But the morning’s slaughter would pale beside the carnage to follow in the afternoon. Ironically, based on the success or failure of those coming events, Gallus’s and my careers hung in the balance.
Chapter 13
Chapter 13
When the noon meal ended, Crispus and I, who had been invited to dine with Sabinus, Aurelia, and Eleyne, resumed our positions behind Sabinus. I had received a report from a courier that the Seventh Cohort was standing by on alert, but so far, activity outside the arena had been quiet. Trumpets sounded, and the iron grate raised behind the dock, about five hundred feet away. An army of gladiators emerged, their armor clanking and glistening in the sunlight. In four long columns, two thousand of the empire’s best swaggered down the wharf to the awaiting galleys.
Those wearing blue ribbons represented the Greeks, and those wearing green were called the Persians. In reality, they came from all over the world. Black Africans from Nubia and Meriotic Sudan mixed with Thracians from east of Greece. Scythians, who roamed the steppes of Central Asia, stood alongside Celts from Britannia and Gaul. Flaxen-haired Frisians, of Western Germania, swapped tales with Scandians born to the far north.
Eleyne turned to Aurelia. “Look, it’s Candra.” She pointed towards the gladiators.
Following the legion of fighters, well-known favorites emerged singly. The crowds applauded, but only Candra, the big Indian of the Persian Greens, received the wild ovations of the multitude. A loud chant erupted as soon as he appeared. “Candra! Candra! CAN-DRA! Spectators streaming up the aisles back to their seats turned and joined the chanting crowds in roaring welcome to him.
As if caught up in the moment, Eleyne stood and took up the cry.
Stopping midway on the dock, he twisted his dark, scarred face about, peering into the crowd. Spectacular in a white loincloth and a leather covering that protected his left shoulder, Candra’s coppery skin glistened with oils accenting his every muscle. Dragging at his side, he pulled a large fishing net with one hand.
Candra responded to the still-cheering crowd, raising his long trident in salute. Escalated to a frenzied pitch, the shouts created a deafening roar. Spectators threw garland after garland of assorted flowers—some of which Candra speared and waved. When he placed one around his head, a thunderous applause added to the pandemonium.
Eleyne applauded as enthusiastically as the rest of the mob.
“I’ve never seen anyone,” I shouted to Crispus, “including the emperor, receive such an outpouring of admiration.”
“If the Emperor wore a loincloth as well as Candra,” Crispus said in an equally loud voice, “he’d get a riotous ovation, too.”
“You’re probably right.”
Only when Candra lowered his forked weapon and stepped aboard the ship did the audience settle down.
Eleyne sat and turned to Aurelia. “I don’t know if I can watch. I’m so afraid Candra will die.” She bit her lips to keep back the tears.
“I know,” Aurelia said. “We can only pray that somehow he will find a way to survive.”
When the remaining gladiators and slave oarsmen had embarked, the mooring lines were released, and the vessels set sail. In single file the galleys, three-banked oared triremes, glided silently towards the Imperial booth. Meanwhile, small boat skirmishers flying colorful streamers from top masts dashed to the islands from the boarding dock. Beneath the eyes of the old monarch, the triremes formed into four squadrons of six galleys each, one squadron behind the other. Quietly, the rowers paddled in position against the current that gently flowed from east to west, keeping the ships in place as the gladiators presented themselves to the emperor. Two squadrons flew blue pennants from their sterns and the other two, green.
As Claudius and Gallus sat in cushioned curule chairs, the combatants stood and pointed their weapons skyward in homage. “We who are about to die, salute you!” they proclaimed in ragged unison.
Claudius nodded to Gallus. He stood and raised a white, silk handkerchief. Scanning the basin, as if making certain all eyes were upon him, he opened his bejeweled fingers and watched the delicate napkin flutter slowly toward the sluggish waters. A large, silver, half-man, half-fish image of Triton, son of Poseidon, jutted through the surface and sent a ripple in front of the Imperial seats. Sounding from the silver conch held in its hand, a loud, mournful tone signaled the beginning of the fight. Instantly, the god submerged leaving a trail of bubbles and a foaming wake. Two Green flagmen and two Blue, standing on each side of the emperor’s dais, raced along the lower walkway of the stadium to the far side, carrying oversized, silk banners streaming in the wind. A roaring cheer rippled in their wake as the squadrons slowly paddled to the opposite ends of the basin.
