Companions (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  ‘Or filling some a slave boy with his manhood,’ called another gladiator to hoots from the others.

  The referees blew their whistles again.

  ‘Those are my orders,’ said the Roman, ‘so collect your weapons and armour.’

  Drenis was frowning and Arminius was shaking his head.

  ‘This is most odd,’ he muttered.

  Burebista came over as we began to file down the stairs.

  ‘Watch yourself, lord, this editor is an oily beast and this stinks of his devious mind.’

  But it was the arena that stank. Reeked of death, blood, urine and guts. I winced as my bare feet stepped on sand that was soft and wet, wet with blood of humans and animals. Slaves had been sent into the arena before we filed out of the stage building to sprinkle fresh sand but such had been the bloodletting that their attempts had been only partially successful. I was momentarily taken back to the Roman city of Nola, to its amphitheatre where Spartacus had been sitting on top of the wall that surrounded its arena after the city had fallen to him. He had told me that he had fought on the sand as a gladiator but his one abiding memory of such bouts had been the smell of the arena. At the time I did not know what he meant. I did now.

  I was brought back to the present by a mighty roar as members of the crowd jumped to their feet and whistled and cheered our entrance. A few of the gladiators raised their shields and weapons in acknowledgement, including Surena, but the majority just looked around in confusion. We had already been paraded around the arena. Something was wrong.

  As we stood before the crowd, the governor and high priest talking to each other and the rotund Ceukianus whispering into the ear of the handsome Roman officer next to Metellus, the announcer waited for the din to die down before rising to his feet. Behind us the doors to the arena were closed.

  ‘They are going to spring a surprise on us,’ warned Drenis, nodding up at the announcer. ‘When he stops talking turn round and expect the unexpected.’

  ‘I thought the afternoon was given over to gladiator bouts,’ said Surena, disappointment in his voice.

  ‘Let me take you back to when a Roman army under Licinius Lucullus, half-starving and hundreds of miles from Rome,’ the announcer’s voice echoed around the theatre, ‘was surrounded by over one hundred thousand heathen Armenians led by the tyrant Tigranes at a place called Tigranocerta.’

  He looked down into the arena and held out an arm towards us. ‘Behold the brave legionaries of Lucullus, men of bronze with iron discipline who do not fear long odds.’

  ‘He sounds like Domitus,’ said Arminius.

  The announcer turned to the crowd, his voice like a clap of thunder.

  ‘It was Roman discipline and Roman leadership pitted against Eastern fury. Who will triumph?’

  ‘Turn,’ shouted Drenis as I heard the doors open behind me.

  ‘Surena, cover our backs,’ ordered Arminius as he stood beside Drenis and I braced myself on the other side of the latter.

  The crowd fell into silence as the other gladiators turned to see men pouring from the doors, shouting and screaming as they raced into the arena. They were mostly unshaven and filthy, wearing dirty, torn tunics with nothing on their grubby feet or their lice-ridden heads. They were either criminals or prisoners of war, emaciated and weak, but there were many of them.

  Perhaps they had been told that if they killed us all their lives would be spared; more likely they knew that they were condemned men. But just a glimpse of freedom had intoxicated them and they came at us with a feral rage. Only a few had weapons – cheap swords, wooden clubs and knives – but desperate men are dangerous. A wild-eyed individual wielding a club swung it at my head. I ducked and let him run on to my sword, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as the blade sank deep into his belly. I used my shield to batter him aside as a man behind him threw himself at me, a knife in his hand. I caught his right arm on my shield so he could not stab down his knife and slashed at his belly with my sword. He screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in agony as more and more men ran out of the doors. There must have been hundreds of them.

  The gladiators fought as individuals, sidestepping attackers to slice their calves and hamstrings as they passed. I saw Acco, a gladius in each hand, standing like a rock against which wave upon wave of assailants were crashing, being cut down by his scything blows. But the sheer number of attackers meant some gladiators either tripped and fell to the ground, allowing their opponents to stab and trample them to death, or were simply overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers.

