by Alex Gough
Carbo clenched his jaw. Although he had boasted last night that Antiochus would not survive against a berserker German, the converse might also hold. A soldier trained to fight with the comrade on his left covering him with his shield, in tightly packed ranks, would not necessarily find it easy to adapt to the free, open style of fighting in the arena. Still, this Diomedes did look like a make-weight for the fight with his slight build. The murmillo was dressed in a similar fashion to the Thracian, but he lacked the leg greaves, compensating for this with a larger shield, and he fought with a gladius.
The older man next to Carbo was leaning forward, squinting and peering at the two gladiators. Barbatus and Diomedes saluted the front row where the decurions who made up the town council were seated. The announcer gave the signal for the fight to begin, and the two gladiators closed.
Carbo watched, heart thudding in his chest, as the combatants circled each other warily. He was pleased to see that Barbatus was not being over-confident and rushing in, choosing instead to size up his opponent. He gave a short feint, and Diomedes danced backwards nimbly. Barbatus followed him, moving slowly, watching closely. Carbo knew that the helmets they both wore, which obscured the face, made it hard to predict the enemy’s moves by his eye movements and facial expressions, but Barbatus had fought against helmetted foes before, and was adept at reading the language of the whole body.
Carbo’s neighbour tapped him on the shoulder.
“Your eyes are younger than mine, son,” he said. “Does that Diomedes have a tattoo of a snake on his back?”
Carbo suppressed his irritation at the interruption and looked. Yes, as the two fighters circled each other, and Diomedes’ back came into view, he could make out a tattoo of a large snake, curled and poised to strike.
At that moment, Barbatus leapt forward, swinging his sica in a wide arc towards Diomedes’ neck. Diomedes ducked one shoulder, holding up his shield so the blow glanced away harmlessly. His counter-strike was stunning in its speed, sweeping his gladius upwards in a diagonal stroke. Barbatus leapt back, but was too slow to prevent the tip of Diomedes sword opening up a superficial wound across his belly.
“That’s not Diomedes,” said Carbo’s neighbour.
Stunned by the rapidity of Diomedes’ attack, Carbo didn’t register at first what the man had said. Then, as the gladiators went back to circling, Barbatus dripping blood freely, he turned. The crowd cheered, enjoying the apparent underdog’s success, at least those who hadn’t bet on Barbatus.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“That’s Serpens, the snake. I thought I recognised the way he was moving. The tattoo proves it.”
“Who is Serpens?”
“Oh, a very famous gladiator down south. Lucania. I lived there for a while, labouring on farms mainly. He was well known for his speed. Never beaten, despite his size. He would dance around his opponents and finish them off with cut after cut, no matter how big and strong they were. No one would have heard of him up here of course.”
“But why would he be using another name?”
“You know what a ringer is, right?”
As dread started to wash over Carbo, the gladiator calling himself Diomedes, who was actually called Serpens nipped in and opened up another cut in Barbatus’ shoulder. Carbo looked across to the table where Blandinus the bookmaker had his stall. Mero the lanista was standing with him, and as Carbo watched, Mero whispered something to Blandinus, who nodded and smiled. Carbo turned back to the fight in time to see Barbatus desperately using his shield to fend off a flurry of wickedly fast strikes. One time he was too slow, and another cut opened up, this time deep in the upper part of Barbatus’ sword arm. Barbatus’ arm sagged, and it took an obvious effort took to lift it again. The crowd roared in delight.
Carbo stood up, then hesitated. The fight was rigged, a sham, and Barbatus was in mortal danger. But what could he do? People behind Carbo cursed him and yelled at him to sit down. He started to push his way forwards through the crowd, gathering more curses and angry shoves as he did so. The tempo of the fight was picking up, and Carbo saw a low blow from Diomedes bite deep into Barbatus’ leg, through the padding to draw blood.
Carbo pushed forwards with urgency now. He reached the barrier at the front of the crowd as Barbatus dropped to one knee, head bowed. Serpens swung, and his wickedly sharp gladius took Barbatus’ sword hand off at the wrist. Barbatus stared in disbelief at the pumping stump. Then he dropped his shield, and turned to the decurions, holding his left hand up for mercy.
