The Rule of Knowledge

by Scott Baker

  I was taken from my cell early in the morning. Today was the culmination of a week-long spring festival, the largest game of the year. Men, women and children went to the Circus Maximus for chariot races, and to the Coliseum for music, acrobatics and for bloodthirsty games. The week was sponsored by the Emperor, Tiberius Claudius Nero, and the Roman Empire was intent on showing its people the extent of its power.

  There was no event in the year that compared with the display of the Royåle. It was the highlight of the season, when more men gathered in the arena than at any other time. It was an event unmatched in history for its sheer bloodlust, with one hundred armed warriors gathering in the dusty pit, all with the knowledge that only one would survive, and barely. It was suicide. Every contestant knew it. I knew it. The result relied on luck more than skill.

  Most entrants entered with the knowledge they would not walk out alive, and I entered with the knowledge it was my only chance to escape.

  The crowd roared and the beasts roared. Fresh sand covered the arena floor, shimmering in the sun. The atmosphere was electric. There was nothing like it. There had never been a crowd like this in any event in the history of Rome. I smiled – it reminded me of the Super Bowl!

  I stood with several others in the holding pen. With this many contestants, we were not afforded the dignity of private preparation rooms. We stood huddled together in groups of five, waiting as a pompous gamesman described the rules of the contest – rules already known to all of us. There were one hundred competitors and there would be only one winner. At certain stages, variables would be introduced. Everyone knew that these variables meant beasts – lions, tigers and the occasional bear – and that they would be introduced at two separate stages of the event. Today, two tigers would be introduced when there were forty combatants left, and a male lion would be introduced when there were twenty combatants left. It was this that I was counting on.

  To defeat ninety-nine other men in a free-for-all match was something no one could prepare for. Even though I had every confidence in my ability, with so many men fighting at once, there was no chance of survival. I intended to survive. To do so I knew that I had to stay alive long enough to escape. Escape, not victory, was my plan.

  Leather straps were pulled tight as armour snapped into place. The room was full of men fixing and straightening, as if they were going to a formal dinner instead of an all-out war. No one made eye contact, although even within our small group we each sized up the others. The sound of fanfare drifted into the small room where we stood, muffled by the doors of wood and iron that separated us from the surreal world of the arena just beyond. The smell of fear and sweat hung in the air. The men started to move and stamp like animals, their eyes narrowed, ready to pounce.

  The doors burst open and the group charged out. The build-up of energy was enormous, and as we entered the centre of this screaming, chanting crowd I saw groups of five and six spring from every door around the arena. It is easy to say ‘one hundred men’, but to see the sheer volume of meat and muscle, of iron and steel, was overwhelming.

  All around were men, imposing, armed, vicious, desperate. Each with only one thing on his mind – to kill everyone else. To kill me.

  All at once there was a blare of trumpets and the mass of bodies turned as one to face a balcony at the far end of the arena. The crowd’s cheer swelled as we all looked at one of the protruding platforms high in the stands. I squinted to make out the details, and then I saw him. I saw with my own eyes, the living Emperor of Rome. The leaves of his crown could be clearly made out against the thinning white hair and pale skin of the heavyset man’s head. Moving forward and waving to an adoring crowd was the stepson of Augustus Caesar – this was Nero.

  The trumpets sounded again and all the men in the centre of the arena slammed their weapons into the ground in unison. Then the Emperor raised his arm, palm downwards, and out towards the assembly awaiting their fate. The crowd hushed. The calm came. For the fifty thousand citizens assembled to watch the carnage to come, these few precious and rare words were as much a highlight as the battle itself.

  Named Caesar like Julius and Augustus before him, the Emperor spoke: ‘Brave warriors, today you lay down your lives for the Holy Empire of Rome. Today your fate is in your own hands, and today you strive for the greatest of prizes, to become a citizen of Holy Rome!’

