by Nick Morris
On that day, the Man-God Caesar Augustus, gifted him the rudis and his freedom.
Afterwards, the surgeon who tended his injuries jibed that his stitched face comprised of more thread than flesh, as well as later commenting on his exceptional ability to mend.
He often reflected on the yellow man’s prowess, and remembered with a grin how he and Patrobius drank the taverns dry along the Tiber that night, and the following day, and night. No wonder he was unable to feel the throbbing in his face until two days later!
His fame spread quicker than a rat in a latrine, and there was no shortage of women willing to spread their legs to accommodate ol’ Belua – the new ‘Champion of the City’. The memory was a little fogged, but he remembered that every thrill seeking noblewoman and honey-tongued whore made sure that they doused their lamps, rather than look up at his face.
“He’s still cracking heads in training.”
Belua blinked hard, as if woken from sleep, his nostalgia broken by Prudes’ remark.
“What?”
“I said the German is keeping Neo busy and Dertosa sharp.”
Belua climbed back to the present. “Neo gets paid to be busy and Dertosa can look after himself, although I wish someone would buy the bastard some wit. Never smiles, doesn’t drink wine, never talks about women...strange. But, he does his job well and that’s what matters.”
“It’s the men’s whingeing after they’ve trained with Caetes that irks me,” Prudes complained, then joking, “but, I’m sure things were different in your day, old man.”
“What doesn’t break them will only make them stronger. And you’re right, when I was younger...” The old, aching sadness swept over him. He knew that Prudes had seen the look before; when they’d both been deep in their cups, when talk drifted to friends and loved ones. He coughed, trying to clear his throat.
“Do you still think of your wife and child after all these years?” Prudes asked.
He stared into his cup, answering softly, “Some days their voices come unexpected to me. At quiet times. It’s always their voices I recall so clearly, although their faces have grown dim with time.”
“Do you think you’ll see them again, in the next life?” Prudes asked, leaning forward.
There was a fire in his eyes, and when Belua spoke his voice was thick with emotion. “Prudes, on the day I cross the Styx, I will call their names. And, when they answer...neither man nor god will come between us.”
* * *
Chapter XVI
REWARDS
“He has committed the crime who profits by it.”
Seneca
Even empty it’s magnificent, thought Servannus.
He shaded his eyes as he watched the slaves high above balancing on the awning’s wooden beams. Shuffling back and forth, they carried out repairs to the giant sun-screen and its holding lines. At the same time attendants scattered fresh sand across the arena floor, beneath which lay a warren of tunnels, cells and staging areas.
Servannus pictured his first visit to the bowels of Capua’s arena long ago: pitch torches throwing splotches of light on the heavy platforms, ramps and pulleys that were used to raise gladiators and beasts to the surface. He recalled the old-new smell of blood, and how it stirred his loins even then.
Four storeys high, the amphitheatre’s splendour was only outdone by Rome’s Circus, and seated in the editor’s podium Servannus felt very much at home.
“I’m glad you’ve reconsidered my offer,” Servannus began, dropping a weighty bag of gold coins on the table in front of the procurator, “and, I’m sure it bodes well for future business.”
“I hope it does,” Agorix hefted the gold in one hand, “but, I still believe our man will make swift work of the German.” Shrewd eyes narrowed in the dark, lean face. “I almost regret taking your money.”
“I doubt it’ll keep you awake at night.” Smiling, Servannus took a sip from his wine cup, feeling satisfied.
“But, why take such a risk with the German?” Agorix asked, rubbing his chin. “He’s done well, but against our champion who is unrivalled in Campania...he has no chance.”
“I have my reasons,” Servannus replied, smile fading.
“No doubt, but-”
“The reasons are my affair.” Servannus’s tone was knife sharp and Agorix shifted back in his seat. “I recall you telling me once about your plan to buy your own villa in Stabiae when you retire.” Servannus took sip from his cup. “Is it still?”
“Y...yes,” sounding nervous, Agorix forced out the words, “it’s always been my dream.”
