Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  He had flatly refused to take Facilis – or any of the legion’s men – with him to the games that day and, with narrowed eyes, had assigned him instead to accompany one of his rodent-like censors on a survey of the lead mines of the district.

  The censor had barely said a dozen words to him all day and even then only when necessary, and it had quickly become apparent that, just like his master, this little rat of a man held no trust for Facilis. Justifiably so, of course, but still it made the job difficult.

  ‘How far?’ the censor asked.

  ‘Atop that hill there are three concerns owned by a merchant in Deva but crewed by settled Deceangli from the old fort hereabouts,’ he replied. ‘Don’t expect a warm welcome, though. Word of your notices in the market will have spread quickly.’

  The censor simply shrugged as though the matter were none of his concern, and focussed on the wax tablet he carried which contained all the estimated figures to check against the source. Facilis sighed. After the past few days – and missing what had apparently been a rather special match of gladiators – he was about ready to give up on all this baby-sitting officials business. Better to be up in the northern mountains with those absent cohorts, building forts while under constant threat of attack by painted tribesmen, than here with this rodent.

  He cocked his head to one side.

  Perhaps that thought had been a little hasty…

  There it was again.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ he murmured quietly, his pace slowing. ‘Let’s go find shelter. They’re building an outpost fortlet along the valley. We can stop there for the night.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ the censor sneered, throwing a weaselly look at him. ‘We have plenty of time to do this mountain. Then we can return to Deva and likely not bother checking any others, so long as the expected figures tie up here.’

  Facilis tried to flash a warning with his expression.

  ‘It… might… be… better… to… find… shelter,’ he said with exaggerated slowness.

  ‘Nonsense. On we go.’

  The rock came out of nowhere, glancing off the little man’s pate and scraping off the flap of hair plastered across the bald top. Stunned, his scalp bleeding, the censor reeled.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That was trouble. An answer to your master’s taxes.’

  And now the figures were emerging from the undergrowth by the side of the track – miners and workers hefting tools threateningly. It was heartening to know that he had not misjudged the locals, but Facilis was not about to try and play mediator for these idiots against an angry mob. Of course, he still had the legate’s scroll. If he could get them to stop and listen…

  A rock whipped past his ear and as he shook his head he could swear he heard a woman’s voice in good Latin shout ‘run!’ What was he thinking? Any promotion that might ride on his actions now no longer relied on being deferential and protective to the procurator’s staff.

  He was running before another stone bounced off the censor’s skull, sending the man sprawling to the ground. Pelting off down the track, churning up gravel as he ran back towards the valley below, Facilis watched over his shoulder the mass of miners and labourers pour onto the road and crowd around the lone kneeling figure of the official, whose hands came up in supplication. Facilis averted his gaze as the axe fell.

  That was it, then.

  The first blow.

  And if it had started here in these hills, there was every chance other groups were rising elsewhere: dockers, fishermen, quarrymen… especially the salt workers. Now all he could do was to get to the relative safety of the fortlet and warn them.

  The uprising had begun.

  3. THE GLADIATOR

  The previous day.

  Leonidas stood at the heavy wooden gates, leaning close to the crack, his roving eye picking out whatever detail it could in the narrow field of vision. The sand was rucked into miniature dunes and trenches from the last fight. As he watched, two of the legionaries, earning a few extra denarii by serving for the day at the arena, stumped past with a stretcher bearing the form of a thraex gladiator with a vicious belly wound. Two of the boys from the settlement outside the fortress walls moved around the arena, raking the sticky, darkened sand flat and scattering fresh atop it from a bag.

  The fight – the last of the seven separate introductory bouts before the main event – had not taken long, though the thraex was no real loss, so his owner wouldn’t mind. The gladiator may have looked good enough to the crowd, but Leonidas had seen the man come in to the Deva ludus less than two weeks ago. He’d been a career criminal, but little more than a thug with a knife and Leonidas had instantly dismissed the man. It would take years to turn him into an effective fighter, into a champion. Sacratus did this from time to time: a cheap showy thug he could dress up like a champion and have butchered for the delight of the crowds without suffering a true financial blow to his school.