  The crowd roared and cheered. Caesar nodded slightly then called for a hush. It was then that I noticed the cloaked and hooded figure behind the Emperor. I had seen him before. Caesar spoke again: ‘Today you will glorify all who have gone before you. Let the Royåle begin!’

  In unison the rehearsed response came from the men around me: ‘We who are about to die salute you!’ I made no such pledge.

  I realised that not everyone’s voice had the deep bass of the common gladiatorial man, and it struck me that there were women too who were here to fight and die in the name of freedom.

  At once, drums began to beat and the group spread out around the arena. There was barely twenty feet between each opponent. Who would fight first when the trumpet sounded? The drums continued to beat and my heart matched the rhythm, then overtook it. I looked around. The sound of the crowd faded and all I heard was my own heartbeat and breath. On either side of me were retiarius, men with nets and tridents. On the outside of them were a Gaul and a Thracian. Already the men were talking to each other, forming their alliances to take them through the early stages of the contest. None of my stablemates were here; Tiberius was not keen on throwing away valuable fighters and had forbidden any other members of his ludus to compete in the Royåle. Other troupe owners were not so protective of their property, and found this kind of contest a good way to get rid of their less profitable stable occupants.

  The drums banged louder, faster, thumping the life of the contest into the arena. At that moment, an image came to me unbidden: my mother smiling at my sister and me. She had raised us alone for five years after my father died, and then we lost her too. What would she say if she could see me now? Memories of my childhood came with every new beat of the drums. Then the drums stopped.

  Silence. I strode forward. The trumpets blasted. The game was on.

  CHAPTER 28

  The trumpets blasted. The game was on.

  I rolled to my left as a trident sailed towards my head. At the same time the retiarius on my left had turned to face the Gaul opposite him. The spikes caught him in the back of one leg and he screamed with pain. There hadn’t even been time to think. The trumpets still blared and already men had fallen. I looked about as I came out of my roll and found two men charging at me. I readied myself for the assault, but before they reached me a third and fourth man charged in from the side to intercept them. They collided heavily and went into a rolling struggle. I didn’t have time to watch the melee; all around me pockets of one-on-one, two-on-one and group-on-group fighting were in full swing.

  I looked across the arena to see a Thracian hacking viciously at another contestant, raining down blows in over-handed swipes and wearing out his weaker opponent. In an instant a victor from a battle behind the Thracian turned, and without a moment’s hesitation he drove his short sword through the bronzed man’s spine. The Thracian fell and his assailant moved on before the body hit the ground. It was pandemonium. It was insanity. It was even more chaotic than I had imagined. Everywhere I turned people were dying. Even without having yet engaged I was already within the final seventy still standing. I kept my back to the wall.

  All at once, my honeymoon period was over. A tall, thin man turned his attention from a fallen female warrior he had overpowered and marched towards me. I didn’t waste time. I knew that in order to survive the opening stages of the contest, while there were too many opponents to keep in my field of view, I had to finish any challengers quickly and focus on self-preservation. I took several quick steps towards him, spun down on one knee and arced my blade around, slicing cleanly through his thighs. The man remained standing for just a mom
ent, until he tried to take another step, and then his severed limbs betrayed him. His lower leg fell away as his upper thigh took a step. Driving my blade into his exposed chest, I made sure he wasn’t able to reflect on the horror of his situation for long.

  I was up again in moments and immediately found a short, stocky man with dark skin and a curved sabre running towards me, his mouth open in an animalistic scream. He held the sword high to cut me directly in half. Pre-empting the timing of his attack, I slid up to him with my leg tucked up high to my chest; when I released it, I kicked hard and my heel drove into his sternum. I heard a crack as he fell backwards to the ground. His sword fell from his grip and flew within inches of my head before burying into another man behind me. Unfortunately for me, it hit him hilt first, the blade mutely swishing to the ground. Narrowly ducking his quick slash at my throat, I stopped his next thrust for my abdomen with a parry that was barely quick enough. Another man came up behind the first, this one wearing a large helmet with a broad rim and holding a tall shield. Both men struck at me rather than each other, probably in one of the hastily formed alliances made as the competitors sought to prolong their lives. I was being forced backwards towards the man on the ground holding his cracked breast.