  Drenis was also like a rock and Arminius and I stood with him, cutting down attackers as they came at us. Behind us Surena obeyed his orders and guarded our backs, thrusting his trident left and right at opponents who tried to get behind us. As the time passed there was a wall of dead and dying men in front of us, their bellies cut open and stab wounds in their torsos and faces.

  A deranged, unarmed man hurled himself at me like a springing lion. When he landed on me I stabbed at his belly five or six times, blood sheeting over my chest and helmet. He groaned and blood frothed at his mouth but his dead weight collapsed on me and I fell to the ground, he on top of me. I heaved him aside just as a man armed with a spear appeared and stood over me, gripping the shaft with both his hands. Grinning savagely as he prepared to thrust the point into my exposed chest, he died as Surena drove the prongs of his trident into his neck.

  ‘Up lord,’ he said, hauling me to my feet.

  The members of the threadbare army swirled around groups of gladiators, trying to strike them with their weapons but invariably suffering horribly at the hands of the trained fighters. Only by isolating a gladiator, like a pack of hyenas circling a lone victim, could the prisoners hope to fell a student of a ludus. But even when isolated and surrounded it took upwards of ten prisoners to fell a lone gladiator, half of them dying before they cut him down.

  The crowd was delirious with delight, shouting their encouragement to both prisoners and gladiators and revelling in the spectacle. I killed a man holding a sword who looked half-dead before I struck the fatal blow, severed the windpipe of another, reduced the groin of an opponent who tripped on a body in front of me to a bloody pulp then stooped to avoid a sideways blow with a sword before slicing open both calves of my opponent.

  And still the prisoners kept coming.

  The swords of Drenis and Arminius resembled silver flashes of light so fast were they being moved, cutting down, up and stabbing forward. They held their shields tight to their unarmoured torsos as opponents tried to strike them with their weapons, only cutting air or the surface of a shield before feeling the points or keen edges of their swords.

  Surena was in his element, wrapping his net around the ankles of assailants and lunging forward to stab them with his trident, the deftness and speed of his strikes resembling those of a desert cobra. He ducked and dodged to avoid the weapons of opponents before attacking. He moved his net to catch an opponent’s eye and then struck with his trident in the split-second when his enemy was distracted. And all the time the crowd cheered and roared.

  Acco used one gladius to parry blows and the other to lacerate the bodies of opponents, applying enough force behind a blow to ensure that his victim would not rise once on the ground. For a big man he was remarkably light on his feet, darting forwards, backwards and sideways to avoid the clumsy attacks of the prisoners. Most of the latter were now dead, heaps of their slain littering the arena. Some, having dropped their weapons, attempted to flee back through the doors but they were now shut. They were hunted down and slaughtered by gladiators until there were no more prisoners left. The crowd gave a mighty cheer as the last one was hacked to pieces by two Murmillos. The re-enactment of the Battle of Tigranocerta was over.

  I slapped Drenis and Arminius on the arm and thanked Surena for saving my life as the doors were opened once more and referees came from the gloom to order everyone back inside. Some gladiators, wounded in the contest, were hobbling and h
ad to be assisted from the arena either by slaves who rushed from the stage building or their fellow gladiators. The announcer’s words filled the theatre as we left the once more blood-soaked sand.

  ‘Once again Roman discipline and courage has triumphed over barbarian numbers and tyranny.’

  The crowd applauded as Surena turned and raised his bloody trident in a victory salute. Through the protective eyeholes of my helmet I just caught sight of Timini Ceukianus on his feet drooling over the cocky young man from the marshes.

  Back inside the building we trouped to the top floor once more and removed our armour and helmets. The wounded were taken to the infirmary on the floor below and slaves brought food and towels so we could wipe the sweat from our bodies. Alcaeus fussed around us, examining us for wounds or bruises.

  ‘The gods smile on you,’ he said. ‘This time anyway. And now you will have to excuse me. I am needed below.’

  He disappeared with his medical bag as Drenis stretched out on a couch and Arminius inspected his helmet, which had a dent on its side.

