by Scott Baker
A blade caught me in my side; a small, curved dagger thrown by one of the wall of secutors. Not deep, just a glancing blow, but enough to send a burst of fire through my nerves and a stream of blood onto the arena sands. They were here. I was forced to rise from my escape hatch and engage them.
It became apparent quickly that these men had an unusual level of skill for gladiators. I killed two, but in doing so I was being driven backwards away from the trapdoor. They used their weapons in ways familiar to me, but not common in the pits of gladiatorial combat. It occurred to me that these men had been trained differently. The way they moved, the way they reacted … they had been trained by one of us. I spared a glance at the balcony. Delissio was gone.
Beyond my attackers I could see that the contestants were thinning out. There were perhaps twenty still standing, and the battles were becoming more a test of stamina than of skill. I ducked and weaved and struck and parried, but these men were equal to the task, and while fighting four of them at once it was all I could manage to keep my head on my neck.
Backwards they drove me. I was fighting hard but beginning to tire. Then I got one through – a straight thrust that plunged deep into the Gaul’s solar plexus. Three now. More manageable, but I was nearly at the edge of the arena. No one challenged us as we fought; the others seemed to perceive this battle was a no-go zone and let it run its course.
One more down. His head hit the ground before his body, but the other two kept coming. One caught me, a slicing blow across my chest. A line of red appeared as my heart pumped blood from the wound.
Then, the thing I dreaded: a hungry-looking lion emerged through the trapdoor, and I was forced to watch sand from the arena fall into the tunnel entrance as the trapdoor slammed shut, taking with it my last chance of escape. I was too far away.
I paused in shock, barely noticing the lion pounce on a nearby gladiator who knelt wounded and was tending to his injury, and in that moment of distraction my foot slid out from under me. I fell back against the bars of an entrance gate. The first sword came down at me and I barely had time to roll out of the way. I saw it sink into the corpse whose blood and brain matter I had slipped on. I rolled back the opposite way, towards the blade, pulling it from the man’s grasp. But the move to disarm my first attacker cost me.
My second attacker, also a Gaul, seized the moment to raise his blade and send it down towards my chest. In the slow motion of that moment I could not avoid, I thought again about Delissio.
Strangely, the sight of him had given me some comfort, reminding me of a world beyond this one of horror, murder and carnage: beyond Rome.
I knew I could not avoid the blow, and it was not until I saw the three protruding spikes from the Gaul’s chest that I realised I wouldn’t have to. The man fell forward to land beside me, the three spikes digging into the ground and holding him in place.
As he fell I saw the man who had attacked him, a retiarius. The warrior drew a short sabre from his belt and slashed across the unarmed Gaul still at his side. The man’s innards spilled onto the arena floor.
Dark-skinned and bathed in sweat, there was no mistaking the voice that boomed out from beneath the bronzed helmet.
‘You need to learn to watch where you step!’ the African bellowed, breathing hard.
‘Malbool! What are you doing?’
‘You’re welcome, white man!’ he said, his panting covering any attempted laughter. I surveyed the arena. Already there were fewer than twenty men still standing. I could not believe how quickly the decimation had taken place. Bodies lay everywhere, the arena floor stained red with the blood of scores of men, and those few women who had braved the insanity. Still there were small battles raging slowly as exhaustion took hold. The tigers lay dead, their glossy coats glimmering wet in the sun. The lion, however, which had not entered the contest till most of the competitors were already limp with fatigue and injury, was faring much better.
As I scanned the scene, the golden beast mauled at the chest of a once-brave Thracian, but this was not what caught my attention. At least twelve of the remaining fighters seemed to have lost interest in each other and were running my way. They were shouting and screaming, and as I glanced up to the Emperor’s balcony again, I saw that Delissio had returned. I saw him smile. Bastard! He had somehow given these men incentive. Incentive to kill me, or perhaps they were just his men in the first place. I didn’t know, I didn’t care. I could feel my chest and shoulders screaming from the wounds they had received. There was no way I could hold off so many fighters alone.
