Eagles of the Damned

by David Black

  The crowd hushed as the marching column finished its parade and halted before the Senator’s box. Turning towards him they raised up their weapons in a display of respect for the noble Patrician. When the Senator nodded his acceptance of their salute, with their weapons still held aloft, together they roared as one.

  ‘We who are about to die salute you!’

  A sudden and eerie silence descended on the arena for just a few seconds, and then the crowd erupted. A cacophony of whistling and stamping feet filled the arena as the people cheered the courage of the men below, and chanted the name of the Senator who had paid so generously for their coming entertainment.

  Senator Varus stood beaming with pleasure and raised one hand slowly in grateful acknowledgement of their applause. Eager to continue, the roar and chanting of the crowd quickly subsided as they noticed the elderly Patrician had risen to his feet.

  Delighted with the splendour and pomp of the opening ceremony, still grinning broadly he gave the order all had waited for.

  ‘In the name of our beloved Emperor... Let the games begin!’

  * * * * *

  Senator Varus sipped thoughtfully from a chilled goblet of wine as he watched the two men standing in salute before him in the arena. It was the last event and the sand beneath their feet was stained with the blood of the fallen from bouts which had already been fought. They had been mere warm up fights, and he thought like many of the cheering crowd, had only added to the wonderful spectacle and rich atmosphere of the final event. Relaxed and happy that his money had been well spent and the day had thus far enthralled the crowds who filled the arena, Varus chatted amiably with those around him.

  ‘This last bout promises to be the best fight of all.’ He said knowingly. ‘I have it on good authority that the net man has fought well in previous fights. One day it is said that the Gaul might well become a champion and perhaps even earn his Rudis.’

  The Rudis was a wooden sword which was the ultimate prize dreamt of by every man who entered the deadly arena. The wooden sword was a ticket to freedom. It was presented only rarely to the very best gladiators who had entertained the crowds for years and fought well enough to be considered worthy of release from slavery, and the arena.

  ‘But what of his opponent I ask?’ One of the Senator’s guests enquired. ‘He looks a powerful beast that may well make your future champion’s victory elusive.’

  Varus was dismissive. Imperiously he waved away the idea and laughed.

  ‘A last minute replacement I am told, hardly worthy of consideration.’

  The merchant rose to the bait. ‘I don’t know so much, he looks suspiciously like he has known combat before.’

  Senator Varus grinned slyly at his guest.

  ‘Do I sense disagreement and perhaps even a small wager on your mind Lootus?’

  The slave merchant smiled.

  ‘Far be it for me to take the money of our much loved Patrician.’ He shrugged with mock sadness as he added. ‘But in my world coin is coin...wherever you find it?’

  Those sitting around the two men on their silken cushions leaned forward and smiled to each other. This might prove an interesting sideshow to the main entertainment.

  Senator Varus nodded. ‘True...true, Lootus my friend. Would perhaps a hundred gold denarii be too much for an impertinent trader in flesh, who thinks he knows more about the arena than me?’

  Appalled by such a large amount, the merchant’s face palled. He had expected at most to risk a small purse of silver. In an ill-considered moment having freely imbibed of the Senator’s excellent wine during the morning he had trapped himself, surrounded as he was by his peers. He could not lose face in front of so many wealthy and highly placed members of Roman society who often bought slaves from him. To do so would certainly make him appear a fool in their eyes and certainly cost him valuable future trade by refusing the bet. He had no choice but to look as if it were a small thing. Lootus shrugged and spoke dismissively, cementing the lie that it was a trivial matter. Suppressing a sudden hiccup he grandly declared.

  ‘I gladly accept your wager Publius Quinctilius Varus. I place one hundred gold denarii on the mystery man with the sword!’

  Keeping his trident thrust forward, the Gaul swung his net above his head as he slowly circled, looking for the slightest sign of weakness in his opponent. When the gladiator’s eyes strayed or betrayed the slightest sign of fear that would be the instant he would launch his first attack. But for now, he must continue to be patient, circle his enemy...and watch him closely.