  ‘I’ll have to get the armourer to fix this.’

  ‘Surena of the Ludus Palmyra and Flamma of the Ludus Pompeii. The editor demands your presence in the arena.’

  I heard the voice of one of editor’s assistants and looked in alarm at Surena. I glanced at Drenis who shook his head. I went to remonstrate with the official but Drenis pulled me back.

  ‘You are a gladiator, Pacorus, if you make a scene there will be severe ramifications. There is nothing you can do.’

  Arminius was also shaking his head and I felt helpless. But Surena was busy wiping the shaft of his trident and ensuring his galerus was securely in place. He caught my eye and grinned triumphantly as a man I assumed was Flamma walked nonchalantly towards the stone steps.

  ‘The gods be with you, Surena,’ I said as he followed the Pompeian.

  He turned and grinned. ‘I do not need the gods, lord, only my skill and my weapons.’

  Flamma was a Secutor, ‘the chaser’, who wore a smooth, full-face helmet, a manica on his sword arm and greave on his left leg. Additional protection was provided by his large, rectangular shield that had small tridents painted around its edge. His weapon was a gladius.

  ‘What do those tridents on his shield signify?’ I asked Drenis.

  ‘The number of Retiarius fighters he has killed in the arena,’ he answered.

  My spirits sank. The sadistic lust of Timini Ceukianus that had been aroused when he and Surena had met aboard The Cretan had come back to haunt the latter and now he would die. With a heavy heart I walked to one of the windows to observe the proceedings below. I saw a small army of slaves pulling the bodies of the slain into the stage building to clear the arena for the coming bout. I looked at the crowd and heard the intense chatter that was taking place in anticipation of the fight that the announcer had just proclaimed. There was no attempt to cover the blood-covered surface with fresh sand as Surena walked out of the stage building in the company of Flamma and a referee who carried a short stick to administer the fight.

  The crowd began clapping as the two fighters halted in front of the high priest and the governor and raised their weapons in salute.

  Drenis appeared by my side. ‘He’s not dead yet. If he remembers his training the bout might end in a draw, which will mean both will leave the arena alive.’

  I was not convinced. Surena believed himself to be invincible and though he was brave and strong his self-belief might work against him. I looked at the large figure of Ceukianus lounging in his chair and giggling like a small girl. How I would have liked to slit that blubber-covered throat. The referee held his stick between Flamma and Surena and looked up at the governor, who nodded. The referee removed his stick and stepped back and the duel began.

  Gladiators crowded at the windows to see what most believed to be a formality: the death of this upstart from some unknown eastern place called Palmyra. The crowd cheered and roared as Surena crouched low, sweeping his net on the ground in front of him. He pulled it back and then tripped as it got tangled around his left ankle. My mouth opened in horror as he crumbled to the ground and Flamma raced forward to finish him off.

  And stopped suddenly as Surena spun round and sprang forward to drive the prongs of his trident into Flamma’s exposed belly. It happened so quickly that at first I thought I had imagined it. But as the crowd fell silent and Surena leaped back, Flamma’s helmeted head flopped forward as blood began oozing from his guts on to his red loincloth. Everyone in the crowd seemed stunned, unsure of what had just happened.

  Surena held his trident at the ready as Flamma fell to his knees and then collapsed face-first on the sand. Surena turned to face the crowd and raised his trident and net.

  ‘I am Surena of the Ma’adan.’

  There was a moment of silence and then the crowd saluted its newfound hero, clapping, cheering and shouting ‘Surena, Surena’ as the focus of their adulation walked around the arena, basking in the acclaim. He stopped in front of the dignitaries, pointed his trident at the editor and spat on the sand. Flamma’s life ebbed away as Ceukianus, a face like thunder, signalled to the referee that Surena should leave the arena immediately. A slave carrying a large mallet came from the stage building as the referee pointed at Surena with his stick, then towards one of the doors to indicate he should depart the arena. The slave stood astride the body of Flamma, removed his helmet and then struck the corpse’s head with a heavy blow of the mallet to ensure he was dead and not faking injury. I laughed and slapped Drenis on the arm as Surena gave the crowd one more salute with his trident before disappearing into the stage building. Behind him the theatre reverberated with the chant ‘Surena, Surena’.