Malbool reached down to help me to my feet. ‘Now is not the time to rest; you can do that when you lay your head on a boat to Judea,’ he said, this time managing a smile.
I reached up and took his wrist. Warily I staggered to my feet, knowing that losing blood this quickly, I would not be able to maintain my strength for long.
They arrived, fresh-looking and uninjured. They slowed to a walk as they closed the gap, moving as if they were stalking captive prey. At that moment, the truth was undeniable. These men had not engaged in any serious battle; not one of them carried a wound, not one of them was weary. They had fought among themselves in some kind of choreographed, rehearsed manner, turning serious only when an outsider threatened one of their group. In doing so, they had survived, fresh, until they were very nearly the only ones left. I looked out beyond them – no one. The only remaining warriors were engaged in a desperate wrestle with the lion. Two men, one hungry cat, and no chance.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked Malbool as we backed up against the gate.
‘I thought you might need some help,’ he replied, wrenching his trident from the back of the fallen Gaul.
‘Malbool, you said yourself it was a fool’s battle. I was planning to escape, not to win.’ He looked at me, one corner of his mouth curling down as I continued. ‘I was planning to escape through the trapdoor when the cats were released.’
‘Well,’ he considered, ‘you might have let me know that before I snuck in here.’
‘Snuck in? Jesus, Malbool!’
‘Who?’
‘Well, I don’t know why, but you see that man in black up there?’ Malbool followed my gesture. ‘He’s one of the men I told you about. He’s from the future like me. He’s trying to make sure I don’t get out of here. I think he’s got these men working against me.’
The African scrunched his eyes. ‘If what you told me is true. If you are from a time yet to come and must meet this miracle man, then you must leave here a victor. I owe you my life, and if I am to pay that debt, then I pay it by helping you win this contest.’
I saw in his eyes the honour and courage missing from so many of the men in my unit, missing from so many men in my time. I knew then that he would die for me, and I knew also that I would not let him.
The twelve were here. They fanned out in a semi-circle around the two of us, all armed. Three of them held nets.
Malbool gripped his trident in one hand and his short sabre in the other. He set himself in the sand, not bothering to replace his helmet. I lowered the tip of my retrieved sword and ignored the pain in my shoulder and across my chest.
The nets came first; two of them in a coordinated attack. I made to roll, but Malbool, being familiar with the weighted ropes, thrust his trident high and caught them both before they landed on us. He flung the nets to the side and caught the first gladiator with the butt of his iron-pronged spear. The squat man’s nose spread out across his face and his eyes watered up, giving Malbool enough time to reverse slash his neck. The man fell as two more rushed the tribesman.
I raced forward to intercept them and within seconds three more advanced on us. The bodies and bloodshed became a blur. Like the men who had chased me down, these men moved like Facility-trained fighters, more martial skill than ancient technique. Blades clashed and thrust, and men fell, but outnumbered and against fresh warriors, both Malbool and I took damage. More and more of their blows found us. More kicks, mo
re punches, more glancing nicks that took their toll. Then, with only four of them left, a sword hilt cracked me with force on the jaw and my legs buckled. The world went sideways and I fell. Vaguely I saw Malbool’s legs and another body fall just beyond them. But even as I lay there, I knew that he was no match for three of these warriors. I knew he would fall at any moment. There was nothing I could do about it.
No.
I would not let him fall defending me. I fought the dizziness, wondering absently why a sword had not been buried in me already. As clarity returned, the realisation of my impending doom screamed at me. I thought I heard a train. Or was it a plane? It was loud and rumbling, with intermittent shrieks like the brakes of steel wheels on iron tracks. Vaguely I thought that it would be a good idea to move out of the way. It might have been a truck. I certainly didn’t want to get run over by a truck. My brain screamed at me: move!