“Good, all men should have dreams. And let’s hope that nothing, such as say . . . prying, gets in the way of your dream shall we?” Servannus’s stare was unwavering.
Visibly blanched, Agorix shifted his gaze to the workers overhead.
Studying the procurator’s face, a slight smile pulled at the corners of Servannus’s mouth.
*
A chorus of whistles and coarse jibes accompanied the allocation of females to the gladiator’s cells.
Guntram looked up from kneading an aching leg’ muscle when his door opened. Belua led the woman in.
“Her name is Tullia.” The introduction was made with the trainer’s usual candour. “Use her as you will, but remember: no blood or broken bones, or you’ll answer to me.” He paused at the door. “Continue to win and there will be others.”
Guntram stood, silently studying the woman. She had dark hair with strong limbs, her full breasts clearly outlined beneath the coarse woollen fabric of her dress. There were purple smudges beneath her eyes and she looked tired, worn. He guessed that she was in her early twenties, maybe younger. She carried a small candle lamp and flask of wine. She placed the lamp by the side of his flimsy mattress and then offered him the wine. He saw that her hand trembled. Without ceremony he swung the flagon to his lips, taking a long swallow before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The fluid tasted bitter and vaguely fruity, giving him a warm and not unpleasant feeling in his belly. Encouraged, he took another swallow, then another.
The woman stepped towards him, and he could smell her breath; sweet, like honey. Her looks were pleasing, small teeth peeking out from lips shadowed beneath a slender hooked nose.
Guntram turned away, then held the flagon out behind him, gesturing for her to drink.
“Thank you, no.” Her voice had an anxious edge. “Am I so ugly that you must look away?”
He didn’t answer.
“If our masters think you’re not pleased with me, I will be punished,” she added. “Do you understand?”
He turned back to face her. “How will you be punished?” his voice was a whisper.
“I will be given to five, six, maybe more gladiators in one night. A guard will be ordered to watch, to make sure that I perform well.”
Guntrum’s stomach rolled, disgusted. What vile creatures these Romans are, to abuse their women in such a way, he thought, his anger rising.
The woman moved nearer, and smiled. Guntram saw it for what it was; a practiced gesture that didn’t touch her eyes.
“I am willing Caetes,” she said, pressing closer. “I just ask that you take care with me. I was given to a Nubian before, and he hurt me so badly that I needed the work of a physician. He was a pig!” Her tongue wiped her lips, leaving them glistening, and her hand moved to his chest. “But, you are not like him.”
“Woman, you know nothing about me, or what I might do.”
“I feel that you can be as terrible as your name and reputation, but also that you’re not the kind of man who would hurt a woman for no reason.”
His hands went to her shoulders, holding her away.
“I’ll not perform like some beast in the arena on Roman order.” He saw the edgy fear return to her eyes. “But, don’t worry, it will be our secret. I will tell our masters that you performed very well.”
“Thank you,” the woman replied. She breathed a weary sigh, her gaze dropping to
the floor.
“You can have the mattress, and I’ll sleep here,” Guntram pointed to the floor.
The woman nodded her gratitude.
After draining the last of the wine, he blew out the lamp, and then sat with his back against the cell wall. As he listened to the quiet rhythm of the woman’s breathing, he still had the horrible feeling of sickness in him. Fucking Roman dogs! To him it was important how he treated all women, not just those dear to him; like his mother, his sister, Chayna and Jenell.
Beautiful Jenell, he pictured her, recalling the first time he’d stolen a kiss, and how she had smiled when he had stroked her hair. He remembered the warmth of her against him in the long winter nights as they listened to the old stories of dragons, demons and how the gods and giants would fight in the afterlife.
He had never questioned Jenell’s love for him, and did not question it now. Yet, when he’d met Chayna, something inside him had sparked to life; a new feeling that he had never experienced before. The longing he felt for her didn’t even come to him as words, just as a kind of hunger, a dull pain in his belly. It had set something in motion, like the cry that starts a landslide. And alongside the hunger was the fear.
