Companions (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  ‘But why do you have to have a wife’ I asked.

  Domitus raised his eyebrows. ‘What other role would you have her assume? A female gladiator, a slave? At least as my pretend wife she will be safe.’

  ‘I will see if she is agreeable,’ I said, not wholly convinced.

  Drenis nodded. ‘Good. Training begins tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

  Gallia laughed and thought the idea was most excellent when I informed her of Domitus’ scheme. I still did not understand why she wanted to go to Ephesus but she said that it was her destiny to go there.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  She did not know. ‘All I do know is that Dobbai told me that Ephesus would give me the opportunity to bring matters to a close.’

  ‘What matters?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  The next afternoon, under a blazing sun, I again walked to the armouries where my instructors waited to introduce me to the weapons and equipment I would be using at the games. Surena was already there when I dismissed my escort and walked to Dura’s makeshift arena. Outside the open entrance was a table, upon which was laid a variety of weapons, shields and helmets. Arminius waved me over and told me to take off my boots, leggings, tunic and vest. Surena was already barefoot and half-naked.

  Soon I was in the same state as I put on the loincloth made of wool, the purpose of which was to cover my genitals, and the large, thick leather belt that covered the lower belly.

  ‘The Romans call it a balteus,’ Drenis told me. ‘It will stop an opponent slitting open your guts and littering the sand with your intestines.’

  He passed me what looked like a leather windsock, which was actually overlapping leather segments attached to each other and fastened with straps.

  ‘It’s called a manica and protects your sword arm.’

  I slipped it on and found that it covered the whole arm from the shoulder to the hand. My legs were also protected, by thick padding that wrapped around them, over which I put on a pair of highly polished bronze greaves called ocreae.

  ‘I feel like a gaudily dressed actor,’ I complained as I fastened the leather straps on the greaves that ended above my knee.

  ‘The games are above all a spectacle of slaughter,’ said Arminius.

  Drenis picked up a helmet. He held it out to me.

  ‘Your helmet, Thracian. The armourers worked all night to fashion it but I think they have done a good job.’

  It was a heavy bronze piece with a horizontal brim like a hat and had a full visor that closed in the middle and opened out sideways. The lower parts of the visor halves had outward-projecting rims to guard the throat, and their hinges had metal guards over them as a defence against weapon strikes. Like the scale armour worn by the horses that carried Dura’s cataphracts, the eyes were protected by the helmet’s thick bronze circular visor gratings. On the forehead was an embossed palm of victory and it had a distinctive griffin crest.

  I pointed at the crest. ‘Dura’s griffin. An auspicious omen.’

  ‘You will see a lot of those at Ephesus,’ Domitus told me, ‘because in Roman culture the griffin is the guardian of the dead.’

  ‘It is heavy,’ I said.

  ‘Fights in the arena are mostly short,’ said Drenis as I placed it on my head and he assisted me in fitting the visor halves together and securing the hinges. ‘So unlike in the army you are not required to wear it for hours on end each day.’

  He then handed me a small shield no more than two feet square. It was made of wood and faced with leather, being convex shaped and adorned with a red griffin motif. It was called a parmula and had no central boss. I thought it quite ridiculous. As I did the sword that Drenis handed me, a weapon that had a blade around fifteen inches long. Curiously, towards the point it had a bend of around twenty degrees.

  ‘Did the armourer have a bad day?’ I asked.

  ‘It is called a sica,’ said Drenis, ‘and is designed to get around an opponent’s shield and stab him in the arm, side or back.’

  ‘What about my chest?’ I asked. ‘It is completely exposed.’

  ‘It’s meant to be,’ said Arminius. ‘A gladiator exposes his torso to demonstrate his willingness to die if necessary, and a means by which his opponent can bring his end about.’

  ‘How reassuring.’

  I was almost jealous of Surena. Almost. Compared to my absurd appearance he presented a much more modest display. Bare headed, he too wore a manica, though on his left arm, and a strange heavy bronze plate also fastened on the top of his left arm secured by means of a leather strap across his chest. It was called a galerus and projected some five inches above the shoulder, thus protecting the neck and most of the head from lateral blows. The upper edge was bent slightly outwards, thus retarding sliding blows and allowing the wearer’s head more freedom of movement.