But I was tired, so very tired. I saw Malbool, his legs rushing backwards; he must have been getting out of the way too. I shook my head hard, trying to dispel the fuzziness. Truck? I was in Rome, I was in the arena, there were no trucks here – but there were—
I looked up to see a massive, roaring, heaving beast. A lion of huge and awesome ferocity was tearing at one of the gladiators, and it was the man’s shrieks I could hear.
Malbool was fighting the other two when one went down, felled by a second yellow beast.
The man who fought Malbool didn’t flinch. He continued to thrust and parry, and each time he gained an advantage, he turned to finish me. Malbool again and again stopped him, engaging in any way he could to keep the large secutor from reaching me. Then he too was down, taken from behind by a third massive lion. Even through my grogginess I could not believe it. Where had they all come from? This wasn’t part of the game. Then, looking beyond the screaming victims, not ten feet from us, surrounding us, I saw another five immense, hungry-looking lions enter from three separate trapdoors around the arena floor.
My mind cleared quickly as the beasts began to stalk. The crowd screamed and buzzed with excitement, knowing that we had no way out. We backed up against the gate with our weapons held in front of us.
‘When they leap,’ I told Malbool, ‘drop down and aim for their underbelly. It’s the only way to get a quick kill.’ Both of us knew, however, that with five lions charging and three more soon to turn their attention to us, the advice was futile.
Closer and closer the great cats came, passing their feasting kin who were tearing limb from warm-bodied limb.
‘Malbool, it’s been an honour to—’
‘Saul! Hurry!’ I recognised the voice, although I could not immediately place from where. As the lions charged and leaped over the fallen bodies, I heard the sound of metal clanking behind me. But there was nothing behind me, only the wall and gate. Malbool and I spun as one. The lions crept forward, their nimble bodies low to the ground, jaws open and dripping with anticipation. Fixing their eyes on us, they pounced. We pounced.
Malbool half-dragged me through the gap in the gate as it slammed shut and locked an instant before two of the beasts slammed into it, nearly pushing it off its sturdy steel hinges. The lions roared deafeningly, swiping their razor claws through the gaps in the iron, missing us by inches. Frustrated and insane with hunger, the animals roared again, before turning back to the feast of human corpses littering the sand. I found myself lying next to Malbool in the dirt of a passageway, an iron gate now between us and the arena. We were alive. Just.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked as we lay flat on the cool earth, catching our breath. I was cut, bleeding, hurting and bruised, but I was alive and nothing was broken. It was more than I had expected.
‘I’m okay,’ I replied. I squinted in the dark, straining to see who had opened the gate to save our lives. All I could see was a silhouette but it was unmistakable.
‘I couldn’t let them eat you,’ the voice came again. ‘After all, you might be rich, remember?’ The humour was a brave attempt to cover the fear in the boy’s voice. I stood up slowly and looked him in the face as my eyes adjusted. Mishca.
I pulled the boy close in a strong hug. I didn’t know how he was here, but right now I didn’t care.
‘You’re bleeding on me,’ he said a moment later. I smiled and released him. It was true. His robe was stained with my sweat and blood.
‘We have to go,’ Mishca said. ‘They’ll be here any second.’ With that he grabbed a burning torch from the wall and headed down the passage leading away from the gate. We passed through the tunnel and into the darkness.
CHAPTER 29
The darkness lasted thirty seconds before the train passed out of the tunnel. It wasn’t the change in light that had caused Shaun to look up from the diary in his lap, but more the noise he had just heard. Indeed, he was so engrossed that he had not realised that it was light again. The noise had been sudden and loud. It was several moments before he registered the sound. Gunshot.
He looked up through the doors separating his carriage from the next. He could not see anything. Turning, he realised that no one else in the carriage, which was only sparsely populated, had paid the sound much attention, obviously passing it off as some shunting that was common on the railway. Immediately he shoved the diary back into his jacket and got up, moving towards the back of the carriage. For the first time, he looked out the window. They were up in the mountains. Interchanging trees and rock faces flashed by. How long had he been travelling? Three, maybe four hours? That meant he was still a good couple from the nearest international airport.
