Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  Sure enough, the blurring attack threw Lupus and for the first time, the big German seemed unsure, stepping away again and backing across the sand, the shadowed eyes behind that black iron grille by necessity dancing about, trying to keep the business end of the trident in view and predict where it might strike from.

  And Leonidas struck.

  The big man was not prepared, for all his careful observation, for it was not the pointed ends upon which his eyes rested that struck, but the wooden butt-end, smashing hard into his knee from a sideswipe. The German grunted and staggered back.

  For a moment, as the crowd roared, Leonidas considered stepping further forward and trying to finish it, but that was too much of a gamble. Lupus might be able to recover quick enough to stop him and fight back – he’d shown such speed earlier. Instead, Leonidas settled for sweeping up his net into his free hand and dancing back again.

  Two moves used up, one which had proved a failure, the other for which Lupus would now be prepared. As he changed his grip on the rope, vaguely aware of the almost panicked, horrified look on lanista Sacratus’ face in the stands, suddenly the German launched an attack.

  It was an unexpected move, given how measured and staid the man had been to this point. But now he was running, and with the speed and bulk of a horse. Leonidas paused for a fraction of a heartbeat. He had to move out of the way, but the question was: where? If he stayed put, the monster would barge straight into him, and with such weight and armour that could well constitute a winning move. But the big bastard would also be expecting him to move and would change direction at the last moment. If Leonidas chose wrong, he might well leap straight into the German’s path.

  With a momentary prayer cast up to Nemesis – she who watches over gladiators – Leonidas leapt to his left and was rewarded as Lupus, already committed to turning the other way, had to suddenly re-adjust and missed Leonidas by a clear foot.

  As the big man hurtled past, the retiarius swung his net, catching the shield as it passed. Planting his feet firmly, Leonidas held tight to the net and as the German’s momentum carried him on, the force ripped the shield from his grip, the wooden square clattering to the floor, enmeshed in the net.

  Lupus slowed and recovered, shaking his shield arm, which could be broken, but was certainly paining him, and Leonidas, reacting to the crowd’s latest roar, bent and picked up the shield, holding it above his head in the net triumphantly before casting it across the sand, far away from the fight.

  As he turned, he was surprised to see Lupus coming at a run again already, determined to flatten him even without the shield with which to barge. Watching the big man, he felt certain the German would move the other way this time. And tensing, he waited ‘til the last moment, and then leapt. Again, Lupus thundered by, so close they almost touched. Again, Leonidas swung his net, and the weighted ropes fell across the crest of the German’s helmet. With a grin he prepared to yank on the ropes and pull the big man from his feet…

  But suddenly he was jerked from his own. Lupus had used his manoeuvre against him, grasping the net around him and holding tight as he ran, jerking the retiarius from his stance. There followed a violent flurry of action – mostly confused, for the fighters as well as for the crowd – as the two men, almost bound together with the net, struggled, stabbing at one another with sword and trident. Leonidas felt the tines bite flesh twice, but in that time, he’d taken two deep cuts and a shallow piercing from the German’s sword. He could feel the warm blood sluicing down his chest. Nothing critical – a few stitches after the bout. He did not feel weakness closing on him, and everything was still working as it should. But he’d not taken such a strike in a year or more.

  This monster was good!

  The rope was suddenly free but ripped from his hands, as Lupus cast it over the sand out of the way. Warily, the two men circled one another, the Greek swinging his trident in lazy arcs, the German brandishing his sword and looking for an opening. And as they circled, Leonidas was repeatedly treated to a view of those five faces: the procurator, leering and blood-hungry; the legate, seemingly bored, Tribune Longus brooding and possibly disgruntled that Leonidas was still upright; Sacratus silently urging him to lose; and Lupus’ owner, savagely insisting that his German monster ‘tear the Greek to pieces.’

