacle.
Much of the talk in the ludus centred around the games and the killing, but to see it like this made Guntram’s skin crawl with revulsion. He hardly felt Ellios dig him in his side.
“The hunt is next,” said Ellios.
“Explain.”
“It’s the time of the venators, the beast killers,” explained the Spaniard. “They are not ranked as highly as gladiators, despite being recruited in the same way. They are taught their skills separately and in their own schools, and the crowd loves them.”
“Why?”
“Because the bloodletting is great, of both hunter and hunted.”
“Hah! They call me barbarian,” Guntram sneered, “yet they howl like wild animals as blind men hack each other apart. Where is the test of courage in all this butchery?”
“The mob needs reminding that they’ve conquered an empire my friend,” Ellios answered quietly, his olive complexion pale. “These games are a reminder of the power Rome has over its conquered subjects, and, as we shall see, over the great beasts too.”
“So, how do you know so much about these games?” asked Guntram.
Ellios seemed to look ahead at another place. “I was just a boy when my father first took me to the arena,” he began. “He told me that his Roman friends expected him to attend, and that it was good for business and only right for his son and heir to attend too. I still remember that first day...and losing my breakfast. There were more visits after, until I was old enough to be somewhere else.”
Ellios turned to look at Guntram. “My friend, Caesar knows how to keep his subjects happy, and these games take place throughout his empire.”
“Caesar is an old man who rules from far away,” Guntram replied.
Guntram had learned something about Caesar and how he governed; from Ellios and other gladiators he’d listened to during breaks in training, as well as from the Romans themselves and their slaves gossiping at the baths. He’d learned that Caesar had been honoured by his people him with a special name: Augustus, meaning ‘The Great One’, and that at seventy, he’d ruled for nearly forty years and had many victories. Victories won by the might of his twenty-eight legions of iron.
“Yes, he’s old and death whispers his name, but the empire is secure in his hands,” said Ellios. “And, as you know, Caesar looks now to the lands of Germania and to the east.”
Guntram scoffed, “A time will come when this great Empire and these games of death will fall apart, and Roman streets will run red with blood. Her enemies won’t forget, and there will be no mercy.”
“You’re dreaming. Rome is stubborn and will never surrender its hold on the empire. Its legions are invincible, and who can break Caesar’s iron grip?”
“It’s you that dreams Spaniard, but only of hot women,” Guntram challenged. “I know that Rome hasn’t been conquered, but she has been defeated.” His face brightened. “The Parthians in the east bloodied her, as well as my countrymen in the west. Rome is not unbeatable, and her arrogance will be her undoing.”
“Is it your hatred that speaks? Or do you truly believe this?” Ellios asked, his tone serious.
“Yes, I do. And, it’s my eyes and ears that tell me, not just the anger in my heart.”
“It would be the end of the world I’ve known.” Frowning, Ellios queried, “And what would take its place?”
“Your people have been too long without the taste of freedom, and like a caged bird have forgotten the joy of the open sky.” Feeling hung on Guntram’s every word. “Mark my words, Spaniard, that when this day comes-”
Before he could say any more, Ellios interrupted with a jerk of his head towards the arena, stating, “Tell me later, the hunt is about to begin!”
Barriers spanning two of the arena’s tunnels opened, spewing out and a host of animals onto the sand. These included fear-crazed deer and high springing antelopes as well as slavering hyenas, wolves, bears, wild boars and two enormous bulls. Into their midst ran a score of hunting dogs. Trained to aid the hunters, they were renowned for their bone crushing jaws and compact, muscular bodies. The hunters emerged on their heels, armed with bows and arrows and razor pointed boar spears.
A ruddy-coated hunting dog swiftly brought a young deer to ground, and immediately joined by two others, savagely ripped it apart. Nearby, a hunter drove his spear into the neck of a cornered wolf with such force, that he pinned the animal’s body to the arena floor. The crowd howled their appreciation of the hunter’s skills.