He glanced over his shoulder. The constant cornering of the train made a clear line of sight difficult, but each time the windows of his carriage and the next did line up, Shaun saw a shape. A man. Walking towards him, scanning the aisles. It may have been a passenger looking for his seat after a visit to the bathroom, but Shaun didn’t think so. The figure moved with purpose.
Quickly, but not so much as to arouse suspicion, Shaun moved along the carriage, coming to the door at the end and opening it. In a rush of wind and noise he stepped out onto the small platform that connected his carriage to the next. He hung to the rail tightly as the rocking motion of the floor shook him with the movement of the carriages.
As the door closed behind him he looked down across the six feet of open bridge that he would need to cross to get to the next carriage door.
This is why they tell you not to move from your seat! Shaun’s brain pointed out.
Waiting for the carriages to align, he quickly stepped across the divide and grabbed onto the door at the other end. It was locked. Shit. He glanced back through the door of the carriage he had just left. The man, tall and dark, wearing a blue shirt and black jeans, had already entered. What are you so scared of?
Shaun answered his own question as his eyes followed the man’s arm down past his rolled-up sleeves and tattooed forearm – all the way to his fingers gripping a black, steel colt .45.
He was carrying it casually, and most of the passengers didn’t look up at him. He scanned the carriage quickly and continued on his way. Shaun ducked. The man hadn’t seen him yet. He tried the door again. It didn’t budge. Damn! There was nowhere to go. He searched frantically around the small platform for somewhere to hide. Blue-shirt would be here in seconds.
The handle twisted first one way, then the other, before an eventual click gave evidence to the catch opening. The door gave and the sound flooded the tattooed man’s ears. The small platform in front of him was empty. Rocking with the motion of the train, blue-shirt stepped out into the uncertainty of the open platform, reaching his free hand out to the chain-link railing for balance. He stretched for the far door’s handle and tried to turn it. Nothing. Locked. He tried harder. Nothing. He turned back towards the other door. How could he possibly have missed—
He didn’t see the blow coming. Smashing into blue-shirt’s back, Shaun leaped from the roof of the passenger car out onto the platform. He had hidden himself flat on the train’s
roof as the wind rushed by, and it was an approaching tunnel, rather than an act of bravery, that forced Shaun to take blue-shirt by surprise. He had launched himself moments before the world around them went black.
In the darkness the two men swung wildly, and finally there was a sickening thud as one of the frantic blows connected. Bodies fell, chains rattled and when bright daylight flooded the scene once more, Shaun was on his backside with blood in his mouth.
His opponent was not bleeding at all from the blind swinging match, which might have proven to be an advantage but for the fact that blue-shirt now hung onto one end of the broken chain railing, his legs dangling. The ground sped by beneath him and the man fought desperately as his feet bounced and thudded on the ground.
Right there in the open, bouncing with the uneasy rhythm on the tracks, was the gun. Shaun scrambled forward and grabbed it, then turned on his hands and knees and pointed it at the tattooed man.
‘Who are you?’ Shaun demanded.
Blue-shirt said something in Italian. Knowing how the gun worked in theory, Shaun pulled on the barrel to fill the chamber.
‘Who are you and how did you find me?’ Shaun screamed louder.
The man looked up at him in fear. Shaun realised that the man was too terrified to answer his questions, so he did something even he didn’t expect: he held out his hand.
The man hesitated for a moment, then let go of the chain with one hand and allowed Shaun to grab him by the wrist and pull him up so his elbow could hook over the metal platform. The man still hung, but now his legs were not bouncing off the ground and he was no longer in immediate danger of falling under the back carriage.
‘Now, who are you and how did you find me?’ Shaun repeated in more measured tones.
In that instant the ground dropped away from beneath the Italian and gave way to a massive drop. Three hundred feet below, through the gaps in the track, was a wide river. They were on an enormous bridge, and the Italian renewed his struggles to climb onto the platform.