  The roar of the fickle crowd began to diminish to a hum at this lack of blood and violence, the two men circling one another, and Leonidas was forced to take action once again, lancing out sharply with his trident. The points struck Lupus on his upper sword-arm, tearing into flesh, but jamming in the straps that held the protective plates on. Before he could retrieve it, Lupus had turned and brought his sharp blade down, neatly hacking off the trident’s business end about two feet from the points.

  Leonidas staggered back, clutching four feet of jagged wood as the big German took a single step towards him, bringing his sword up. This sudden development had enervated the crowd and they roared again, though this time in shock. Their local champion was net-less, and almost weaponless.

  Lupus struck.

  The attack was swifter even now than Leonidas had been expecting, and in half a heartbeat they were locked in a blurring, battering, spinning dance of death once more.

  Just as suddenly, it stopped.

  Leonidas rolled his eyes down. The very tip of Lupus’ sword rested between two of his ribs, just enough pressure applied to draw a pin-prick of blood. One good push and it would be the last fight Leonidas ever saw. Tempering this problem, though, was the fact that the jagged, sharply-broken tip of his trident haft rested just under the German’s chin, jammed up expertly beneath the caged visor over the man’s face. One good shove and the wooden shaft would separate a number of vital parts in the German’s neck.

  The crowd thundered its approval, the drumming of thousands of feet on the stands almost shaking the ground, drowning out whatever the officials were saying.

  And then the referee was there, next to them both.

  ‘Steady lads. No one dies until we hear from the boss.’

  From the angle the two men were at, locked in an immobile embrace, Leonidas could just see his lanista, bulge-eyed and in near apoplexy.

  Screw him!

  The roar of the crowd slowly died away as everyone waited on the edge of their seats to see what might happen next. A strange, eerie quiet descended upon the arena, broken only by the rasping of crows as they watched hungrily, hoping for a fresh meal.

  Something was happening near the procurator. Leonidas tried to swivel his eyes to see what was going on, and was surprised to note Lupus’ eyes, flashing dark within his iron cage, doing the same. The two men, without relinquishing their potential death blows, shifted very slightly so they could both see.

  The legate of the Twentieth was on his feet. The crowd clearly assumed he was waiting on the procurator, who was grinning like a small child on his naming day. The visiting official apparently believed so too. Leonidas, blessed with a different angle of view, frowned as he realised that the legate was actually looking into the darkness of the tunnel near the procurator. Whatever held his attention apparently passed and not in a favourable manner, for the legate assumed a sour look as his gaze shifted slightly to the government official. Strangely, as the legate focused on the procurator, Tribune Longus stepped back from the scene and slipped from sight.

  The procurator, apparently unconcerned, rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Let them both die,’ chortled Severus as he patted his knees in a jolly fashion.

  The referee gave the visiting official a look of severe disapproval, and turned back to the two fighters. ‘Sorry about this, lads, but as soon as that’s confirmed...’

  Leonidas felt his lip curl into a sneer at this foolish visiting procurator. The crowd were shocked into silence. Had the squat idiot really so little grip on what the people around him thought that he would kill two now-popular gladiators who had fought so well? Or did he simply not care? There would be an outcry!

  He was surprised wh
en a thickly German-accented voice rattled out hollowly from within that big helmet in neat hissed Latin.

  ‘Do it quickly.’

  ‘I’ll not place a blow until the editor confirms it,’ Leonidas replied more clearly, his eyes still on the legate.

  ‘Quite right,’ noted the referee, waiting.

  ‘The procurator wants us dead,’ Lupus grunted. ‘I will make it quick for you. You do the same for me.’

  Leonidas nodded slowly, angry to the core at Nemesis that it should end thus. Angry at himself for underestimating Lupus, when he could have killed him quickly if he’d been better prepared. Angry at Lupus for being so quick. Angry at the procurator for his idiocy. But most of all, still angry at lanista Sacratus for expecting him to take a dive. Even now the man was gesturing for him to fall, his eyes flashing back and forth between the pair in the arena and the empty seat where so recently the legionary tribune had sat.

  The two men tensed.