  Burebista walked over to me, his hair matted to his skull after his exertions in the arena.

  ‘The crowd has its hero, lord. Where did you get him from?’

  ‘I first met him when I was a prisoner in a vast area of marshland. He saved my life. And now he is an officer in my army.’

  ‘And a gladiator making a name for himself,’ added Burebista.

  I looked beyond him to ensure we were out of earshot.

  ‘I will arrange for a representative to approach your lanista tonight with a view to purchasing both you and your wife.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘It would have to be a generous offer, lord. Lentulus Vatia is above all avaricious.’

  Surena returned to the second floor in an ebullient mood, accepting the grudging congratulations of many of the seasoned gladiators from the other schools. The crowd was still chanting his name when an official appeared to declare that the day’s festivities were over and that we would be escorted back to our quarters. Alcaeus also returned to inform me that twenty-three gladiators had been killed in the mass bout that I had taken part in, with Flamma an additional fatality. There were ten fighters lying in cots on the floor below, none of whom would be taking any further part in the games. A quarter of the gladiators that had been brought to Ephesus were either dead or incapacitated.

  We required an armed escort back our accommodation, not because we were in danger but because hundreds of people, mainly women of various ages, wanted to either touch or speak to Surena. The legionaries became increasingly short tempered as they tried to clear a path in front of us. The duty centurion also snapped at Surena not to dally and to ignore his fans.

  ‘He’s got no chance,’ remarked Drenis as Surena kissed a pretty young woman on the cheek and then smiled as a legionary had to drag another women off him who had wrapped her arms and legs around him.

  ‘What it is to be a god of the arena,’ said Arminius.

  When we finally reached the house we found a substantial crowd gathered around it, which broke into spontaneous applause when they spotted Surena. The centurion personally bundled him through the gates and then ordered the crowd to disperse and go back to their homes. Inside the entrance stood Lysander to welcome us back, the ever-present smile on his face. We went into the ban
queting hall where Gallia and Domitus were waiting. My wife flung herself into my arms and clung to me tightly.

  ‘That was the worst day of my life,’ she whispered. ‘I have never experienced such torture, watching you fighting and being unable to help.’

  I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘Shamash protected me, my love. He protected us all.’

  We took off our armour and handed it and our weapons to slaves who took it to the storeroom where it was kept under lock and key, Lysander appearing and ordering them to be quick about it. Domitus clasped my forearm.

  ‘Glad to see you’re alive.’

  Other slaves brought wine and water and Lysander told us that he had organised masseurs to visit the house

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Alcaeus.

  ‘Get Lysander to go to the docks and bring Athineos here,’ I told Domitus.

  He called over our Greek guide and was explaining that he should go to the harbour and ask the captain of The Cretan to pay us a visit.

  ‘I do not want you taking any further part in the games,’ Gallia suddenly said to me. Lysander looked at her in confusion. Why would the wife of a lanista be interested in the life of a gladiator?

  ‘Go now, Lysander,’ Domitus ordered him.

  Lysander bowed his head and hurried from the room.

  ‘We must try harder to maintain the pretence that I am a gladiator and you are the wife of my master,’ I said to her.

  She was not interested. ‘Domitus, you can report to the games’ organisers tomorrow that Nikephorus will be taking no further part in the organised butchery on account of an injury.’

  ‘You will do no such thing,’ I said, looking at Gallia. ‘I knew the risks when I came here and I will see the task through.’

  ‘This is not like war, Pacorus,’ she said, ‘it is slaughter, pure and simple. What chance do you think you have of surviving another four days of this butchery?’

  She looked at Drenis and Arminius. ‘What chance for any of you?’

  ‘It is easy enough, majesty,’ said Surena, trying to be helpful.