  ‘This is not like any fishing spear I’ve ever used,’ complained Surena as he held the trident in his hand. ‘The prongs are too short and they are not barbed.’

  Arminius snatched the weapon from his grip. ‘Of course they aren’t. You won’t be hunting fish in the arena. The last thing you want is to have your main weapon stuck in someone’s guts and be unable to retrieve it.’

  He pointed at the net Surena held in his left hand. ‘And barbed prongs can get caught in your net.’

  Surena grinned and cast the net before him. ‘Not in mine. I have fished with nets since I was a small boy.’

  His net was made of strong hemp-rope with small lead weights attached to its sides for balance. It had a stronger thread around the outside so the Retiarius could tighten it around an opponent. The net was also fastened to Surena’s wrist with a cord to make retrieval easier.

  To be fair Surena was a model pupil, wielding the net and trident with ease as he sparred with Arminius and Drenis. Though I had worked with weapons since I had been a small boy I initially found training difficult.

  As the days passed Arminius and Drenis screamed and shouted at me to move more quickly. They were equipped with the swords and shields carried by Dura’s legionaries, though after a week Arminius attended a training session wearing a full-face bronze helmet with a large metal crest that resembled a fish’s fin. Like me he too wore padded armour on his sword arm but only wore one greave. He told me that he was armed and equipped as a Murmillo, the ‘fish man’, whose opponent in the arena was the Thracian.

  ‘Keep moving, Pacorus,’ Drenis shouted at me as Arminius tried to pin me against the wooden wall.

  ‘Use your mobility to dart in and out of range of his strikes. Look for a gap in his defences. If he traps you against the wall you are finished.’

  I advanced a couple of steps but he charged and rammed his shield into me, throwing me back against the wall. Winded, I could not prevent him pinning me against the wood with his shield and holding the point of his sword against my chest.

  ‘That’s a kill,’ shouted Drenis.

  Arminius backed off and removed his helmet as I coughed and spluttered. I too removed my helmet. Drenis ran over.

  ‘You are fighting like royalty, all honour and meeting the enemy head-on.’

  ‘How else should I fight?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Like a gladiator,’ replied Arminius. ‘Forget your upbringing and the battles you have fought. A Thracian gladiator is lightly armed and therein is his advantage.’

  I looked at him blankly. He pointed his sword at my bare feet.

  ‘Quick footwork, Pacorus. Weave around your opponent, run away if necessary.’

  ‘Run away?’

  Drenis laughed. ‘There is no honour in the arena, just death, shit, piss and blood. Use your mobility so your opponent strikes air with his weapons. Tire him out. If you are tired then kneel before springing into action.’

  ‘Above all,’ said Arminius, ‘avoid the wall like the plague. You have great stamina, Pacorus, so use it.’

  While I got back my breath Drenis put Surena through his paces. Already experienced in the use of a net and
spear, albeit ones that had not been adapted for the arena, he had little difficulty in wielding his weapons. Domitus strolled over to where we were standing as Surena danced around Drenis, trying to entangle the latter in his net by either throwing it forward of deliberately leaving it on the ground so Drenis would step on it.

  ‘He’s a natural,’ said Arminius admiringly. ‘See how he takes advantage of the trident’s reach to keep Drenis at bay, while at the same time keeping his net at the ready.’

  ‘Looks like that old witch of yours was right, Pacorus,’ said Domitus, ‘in persuading you to take him along. And he has the advantage of already being well acquainted with his chief adversary.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I queried.

  ‘Not who but what,’ replied Domitus. ‘His cockiness.’

  We spent every day for nearly a month in that sandpit. Drenis and Arminius deliberately chose the hottest part of the day for training so the sand would become hot and uncomfortable to stand on. But it kept us moving as we sought the shade in the western side as the sun passed its highest point in the sky. I soon got used to the manica and leg protectors and learned to use my toes to aid my grip on the sand. And above all I learned to avoid the walls, aided by an enthusiastic Domitus who hovered around me, striking me with his vine cane if I got too close to the boards. We trained hour after hour, day after day.