The fickle crowd screamed for death. Carbo yelled to let him go, but his voice was drowned by the mob baying for blood. The decurions looked around. Then the leader of the council stepped forward, and turned his thumb up, jerking it towards the sky. The sign for an upward stroke to the heart. Death.
“No!” yelled Carbo, and leapt the barrier. Serpens did not hear, nor turn to see Carbo. Without hesitation, he thrust his sword deep into Barbatus chest, twisted, then used his foot to push Barbatus away. Barbatus slumped backwards to the ground, and was still. The crowd cheered madly.
Carbo reached the centre of the arena, and Serpens turned to face him. He removed his helmet, revealing a lined face and grey hair. He cocked his head on one side and regarded Carbo curiously. Carbo knelt by Barbatus and cradled his head in his hands. Barbatus stared up at Carbo, unblinking, his dead face showing an expression of amazement.
The crowd started to boo Carbo, and some started throwing fruit. Carbo laid Barbatus gently down and faced the decurions. He spoke in a loud voice, and the crowd hushed to hear what he had to say.
“This fight was a sham. This gladiator is not called Diomedes. He is an expert fighter from the south called Serpens. He was put forward as a no hoper, so Blandinus could cheat everyone who bet on Antiochus, or Barbatus.”
A low murmur ran around the crowd, and all eyes turned towards the bookmaker. Blandinus stepped into the arena.
“That’s a lie! If this gladiator resembles some other, that is just coincidence. And even if he has fought under another name elsewhere, neither the lanista nor I had knowledge of this.”
The leader of the decurions held up his hands for quiet, and the crowd reluctantly hushed. He addressed Carbo.
“You say this fight was a sham? That the crowd have been cheated?”
“Yes,” said Carbo emphatically.
“Then it seems to me that there should be a rematch. Tell me, are you a fighter? Do you think you can best this man?”
Carbo looked over at Serpens, who was looking at him with a self-confident smile. A wave of hatred washed over Carbo against this man who had killed his friend.
“Yes,” said Carbo.
The council leader nodded. “Then I declare a rematch. The previous fight is null and void, and all bets are carried forward to this one.”
Blandinus gaped. “You can’t do that. It’s not legal.”
The council leader turned to consult with his fellow decurions. “We are all in agreement. Abide by this, Blandinus, or face prosecution for cheating.”
Blandinus opened his mouth, but Mero at his shoulder tugged his toga. “Let them fight,” he said. “We will get the same result, and the decurions have declared the outcome binding.”
Blandinus looked uncertain, but was led away by Mero, leaving Carbo and Serpens alone in the arena. Carbo picked up Barbatus’ sica and hefted it’s unfamiliar weight. Then he picked up the shield, again lighter than he was used to. He contemplated putting on the helmet, but he didn’t want to disturb Barbatus to remove it. Besides, it looked like it restricted his vision in a way that the open helmets of the legions didn’t.
Two slaves came into the arena, and dragged Barbatus’ corpse away, leaving a trail of blood.
“What is your name, challenger?” said the council leader.
“Carbo,” said Carbo clearly.
“Very well, Carbo. Diomedes, or Serpens, or however you are known. Fight.”
The crowd, delighted by t
he encore, cheered wildly as Serpens donned his helmet and started to circle Carbo.
Carbo stood still, only his eyes moving as he watched the experienced gladiator. Serpens weaved his sword in the air, taunting Carbo with it. Carbo suppressed his rage, not allowing anger to control him, just giving in to it enough for it to fill his limbs with strength and power.
Serpens lunged without warning, a thrust to Carbo’s exposed neck. Carbo swayed, feet planted firmly, and swatted the gladius away. Serpens retreated a step, and paused, seeming to appraise Carbo anew. Then he leapt in again, as fast as his namesake, an upward thrust aimed beneath Carbo’s small shield. Carbo leaned back, the sword harmlessly swooshing past his face.
