The Rule of Knowledge

by Scott Baker

  I spent the next week in a cell about twenty feet square. It was a cell only in the sense of having one wall with iron bars, but otherwise, it was reasonably comfortable. There was a bed in one corner, a toilet with a cover in the other. The floor was stone covered with a large animal skin. At night, my injuries were tended. I was well fed and my strength returned.

  During the days, I was allowed out into a courtyard to exercise. I found myself going through a series of pre-rehearsed forms – movements I had no recollection of learning, but seemed as natural as breathing. I found myself flowing, spinning, kicking, striking and leaping into the air. Each sequence was automatic, like I had done it a thousand times, and whenever I did something new, Mishca’s words came back to me, ‘Surely you can work a lot of it out?’

  On the morning of the eighth day I was woken early.

  ‘Time to prove you were worth it,’ I heard a voice say. I looked up and saw the thickset, square-jawed centurion who had attacked the village. Marcus. He was flanked by four guards. I was taken to a carriage and I offered no resistance. Now was not the time.

  In the time each day that I was not exercising, I meditated, another automatic impulse. I learned nothing new about myself from the two-hour stints, but I was feeling a greater sense of identity, and I healed remarkably quickly. Again, I felt the nagging urge knowing there was something I was supposed to do, but I could not yet place it. As the guards led me away, I hoped that perhaps I was being led towards that destiny now.

  The carriage bumped along the road for more than an hour before it was pulled to a halt. I was led into an area that appeared to be in the poorer quarter of Rome. The buildings, while still fine works of stonemasonry, lacked the opulence of the houses I had seen around my cell. There was a small wooden door set into one of the houses, and two large men stood guard outside it. They parted at our approach and, without saying a word, opened the door.

  I was surprised to see a stairwell leading down, lit by flaming torches. Marcus led the six of us down, and it was then that I heard the men’s cheers.

  As we rounded the bottom of the stairwell, deep underground, I was struck by the sight of an enormous pit. It was maybe ten feet deep and thirty square, and surrounded by a ring of at least fifty men who were cheering eagerly at the contest in the centre. Two men were battling with short swords, sweat and blood coating their bodies.

  It was an amazing spectacle.

  I was led down between the crudely fashioned seats to the very edge of the pit, where I saw Tiberius, again wearing his purple toga. He cheered and jeered along with the rest of the spectators.

  ‘Ah, there you are! Sit, watch. You’ll be next.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Let me tell you a little history so you can understand what you’re watching,’ Tiberius continued. I was allowed a seat near him, but not within striking distance, I noticed.

  ‘You see, about two hundred and sixty years ago, as part of an aristocratic funeral ritual, the first gladiatorial contest was held.’ He spoke in a grandiose manner, clearly eager to educate and impress. ‘It was called a “munus” or funeral gift for the dead. Decimus Junius Brutus put on a gladiatorial combat in honour of his dead father, offering three pairs of slaves as gladiators. Since then, these contests have grown to replace … OOOOHHHH yes!’

  Tiberius paused to cheer for a mighty blow one man had struck the other, then continued to clap and watch the match as he spoke to me.

  ‘Ah, now, it was a replacement for human sacrifice for the tombs of great men. Personally, I think someone just liked the idea of watching men fight for their lives.’ I got the feeling that this was precisely the appeal for him as well.

  ‘There are very few among the aristocracy of Rome who know I am a lanista. My troupe is kept secret and I have others who act on my behalf in the public games, but I just cannot stay away from these private affairs. They’re a good way to test out my new stock.’

  I could feel the passion within him for this ‘sport’ – he was so addicted that he risked his own reputation to be involved.

  ‘You will face three opponents here today. If you survive, you will be taken to my ludus and trained. Oh, he’s not getting up, it’s over!’

  I turned to look into the pit. One of the fighters was face down, knocked senseless by his opponent’s repeated blows. He was out. It was over. The crowd began to chant, baying for blood, and the man standing obliged. He turned his short sword downwards in his hands, and I watched in horror as he plunged the blade deep into the fallen man’s back. It was that moment that made me realise that there was no real choice: I would have to kill today, or be killed. There was no way out.