Guntram grimaced as he watched the carnage continue.
Further applause erupted as more hunters entered the arena to hasten the slaughter. Methodically, they went about their grisly work, and the arena floor was soon awash with blood, their feet kicking up goblets of moist sand as they raced to dispatch their scurrying prey. Everywhere laid the bodies of the massacred beasts, like islands in some strange, ochre sea.
Their work completed, the beast-men saluted the editor’s podium and crowd, before jogging from the arena. Several limped badly, and two of their number supported a gutted comrade whose innards, like slippery rope hung to his knees, the victim of a boar’s razor tusks.
Guntram scanned the arena as the carcasses were dragged away and the stained sand raked over. Jugglers and acrobats returned. “Such a waste,” he stated, his anger smouldering. “To slaughter these animals when there’s no need, no reason, is...”
Ellios nodded in agreement, before pointing out, “It’s the mid-day break. Watch how those greasy, noble bastards rush to stuff themselves.” He scowled, adding, “They believe the mid-day entertainment is beneath them.”
“What entertainment?” Guntram asked tightly.
“It’s the time of the noxii, when Pompeii’s criminals are punished.”
As Guntram listened, attendants moved amongst the crowd, some sprinkling perfumed water to disguise the smell of sun-cooked gore, others handing out small loaves from broad wicker baskets. When approached, Guntram’s fierce look conveyed his distaste at being offered food during such a wanton display of killing. The attendant quickly moved on.
Ellios enlightened him that elsewhere in the arena, spectators now took a mid-day break, some to use the urinals, others to get food and refreshments from the nearby palaestra. Many would bring snacks and drinks and remain in their seats throughout the day, afraid of losing their places or of missing the public executions.
Below, eight males and two female criminals were clubbed into the centre of the arena where they were chained to stakes driven deep into the arena floor. Their naked bodies were then coated with a thick glaze of animal fat.
A dozen hyenas scampered from openings in the arena wall, looking looked gaunt, starved. They immediately picked up the fat’ scent, racing directly towards the convicted who now recognised the large canines, with their distinctive loppity stride and powerful jaws.
The screaming began. Teeth ripped at bare flesh, tearing away great strips. The screams changed to gasps of pain and screeching pleas for leniency, and then to merciful silence. Soon, all that remained were tattered lengths of bloodied bone. The hyenas, engorged on human flesh, snickered as they dragged their bloated bellies across the arena floor.
Stunned, Guntram watched the executions in silence, his knuckles gleaming white as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Gorge soured the back of his throat and he looked away.
A handful of hunters re-emerged, briskly dispatching the bloated killers.
“I cannot watch this...” His face ashen, Guntram was unable to find the words. Standing up, he turned his back on the arena. Ellios jumped in his seat, startled by the sudden movement.
“Sit down!
” Ellios spoke sharply as those behind started to curse, their view of the arena obstructed. The commotion had also attracted Belua’s attention, who now pointed Caetes out to one of the ludus’ guards, who started towards him.
“Hurry!” Ellios warned, and then with more feeling. “Sit down you fool! Belua’s spotted you. If you don’t there’ll be a price to pay.”
Guntram glowered at the protesting mob.
Ellios gripped his forearm. “Listen! The feel of the rod on your back won’t help those poor devils.”
Guntram met his companion’s look and saw the beads of sweat on his face, the clearly etched concern. He sat down. When he looked back, he saw that Belua had dropped his arm and the guard was retracing his steps. He dropped his chin onto his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
“My friend,” Ellios said, sounding relieved, “I see that you’re determined to put grey hair on my head.”
“There’s only so much of this filth I can take,” Guntram said tightly, before lapsing into silence.
Then from nowhere, Chayna’s face slid into his mind. Perhaps it was the slaughter of the women. He saw her clearly: dark eyes shining with an inner fire that belied her size. Eyes that had held him in thrall from the first moment of their meeting. She lived in his dreams. Is she beaten? Does her master take his pleasure with her each night? The worries constantly dogged him.