Serpens’ stance betrayed surprise at the speed with which the bulky Carbo had evaded his attacks. He leapt in again, this time unleashing a flurry of perfectly timed strokes, aiming high and low, towards groin and face. Carbo matched each swing and thrust with his shield or sword, and as Serpens started to tire, he backhanded the gladiator across the head with his shield.
The ring of the tough wood against the metal helmet rang clearly around the arena, and Serpens staggered back, clearly dazed. Carbo remained still, holding his position, sword and shield low, inviting another attack.
Composure lost, Serpens let out a roar, and charged at Carbo, gladius outthrust. Carbo waited until the last moment, then sidestepped, putting out a foot to trip his opponent. Serpens went flying forward, losing his grip on shield and sword, and sprawled face first in the bloody sand. In an instant, Carbo was upon him, straddling his back, pulling his helmet back to expose his neck to the sharp sica.
Serpens held out his hand for mercy, and Carbo looked to the decurions. The crowd, fickle as ever, screamed for death. The decurion held out his thumb sideways, then turned it down. The signal meant, ‘Put your sword down. Let him live.’ Carbo looked around at the crowd screaming for the death of this man who had tried to cheat them. By the arena wall, Barbatus’ pale corpse, already attracting flies, had been carelessly dumped.
Carbo dragged the sica across Serpens throat, then stood back as bright red blood spurted out over the sands. Serpens clutched at the gaping wound, rolled onto his back, and started to convulse. After a few moments the convulsions stopped. The crowd was hushed, the decurions wore expressions of fury. Then the crowd erupted, yelling, “Carbo, Carbo,” at full voice. The decurions noted the feelings of the crowd, and reluctantly joined in the applause.
Carbo threw his shield down and walked over to Mero and Blandinus. The two men shrank back from the large, bloodied man, who fought with such skill and strength. He grabbed them both and pulled them towards him. “You will pay the punters every copper coin that you owe them. Then you will give the widow of Barbatus enough money for a house and to be comfortable for the rest of her life. And you will pay for Barbatus’ funeral. Make sure it is a send off worthy of a great fighter, and a hero of Rome.”
Blandinus looked dejected. “This will ruin me,” he complained.
“I should kill you both,” said Carbo. “But do this, and I will let you live. Am I understood?”
Both men nodded pathetically. Carbo held their gaze to make sure of their intent, then released them. They backed away in relief. Carbo turned to take in the admiring crowd who were still chanting his name. He spat onto the sand, cast away his sica, and stalked out of the arena.
Carbo stayed in town long enough to attend Barbatus’ funeral. He found his friends’ grief-stricken widow, but could think of no words of comfort. He ensured that Mero and Blandinus had upheld their promises, then took his leave. He walked away from Vienne, with just his gladius, and his purse of money. He set his shoulders and got into a legionary’s rhythm of marching. It was still a long way to Rome.
Elissa the Priestess
In Watchmen of Rome, Elissa, priestess of the ancient Carthaginian gods, Lord Ba’al and Lady Tanit, harbours a hatred for the city of Rome and its citizens, and vows destruction on them all. This story tells us why.
AD 11, Carthage
Elissa knelt on the stone floor beside her father, Mago, and looked up at him. Soon it would be time for dinner, and her father would have to go to serve the master. Elissa knew that she too may be summoned, to dance or sing. Since her first flow, her master had started to take more of an interest in her, and her father had tried to prepare her for the day when he would take her to his bed. It wouldn’t be long, she realised, and the images it conjured made her shudder. She pushed the thought away and instead concentrated on her father’s deep, soothing voice.
Mago was recounting a familiar tale of their ancestors, the story of how Hannibal humiliated the Romans, at Cannae. He loved the military detail, but the tactics and formations and units bored her. Still, it was precious time in her father’s company, and it was the only time she saw his eyes light with pride. She took his hand as he reached the climax, the wings of Hannibal’s Carthaginian army enclosing the larger Roman army, and annihilating it.