  It took just ten minutes for the pit to be cleared; the crowd started to call for the next contest. Coins changed hands and I was led down to the edge of the pit.

  ‘Go!’ Marcus said savagely as he shoved me into the pit. Then, across from me, a tall, slim man climbed down the outer lip, hung for a moment, and dropped into the pit at the opposite end. He looked at me with hatred in his eyes. He was primed to fight. Two short swords were dropped into the sand beside each of us. There was no gong; the crowd’s yells and cheers gave all the indication needed to let us know the battle was on.

  I reached down and grabbed the sword and saw the other man do the same. I felt its weight and twirled it once in my wrist to check its balance. Then I moved. With a large circular motion I brought the blade up in front of me, then stepped forward quickly and completed the circle. Swinging at lightning speed, I let the blade go.

  My underhand pitch sent the sword, tip first, shooting across the pit. It covered the twenty or so feet in a split second and slid into the man’s sternum up to its hilt. The man took a stumbled step backwards, then dropped, not even having time to drop his own blade before his body hit the ground.

  The crowd was silenced, stunned. For several moments nothing could be heard in the underground chamber. Then someone called out their delight and started to clap. Another joined him. They started a chain reaction that had the whole place bellowing and cheering within moments. I turned towards my lanista, my master, and made to exit the pit. But the centurion Marcus stood above me.

  ‘You have two more men to kill today.’

  ‘Unless you move, you will be one of them.’

  He smiled. ‘I like you, but do not take my kindness as an indication that I would hesitate to cut you down if you cross me. My loyalty to Tiberius goes only so far.’ Our eyes met, and there was direct and unhidden challenge. Not now.

  ‘One day,’ I said as I turned back around to see another man approaching the pit. I glanced back over my shoulder to look at Marcus. ‘One day you will pay for the way you beat that boy.’

  ‘I beat boys every day,’ he returned. Then, pointing to the other end of the pit, he continued: ‘You need to save your strength.’

  In front of me a very different sort of man entered the pit. This man was huge. His face was split by a long scar that travelled from his forehead across his eye to his cheek.

  My new master, Tiberius, stood up in protest.

  ‘You cannot put Samuel in with a non-gladiator!’ he protested, but was calmed by Marcus, who looked to be explaining something to him.

  Tiberius smiled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pouch of coins and gave them to Marcus, who promptly disappeared into the crowd.

  Non-gladiator? I thought. Then I realised that this whole thing was nothing more than an illegal fight ring. It had nothing to do with the official games, it was where trainers and owners tested their new stock for extra profit, as Tiberius had boasted.

  The big man, Samuel, reached into the dirt and picked up his short sword. I waited for mine to be thrown to me, but it didn’t come.

  ‘Where is my sword?’ I called up to Tiberius.

  ‘Well, my boy, you gave it away! If you give away your weapon, you do not get it back before you leave the pit. Oh, and be careful – Samuel is a professional gladiator.’

  B
e careful? Some coach. I looked over at the big man in the ring. He raised his arms to the applause of the crowd, then faced me. Samuel stalked over, moving well for a man so large. His thighs rippled as they bore the weight of his body, and as he came within ten feet I noticed another scar. This one was in the shape of a triangle with a cross through it. It was a brand, the symbol of a gladiator burned into his skin.

  Samuel crouched low as the crowd started to chant. Even from the centre of the pit, I could hear the clanking of coins. We were only seven or eight feet apart when he sprang, aiming his thrust straight at my heart. I waited until the last possible moment and then twisted my torso out of the way, raising my knee into his stomach and grabbing his wrist as I continued to turn my body. Then, in harsh contrast to his momentum, I twisted Samuel’s wrist back on itself, breaking it. The big man screamed as his body went one way, and his arm the other. His sword fell.