Guilt twisted inside him as his thoughts turned to Jenell. He recalled their shared passion. Dared he believe that she and his brother still lived? He had no way of really knowing. Would he ever get a chance to question the Roman Servannus about their whereabouts? Unsure, he bit his lip.
“Now the gladiators fight!” Ellios exclaimed, scattering Guntram’s thoughts.
The crowd’s voice rang out as one, pounding across the great hollow of the amphitheatre, until it seemed that the very walls would crack and fall. Arena horns blew, bodies lurched against him from every side, and for several moments the very air strummed in the wake of the cheers. As the roaring subsided, it was possible to discern individual shouts and encouragements above the clamour.
He listened as Ellios explained that despite the popularity of the hunt and the noxii, the crowd regarded the afternoon’s gladiator contests as the highlight of the day’s entertainment.
“There!” Ellios pointed, “through the Gate of Life.” A parade of gladiators emerged to the accompaniment of loud trumpeting and wild applause.
“How are opponents matched?” Guntram asked.
“Lots are drawn, and then the betting starts.” Ellios pointed again. “See how the editor inspects their weapons. It’s to reassure the crowd that no blunted ones are used.”
Looking around at the crowd, Guntram hissed, “Gambling on the spilling of men’s blood!”
“They’re Pompeians,” Ellios said, shrugging. “Given the chance, they’d bet on two cockroaches racing across a shit-house floor.”
Following the weapons inspection, Guntram watched the editor depart. Ten matched pairs remained, comprising of net-men and the secutors who would pursue them. Guntram easily recognised the pursuers by their distinctive appearance. Their heads were protected by smooth conical helmets, fashioned with small eyeholes to protect the wearers against the needle-sharp attacks of the net-men’s tridents. All were equipped with a short sword and oval shield.
The editor waived a showy hand in the air and the combat commenced.
Guntram leaned forwards, eyes narrowed as he watched each attack, feint and counter; every detail that could make the difference between life and death for him.
“Spaniard, I recognise the way that swordsman moves.” Clasping Ellios’s arm, Guntram directed his attention to a specific gladiator. “Him?”
“That’s Telephus, who trains with our troupe,” Ellios answered, grinning. “He lodges in the city and has quite a following, notably amongst the young women.”
“Yes, I’ve watched the bragging peacock practice. I should have recognised him, because he struts as if there’s a rod up his arse.” The hint of a smile touched Guntram’s mouth. “But, he has some skill.”
The contests were scattered all over the arena, although Guntram focused his attention on Telephus’s battle with a retreating net-man, who had the look of a Nubian; his jet-black skin shinning and his head crowned by a mat of tight, woolly curls. Telephus was backing him against the amphitheatre wall with a succession of vigorous sword attacks. The finish came quickly in a flurry of blows, Telephus’s blade driving upwards under the net-man’s ribs, bursting the heart and tearing apart the lungs. Without a sound the net-man folded backwards onto the sand.
It wasn’t long before the remaining match played to a finish. A panting net-man stood over his opponent who was fatally wounded through the neck. Guntram surveyed the crowd: mouths screaming for blood, out-thrust thumbs cutting to throats, urging for death. Blood for votes, the editor granted their wish. The net-man tipped his head, acknowledging the command, and then drove his trident downwards, bringing quick death. An “Ahhh!” rumbled across the packed tiers.
Elsewhere on the sand the swordsmen from Ludus Gordeo had fared well, with the loss of only two contests. It was a costly day for the net-men.
After watching the victors depart, Guntram’s attention was drawn to the appearance of a pair of colourfully dressed figures. Scattering, they ran lightly to the bodies of the fallen.
Ellios pre-empted Guntram’s’ next question. “The one carrying the heated rod of twisted snakes is supposed to be Mercury, the Romans’ messenger god.”