  Leonidas couldn’t see the victor, but it would be Segovax the hoplomachus, one of the ludus’ most successful and popular fighters. And Segovax was a true showman, champion material if Leonidas hadn’t eclipsed him. He’d have let the cheap thraex come close a few times, made him look good and danced around before he cut him down.

  ‘Leonidas?’

  The retiarius gladiator turned, still leaning on the trident that was one of the main tools of his bloody trade, the weighted net that was the other hanging from his loose fingers. Julius Sacratus, the owner of the Deva gladiator stable, and his current master, stood with his hands on his hips a little way along the tunnel.

  ‘Sacratus?’

  There was something uncomfortable about Sacratus’ manner. He looked almost… nervous? Leonidas’ eyes narrowed. It was also extremely unusual to see the man down here in the underbelly of the amphitheatre without his personal slave and at least two guards. Yet here he was in the dim, chilly tunnel alone.

  Of course, he wouldn’t fear Leonidas. Not the way most lanistae feared the killers in their stables, anyway, in memory of the great slave war led by that Thracian dog Spartacus. For Leonidas was no slave, ripping at his shackles, desperate to overthrow a despotic master. Leonidas the Greek was a career fighter, contracting himself for seasons at a time to a ludus. His purse may be light, but the bulk of his earnings now lay in property – a couple of insulae in Camulodunum and a farmstead out in the hills near Calleva. Even by the standards of the mercantile class in Britannia, Leonidas was far from poor. The time would come when he would fight no more, and become a man of leisure on his estate. But not yet.

  Not yet.

  ‘The crowd sounds restless.’

  Sacratus nodded, again with a hint of nerves. Strange.

  ‘The procurator is getting the peoples’ backs up with announced tax rises. Shouldn’t bother us, eh?’ The lanista gave a greasy smile.

  ‘What is it, Sacratus?’

  ‘I’ve been in discussion with the tribune who’s organised the day’s events.’

  Leonidas shrugged. The Twentieth Legion owned the amphitheatre, manned the fortress, effectively ruled in this region and their legate was personally – financially – responsible for today’s games in honour of the visiting procurator. As such, the man had invested heavily in today, and it was natural for such an officer to delegate to his lessers.

  Sacratus shuffled uneasily again. ‘Tribune Longus has asked me to arrange that…’ his voice dropped to little more than a whisper, ‘…that you lose the fight.’

  Leonidas blinked.

  ‘A joke?’

  ‘Hardly, Leonidas. Think how I feel. I almost broke my ludus paying the exorbitant fee to take you on for the year. You’re not cheap.’

  ‘The best never is.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that’s how it stands. Someone important has a lot riding on you to win, I understand, and the tribune wishes his wager to fail, so you are to lose the fight.’ He straightened and strengthened his tone with some difficulty. ‘That is my desire.’

  �
��Tripe. The tribune asked you. Say no.’

  ‘You don’t understand. When Tribune Longus asks you to do something, you cannot say no. My business would dwindle to a memory within a month if he decided not to let me use the amphitheatre, or – Gods forbid – even actively took against me. The man’s well known for his tyranny. I don’t know why he wants you to lose, and he didn’t say you couldn’t look good doing it, but you have to fall. Just a flesh wound. Not a death blow, of course.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Leonidas, this is not a request. You’ll do it, because you get paid to do what I say. And if you defy me, you effectively break your contract. No other lanista will hire you on. Your reputation will suffer.’

  ‘Not as much as it would from falling in the sand.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve seen this German. He’s a beast! It’ll be no shame going down to him. The man’s a damned ox in a helmet.’

  Leonidas paused for a moment, his mind’s eye furnishing him with an image of the murmillo gladiator who had been brought in specially to face him but who he’d not yet seen, the day’s prime pairing having been excused from the opening parade to maintain the highest sense of anticipation. They said he was big and fearsome, but then they said that about most gladiators.