A fear that Chayna was repulsed by what she’s seen, by the killer he’d become.
Chayna, Jenell, the names clanged in his brain, reminders of his duty and the weight of his responsibility. He struggled to swallow the bolus in his throat. Lifting his hand to cover his eyes, all the emotions he’d been holding in flooded over him: anger, worry, doubt.
Suddenly he felt very cold.
* * *
Chapter XVII
THE CAPUAN
“Fortune favours the bold.”
Virgil
Guntram’s eyes had adjusted to the startling brightness of the arena.
Around him the terraces were packed. The day was baking hot, with the curdling blood’ pools sending up a terrible stench into the assembled crowd. Attendants had erected braziers burning incense in the stands, and strategically positioned fountains sprayed saffron and rose scented water over the sweating throng, but Guntram knew it would do little to detract from the arena’s all-pervading heat.
A rapturous, trumpeted fanfare signalled his match to commence.
Prior, the Capuan, balancing his net in his left hand, quickly moved to align the sun at his back, its glare intruding into Guntram’s face. Familiar with this ploy, Guntram moved decisively forward at an angle to nullify any advantage.
He watched as the Capuan began to whirl his net halo-like above his head in preparation for casting, the three metre net designed to ensnare, trip and whip. Edged with lead weights, Guntram knew that the net, if lashed with sufficient power, could easily blind an opponent. Rope was threaded around its edge, the ends of which were tied to the net-man’s wrist, and if the net was thrown without success, it could be jerked back to hand. Prior also carried a small dagger, which he would use to cut himself free if his net was captured. Equipped for speed, his only protection was a leather sleeve worn on the left arm and a bronze shoulder plate that guarded the exposed left side of his head. His main weapon, the trident, now targeted Guntram.
Guntram flexed his grip on his gladius.
Prior’s net was in constant motion, splinters of light flashing from the vicious barbs and gilded lead weights that edged the mesh. Drawing nearer, he cooed a traditional taunt, “I do not hunt you, I seek a fish. German, why do you swim away?”
Ignoring the words, Guntram focused his attention on the central area above Prior’s bare breast-bone as he danced forwards, aware that movement here would pre-empt any attack.
The net whirled faster, making a whipping noise as it cut through the air.
Guntram shuffled forwards, his shield held close to protect the bulk of his body. He was careful not to expose his upper left arm and shoulder as targets for the trident’s probing bite. His gladius was pointed forwards, partly hidden by the cover of the shield.
Dispensing with the usual feinting tactic, Prior surged forward, thrusting his trident directly at Guntram’s visor. Guntram instinctively raised his shield, deflecting the attack upwards over his left shoulder, at the same time feeling the sharp sting of Prior’s net as it wrapped around his front leg – a clever tactic accompanying the trident strike. Prior attacked again, the trident’s tines passing within a whisker of Guntram’s’ throat before being batted aside.
Guntram felt the Capuan jerk his net violently backwards, the aim to topple him to the ground where he’d be skewered like a fish.
Within a heart-beat Prior’s head was jolted backwards, his teeth crunching together as Guntram’s shield rammed onto his face.
Not attempting to retract his leg, Guntram burgeoned forwards into the stunned Prior. His sword darted out, spearing into Prior’s bare middle, slicing easily through firm flesh. The blade entered the covering band of muscle on Prior’s side, grating along ribs before retracting from the wound as Prior desperately torqued himself backwards. Blood spouted from the crimson-lipped mouth, painting Prior’s loincloth red. He quickly retreated.
Guntram’s experienced eye told him that his opponent’s wound was not fatal. The exchange had also proven that the rumours about Prior’s strength and speed were true.
Spurred on by his success, Guntram drove forwards, whipping his blade in a vicious arc aimed that targeted the side of the net-man’s head. The full weight of Guntram’s arm and shoulder drove the blow.