  A survivor of many savage bouts in the arena, he had spilt the blood of men to survive. It gave him no pleasure to slaughter strangers, who were also fighting for their lives, but the Gaul wanted to live and only one man would take the adoring applause of the crowd and walk from the arena to live another day.

  The Gaul’s practiced eye knew instantly the man circling him was no novice. He had faced untrained criminals and terrified slaves in the ring before as he climbed the rankings, but this was no wretched prisoner sentenced by a Magistrate to die on the sand. Beneath his helmet, only the man’s dark unwavering eyes were visible and they were locked with his. Worn cross belts of brown leather adorned the unknown gladiator’s chest. His physique was heavy yet for a big man he moved almost gracefully. To the Gaul’s growing consternation his powerfully built opponent held his curved Thracian sword balanced perfectly in his hand like a true professional.

  Suddenly flinging his open net like a fisherman of the seas the Gaul pounced. With no sign of weakness, he decided at that moment surprise would be a useful weapon in his opening move. He followed the spinning net by lunging forward with his trident, but it was a bad mistake.

  Lightly sidestepping the flying net, the gladiator parried away the prongs of the trident, to the delight of the cheering crowd and horror of Senator Varus. The unknown gladiator spun a full circle on one well balanced foot and slashed down at the overbalanced net man as he blundered past.

  The razor sharp blade sliced unto the Gaul’s shoulder but the speed of his momentum and his other armoured shoulder saved him from serious injury. The Gaul roared with pain and surprise as his opponent danced lightly away to access the bleeding wound.

  In the Senator’s box Lootus the slave merchant watched the match with glee. His voice was beginning to slur as he crowed triumphantly.

  ‘I think I have backed the dark horse of the day Senator. I’m sure if you wish to call off the wager I will hold no ill feelings.’

  For a moment Varus glared at the slave merchant then quickly returned his attention to the arena.

  Below them, the two fighters had returned to the deadly ballet of cautiously circling. The Gaul winced as he flexed his injured shoulder. The pain was bearable but he knew he was losing blood. He had seen the effect on men he had toyed with before killing in the past. As their blood ran freely his wounded opponents had became weaker and slower, making them easier to finish when he judged the crowd and the moment to be ready. If he was to survive, he knew he must strike fast and end this quickly.

  Above the Senator’s box, Arminius and the other boys watched the men’s movements intently. Obligatory military service loomed at the end of their education and swordplay was already part of their training. They had all suffered many a purple bruise while practicing against each other with heavy wooden swords. So far the boys had treated their combat lessons as little more than a painful game, but now they could clearly see blood running down the net man’s back. The game of swords had suddenly lost its childhood status and became very real to them all.

  Arminius enjoyed an advantage over some of his classmates. Several of the hostages came from foreign Royal Courts. Before being taken, they had enjoyed privileged backgrounds where slaves catered for their every whim, whereas even as a young boy, through the necessity of survival in the wild forests of his homeland, his father and closest kinsmen had taught him the basics of hunting and the use of both sword and dagger.

  The Ga
ul Arminius judged to be nothing more than a mindless brute. Slow and clumsy, the man relied on his physical power whereas the other man....There was something oddly comforting and familiar about his lithe movements. With the crowds roaring and clapping around him, he shrugged off the feeling and went back to watching the fight.

  In the heat and stink of the arena, the two men were now sweating freely. After several unsuccessful attacks by both combatants the Gaul knew he was in trouble. Try as he might, he could not get close enough to land a killing blow. As blood ran down his legs and dripped onto the sand behind him he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He had taken wounds before in combat and knew his opponent was waiting, as he had done, for the moment to close and kill him. In desperation he lunged forward. Feinting towards his opponent’s groin with a sudden and powerful thrust he changed direction a moment before impact, thrusting up at the gladiator’s throat. The trick almost worked but a split second before he plunged the razor sharp prongs into his opponent’s neck, the gladiator pulled his head to one side. One of the prongs nicked the man’s neck as it sliced through the leather strap securing the helmet under his chin. Momentarily blinded as the heavy helmet flew from his head, the gladiator couldn’t see the Gaul closing on him. As both men crashed together, the Gaul landed a savage punch to the back of the gladiator’s neck.