  Drenis and Arminius wanted Surena and me in the arena from the early hours but I insisted that for the sake of normality the usual routines should be adhered to. That meant early morning exercises on the training fields with the horse archers and cataphracts, though Domitus cancelled all full-scale exercises in the desert, which would have meant camping for two nights or more. As far as the army and kingdom were concerned their king was preparing for a war with Mithridates. Though that appeared a remote possibility. We received happy news that Narses was suffering from some sort of illness and had taken to his bed. Dobbai and Samahe told me that the illness was minor and would not kill him, but that they had both called on Irra, the God of Plagues, to visit him to increase his suffering. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that with Narses incapacitated, Mithridates was even less likely to make a move against me.

  Domitus told me that he had written a letter to the organiser of the games at Ephesus as soon as I had decided that I would attend. Called an editor, he was responsible for arranging the games and ensuring that each event was a worthy spectacle. I was worried that giving prior warning of our arrival would jeopardise our mission, but Domitus reassured me that the opposite was the case.

  ‘We can’t just pitch up unannounced,’ he told me. ‘That would raise suspicions. In any case, we have to get authorisation from the editor to attend.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘I have told him that the Ludus Palmyra will be bringing four gladiators trained in eastern ways of fighting that will spice up the games.’

  ‘You think it will work?’

  ‘Oh yes. Any whiff of anything exotic or out of the ordinary is enough to arouse the interest of any editor. As long as he can put on a good show to satisfy the authorities and crowd he will send his authorisation.’

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘And if you get killed I will be a rich man.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Any fighter from a gladiator school killed in the arena receives compensation, or at least his lanista does. The fighter receives a decent funeral.’

  ‘Your words are always a great comfort to me, Domitus.’

  The words of abuse and encouragement I received from Drenis and Arminius helped me prepare for Ephesus as I got used to the heavy bronze helmet, peculiar curved sword and inadequate shield. After a while it felt strange to be wearing boots and I found my own sword, the spatha that Spartacus had given me, cumbersome and heavy.

  ‘That’s good,’ Drenis told me, ‘ideally you should not be using it at all so wielding the sica becomes second nature.’

  At times Surena and I were pitted against three adversaries – Domitus, Drenis and Arminius – to prepare us for the more exotic bouts we might face.

  ‘I thought you told me that gladiator fights are carefully arranged,’ I said after being unceremoniously battered and dumped on my back after a gruelling ten minutes’ duelling against the trio.

  ‘So they are,’ said Arminius, ‘but an editor is always looking to spice things up if the crowd starts to get bored.’

  The next day Arminius was attired in the armour and equipment he had worn when he had fought in the arena. They were the tools of a Provocator, ‘The Challenger’. On his head he wore a heavy bronze helmet that covered his entire skull, two round grilled eyeholes allowing him to see his opponent. He carried a legionary shield and wore a manica on his sword arm. On his left leg was a greave that ended just above the knee and protecting his chest was a bronze cardiophylax, a buckled breastplate. Like me he wore a broad belt above his loincloth. He brought up his gladius and assumed an attacking posture. I leapt back and felt my feet sinking into liquid. I looked down and saw blood oozing from the sand. Horrified, I momentarily forgot where I was and then I was struck with the full force of Arminius’ shield and placed flat on my back. He placed a foot on my chest and raised his sword.

  ‘That’s a kill,’ shouted Drenis.

  Arminius took his foot off my chest and I sat up. I pulled off my helmet.

  ‘There’s blood on the sand.’

  ‘I know,’ said Drenis, ‘I put it there and scattered some sand over it. Caught you out, didn’t it?’

  Arminius called Surena over and hauled me to my feet.

  ‘They have animal hunts and executions in the arena before the gladiator bouts,’ said Drenis, ‘and that means there could be lots of blood on or under the sand.’

  Surena was disgusted. ‘Don’t they have slaves to clear it up?’

  ‘It’s far easier to sprinkle fresh sand over it,’ said a now bare headed Arminius. ‘Just remember that blood underfoot is just one unexpected thing you might encounter.’

  ‘What are the other things?’ I asked.