  Then, employing a different tactic, I broke away suddenly from the group. Sprinting to my left I quickly lost the two who had been attacking me and made for the centre of the arena. The sand kicked up behind me as I scanned the messy floor for one of the trapdoors.

  I made it thirty feet before I was cut off by a wall of secutor gladiators – four in a row with their smooth-rimmed helmets and single fin, looking like fish. The small eye holes in the faces of their iron masks seemed particularly apt protection from the trident spikes of the retiarius, their natural opponents.

  The four ran towards me, their long shields forming a wall too wide to sidestep. They obviously intended to drive me backwards towards the rim of the arena where all the fighting was taking place. Behind me, two hoplomachus men approached, pausing momentarily to run the man with the cracked sternum through with their blades. This wasn’t right; this seemed like a coordinated attack. I knew that this could not be the case, with each fighting troupe having a maximum of two contestants per stable. I would make them fight each other.

  I ran hard at the four-man wall approaching me. They baulked, but only for a moment. The two pursuers behind me ignored other challengers in an effort to run me down. I was being sandwiched from in front and behind. I reached the four men, who made no attempt to attack me with their weapons, a tactic that would have meant breaking the integrity of their wall.

  I leaped up at the wall, my foot outstretched, and used the leverage from one man’s shield to throw myself higher.

  I hurdled the wall of men, the rims of their helmets blocking their vision as I flew overhead. I landed still running, and was horrified to see a man on the ground writhing and screaming as a tiger mauled his exposed neck. The wall of men turned, oblivious to the two who had been chasing me. Meanwhile I calculated at a glance the number of gladiators still in the arena. At least sixty. Which meant only one thing: someone had released the cats early. The game was not being run by the rules.

  I looked for a trapdoor pit, realising now that I could not rely on the timing of the event. I could not see one, and at that moment I was tackled from the side and slammed into the ground. My sword flew free. I had only been distracted for a split second and cursed myself for the error. I hit the ground hard and pulled my attacker close to me. He had no sword or weapon other than his massively muscled bulk. With one hand I held his chin and the other gripped the back of his helmet. I twisted the man’s head, and his body followed, rolling off me. I leaped up, but went down again instantly as he swung his huge hand with force and ankle tapped me hard enough to spin me around before I fell. The big man was on his feet with surprising speed and, once standing, he tore his helmet away from his head. Staring at me was a giant with a smooth, hairless head, a bulky chest and thighs almost as thick as my body. I recognised him from reputation, and a famed scar across his cheek. Crixus.

  Now all six pursuers approached. They didn’t attack each other and they didn’t attack me. They fanned out and circled, forming a ring around the giant and me. Then they waited and watched. It was the confirmation I needed to realise that I had been set up. There was no way that seven men would stand within striking distance of each other in the Royåle and not attempt to hack each other to bits.

  I looked up again to see the Emperor cheering a battle happening elsewhere in the arena. There, behind him, was the hooded man. At that moment, seeing me looking at him, he drew back his hood.

  My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t understand. I knew this man. I knew him from … from my previous life, from The Facility. Delissio. Louis Delissio. An Italian special-forces soldier who had been recruited, like me, after reports of his Killed-in-Action status circulated. Officer X3.

  What was he doing here?

  The robed man gave a little smile. His face was mostly hidden by shadow, but there was no mistaking the pitted cheeks and the short crop of thick, black hair.

  I forced my attention back to the giant in front of me, wishing that Tiberius had not told me about this man’s unequalled track record: fifty-two victories.