  ‘What say the people of Deva?’ the legate asked, throwing out his arms expansively. The procurator snapped an angry glare at the legionary commander, but the legate ignored him entirely as the amphitheatre erupted in a deafening roar.

  ‘Mitte! Miiiiiitte!’

  Mitte. Release. The gift of life from an appreciative crowd. There were a few blood-curdling calls for ‘iugula’, but they were resoundingly crushed beneath the weight of the mercy of Deva’s populace.

  Leonidas nodded slightly to his opponent. A draw. A good one for the record; certainly better than a fall! And this one would be remembered for some time. Even Lupus’ lanista was nodding his appreciation, though Sacratus’ eyes held the promise of fury and bile. The foul-tempered procurator was silently shaking with rage, aiming every ounce of venom he could muster at the legate, who was smiling knowingly back at him.

  ‘Mitte it is,’ announced the legate with a sweep of his arms, and the referee gave the pair the signal to part company, but the procurator was on his feet now, bellowing ‘iugula’ and pointing an angry finger. The crowd erupted in argument, some hungering for death, prompted by the procurator’s shout, though many still yelling for mercy. The legate was frowning as though weighing up the options.

  ‘Iugula!’ bellowed the procurator again angrily, and the crowd were starting to tip that way, the low hum of the iugula beginning to submerge the life-giving cries for mitte.

  Were they really going to die because the editor couldn’t make up his mind?

  Leonidas took a deep breath and carefully slid the wooden shaft out from the German’s helmet visor. Lupus displayed an aura of surprise despite the grille that hid most of his face. The procurator was spitting out his command now. ‘Iugula! Iugula! Iugulaaaaa!’

  But Leonidas cast his broken trident to the sand and turned a challenging gaze on the legate, who nodded slowly and then looked sharply at the procurator. The crowd were cheering Leonidas again now. Fickle, they were. Easy to play.

  ‘The decision has been made,’ the legate announced. ‘Mitte!’

  The referee repeated the command, and Lupus allowed the tip of his blade to fall away from Leonidas’ flesh, then reached up and began to unfasten his helmet, Leonidas blew out a tense breath.

  ‘Stupid match. Nobles wanting blood for blood’s sake, despite the crowd. My lanista told me I had to take a dive, too.’

  The German dropped his helmet to the sand, a hairless head and bristly chin showing up a pale but expressive face, which displayed perplexity and suspicion. His fingers were still whitened round the grip of his sword.

  ‘My lanista said you would be an easy victory. You are not. But if you had fallen on purpose I would have killed you with or without permission. Why did you risk your neck to end the fight?’

  Leonidas shrugged. ‘We shouldn’t die because of two men arguing.’

  Lupus frowned. ‘We die when we are told to. I go where I am sent. I fight whoever I am told to fight. I kill and I kill and I kill, and one day I will have killed enough.’

  ‘Maybe for you. I’m an entertainer, not a puppet. But no longer am I an entertainer here. I sure as shit am cancelling my contract with the Deva ludus. Time to move on.’

  With a smile, he reached out an arm, and the big German clasped it tight, looking slightly befuddled as though he had never done such a thing and never expected to do so.

  ‘Go safe.’

  ‘And you,’ Lupus grunted hesitantly.

  Leonidas stepped back, turned, and offered the appropriate bows to the procurator, who ignored him, casting seething looks at the legate, and to the army commander, who acknowledged him in passing only, then to his own lanista, who was gone, scurrying for the gate of life, for which Leonidas was also making.

  The two guards threw the gate open for the weary retiarius, and Leonidas strode from the light and sand into the dim, faintly damp interior of the tunnel. At the far end the gate stood closed, but at the sound of the retiring gladiator, the guards began to unfasten the lock and open the gates.

  Halfway along the tunnel stood the lanista, Sacratus, with one of his biggest bruisers at his shoulder. Leonidas felt anger welling up in him, but the sheer tiredness of it all and the fact that he needed several stitches and bathing and binding drained much of his ire.

  ‘Leave it alone, Sacratus. I haven’t the energy.’