  ‘Women gladiators for one,’ said Drenis, ‘though I doubt you will see any at Ephesus.’

  ‘I will kill anyone they put in front of me,’ stated Surena.

  Drenis slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Three weeks before our departure date a letter arrived for Domitus from the office of the chief priest of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus. It extended a warm welcome to Lanista Lucius Domitus of the Ludus Palmyra and stated that High Priest Kallias looked forward to seeing the school’s four gladiators in the forthcoming games. Kallias explained that though he was not the actual editor of the games, who was away on important business, he was fully authorised by said official to decide who participated in the forthcoming games.

  ‘We’re in,’ grinned Domitus.

  We were sitting outside one of the armoury’s workshops in the shade. Apart from Domitus we were covered in sweat and had stripped down to our loincloths. Surena, his shoulder-length hair matted to his skull and neck, stood and poured a bucket of water over himself. A guard had brought Domitus the letter as soon as a courier had delivered it to the palace.

  ‘Why would it be delivered here?’ queried Drenis, wiping his sweaty brow with a cloth.

  ‘Because I sent another letter to Byrd at Palmyra,’ replied Domitus, ‘asking him to keep an eye out for a letter addressed to me that would be arriving at his tent, and when it arrived to have it sent on to me.’

  ‘Such is the world of subterfuge,’ I remarked.

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Domitus. ‘We have not addressed the matter of your name during the coming games.’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Well you can’t use your own name,’ stated Domitus. ‘Plenty of Romans in the east of the empire will have heard of King Pacorus of Dura by now. And it won’t take a genius to connect a man named Pacorus arriving from the east with the same individual, especially wh
en they clap eyes on Gallia, who has probably become as famous as you in Roman eyes.’

  ‘If not more so,’ said Arminius.

  Drenis nodded. ‘He’s right, Pacorus, you should assume a different name.’

  ‘What about Maximus?’ suggested Drenis.

  It was Latin for ‘the greatest’.

  ‘I think that would be tempting fate,’ I said. ‘What sort of gladiator calls himself “Maximus”?’

  ‘A confident one,’ said Arminius.

  ‘I remember one man, a Greek who called himself “Nikephorus”, a gladiator from Capua,’ said Drenis.

  Arminius’ eyes lit up. ‘I remember him, too. A great fighter.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

  ‘He retired a rich man,’ answered Drenis. ‘Bought a brothel in Paestum, I heard.’

  Nikephorus meant ‘bearer of victory’ and had a nice feel to it. And the fact the owner of the name had finished his career as a gladiator alive was a lucky omen.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘Nikephorus it is.’

  ‘What name should I use?’ asked Surena.

  We looked at him and each other. Domitus shook his head.

  ‘You’re not famous, boy, so you don’t need another name.’

  ‘I will be,’ said Surena, ‘One day I will be famous throughout all Parthia.’

  Domitus rolled his eyes. ‘If you survive Ephesus.’

  He looked at me. ‘It’s not too late to back out, Pacorus. No one would think any less of you.’

  ‘I will not abandon Burebista,’ I said, ‘for it would be the basest thing to do.’

  I looked at them, three men I had known for years and who had followed me through thick and thin. And one individual who had just become a man and who dreamed of nothing but victory and glory.

  ‘You know that I do not compel any of you to come with me. I know that the risks are great and the chances of all of us returning slim. So if any of you are having second thoughts then…’

  My words were interrupted as Domitus threw a bucket of water over me.

  ‘You talk too much.’

  Our days of training on the sand were now over. The preparations for our journey began with a message to Byrd and Malik at Palmyra, requesting their presence at Dura. When they arrived I asked them to join me on the palace terrace where the other members of the party destined for Ephesus were gathered. Orodes, Godarz, Dobbai and Samahe were also in attendance as once more the servants and guards were dismissed and the entrance was closed. My governor was terse with me but warm towards Gallia, embracing her and standing beside her. He looked genuinely distressed at the prospect of her leaving and probably blamed me. It was late afternoon and the light was slowly fading, the surface of the Euphrates below as smooth as a slab of blue marble. The terrace was in shadow and there was a light breeze that took the edge off the stifling heat.