“At least the spectators on both sides of the stadium,” I said, “get an equal chance of viewing the same amount of slaughter.”
“Aye, pitting one Blue squadron against one Green on each side of the islands,” Crispus agreed, “is the only fair way to go.”
Gradually, the hot afternoon sun began its journey to the west. Climbing out along the wooden masts, overhanging the stadium’s top rim, a detachment of sailors from the Misenum Fleet, installed blue and white canvas awnings. The protective coverings shielded the sun’s glaring rays from reflecting upon the water and blinding the thousands of hatless spectators.
Crispus and I watched the vessels of the Greens and Blues nearest the emperor’s box gliding towards one another. Mounting three banks of forty oars on each side, the galleys of both squadrons sailed in two staggered columns, three abreast, giving them more room for maneuvering. Men crowded the wooden decks wearing a variety of armor and carrying assorted weapons. As the ships approached one another, the gladiators went down on one knee bracing themselves for the oncoming shock when the vessels collided with one another.
Fitted into the bow, each ship mounted an iron ram shaped into a four-pronged beak. The sinister weapon barely cut the water’s surface ahead of the prow.
To the crashing sounds of ramming ships and the cries of more than a thousand gladiators, the Blue and Green squadrons clashed in front of the Imperial section. Claudius clapped his hands enthusiastically and laughed like a gleeful child playing with a new toy. Spittle dripped from the side of his lips.
Locked together in a death grip, two galleys struggled to free themselves as gladiators from the Green ship stormed the vessels of the Blues. The battle turned into a scene of mass confusion—a spectacle of screaming, bloodied, hacking, sweating bodies in a sea of blue and green ribbons.
“Look, there’s Candra.” I gripped Crispus’s arm.
“Where? It’s hard to tell one gladiator from another.”
I released his arm and pointed. “Over there, the big, tan one with the trident.”
He nodded. “Aye, now I see him!”
Eleyne turned in my direction and back to the battle. She touched Aurelia’s shoulder and pointed. “It’s Candra.”
Barely discerning his glistening hulk in the disarray of ships, I watched Candra, wading into the thick of the fight. His vessel was the second of the Green squadron to ram a Blue’s ship. As he boarded, the mob’s wild cheers swept across the waters. Deftly wielding his trident and net, he battled a group of long-haired British and Scandian savages. Flinging his net around the ankles of a bearded Briton, he yanked him off his feet, slamming the Celt onto the deck. Before the stunned warrior raised his weapon, Candra plunged the trident through his chest, to the cheers and jeers of the crowd.
Eleyne gasped and turned her head away.
Rolling over the dead man, Candra pulled his tangled net free. At that moment, a screaming, redheaded Teuton jumped into his path challenging him with a massive two-handed long sword. He lunged at Candra, who deftly stepped aside. The Indian threw his net but missed. The tall Scandian swung his blade, nicking Candra’s shoulder. He reacted as if he had been stung by a bee—a nuisance.
My wife twisted her head about just as the hairy-faced barbarian circled around a
nd raised his weapon about his head. Slashing downward, the sword blade caught the prongs of Candra’s trident, bending the outer claw. Candra managed to veer it to the left, twisting his fanatical opponent to the side and knocking him off balance. He pulled the trident back, and with a lightning thrust drove it between his ribs. The barbarian crashed to the blood-smeared deck, on top of the slain Briton.
Eleyne’s hand flew to her mouth, her body shaking. She pressed a fist into her stomach. Once again Aurelia reached over and rubbed a hand on my wife’s shoulder. She faced Aurelia, her eyes closed and lowered her head. Despite the noise of the crowd, I heard her say, “I can’t watch any longer—I won’t!”
In spite of Aurelia’s soothing words, Eleyne kept her eyes closed and slumped in her chair.
Sabinus seemed oblivious to the matter or refused to acknowledge Eleyne’s plight.
