by Nick Morris
Despite Neo’s frustration regarding Han’s secrets, he would continue to buy the treatments while they were available. If his eastern gods willed it, Han would hopefully endure another hundred years.
Easing back in his chair, Neo mulled over the itinerary of treatments that awaited him back at the ludus. He would need to inspect the usual collection of sprains and muscle tears, common after the day’s practice.
Belua had been vigorously training the men in preparation for the approaching munera. As usual, the men would be in peak condition. But, there would be only light training for the next three days, in order to avoid any last minute injuries and to allow any bruises and strains time to adequately heal.
Yes, thought Neo, I’ll need to redress the gash in Felix the Gaul’s head. The skull had been exposed, and Neo was keen to prevent any infection from seeping into the bone itself. Failure to do so would result in death. Felix was yet another training casualty struck down by the pugnacious Caetes. Neo had complained often enough to Belua that the German created more work for him than the rest of the troupe put together. He’d had the opportunely to raise this matter again with Belua the previous day, shortly after he had sewn Felix’s head back together. Belua had shrugged, acknowledging his complaint, before telling Neo that Felix’s defence had always been weak.
Belua had little sympathy for Gauls.
Neo envisioned the stubborn trainer: a bull in the flesh and by nature, with his blunt honesty, iron discipline and uncompromising training methods. But, the physician knew that there were worst men to work with than Belua. They had worked tolerably well together over the years, and an unspoken mutual respect had grown between them.
Neo always liked to be busy, and Caetes’ handiwork ensured that he was. And, he was aware that the German was the tiro the other men most talked about with his first match approaching. He acknowledged that Caetes was undoubtedly an impressive physical specimen, but, he perceived that there was more to Caetes than simply his brawn, something which set him aside from the other men. He was smart, being constantly eager to learn new things, whether it was a new fighting skill or a method to treat a wrenched limb or troublesome wound.
Neo recalled the occasions when he’d had to treat Caetes. Their dialogue had always been brief. He smiled to himself, thinking, not surprising, bearing in mind our dispositions. Despite this, the German’s queries and comments had always been thoughtful and pragmatic.
There’d been an occasion when Neo had been preparing to stitch a small wound the German had acquired, and he’d observed Caetes looking at some of his anatomy scrolls with their written directions. There was no mistaking the look on Caetes’ face – the longing to understand the drawings and to be able to read the squiggly markings. Caetes possessed a hunger to learn about everything that was useful. Neo believed such men were rare, having the potential to make great leaders, as well as very dangerous foes.
The feeling in the ludus was that Caetes had the makings of a champion, and for long moments Neo pondered on how Caetes would fare in the coming munera? Neo had seen other gladiators with great potential fall at their first hurdle – when faced with stealing the life of another. Also, the champions Neo had ministered to, had all said that their first battle on the sand had been the hardest.
Didius’s arrival with his drink jolted the physician’s thoughts back to the present. Goat’s milk with a generous helping of ice. Neo took a sip, savouring its anticipated coolness.
He raised his cup, silently toasting the air, May your German gods be with you, Caetes.
* * *
Chapter XIV
THE SWORD DRAWN
“Now he is travelling that
dark road to the place they say no one
has ever returned.”
Catullus
The tunnel’s gloom fell behind as Guntram emerged into the searing heat of the sun and the crowd’s swelling applause.
The greeting burst upon him in a solid wave of sound, raucous against the clash of symbols and strident crowing of trumpets. As he strode towards the centre of the arena, the excitement, like the flame in summer grass, swept across the packed tiers of Pompeii’s amphitheatre. A shiver ran through him.
Viewing the surrounding tumult through the grid of his visor, he saw the faces flushed red with wine and emotion, the mouths agape, shouting his name, the fervour building towards a release as his match was about to start.
As instructed by Belua, he raised his sword arm aloft in acknowledgement to the twenty thousand throbbing voices. The cheering grew louder and he gripped his sword tighter, trying to stop his hand from shaking.