  Crixus had no sword, and without his helmet, the only armour he wore was on his shins. Two shiny metal plates curved to the shape of his leg. He looked mean. His body was muscled and imposing, but it was nothing compared to the hatred in his eyes. As the ring of men kept other challengers out, I faced the greatest gladiator in history.

  The crowd seemed to hush, and if my senses weren’t lying, even the sounds of battle from the arena floor seemed to fade as everyone took an interest in the hand-to-hand combat that was about to take place.

  My mind raced. Why was Crixus here? There was no reason he would compete in the Royåle; he had earned his freedom long ago and continued to fight by choice, not out of obligation to a master.

  Why would this man, the surest bet in the Roman Empire, risk himself to take part in this luck-of-the-draw event – even if that risk was greatly minimised with at least six other competitors protecting him? I glanced up again at Delissio and the realisation dawned on me. Crixus was here because someone had put him up to it. He was here to make certain I didn’t leave.

  ‘I have faced and killed a man for every week of the year … and the year is at an end,’ he growled with malice unlike any I had seen. He didn’t know me, but he hated me with passion, just for daring to face him.

  Crixus came at me, intent on punishing me, hurting me, killing me. There was no way I could avoid him. I didn’t.

  With my back leg I swung forward and planted my foot just above his knee. He was moving forward fast and I used the motion of his leg to step up and spin hard. I spun fast at the shoulders and rubber banded my hips. My leg shot out as I sailed skywards, launched into the air off Crixus’s fast-moving thigh. My hips unwound and my heel came round like a sling shot, connecting with the big man’s head, just where his jaw met his cheek.

  Crixus’s head spun so hard the cracking sound was heard throughout the arena. There was instant silence. As if in slow motion, like the tallest tree in the forest being felled, the huge man fell to the ground, his neck broken.

  Dead.

  I landed. The dust curled up around his body with the impact, but the men around us just stared, disbelieving. I wasted no time and leaped clear over the giant’s corpse. There was not a sound in the arena. I shoulder charged one of the tall, curved shields being held by my ring men. He was dumbfounded with shock and simply fell to his backside.

  I scooped up my sword and ran hard for the trapdoor nearest the centre of the arena. With a tiger already released into the games, it meant the trapdoor had been opened once already, and the next time it was lifted I needed to be close – close enough that when a beast came out, I could roll into the tunnels below and escape through the corridor that was used to bring t
he great cats into the arena. It was my only hope to get out of here alive.

  I was only thirty or so feet from the trapdoor when the arena erupted with cheering. Their hero, their unconquerable hero, had just fallen to an unknown, and fallen easily.

  I didn’t stop to bask in the glory, I had to get out. As I moved I looked up to the Emperor’s box. Beyond the balcony throne, the Emperor was yelling and gesticulating at the man in black, at Delissio. Officer X3 looked down at me with disdain. Did he know who he was or had he forgotten like me? He looked considerably older than the way I remembered him, so he must have been here in ancient Rome for a great number of years.

  Did he know who I was and why I was here? None of us had been told to whom the other officers had been assigned. We knew only that we were going back in pairs, and we knew it was a one-way journey, but we weren’t told anything about the other assignments.

  Now, here in the centre arena of the largest death match in history, I saw a man I had known in a former life being chastised by Tiberius Nero Caesar. Delissio had to know. How else would he be sitting where he was right now? And if he knew, and if he was at the centre of this conspiracy to destroy me, why all the theatrics? Why not have me killed in my sleep? Why did he want me dead at all?

  I reached the trapdoor and found it sealed shut. Damn. I slid to a halt and knelt, willing it to open as the group who had surrounded me recovered from their moment of disbelief and now rushed my way. I slammed my sword down onto the trapdoor, which was still covered with undisturbed sand, searching desperately for the edge, for something to give me leverage.

  Suddenly the tip of my blade found the groove I had been looking for. I pressed down on my sword with all my weight, hoping to drive a wedge between the door and the arena floor to lever it up.