Guntram watched as the figure tripped from body to body, touching the rod’s glowing tip to each, testing for life. Carried by a light wind from the sea, the reek of scorched flesh drifted up to him. He spat, trying to remove its taste.
Ellios pointed to the other, whose face was hidden under a great bird-like mask, a voluminous black cloak draped about his shoulders. “That one’s dressed as Charon, a creature of the Roman underworld.”
Carrying a stout wooden hammer the figure struck the temple of each body, claiming it for its own. The ritual completed, two lumbering farm horses were led into the arena, and with the deft use of ropes and sharp hooks through the heels, the dead were dragged away to disappear into the maw of the arena’s Gate of Death.
The day’s programme complete, the crowd began to rise from their seats, some already jostling towards the exits.
“The Roman dogs seem well pleased,” Guntram stated.
“It’s all many of them know,” Ellios offered.
“Horse-shit! They have a choice,” Guntram replied hotly, “as you did.”
The moment hung, and Ellios said no more.
As the troupe assembled at the nearby exit, Guntram realized that many of the crowd still lingered, and asked, “Why do they stay?”
“Watch,” Ellios told him.
A catapult–like machine appeared at the arena entrance, its basket filled with hundreds of small parcels. Seeing his friend’s puzzled expression, Ellios revealed, “Each of those parcels promises a gift from the editor; everything from a pig for the spit, to a slave girl to warm a man’s bed.”
The machine was wheeled out with an accompanying cheer. It proceeded to repeatedly shower its load onto those that remained.
As the guards cursed the group into motion, Guntram stared across the arena for a last time; at a frenzied scramble every bit as fierce as what had gone before.
* * *
Chapter XIII
PHYSICIAN
“In nothing do men more
nearly approach the gods than in giving
health to men.”
Cicero
Neo entered the tavern on the Via Del Nola, grateful to take shelter from the day’s sapping heat.
Despite the discomfort of traipsing the streets during the sweltering afternoon time, the physician preferred to endure the heat rather than battle his way through the bustling throng that was customary during the later, cooler hours. Neo had always avoided crowds
when the choice presented itself.
The tavern was empty, and the physician settled himself at his usual table. It was shaded from the sun and provided a good view of the street.
“Greetings, Neo,” ventured Didius, a stooped, wiry man, who ran the small but well recommended tavern.
“Greetings, Didius.”
“Returning from another shopping trip?” the owner queried, indicating the bulging canvas sack parked securely against the physician’s leg.
“Yes. I’ve acquired what I need.”
“Good to hear it. The usual?”
“If you will.”
“On its way,” the inn-keeper replied, moving to the back of the inn and the stairs leading to his cellar.
Deliberating, Neo acknowledged that the day had been a satisfactory one.
He’d made the trip to the shop of Julianus the iron-smith, where he’d ordered a number of items to specification a week previously. Discussion at Julianus’s shop had ranged from the professional to the trivial, touching on everything from the use of wound forceps and bone saws, to local political vagaries and the latest gossip about the Emperor’s increasing eccentricities.
After paying for his three gleaming surgical knives, he’d expressed his appreciation to the large, red-faced Julianus, and then quickly departed.
His next destination had been the Shop of Han.
Han had been barely visible in the dark recesses of the tiny shop. A small, wizened, monkey of a man, he’d only became visible as Neo’s eyes adjusted to the shop’s cavern light. It was rumoured that the old man had originally arrived as a boy with his parents, a lifetime ago, having travelled there on a spice ship from the east. Now, only Han remained, alone.
Neo had purchased two small jars of dark honey, which he used to treat those wounds that became infected. The local honey that he also utilised as a wound dressing was paler in colour, but it didn’t have the same healing qualities as the honey purchased from Han. All enquiries regarding the nature of the ingredients would simply be met with an indulgent, toothless grin. Neo had never pressed the old man; it was not his way.