The slaughter continued as Candra and his comrades slew one gladiator after another. Gradually the ships drifted away on the current from the Imperial section until I could no longer discern Greens and Blues.
As the afternoon waned, the battle took its toll. Three Green ships on our side of the basin sunk, many fighters drowned in their heavy armor. With the Blues in pursuit, the surviving Greens sailing from the opposite side of the stadium came to the aid of the remaining three ships. Outnumbered and surrounded, they totaled one-half their original strength.
One vessel closing upon another launched a catapult of fiery embers. The searing flames arced high, trailing wisps of smoke over the ship and towards the grandstands, provoking screams of terror from the lower spectator section. Instead, the enemy firebrand dropped and steamed into the water below them. Their horror turned to laughter and sighs of relief.
Once again, the crowd picked up the chant, “CAN-DRA! CAN-DRA!” His huge physique dominated all others. His ship rammed another Blue vessel marooned on a sandbar near one of the islands, and he and his comrades stormed aboard. Taking on all comers, every challenger met a sudden and vicious death by the two-handed sword he had taken earlier from the dead Scandian. It seemed impossible for an opponent to find his weak spot. In a matter of minutes, a pile of bodies surrounded Candra.
Being in the Magistrate’s Box, close to the battle, I found myself caught up in the excitement. Although I tried to suppress the feeling, there surfaced from deep within a primitive corner of my soul the reality that I enjoyed the violence—the slaughter—as I yelled for Candra. I caught myself cheering over and over again for Candra and for the Greens to murder the Blues.
Eleyne straightened her slumping body. She must have heard me, because she turned, and although I couldn’t hear her over the mob’s roar, she mouthed the words, “How can you cheer for death?”
She was right. I kept reminding myself this was not a battle of armies, but of senseless slaughter for the sole purpose of pacifying the blood lust of the mob. Criminals, gladiators that they were, deserved a better fate than being needlessly killed for the amusement of the masses. Yet, I kept on shouting my encouragement.
Eleyne turned away, her lips puckered. She shut out the sight with the palms of her hands.
“Look,” I said, pointing at a vessel listing to the port side, “Candra’s ship is taking water.”
“They better get out of there before it sinks,” Crispus said.
My wife jumped to her feet and screamed. “Candra, get out!”
She turned to Aurelia. “Will this madness never end?” She slumped again in her seat.
Aurelia pulled her close. “Don’t look, Eleyne, don’t look.”
Eleyne leaned her head on Aurelia’s matronly shoulder.
The captain ordered the surviving gladiators to re-embark. The oarsmen backpaddled the mortally wounded galley, freeing themselves from the stranded sinking Blue vessel. A groan and squeal of sliding metal erupted from its wooden side. By his gestures I knew the ship’s commander ordered the trireme to head for the island, in the center of the basin, and the galley limped away from near our box, struggling with one splintered bank of oars. The listing triremes managed to reach the big island and beach themselves. Only two other Green crafts managed to land.
“The Greens can’t last much longer,” I said to Crispus, concerned for Candra’s survival. “They’re fighting a delaying action. This could be their last chance to turn defeat into victory.”
“Gods, it doesn’t look good for Candra,” Crispus grimly agreed.
The Blues pursued the Greens relentlessly ashore.
Skirting the waiting crocodiles and hippos, the remnants of the Greens slowly retreated up the island toward the bridge and the island fortifications, valiantly fighting every step of the way.
“The Greens still have a chance,” I said, “if they destroy the bridge and block the Blues from crossing.”
“Aye, but that’ll take time,” Crispus said. “Those wooden legs are pretty thick—they’ll take a lot of hacking before they drop.”
Up to now, quarter had not been given to any fighter. As the number of gladiators on both sides diminished, a murmur grew among the crowd to spare this or that gladiator. The emperor, who had the power to give or take life, ignored all appeals of clemency by the spectators.
The last to retreat, Candra covered the withdrawal of the few survivors to the smaller island. He fought like a madman as the remaining oarsmen chopped away at the bridge’s foundation with axes and swords. When they had nearly hacked through the rope, the Greens reformed at the fort and urged the big Indian to cross. Quickly, he looked about and hurried to the other side.