All around him the air reeked of coppery blood and opened bowels. Scanning the arena, he spotted attendants dancing amongst the crowd, sprinkling perfumed water in an attempt to quell the stench. He felt the sand’s grip beneath his bare feet, the raked surface a brief distraction from the hot sun on his chest and shoulders, and the sick feeling in his guts.
Small rivulets of sweat seeped through his scalp, and his face, already filmed with sweat, prickled from the heat inside his helmet. He was aware that his helmet, despite providing good protection, would restrict his breathing if the fight was drawn out, and he was determined to end it quickly.
Guntram was one of three matched pairs to fight. His opponent was tall, massive in the shoulders and thick at the waist. Guntram noted that he had unusually long arms, chorded with thick muscle. A conical helmet with visor covered his head, and he was armed with a large, two handed sword – a sword forged to cleave a man in two. Guntram’s mouth felt very dry, with him realizing that it would be match to the death.
Trumpets blared, signalling the combatants to approach the editor’s podium.
Guntram raised his sword, acting out the expected tribute to the editor and the honour of performing before him. In turn, the editor stood, and elevating his hand in casual recognition, exclaimed, “For your honour and the glory of Rome.”
Guntram was eager for the match to commence, but could not help to be awed by the sight of the towering podium. Set high above the arena floor, it was protected a strong metal net that was topped by a row of huge, white animal tusks. Ellios had spoken of these things, telling him that they belonged to great beasts that that were transported from the dark nations far to the south. Guntram realized that the editor and his fellow nobles would be protected from harm by this barrier, all the while enjoying an unhindered view of the fighting.
The clamour in the arena briefly fell, the packed audience lulled into relative silence, anticipating of the start of the contest.
Guntram and his fellow gladiators moved apart, establishing their starting positions. The nearby games’ referee gestured with his match cane for his attendants to move away from the combatants and for the match to begin. Guntram saw that the attendants were armed with the customary hot irons. Come near me with those and I’ll take your fucking arm off, he cursed inwardly.
Facing his opponent, Guntram shifted the weight of his heavy shield to his front. He gripped his gladius tightly, his hand wet with the sweat of fear.
Wasting no time, Guntram bore straight into his adversary, driving a barrage of stabs against his chest and abdomen. Taken by surprise the swordsman hastily blocked the attacks, before countering with big sweeping strokes of his own. Guntram easily evaded them, thinking, he’s big, but slow.
His confidence growing, Guntram attacked again, searching for openings in the swordsman’s defence. His blade licked out; slicing open the swordsman’s left bicep. Blood spurted. Useless, the arm dropped to his side. The swordsman now wielded the heavy blade one handed.
Through his visor Guntram could see that sections of the crowd were on their feet, screaming their appreciation at the sight of fresh blood. He switched his focus back to the wounded swordsman.
He’s beaten, thought Guntram, his sense of relief soured by the baying of the crowd and the knowledge of what he must do next. But, I will make his end quick, merciful. Feinting to the swo
rdsman’s right side, Guntram then struck at his opposite flank where he’d be unable to wield his sword one handed to protect himself.
Guntram was wrong.
In an amazing feat of strength, the swordsman parried the attack before heaving his sword up and against the side of Guntram’s helmet.
Hot pain coursed through Guntram’s head and neck. The force of the blow had knocked his visor to the side, blinding him. Tiwaz, please don’t let me die now, not like this, he prayed. I must live to find my dear ones.
He struck out wildly in his darkness, expecting the death blow to come at any moment. Then he felt his blade make contact. It was accompanied by a startled cry of pain.
Guntram jumped backwards, wrenching off his split helmet.
The swordsman was down, a gaping cut opened up at the side of his neck. Guntram watched his life slip way with each pulse of blood from the wound. He’s not long for this life, he gauged. Gods, I was Lucky.