  The lanista stepped out to block the wide corridor, a bag in his hand, his face puce with fury. Leonidas’ shrewd gaze fell on the container, which swung with pendulous weight. The ludus’ income for the day, hence the big bastard at his shoulder. Why was the moron carrying it in public? That was just asking to be mugged and relieved of it. Perhaps he should oblige?

  ‘You idiot,’ Sacratus snapped, indicating the bag. ‘You see what we made today? And it could have been more than double this if you’d not defied me. But now, instead, I have a meeting tomorrow morning with the tribune, who’ll probably try to pull off my legs, like a kid with a spider, and all because of your stubborn, stupid pride!’

  ‘I’m closing our contract early. Keep my fee.’

  Sacratus’ eyes bulged. ‘You’ll do no such thing. You will accept a beating from Gaius here and you will thank me for it, because a gladiator does not have the luxury of disobeying his lanista whether he be a slave or a free man. I damn well will keep your fee, but I will not accept the closure of the contract! You will continue to fight for the entire season as your contract demands, and I will make you regret your defiance today. You may not be a slave, Leonidas of Sparta, but you are MINE by contract, and you will suffer more than any slave ever…’

  Leonidas didn’t really mean to react as he did, for all the anger coursing through him. His intention had been to ignore the man and leave. But even before he even realised he’d done it, his hand had lashed out, slightly cupped as though delivering a reprimanding blow to a disobedient slave. The slap was hard enough that the sound echoed along the passage and powerful enough that it lifted the lanista from his feet and hurled him against the wall.

  Gaius, the bruiser, leapt into action immediately, his ham-sized fist swinging for Leonidas’ head. The gladiator ducked the blow easily, though the act drew from him a hiss of pain due to the various cuts on his torso as he did so. As Gaius over-stretched, the retiarius jabbed out hard with his elbow, driving the breath from the big man in an instant and sending him to the floor, huffing urgently.

  Leonidas straightened, his eyes hard. Sacratus leaned back against the wall, a huge mark already showing on his cheek, red and turning purple. He moved his jaw experimentally and winced.

  ‘You…’

  ‘Shut up, Sacratus, you vomit-sack.’ Acting on the spur of the moment, Leonidas swept out his hand and snatched the huge bag of coins from the lanista, who reached out urgently to retrieve it, but shrank back as Leonidas pulled his hand up, offering a repeat blow.

  ‘Consider our contract ended and think yourself lucky you’re still in one piece. I’ll call this my severance. Be grateful I haven’t severed you!’

  A
nd with a last warning glance at the lanista, Leonidas slung the heavy bag of coins over his shoulder and strode along the tunnel, out through the far gate and into the afternoon sun.

  His mind wandered back a matter of months. He had almost taken up an offer from the Isca ludus down in the south west, but had plumped for Deva as new, unknown territory. He was fairly certain he would still be welcome in Isca Silurum, which was perhaps a week away by foot.

  Yes… definitely time to move on.

  4. THE ASSASSIN

  Earlier that morning.

  Attius Celer crossed the courtyard of the headquarters building swiftly. The sun was barely cresting the horizon at this point and torches still illuminated the complex, and Celer noted with interest two doorways already glowing with occupation. The camp prefect’s office to the left was no revelation, the senior officer being known as something of a night owl. The other was more surprising, though. What could be so urgent as to have a tribune up so early? Particularly Flavius Longus – oily easterner from deepest Anatolia, marginally competent officer, borderline criminal, and runt with his head jammed so far up Legate Viator’s backside that he could watch him eat from the inside.

  He did not like Longus. But, in his defence, no one liked Longus. Through his dozen years in the Twentieth, Celer had moved about a deal and worked alongside some loathsome specimens, but none of them had held a candle to Longus. More corrupt than a quartermaster, less trustworthy than a snake: Flavius Longus. But still a ranking officer with the authority to pound Celer into the ground if he so wished. And, moreover, untouchable due to his close ties to the legate. Not a man to cross.