by Brian Godawa
While many gladiators were criminals and other enslaved fighters, bestiarii were voluntary hunters for spectacle. A good bestiarius could draw ten denarii per hunt, as much as an elite scribe might make in a week. Demas made fifteen. He was the best in the Decapolis, the ten Greek cities surrounding the Roman precinct of Galilee. But he refused to join the bestiarii guild of animal baiters, so he was shunned as an outcast.
He didn’t care about those greedy thugs either. He only cared about killing. In killing beasts, he could take out his aggression and feel alive facing his own death every time he entered the ring. His opponents were exotic predators brought in from near and distant lands: lions, bears, tigers, leopards, panthers, rhinoceroses, even hippos.
Demas was the best at what he did because he knew animals better than anyone. After his parents had died, he and his brother had been adopted by a Hellenistic couple in Scythopolis. Demas took up animal tending and eventually became a trapper. When his life bottomed out years back, his fateful anguish drove him to become a bestiarius even as he maintained his animal tending duties for the spectacles. He got to understand the animals as he took care of them and prepared them for the ring.
Animal hunts, called venationes, were more popular than gladiator fights. They had begun in the early days of the republic as peaceful parades of exotic animals discovered by Roman expansion. As the republic turned into an empire, the Caesars turned the parades into hunts. Victory over the exotic animals became a symbol of the emperor’s power over the newly conquered territories from which the animals came. The spectacles would vary. Sometimes it would be animal against animal, sometimes animal against hunter. Sometimes it would be multiple animals and multiple hunters or single hunters against single animals. Sometimes the animals would be used as means of executing criminals or captives tied unarmed to stakes or sewn into the skins of dead animals. The predators were starved before events to increase their aggressiveness and ensure maximum entertainment for the masses.
Today would be a fateful day in Demas’s life. He tried to forget about what he had to do later by taking on a more difficult venatio. He secretly hoped he would fail and die in the contest, which would make this a symbolic day for him indeed. But if he triumphed, at least he would make twice his normal wage. But then again, what difference did that make? He didn’t care about the money either.
He only cared about the Thessalian black bull that bore down upon him from the center of the ring.
He gripped his whip handle tightly and gathered the ten foot long thong in preparation. At the end of the thong was the cracker or popper, within which he had embedded several pieces of sharp iron for ripping flesh. He was a master with the whip. He could rip out an eyeball from a victim with precision or yank a limb out from under his prey with ease.
A charging Thessalian bull was a different matter.
He crouched in preparation as the bull was almost upon him. Its head lowered, its thick long horns pointed in his direction to gore him.
Just before contact, Demas ducked and rolled out of the way of his attacker. It took moments before the animal realized what had happened and turned for another attack. This time, it would not be fooled.
Demas got back up to face the monster. He did not wear a helmet or other traditional gladiator garb so that he could move more quickly against his animal adversaries. Dexterity was as important as weapons skill. He wore only a leather tunic with belted leather over his abdomen, a key attack area for most animals. His only armor was a segmented metal shoulder and arm guard for his left arm. In his sheath he carried the common Roman gladius straight sword, about three feet in length. He picked up a javelin at his feet and ran to the edge of the stadium.
The sound of the crowd told him the bull was chasing him and about to ram him.
He felt the hard skull make contact with his buttocks. He launched into the air and flew a good ten feet. He released the spear before he hit the dirt so he would not break it.
The crowd went wild. He did after all have to put on a good show.
But it was not without calculation. The bull’s hit had thrown him to within eight feet of the edge of the arena, where he had wanted to be.
He peered at the bull that had already turned and prepared to run him down again. It snorted and kicked the dirt with its front hoof.
As Demas stared down his adversary, he thought of the god Ba’al, so ubiquitous throughout the land of Israel. Ba’al was often symbolized by a bull. Demas hated Ba’al. He despised the gods. Killing this bull would do more for him than mere physical victory.
The bull charged again. The crowd cheered.
As it closed the gap, Demas didn’t move. He just stood still.
He started to move backwards at a slow pace calculated to match his predetermined point of impact.
The bull did not have a highly attuned depth perception. As it sprinted down upon Demas, it zeroed in on its visual target. It lost its background awareness.
It could not calculate the slow move that its quarry was engaging in.
By the time it hit its target, Demas had backed up to the wall. The two long horns were much longer than the thickness of a human body. They plunged deep into the painted wooden wall of the arena on each side of Demas. The force sent a shockwave through the body of the beast and a loud crunching snap rang through the amphitheater.
The crowd went wild again. This was good circus.
Demas didn’t even have to use his sword. The nasty brutish black monster had broken its neck and fallen dead. But Demas would have plenty of opportunity to use that blade in mere moments. This venatio was a mere warm-up, an appetizer to the full course meal of flesh and blood, tooth and sword that was about to be served up for the hungry audience.
Demas despised the masses. He saw them as a mob, carried away by their own bloodlust, and just as easily manipulated by their rulers as their entertainers. A crowd of otherwise intelligent or moderate individuals, could become a hive of unthinking insects, hornets incited by a wave of the hand or the proclamation of a meaningless slogan.