  Stunned by the powerful impact of the illegal blow, the gladiator’s sword flew from his hand as he dropped to his knees. With a triumphant roar the Gaul reached down, scooping up a handful of dry sand. In one fluid movement he hurled it in an explosion of dust and grit into the gladiator’s eyes.

  In a deafening mixture of cheering and catcalls, the crowd were on their feet. Not everyone had seen the rabbit punch. Most thought simply that the Gaul had got the upper hand, but some sharper eyed spectators loudly whistled their disapproval. There weren’t many rules governing mortal combat bouts, but the Gaul had broken one of the most sacred which stated that gladiators must always fight to the death with honour.

  Still raging, the Gaul kicked the blinded gladiator onto his back. As the sweating Gaul planted a sandaled foot on the Gladiator’s chest, he held the prongs of his trident to his fallen opponent’s throat. Turning his head away he looked up expectantly towards the aging Patrician’s box.

  Senator Varus was on his feet, smiling and clapping delightedly at the outcome of the fight. To add to his pleasure, he had publically won his wager with the drunken flesh pedlar who was sitting sour faced and sullen close beside him.

  Lootus silently fumed. The Gaul had won illegally but what was the point of complaining? No-one else in the box seemed to have noticed how the Gaul had won his victory and a fuss would look like an attack of sour grapes and forever tarnish his all-important reputation as a bad loser in the eyes of the others.

  In fact, all had seen the blow, but they were the Patrician’s guests and had no desire to upset such a powerful ally, especially over the death of a common slave in the arena.

  The crowd hushed expectantly for the coming moment of truth. Still standing, Senator Varus held his right arm horizontally towards the centre of the arena. His fist was clenched. If he raised his thumb, the fallen gladiator lived, but he thought there might be contention behind his back afterwards as to whether his Gaul had actually won fairly if he was merciful. No, he thought to himself, there could only be one satisfactory decision, which apart from Lootus would keep everyone happy. Staring haughtily to his left and right he slowly cast his gaze across the hushed and expectant crowd. Suddenly, his mind made up, he plunged his extended thumb down to show his decision. Death!

  The crowd erupted once again as the Gaul rammed the trident into his opponent’s neck, killing him instantly.

  Amongst the cheering delighted crowd, apart from Lootus, only one other spectator looked on with anguish. Arminius had known the truth in a blinding instant when the gladiator’s helmet had fallen from his head. Memories of happier times of sunlight and laughter had flashed back in that moment, when he first gazed upon his noble uncle Attilus lying dazed and blinded on the arena floor.

  * * * * *

  It was well after midnight, the ravages of the previous day’s heat were consigned to memory. It was much cooler now in the dormitory where the boys slept. Some snored softly in the darkness, others made odd sounds as they slumbered fitfully beneath their blankets. Sleep continued to elude Arminius; only he remained awake, breathing softly in his despair as he stared in silence at the plaster ceiling above. His troubled mind picked over the stark and hideous images of his uncle’s last moments on the blood-stained sand of the arena floor.

  Laying silently on his pallet other memories long since buried began to churn back into his mind. Arminius shut his eyes, rubbing his tired eyelids with gentle fingers to expunge the powerful images which kept forming so vividly before him. But all attempts to wipe away his memories failed. His crying mother’s face flooded his mind, quickly replaced with the cruel expression of the teacher who most often beat him so cruelly. He saw his dog being butchered without reason and the face of the laughing legionary who held his bloody sword aloft over his beloved pet’s body. But most of all, he pictured the grinning face of Senator Varus as he gave the signal to finish uncle Attilus.

  Arminius struggled to find a single culprit for the gnawing misery and hatred that was consuming him. Was there an individual to blame, guilty of everything which made him so very angry and unhappy?

  The answer he knew was certainly no.