  From beyond the gate, a new noise began to insist itself upon them: the rhythmic chanting of several thousand people.

  ‘Leo – ni – das! Leo – ni – das! Leo – ni – das!’

  ‘My public awaits. The crowd are restless. Can you imagine what they’ll do if I throw a fight?’

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish, Leonidas,’ the lanista threw him a glance of warning. ‘The tribune will make it worth my while, and I’ll carry you the same courtesy. A bonus for doing it right. Consider this your last friendly warning.’

  Leonidas turned his back on the lanista, whose eyes he could feel boring into his shoulders. Outside the chant had become deafening, accompanied by the rhythmic thump of feet on the stands. The announcements were being made, though they were barely audible over the crowd. Suddenly, the gates were thrown open, the light blinding after the gloom of the tunnel, even on a faintly overcast day.

  As Leonidas’ eyes adjusted to the glare, he stepped forward, his stride measured and strong. Despite himself, he threw a quick glance back over his shoulder and could almost see the tension emanating in waves from the lanista in the dark tunnel. And then the gates were shut behind him and all thought of Sacratus was gone. Nothing mattered now – nothing existed – but the crowd, the sand and the opponent.

  Leonidas let loose what he knew to be his most winning smile and twirled three small jaunty circles to the approving roar of the crowd. He knew how to play the game with the best of them. He could hear the announcer reeling off his details for a crowd who were too busy baying for blood to care that this was his nineteenth public fight – a record at least in this part of the world, and with only three losses and two draws in all those appearances.

  He gave his leg a half-lift, so that his tan-coloured, fringed loin cloth rode up to the groin, earning him a fresh chorus of whoops from the females in the crowd. His wide leather belt gleamed, freshly oiled, and the arm protection twinkled with the metallic dust he had sprinkled among the folds in the padding to catch the light, the red and gold streamers hanging from it glorious and bright.

  As he reached the centre of the arena, he brandished his trident high in the air and gave a sweep of his weighted net with a flourish and a grin.

  Encouraging the crowd was half the battle. If it came down to that moment that every gladiator would sooner or later face, it was the mood of the crowd and their affection for a fighter that usually decided whether he live or die.

  But there comes a moment when even the most incorrigible of gladiators must bow to the fact that he is not the only man on display that day and, as the announcer waited patiently, tapping a stick on the wall top, the crowd gradually subsided.

  ‘Facing our own Leonidas, brought at great expense from the renowned ludus of Camulodunum for your entertainment… and your fear… two hundred pounds of cannibal killer from the haunted forests of Germania… Lupus!’

  The gates at the far side of the arena were thrown wide by the two guards and a figure emerged at a slow, heavy pace. Lupus lived up to the introduction. A big man with enormous shoulders and powerful arms, the German was dressed and belted in a similar fashion to Leonidas, though in black and red, with a black and red shield and a gleaming black iron helmet that completely hid his face within a dark cage, a crimson crest rising from the top. Lupus’ sword was no showy item either, but a utilitarian blade. A killer’s weapon. The man stomped across the sand, silent, not even acknowledging the crowd watching him breathlessly. The only sound was the background hum of nature and several thousand held breaths.

  Lupus stopped perhaps twenty feet from Leonidas and turned his head once to each side, as though sizing up the crowd and deciding who to eat. In a demonic, dark, hollow voice from inside the helm, he simply roared ‘Luuuupuuuuuuuus!’ and then fell silent, watching Leonidas.

  The Greek retiarius rolled his shoulders. Between that solid helmet, the darkened laminated arm plates and the large square shield, Lupus would be difficult to strike. Not impossible, though, and while big men were strong and resilient, they were also usually slow and predictable.

  The silence was cut through by four short blasts from the horn beside the announcer.

  The referee walked forth to urge them to fight, but Leonidas was no novice, and was already moving, stepping slowly to his right, continually shifting his grip on the trident, his other hand swinging the net in small circles.