These masses were a peculiar crowd. The citizens of Scythopolis, as in much of the region of Galilee, were a mixture of Greek and Jewish heritage. This created a unique set of problems because the Greco-Roman worldview was polytheist and imperialist, while the Jewish religion was monotheist and theocratic. Jewish laws stressed the rule of God and separation from Gentiles or non-Jews. Many of them were driven by contempt for their Roman occupiers. But many of them had also been deeply compromised by the powerful influence of their captive culture of Hellenism, an assimilation of the Greco-Roman worldview.
Herod the Great, the first Jewish client king under Augustus Caesar, had been a conniving sell-out to Rome. Because of his Idumean or Edomite ancestry, he claimed Abrahamic heritage. But in truth, the Edomites were sons of Esau who were prophesied to be in perpetual hostility with the sons of Jacob, or Israel. Herod’s contempt toward the seed of Abraham was evident in his absorption of pagan Hellenistic culture. He had poured millions of shekels into Greco-Roman building projects all around Judea and Galilee. He had even put a Roman theater and Hippodrome for chariot racing and games into the holy city of Jerusalem. Though he was loathed by many Jews for his Roman sympathies, he established a Hellenist influence within the land of Israel that would no doubt last for generations. The rabbis condemned the games and circuses, but many common Jews still attended them, just as many commoners still worshipped Asherah and Ba’al, despite the pleas of their prophets and priests. Mobs were not easily swayed from their depraved appetites by the elite.
Demas picked up his spear and whip to face his next adversary—or more accurately, adversaries. An iron gate lifted and two huge black wolves padded their way toward him. They spotted their human prey and immediately froze low to the ground, preparing to strike.
Behind Demas, the rusty sounds of another iron gate cranking open drew his surprise. A gigantic monster lumbered out. A nine foot tall, twelve hundred pound brown bear. A
very hungry bear, who now spotted its meal.
Demas panicked. He was supposed to hunt these animals one after another in sequence, not all at once. Someone must have betrayed him. Maybe one of the other jealous bestiarii. Or maybe someone who just wanted a darker thrill at seeing the animal baiting champion be taken down in a fury of fang and claw. None of that mattered now. Now, he had to think. He had to strategize.
His planning was pierced through with the sound of yet another iron gate lifting. A fourth predator? He wouldn’t stand a chance. He glanced over his left shoulder to get a glimpse of the new enemy. An African lion. The king of the arena. What was worse, he recognized the huge seven-foot-long feline from his animal keeping. He had nicknamed him Crueldis. The giant lion had killed so many bestiarii he had become a legend. Demas had gotten familiar with the creature while caring for it. He fed it and nursed its wounds from previous hunts. But now, that big pet cat was going to eat him for dinner.
Oh well, he was ready to die anyway. The crowd was already in a frenzy. The only thing that would stop this approaching violence was Demas’ death. He decided to make this the most glorious death in the arena for decades to come. He would give the mob their entertainment.
He would go down fighting.
He held his spear in his left hand and unfurled his whip to face the wolves. The bear would watch and take its time, the lion might even be next. Take out the smallest foes first.
But “small” did not capture the essence of these ferocious wolves. They were orchestrated and vicious. And they were ravenously hungry.
The thinner one snarled in front of Demas as the other one circled to his rear.
He thrust his spear out, the skinny one backed up.
He twirled his whip overhead and snapped it behind him without even looking. It was one of the tricks he had developed over the years.
The crack of the whip drew a howl and a large piece of bloody flesh from the wolf. The ragged iron cracker tips did their job.
Uh oh. The bear approached cautiously from the left.
The lion circled the battle, looking for a way in. He circled closer and closer. This would not go well.
The thinner wolf advanced to draw Demas’ attention, at the same moment that the wounded rear one launched onto his back.
Demas felt fangs dig into his whip arm shoulder. He yelped in pain and went down to the ground. He could hear his attackers’ angry growling at his ear.
The thin one attacked.
But Demas saw it and raised his spear as the thin one was upon him. It did not veer in time and the spear plunged into its chest, piercing its heart. It yelped and fell to the ground, drawing the spear out of Demas’ hand.
Demas rolled in order to pin the other animal beneath him.
But he was shocked to see the twelve-hundred pound muscle-bound bear lunging at him with its huge jaws wide open. The guttural growl echoed through the stadium and the crowd went hushed with shock at their hero’s sure demise.
Demas only had a second to respond. He did so defensively. He raised his left armored arm and the bear’s teeth bit down onto steel. If his arm had not been so protected, the creature would surely have crushed the bone, ripped through flesh, and tore his arm off. But the steel had just enough guard to stop it for the moment.
The wolf kicked its way out from under Demas. Demas knew he was himself mere moments from death.
In that moment the lion attacked from Demas’ right.
But he didn’t attack Demas. He jumped onto the back of the bear and held on with his huge claws as the bear reared back in shock and defense.
Demas could not believe his luck. The lion must have had some kind of memory, some kind of connection to the human who had fed him and cared for him in its captivity. It was rescuing him instead of attacking him.