Guntram swayed unsteadily. His head throbbed with pain, testament to the force of the swordsman’s blow. All about him the crowd chanted, “Finish him!” Fucking Roman dogs, he thought. They want more blood.
He let his sword drop from his fingers.
The crowd responded with foul curses and boos.
Guntram looked down at the swordsman. His lips were forming words, but too quiet for Guntram to understand. He bent closer. The swordsman’s final words jolted him back on his heels. Regaining his balance, he stumbled away from his victim.
Looking around, Guntram spotted then followed what he guessed were the other two victors. He touched the side of his head and winced. The flesh was swollen and his fingers came away sticky with blood. He staggered on, towards the dark smudge of the tunnel entrance. Stones, pieces of bread and excrement rained all around him, tokens of the mob’s displeasure. He gazed into the crowd above the tunnel entrance, sneering out the reproach, “Crawl back to your rat’ holes, Roman filth!”
Then, amongst the other slaves he saw her, a momentary glimpse. Chayna was standing, looking down at him. The look of anguish on her face could not have been deeper.
He tilted forwards into the tunnel, Belua’s arm wrapping around his waist, holding him up.
Through the raw pain in his head he remembered another day and the disappointed look in Chayna’s eyes when Ellios had called him a killer. Will she ever speak to me again? he questioned anxiously.
As the last of his strength left his legs, his thoughts turned the swordsman and his words of thanks. Words spoken in German.
* * *
Chapter XV
FISTS OF STONE
“To sup with a devil
you must first enter hell.”
Dalmatian saying
“Adrift in paradise I see,” Prudes ventured, entering the refectory.
Belua craned his neck as he pushed his empty plate to one side, still preoccupied with events long gone.
Prudes poured himself a cup of wine from the amphora sat on the table. “Or reliving old battles again?” he asked, slumping into a chair opposite.
“The ones that still hurt,” Belua replied, rubbing a scar above his eye.
Prudes nodded his head in agreement, smiling. He took a sip of wine, then reflected, “Talking of battles, the German’s won seven matches in six months. A shaky start, but still an impressive record.”
“He’s not faced anyone of quality, yet.”
“Come on!” Prudes exclaimed. “The Syrian was good, with four kills under his belt.”
“Horseshit,” said Belua. “We’ll see his true worth when his life’s in the balance. The others, apart from that big German he fought...What was his name?”
“Milus, the swordsman.”
“Milus, yes,” Belua smiled a little, remembering the how Caetes had almost lost his head to his fellow German. “The others he finished too quickly. He needs to entertain the crowd more, before he kills.”
“Can he win the rudis?” Prudes asked bluntly.
“You know it takes more than just strength and speed.” There was a firm edge to Belua’s voice.
“I know,” said Prudes, who was quiet for moment before asking, “Is the Circus as magnificent as they say?”
“It is,” Belau replied, aware that Prudes was humouring him. Pensive, he pictured the Circus: Patrobius, Nasica, and the blood and pain. It seemed like only yesterday. He poured himself another drink, and the years rolled back.
As Belua the Fist he terrorized opponents throughout the Dalmatia for three brutal years. His growing fame and continued success inevitably drew him closer to the Roman heartland, and finally, to the mother city itself. His day in the Great Circus in Rome was fixed in his mind. He shivered as he recalled leaving the ludus’ enclosure for the city before dawn, each member of the troupe wrapped in their woollen cloaks to ward off the early chill.
They travelled by way of the Milvan Bridge, skirting the Field of Mars where the Republican armies traditionally gathered for war, watched by vacant statues of by-gone heroes, their shapes eerie in the mist. Their route then dipped towards the darkened streets of the valley floor, with ramshackle tenement blocks cutting off light and air, until they came to the spot that Belua loved best. The road curled around the brow of a steep rise, the view opening up before him; revealing a shocking expanse of white marble – the heart of the city itself. It lasted no more than a few heartbeats, and then a wall of tenements rose up to hide it, the moment passing like the flash of lightening in the night. It was always breath-taking.