Mago sighed. “Our ancestors, Elissa, were mighty once. They ruled the Middle Sea, and they made the Romans wet their beds in terror. Hannibal was the greatest, but he was let down by the scared old men in the Senate. And so our state was humbled, our city destroyed, our people massacred, the survivors scattered to the corners of the world. Most of the descendants of the Carthaginian race probably don’t even realise who their glorious forefathers were any more. But some of us remember. Some of us pass the tales down, from father and mother to son and daughter, even though we are humble slaves in the eyes of the Romans. Don’t ever forget Elissa. Keep the memory alive, that Carthage was once the greatest in the world. And that it was Rome that took that away.”
Elissa nodded, and gave her father’s hand a squeeze. The stories her father told warmed her heart, focused her mind on something that made her different, special, even during the mind-numbing drudgery of her domestic work, or through the beatings for real or fictitious misdemeanour.
Her father took a necklace from around his neck. She wondered for the rest of her life whether he had had some sort of premonition that day, that had prompted the action. He slipped it around her head, and she fingered the small amulet that hung from it, a little miniature of a woman with outstretched arms.
“This was your mother’s, Elissa. Like her mother before her, she was a priestess in the service of the divine Lady Tanit, Face of Ba’al.”
Elissa nodded. She remembered the tales her mother had told her of the divine couple, Lady Tanit and Lord Ba’al Hammon. Despite being a slave, her mother was able to continue presiding over the worship of Tanit, and Elissa has attended some of the meetings, the mysterious ceremonies fascinating the young girl. In the end, it had cost her mother’s life - the Master had beaten her to death in anger when once too often he required her presence and found she was occupied with her religious duties.
“Keep it safe, my beautiful girl, and when you look at it, remember your mother, and me, and remember Carthage.”
A bell sounded, and with a brief kiss on the top of Elissa’s head, Mago was gone. She moved to her bed, a straw mattress on wooden slats, and sat quietly. She looked around her at the plain walls, the small window high up providing the only light, the two beds the only furniture. This was where she spent her life, when she wasn’t at work, cleaning or sewing. Her thoughts drifted back to her father’s stories. What would it have been like to be a princess in the great city, with servants of her own, jewels, fine dresses, sumptuous delicacies to eat? What would it have been like, just to be free in your own city?
A wellspring of resentment rose up in her. It wasn’t fair. Curse the Romans. Roman mastery was all she had known, but she wanted more. A tear came to the corner of her eye.
She was interrupted by the door to her room being flung open without a knock. The household steward was there, Tegius, and he looked her up and down with an unashamedly lecherous eye. She knew she was becoming attractive to more than just her master, that her blooming looks were drawing th
e attention of all the males in the household.
“The master has requested a song, girl,” said Tegius. “Come.”
He strode out and Elissa hurried after him. She entered the dining room, and caught her father’s eye, who was standing behind the master, holding a plate of meats. He looked momentarily concerned to see her, but smiled at her encouragingly. She moved to the side of the room, and waited until she was acknowledged. There were only three diner’s tonight, the master, the mistress and a male friend who gossip informed her was a regular drinking buddy of the master. He was corpulent, large folds of fat hanging off his arms and neck, and the skin of his face had some sort of pustular infection afflicting it. A short time passed, as the three wealthy Romans talked, laughed and took morsels from the various plates offered them by the numerous serving slaves in the room.
“The stupid dolt just wanders his palace these days, crying ‘Varus, Varus, give me back my legions,’” said her master’s friend.
“Careful, Gnaeus. That stupid dolt is still our Emperor, and he would still have you strangled quietly in the jail if he heard you talk like that.”
“How would he hear? There are only three people in this room.”
Elissa gritted her teeth, but said nothing. She knew that many Romans considered that slaves were less than people.
“One day you will talk idly in the wrong company, and that will be the end of you.”
“Nonsense. Augustus is not what he once was. The Varian disaster has shrivelled him. He will not be long for this world, I wager.”
Elissa remembered the day her father had told her about the Varian disaster. Three legions of Romans had been slaughtered in a place far to the north called Germania, by a barbarian army. She could still remember the excitement in her father’s voice, the satisfaction at the Romans’ undoing. For some time there were even rumours that the Germans would descend on Rome itself. Maybe the whole Empire would fall, even here in Carthage and in soft, hopeful voices, the slaves whispered among themselves of liberation, of freedom.