Before the Greens could finish their work, Blues crossed the bridge, which stood precariously on its nearly severed wooden legs. Cornering most of the Greens by one of the small island’s turrets, the Blues slew them one by one.
Trapped like a wild animal and surrounded on the barren island, Candra towered about his fallen comrades, blood streaked and alone.
“Gods, how much longer can Candra last?” I said, the muscles throughout my body tightened.
“Over there, Candra!” Crispus exclaimed, as if he could be heard.
Apparently, Eleyne did. She raised her head from Aurelia’s shoulder, looked toward the battle, and gasped.
Crispus pointed to five or six gladiators, who managed to move close enough and inflict several small wounds, before being slain or disabled by Candra’s huge sword.
Suddenly, the bridge collapsed with the weight of too many Blues. Groans of frustration rippled through the crowd downwind, as their view was fogged by heavy smoke from a nearby burning ship.
“Where is Candra?” Eleyne said. “I can’t see him!”
Crowds emptied from the lower sections and charged through the aisle way towards a clear view, only to provoke the other sections, whose vantage points were blocked by their presence. The smoke shifted, and once again the spectators, including those in the Magistrate Box, could see the bloody battle.
“He can’t go on forever,” I said. “He must be exhausted.”
“Aye, but he’s not through, yet,” Crispus said. “Look there!”
The spark of battle still lived within, prompting him to greater efforts. He turned from side to side, holding the weapon in front of him. But Candra’s movements grew stiff and defensive against the sea of Blue armbands. Most of his opponents stayed just out of reach, taunting him with thrusts of iron. They seemed undecided as to who would next attempt to slay him. They kept probing for a weakness with feints to his right and left, but Candra, always there, blocked the fatal blows. He seemed oblivious to the perspiration mixed with blood pouring from his face.
I admired this valiant warrior, who had devotedly guarded my wife, and his incredible will to live.
“To your right, Candra! The Frisian!” I shouted, although he was too far away to hear me.
“Watch out, Candra!” Eleyne yelled.
The broken-nosed German edged around the towering Indian’s right side. Covering his torso with a dark shield, the barbarian lunged at Candra thrus
ting his sword up towards the throat.
Eleyne screamed.
Before his blade touched, Candra swung around, and the edge of his sword caught the Frisian’s. Forcing it to the left, Candra’s sword sliced through the Frisian’s neck, decapitating him. Spinning like a rolling ball onto the pavement, the head came to a halt at the turret’s base. The rest of the body crumpled into a bloody, convulsing heap.
Then from behind, a British dagger slammed into Candra’s side, deep between the ribs.
“No!” I yelled, in unison with two hundred thousand voices.
Eleyne screamed again.
“Oh no!” Aurelia shouted.
Candra dropped to his knees and writhed as he tried to extract the weapon from his body. Struggling, he managed to pull it out and drop it. He tossed back his head and glared at his assassin. The Briton hesitated, as if Candra challenged the barbarian to finish him off. The black-haired fighter kicked away Candra’s sword. He pointed his own long sword towards the emperor.
Again, the crowd sprang to their feet, screamed for mercy, and stomped in unison. Everybody, including those who had wagered on the Blues, raised their thumbs and handkerchiefs. A sea of white cloth fluttered about the entire stadium. In unison the pulsating tidal wave of humanity stomped and demanded, “MER-CY! MER-CY!”
Eleyne and Aurelia shouted the same.
The demands, absolute in their pleas, surely would draw the greatest pleasure of the crowds if the emperor granted mercy.
“The mob will go mad if the emperor doesn’t spare Candra’s life,” I barked to Crispus. “Be ready to return to the cohort at once if it happens!”
Claudius turned to Gallus, who must have been delighted in seeing Candra dying. He shouted something into the emperor’s ear. Growing impatient, the crowd screamed for a decision. No doubt Gallus reminded Claudius how the giant had the audacity to shove him during Vespasian’s victory feast and should have rightfully been crucified. The emperor hesitated, and Gallus leaned again, whispering in his ear. The aging monarch seemed to make up his mind. He stared at the Briton and turned—thumbs up. Then after a split-second pause—thumbs down.
The Peacekeeper Page 12