The troupe trudged on, the sound of their sandaled feet seeming loud on the roads of the sleeping city. They followed the Flaminian Way until they reached the prison building; dark, gaunt, near the Quirinal Hill, before diverting into the shadow of the magnificent Circus Maximus itself.
They entered the Circus via one of many rear gates – one that was regularly used to admit the wild beasts on route to their waiting cages. Once within the Circus walls their shackles were removed. He remembered the faces of the waiting novices: pale, with dark shadows under their eyes. Some paced continuously, dread preventing them from sitting and conserving their energy. A few cried, convinced that death awaited them, and others just sat in mute shock, like sheep for the slaughter. The waiting was always hard.
Before a fight he always ate a bowl of boiled barley and millet which he consumed slowly, barely tasting it. Most sat trance-like, picking at their food, while some gulped it down in great swallows before heaving it back onto the floor. They would learn...if they lived.
The hours passed and the cheers of the crowd grew louder, until, like the sound of surf in a storm, the volume of noise told him that his time had come. The time of the pugiles.
He clenched his fists, glancing down at his gloves. They were brutal tools, comprising of a leather knuckle-duster worn over the lower joints of the fingers of both hands, leaving the thumbs and finger tips exposed as well as the palms. The glove covered most of the lower arm and was held in place by a wrapping of leather that gave it stability. Brass spikes added to the knuckles converted it into a vicious weapon.
He felt the weight of a hand on his arm. It was Patrobius, his trainer, a veteran whose reputation was a legend in the city. His advice that day stuck in his mind, like the brand of an iron.
“The mob’s blood boils hot and the talk is that the Emperor has a new concubine...a Spanish girl of rare beauty.” Patrobius brandished a hard smile. “There are few things that still get the old man stiff, and I’ve heard it on good authority that he’s in a generous mood.”
The trainer moved to stand directly in front of him, gripping his shoulder tightly as he spoke, “The crowd is restless and needs something special Belua. Now is your time!”
“The Greek won’t last long, I promise you,” he reassured the trainer.
“I don’t doubt it,” Patrobius agreed, “but, it won’t be enough.”
“Can I do more than win?”
“Have you nothing but porridge between your ears?�
�� the trainer growled, spittle flecking his lips. “Is that broken nose of yours so flat that you can’t see the chance you have?”
He frowned darkly, not understanding what Patrobius was getting at.
“You must crush the Greek! Then you must beat the other two victors!” The trainer urged passionately. “The yellow-skinned Nasica will be one of them. Have you enough steel in your guts for this?”
Belua was familiar with Nasica’s fearsome reputation. A champion that hailed from a land beyond the great inland sea that fringed Rome’s eastern borders, Nasica was undefeated in eighteen contests; killing all but three of his opponents. The crippled survivors now begged for a living. Taken aback, he hesitated before asking, “Can it be done?”
“Wrong question!” Patrobius shouted, his face livid. “You must ask yourself, ‘Who can stand before me today?’ And your answer must be, ‘No one! Not today!’”
Belua nodded in recognition.
Trumpets sounded.
When they died, Belua touched his fist to his trainer’s, then entering the short passageway that led to arena, he joined the other pugiles. Forming up into two columns they marched out into the Circus.
*
Ragged pieces of flesh hung from Belua’s face. The metal tang of blood filled his swollen mouth and he thought he would vomit. Barely able to see he struggled to remain standing. Straightening his back, he swallowed down his gorge.
He’d taken the Greek in the throat with his second blow, who’d gone down choking and coughing blood. The Gaul, his second victim, was disposed of almost as quickly. Finally there was Nasica. The champion with the black pebble eyes and skin the colour of honey lay at his feet, neck broken.
Patrobius’s voice drifted to him, as though through water. “Belua! Get to the podium, you ugly bastard. The Emperor is standing. Walk you bastard! Walk!”