  For over four years the Romans had turned his existence into abject and almost unbearable misery, filled with pain, heartache and homesickness. The arena had been the defining moment which made everything suddenly converge into sharp focus in the young boy’s troubled mind as he lay still on his bed in the dead of night. No individual or incident was the focal point of the overwhelming hatred which had suddenly ignited inside him. It burned white hot, fanned by the flawed concept of empire which surrounded him, a belief system devoid of humanity, a corrupt and decadent society where life was held worthless. The blood of his ancestors seemed one moment to boil and rage inside him, and then as suddenly run cold as ice through his veins. A merciless desire fell upon him to strike out and avenge himself against his true enemy... Imperial Rome.

  But how could he, just a boy make such a powerful Empire tremble and pay for their cruelty and arrogance? Arminius’s mind churned as it sought answers.

  In the stillness of the dormitory he found the strength to overcome his despair. Something came to him. He must take his time and think things through carefully. To survive the future and the ordeal of his childhood he must appear to become one of them. He suddenly remembered his father’s face on that cold winter’s morning and something his father had said to him during their last moments together. Memories tickled at him as they faded in and out of his mind. Somewhere he thought; somehow there had to be a way.

  Chapter 3

  Months became years as Arminius continued his life as a prisoner of Rome. Time passed slowly, but he grew tall and strong as his adolescence slipped away.

  Arminius had chosen to fight them in his own way; every day became another hidden victory as they failed to discover the secret flame of hatred which burned inside him. He became ever more adept at fooling Roman society and those who crossed the path of his life. Arminius began to feel nothing but contempt towards his captors. The fools believed him to be a shining example of Romanisation. He often smiled inside at his cunning, when held up as a paragon among his peers by Cepheus and the other teachers of his school.

  The basics learnt, now they taught the senior boys’ more complex subjects. Oratory, mathematics and philosophy filled their days in the schoolroom hidden in a drab suburb of Rome. He hungered for their knowledge; anything he could learn might one day become a powerful weapon when his chance for revenge came.

  There was one light in his life which sometimes lifted the young man’s spirits and set Arminius free. He had become a skilful horseman, learning the e
questrian art under the able tutelage of a retired cavalry officer, who supplemented his army pension by teaching the boys in his school to ride.

  Held in such high and esteemed regard, trusted Arminius had been granted the unusual privilege of riding alone outside Rome’s high walls when not in lessons. His heart soared free like the birds above as he galloped across the open fields beyond the walls of the city. It was only temporary freedom, but every moment was precious to him. While he rode alone, unshackled from their strict discipline and petty rules he found something akin to happiness.

  Gripping the reins with practiced hands and leaning forward on the horse’s neck Arminius listened with pleasure to the snorting breath of his galloping horse, synchronised perfectly with the rhythmic pounding of its flying hooves. Dust swirled behind man and beast as they thundered along the deserted track which led down from the hill behind them. The sun had reached its zenith in the cloudless sky. It was time to return to the city. To be late for afternoon lessons would cause upset and might damage his untarnished reputation. Reluctantly he allowed his mount to slow. The drumbeat of the beast’s hooves eased until the sweating horse had finally slowed its pace to a mere walk. He patted its neck affectionately, pleased with its energy and spirit.

  Arminius’s route back to the city led through vast fields of green vines, growing in neat rows that stretched off as far as he could see on both sides of the track. Tired slaves tended the vines, pruning and weeding their charges under the burning sun, and the ever watchful eyes of their whip carrying stewards.

  Lost in his pleasure of the moment, Arminius came upon a large circular treadmill close to one side of the track. Inside the creaking wooden wheel which had been erected years before by the landowner, two slaves walked for hours in never-ending revolution to raise life-giving water for the vines. The contraption drew from an underground spring buried deep beneath the exhausted slaves who were locked inside the wheel. More slaves lifted clear water from the brimming troughs filled by the slowly turning waterwheel. They dipped their buckets, which hung from heavy wooden yokes chained across raw, sunburnt shoulders. Once both buckets were full they turned and trudged wearily up the slopes on their unending dawn to dusk duty of irrigating their master’s precious grape bearing vines.