  Lupus took a single step forward, his head tilting to the side in a curious fashion, and Leonidas narrowed his eyes and shifted slightly closer. Was Lupus testing him? He had no love of the idea of rushing in for the first blow, and usually a heavier-armoured opponent would make the first move, aware that time was on the side of the man carrying less weight. But Lupus simply stood there like some sort of dark statue.

  The answer struck Leonidas out of the blue. He was already beloved of the Deva crowd. Lupus was an unknown and presented to them in the manner of a villain. Every passing moment of inaction stripped a tiny amount of support from Leonidas but did no harm to the reputation of this German killer. Clever…

  Taking a steadying breath, the retiarius made the first move, as he now knew he had to, and soon before the crowd started to shout their displeasure.

  Relying on the speed of his muscular legs, he took two loping paces further left, bringing Lupus a half-turn to keep his opponent in sight, but then, suddenly, he reversed, leaping back to the right as he swung the net with a slight increase in power and cast it smoothly.

  The net closed over Lupus’ head, the weights all around its edge dragging it down over the big man, some of them – specially sharpened – drawing lines and nicks of red from the German’s exposed flesh.

  The crowd let out a belated roar, caught off guard by the suddenness of the manoeuvre, but the retiarius was still moving. As Lupus reacted, turning back with some difficulty, entrapped within his net, Leonidas was already lunging with the trident.

  It should have been over in that moment, for he had seen that small opening and struck for it – the gap between the huge encompassing helmet and the shoulder armour, the trident narrow and long and capable of sliding through the holes in the net. How many times had he finished the unwary with a stab to that delicate place at the base of the neck, the tines of his trident digging deep into flesh, muscle and tendon and then snapping them as he yanked it back, recovering?

  Any one of the other men who had fought here today – Segovax the showman included – would be down already, clutching at his neck and chest, trying to hold snaking tendons together with blood-slick fingers.

  Somehow, against all odds, the German had managed to raise his shield and turn the blow aside. The shield was, of course, weighed down and encumbered with the heavy, weighted net, and only t
he strongest of giants should be able to lift it that easily.

  Leonidas suddenly found himself reappraising his enemy. Lupus was fast. And clever, too. For a brief moment, he considered that his argument with the lanista might have been a moot point, since Lupus looked like being the first person he’d met in two or three years who might be able to put him down, and quickly.

  As he yanked back his trident, Lupus took three steps back, ducking, using his own shield above his head to slip out from under the net.

  Leonidas saw another chance in that moment, as the big German held his shield above him, bare flesh open to attack. Three steps forward and he was lunging again. This time, while Lupus still managed to dodge the blow, it was much closer, and Leonidas followed up with three, and then four, quick stabs, driving the bigger man back across the sand.

  But for all his falling back, Lupus was far from beaten. In fact, he had managed to hook his big boot into the net and dragged it back with him, keeping it out of Leonidas’ reach.

  The retiarius looked around the arena for a moment. The crowd were shouting and cheering, thumping their hands and stamping their feet. The referee was calling out steadying words to the pair. A short, ugly man who could only be the visiting procurator sat in a sector of seating by one of the access tunnels, the area around him clear of other populace, a bunch of mercenaries keeping him and half a dozen cronies free of peasants. The legate sat in a similar position at the opposite side, the slick, shady shape of Tribune Longus close by, his eyes hooded and pensive.

  And by the gate of life, through which the victor would leave the sand, sat the lanista, chewing his nails as he watched. As the man noticed that Leonidas was looking at him, he made the tiniest, subtlest gestures to suggest a dying man. Leonidas’ resolve hardened, all the more so as he saw Lupus’ owner bearing a savage grin.

  With a fractional shift of weight on his feet, Leonidas launched into his signature move, of which Lupus would not be aware, new to this place as he was. Despite the loss of his net, Leonidas ran at the big German, confident that he was no pushover, his trident now constantly moving, twirling in both hands so that, as he ran, sometimes the tines were presented to Lupus, and sometimes the butt-end, the tip flashing out left or right seemingly randomly. Unpredictable. No rhythm. It had taken almost a year to perfect a method of such an attack without having to memorise a list of specific manoeuvres.