The protective lip of Prior’s shoulder-guard blocked the strike. Despite being checked, Guntram’s blade bit deep, chopping away a section of the guard together with a chunk of Prior’s ear. Gasping in pain, Prior frantically backed away.
The sight of fresh blood and the scampering net-man, stirred the crowd on. Shouts of laughter and derision for the victim were accompanied by shrieks of encouragement for the hunter who now pursued him. Slippery patches of gore, left by earlier combats posed a constant danger to both men as they crossed the arena.
Guntram saw that Prior was weakening, but he also knew that the Capuan was now at his most dangerous. Old lessons came to him. Get in close and finish it, flashed into his consciousness.
With barely three paces between them, Guntram edged Prior backwards to the arena wall. The response was a desperate net-cast. The net briefly enveloped Guntram’s head, the lead weights stinging his shoulders, before his reflexes carried him down and under. He’d narrowly escaped fatal entanglement.
Trident held spear-like in both hands, Prior drove a vicious thrust over Guntram’s shield. Pain erupted in his chest as the tines struck home. He instinctively dropped his shield, his left hand darting forward to seize the trident shaft, briefly preventing deeper penetration or withdrawal for a second thrust. Guntram’s muscles made a tearing noise as Prior wrenched the trident backwards, attempting to free it.
Grunting with the effort, Guntram chopped downwards, his blade cutting through the trident shaft and the fingers of Prior’s hand. Four bloody fountains erupted from the severed stumps as Prior released his grip on the trident, clutching the ruined hand to him.
Without pause, Guntram plunged his sword into Prior’s belly, powerful legs adding strength to the blow. The razor point cut through flesh and sinew, before exiting, a bloody spike from Prior’s lower back. Guntram twisted then retracted the blade, its full length splashed red.
Prior dropped sack-like to his knees. Transfixed, he watched his innards slop from the gaping hole in his gut.
Guntram took a step backwards, thinking, stay down fool. But Prior staggered upwards, both hands fumbling at the greasy coils that slipped between his fingers to dangle at his feet.
Turning to face the editor’s podium, Guntram knew there was one final act to perform.
With the crowd’s cry of “Death! Death!” echoing in his ears, the editor rose to his feet. His thumb extending outwards from a clenched fist, he performed a cutting motion towards his throat.
Guntram stepped forwards. He clamped hi
s hand firmly on Prior’s shoulder, before pushing him to his knees.
“Draw your head back and I’ll make it quick,” Guntram stated hoarsely.
Prior looked up at him. His eyes are like glass, thought Guntram, as if he stares into some bottomless pit.
Prior clasped Guntram’s leg to steady himself, then tilted his head backwards, neck fully exposed, his eyes now closed to the overhead sun.
Swiftly reversing the grip on his sword, Guntram plunged its tip dagger-like into the spot above Prior’s collar bone. Using his full weight, he drove it downwards to rupture the heart in one stroke. Prior slumped forward onto the sand.
Attendants moved in quickly, dragging away the body.
Arms aloft, Guntram commenced his parade of the arena. Strident chants of “Caetes! Caetes!” rang out, and he sucked in the adulation in great gulps. Garlands and coins of silver and bronze rained into the arena, the crowd rewarding their champion. Scurrying attendants collected the tribute on glinting, silver trays.
As was his custom, Guntram pulled the stifling helmet from his head. He fingered back damp hair from his brow, and unfastened the leather tie that gathered his mane. Droplets of sweat patterned the sand as he vigorously shook his head, his hair tumbling loosely across his shoulders. He lifted his sword high, the sun flashing along its edge. The crowd responded, screaming his name even louder, the sound seeming to crack the very air of the arena.
All eyes focused on him as he completed his ritual lap below the editor’s podium. He felt light-headed, a familiar experience after a kill. His hands trembled now that it was done, and the old scar on his face tingled hotly.
The editor stood, arm raised for silence.
“Victory once more!” The editor’s voice resonated down to him. Then, with arms spread to the crowd. “Is there anyone in all of this land who can challenge our champion?”