  The crowd gasped as Samuel rolled up to his feet, holding his wrist. His sword lay at my feet and he looked down at it, but I did not pick it up. As he lashed out with his other hand I blocked, caught his wrist and rolled inside his blow, bringing us front to back. I drove my elbow into his nose, hearing it break as I stepped out and, twisting with the weight of my body, broke his other wrist.

  I was shocked at my own brutality, but I knew that this man would kill me in an instant if he had the chance. Samuel fell to the floor as I walked, picked up the sword and threw it next to his head. This fight was over. I walked to Tiberius.

  ‘I will not kill anyone else today. I have shown you I can fight. Now let me out.’ Marcus was nowhere to be seen and Tiberius looked shocked.

  ‘My boy, you can’t negotiate these things. There’s still plenty of money to be made off your last match, so I’m afraid I can’t let you out just yet. You’re doing very well, and you’ll be rewarded, but you have to take care of him first.’

  I turned to see that a third man had entered the pit, not waiting for the signal for a new match. This man was dark-skinned and carried a net in one hand, and an evil-looking trident in the other. He was storming over to me, but when he passed the fallen Samuel in the centre of the pit, he paused. With his eyes glaring at me, he hesitated not a second to turn his trident downward and drive its sharpened spikes into the big man’s exposed back.

  I was horrified at the callousness of it, and could see that my time to negotiate had run out. Before I had a chance to react the man had thrown his net. It fanned out, weighted at its corners, and covered me. I raised my arms instinctively and barely saw the trident as it was hurtled towards me with incredible force. I dove to the side almost too late. One of the three flat, serrated spikes caught my hip as I dove, slicing deeply and cleanly into the muscle of my upper thigh and buttock.

  The evasive action only made my tangle in the roped web worse. The dark man was over at the wall recovering his trident within seconds and the instant it took him to dislodge it from the earthen wall gave me the precious time I needed to scramble loose of the net.

  The wound on my hip bit, but I ignored the pain as the attack came again. This time I was ready.

  The muscled black man snarled as he yet again thrust out with his deadly, three-pronged staff. I sidestepped, keeping my distance, knowing that his skill far exceeded that of the last two men I had fought. He thrust again, and again I evaded, the sharpened points sailing by my neck. Inching closer as we circled, I goaded him.

  He took the bait, and this time when he thrust out the long staff I was close enough to grab it below the spikes. I pulled, dragging the man, whose grip held firm, onto a sharp side kick. Ribs cracked and a yelp of pain escaped the man’s lips. His grip on the trident loosened, and I pulled it away, spinning it above my head before sweeping it out down low, slicing at the man’s thigh. His leg buckled and he went down. I continued to spin the trident, then aimed its head down at my fallen opponent. I drove the weapon hard. Right next to the man’s head. His eyes were wide and through clenched teeth he groaned. ‘You see much better with no blindfold.’

  I recognised the voice. It was deep, it was familiar. I cocked my head slightly. ‘Malbool?’ I asked, stunned.

  ‘You must finish it, stranger. You must end it or neither of us will walk out alive.’ There was no fear in his voice. He sounded like a man who had expected death for a long time.

  ‘There has been enough death today,’ I said, offering the man my hand. He looked up at me, confused.

  ‘Do I have your word that you will not strike me when you stand?’ I asked.

  Malbool looked more confused. ‘What is the word of a slave?’ he replied.

  ‘I do not ask for the word of a slave. I ask for the word of a man.’ My hand hung in mid-air and the crowd started to jeer and hiss.

  Slowly, the injured African reached up and took my wrist, and I gripped his, helping him to his feet. When he stood he looked me straight in the eyes.

  ‘I do not know where you are from, but my life now belongs to you.’

  I shook my head. ‘Your life is your own.’

  With that, Malbool, still gripping my wrist, raised my hand high, proclaiming me victor. The crowd roared with adoration.