Demas rolled to his feet, his left arm numb from the bear bite, his right shoulder stinging and bleeding from the wolf. He picked up his whip and snapped it at his growling nemesis.
Behind him, the lion had sunk its teeth into the back of the neck of the bear as the ursine beast continued to twirl around in a confused circle trying to shake the big cat off its back.
Demas spared no second. He aimed for the left eye of the wolf and ripped it out of his enemy with a well-placed snap.
The crowd rose to its feet with wonder and applause.
But the beast would not stop. It turned to look at Demas with its good eye.
Demas snapped again and shredded half of its right front leg. Another aim and hard yank, and the back of its skull was popped open, exposing the brain. The animal stumbled toward Demas and fell dead at his feet.
A deafening cheer roused his hopes.
He turned to see the bear reach up with one of its paws and drag the lion off its back onto the ground. They tumbled in the dust with voracious claws and fangs.
But it was not an equal match. The bear was much bigger and heavy.
It reared back with a roar before stomping on the feline.
A leather lash wrapped around the bear’s neck from behind and iron bits dug into its flesh. This kind of move would not choke the bear, and it could not even do a bit of harm to it. It would only allow Demas the ability to hold on tight and ride its back.
The bear pulled away from the wounded lion and tried to free itself from the flea that now rode it like a bucking bronco.
Demas held on with his weakened left arm and pulled out his gladius with his aching right arm. He aimed to plunge it into the brain of the behemoth.
But his grip loosened. The sword flew from his hands. He lost his hold and followed the sword with a big thud into the dirt. The landing knocked his breath out of him. His ribs were bruised.
He looked up to see the bear standing over him on its hind legs to its full nine-foot-plus height. This thing could defeat a Nephilim. It roared. Demas could see blood and saliva splashing from its flapping jowls. He expected it to crush him any moment.
From out of nowhere, the lion leapt. It grabbed the unsuspecting bear right in the throat and pulled it to the ground.
Demas rolled out of the way as the crowd erupted in applause.
He looked around desperately for his sword. He spotted it and limped over to it.
The bear was on top of the lion. But the bear was still.
The lion struggled to pull itself out from under the dead monster that had crushed it with its weight. The lion’s jaws were dripping with the blood of the bear’s esophagus ripped from its throat.
But it could not get out.
Demas approached the lion.
The crowd gave a standing ovation. This was true entertainment worth the price of admission.
He walked up to his fighting partner with heartfelt sadness. He said to it, “Thank you, old friend,” and plunged the sword into its heart. The lion opened its mouth in a silent roar and died.
The crowd fell silent. Their cheering stopped almost instantly at Demas’ surprise finale. They could not believe it. Booing peppered the crowd. It was anticlimactic. It was animal cruelty to the very creature that had saved him from the claws of the bear.
Demas looked around him at the mob. He didn’t trust their passions. They were fools carried along by their lust for blood and circuses. Of course he had to kill the beast. No amount of partnership against a common enemy could change the fact that this beast was still ultimately an enemy. It would turn on Demas, kill him and eat him after it had killed the bigger enemy. No temporary friendship would change its inbred natural instincts. The masses were idiots to project a relationship between man and beast. In the long run, a lion is a lion and a human is its enemy.
Damn the mob to Gehenna. He limped out of the arena to his iron gate.
When he arrived inside the gathering area for fighters beneath the stadium, he was accosted by the sight of two bestiarii hanging dead by their necks from the rafters. They were beaten bloody. One of them had his tongue hanging from his mouth in a hideous contortion. A gladiator in iron armor stopped
on his way out to the arena. “Those are the two culprits who released the animals upon you.”
Demas stared with amusement at the hanging corpses. The gladiators had discovered the betrayal and reinforced their code of honor. Maybe this gang of guilded thugs was not so bad after all.
Chapter 2
Demas made his way through the graveyard of tombs just outside Scythopolis. His wounds had been dressed. His shoulder ached with the pain of vicious animal punctures. His ribs and left arm were bruised from the bear brawl, but he was whole. He was not too sure he was glad to be alive though.
He found a tomb marked with his adopted family name, “Samaras.”
He paused, unsure if he could follow through with this. It would have been so much easier had he just been mauled to death in the arena. Then it would be his brother here, bringing Demas’ body, or what remained of it, to lay in the crypt. Demas would no longer have the dark shadow over him that followed him everywhere he went.
He had to do this. He used a large wooden post as a wedge to move a circular stone that covered the grave opening.
He bent down and entered the four foot high entrance.
Tombs were the luxury of the upper classes in society. The average poor man was buried in a shallow grave with nothing but a mere stone with markings to indicate who it was who awaited their resurrection from this spot. The rich were able to afford crypts where entire families would be able to “go to sleep with their fathers,” as the saying went. Sleep was the common metaphor used to express their hope that one day Yahweh would return and resurrect the dead for judgment. There was a debate within the Pharisee and Sadducee circles about resurrection. The Pharisees believed it, but the Sadducees did not. Demas was inclined to agree with the latter, more liberal group. But in the end, such petty debates over dogma didn’t really matter to him anyway. He would never get his beloved back.