  Back in my cell, I lay flat. My wound had been dressed, but not stitched. I figured this to be a punishment for my defiance of the rules. The wound would have to heal on its own, a prospect that could take months – time in which I would have to fight several matches. Were they crazy? Did Tiberius want me to die? The whole concept of this punishment escaped me.

  I lifted my head and peered under the dressing. It was still slick with blood. And then the strangest thing happened. As the dull torchlight from above shone on the slick red mess, I saw … a gleam? A sparkle of light? Something metallic shone in my wound. I rolled carefully onto my side. I then ripped the dressing clear and pushed my fingers into the wound to pull the flesh apart. The pain was excruciating, but there it was again: a shiny metal glint in the torchlight. My God, there was something inside me.

  I pulled on the wound again, breathing in short pants to control the pain. My fingers finally touched something in the deep, bloody hole. It felt like string. I made one final push with my fingertips and caught the string between them. It uncoiled and came out.

  The bench was covered in blood from my hip, and a string maybe six inches long and impossibly thin hung out of my wound. I stared in disbelief. The string was silver, like no twine I had ever seen; it looked like tightly wound hairs of metal.

  The only thing I could think to do was to pull on the string, so that is what I did. The feeling is not one I can easily describe for you, Shaun. It was—

  He almost missed it, he was so engrossed in the story. He stopped. He re-read: ‘The feeling is not one I can easily describe for you, Shaun.’

  It was there. It was right there in the book before his eyes. Shaun thought he was going insane. He re-read and re-read the passage. It was still there. The spelling was even the same. ‘Shaun’, not the more popular ‘Sean’.

  He was jolted out of the story by the revelation, by what he had just read. What the hell? Could this be coincidence? Could this possibly be coincidence? Shaun Strickland was one of the keenest mathematical brains on the planet, but he did not want to begin to calculate the odds of tonight’s strange events.

  He looked out from under his sheltered resting place. The rain was pelting hard, the temperature had dropped and the lamplight that streamed down was barely enough to read by. But nothing would stop him reading now. For the first time, he had a strange sense that perhaps, just perhaps, none of this was an accident.

  CHAPTER 19

  VATICAN CITY, 2001 AD

  The old man’s face stared straight ahead. He was considering what he had heard. He had seen more of life’s battles than many could imagine, but the challenge he had just been presented with was more difficult than any he had faced before. It was not as physically taxing as working in the stone quarries, nor as daring as his escape from Poland during the Second World War, n
or as time-consuming as learning the five languages in which he was now fluent. No, this challenge was more difficult because it was a challenge of faith, and faith was the one thing on which he was supposed to be an authority.

  The British professor seated across from him stared back. There was something in this man’s eyes, something that the old man had not seen before. It was absolute certainty. He struggled with the idea again. Was it possible? But yet again, this man, through the letters, the meetings and the explanations had proven again and again that it was. It was possible. If it was possible, what did this mean for him as a world leader? As an authority on faith? What did this mean? For the thousandth time the question came into his head – did he have a choice?

  ‘If what you have told me is true,’ the old man began again slowly, knowing the answer because he had asked the question many times before, ‘then I have already agreed? And if I do not agree now?’

  The man smiled in that same calm manner he had possessed since their first meeting more than a year ago.

  ‘Your Holiness, I simply do not know. I do not know what would happen. I do not know if things would be changed, or if they simply cannot happen any other way. All I know is this: for all that I have said to become true; for you and I to be sitting here talking, you must agree. The Journalist Project is … necessary.’

  Many nights the old Pope had prayed on this. He was torn between what he had come to believe as the truth, and the prospect of discovering the ultimate, unquestionable, undeniable truth.

  What if everything he believed in was wrong?

  Dear Heavenly Father, what is your will in this matter?

  He was terrified. This was his church, an institution that was relied upon by so many for so much, but what if it was all based on a lie? Dare he risk it? What was the greater sin: to keep the masses, and indeed himself, in safe, blissful ignorance, or to dare to know the truth, even if it meant destroying everything?