Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  ‘I also saw him while Will an’ Watty were fightin’,’ Andrew continued. ‘He was just strollin’ amidst the tents, writin’ an’ writin’ an’ writin’ in his book. He didnae stop tae watch the fight, so I knew tha’ Will would be safe from Watty.’

  Another gust of wind whipped through the camp, rustling the tents with a furious beating and flapping, as if a flock of ghostly ravens was descending on the campground.

  ‘Well what about the rest ay us?’ Michael asked warily.

  Andrew did not answer. Instead, he smiled strangely, and then went back to playing his guitar, while the others sat enshrouded in an eerie, dread-laden silence around the dying campfire.

  PART ELEVEN

  37

  VIRIDOVIX

  July, 78BC. Batiatus’s Ludus, outside Capua

  The darkness was eternal and omnipresent, and more terrifyingly suffocating than anything Viridovix could ever have imagined. It swallowed him from the inside, welling up from the deepest pits of his bowels, filling his stomach and lungs and throat as it billowed upwards through his body. He breathed it out, breathed it in, soaked it up through the membrane of his skin and then sweated it out again as droplets of indelible ink, and he felt it burning his eyeballs like salt water, whether his eyes were open or closed.

  It was all-consuming and inescapable, and it was the death of all things; the antithesis of life.

  Down here, everything was dead.

  Viridovix had no idea how long he had been kept in the tiny subterranean cell; it could have been hours, it could have been days. Time had ceased to crank its gears and pulleys in a linear pattern of motion; instead, it had followed the unpredictable and chaotic anarchy of a mosquito dying in mid-flight.

  Viridovix could not sleep, but neither could he stay awake. Instead, his mind was suspended on the meniscus of a sea of semi-consciousness – not under the water, but not above it either – with the soul-destroying monotony punctuated only every once in a long while by a blinding shear of light when the heavy oaken door was opened, and a bowl of cold, gooey porridge was tossed in by unsympathetic hands.

  Occasionally a rag soaked in vinegar was also thrown through the door – this was to keep Viridovix hydrated, but it was never enough, however dry he sucked it. Indeed, thirst and hunger were his only companions in this black, dank hell. In desperation he had tried licking the condensation from the damp stone walls, but it had tasted overpoweringly brackish and had given him severe stomach cramps.

  He had soon had to become used to the stench and feel of his own urine and faeces; he had had no option but to soil himself in here, for there was neither a chamber pot nor a corner in which to relieve himself, and he did not even have the room to turn around or uncurl his body from a foetal position in this tiny, claustrophobic space.

  Despite often drifting into a fitful sleep from sheer boredom and helplessness, the cold from the stone floor that seeped through his skin and burrowed deep into the marrow of his bones did not allow him to fall into any sort of restful slumber. Instead, his mind would be dogged with nightmares, and he would awaken with a jolting start, only to find himself stuck in as awful a hell as any his subconscious mind had conjured up behind the wall of sleep.

  It was as he was in the midst of a nightmare, about being chased by the same gargantuan grey wolf yet again, that he was awoken by a drenching of icy water.

  ‘Your cell time is over, dog,’ a gruff voice announced.

  The light pouring into the cell from the flaming torch brand was viciously bright, and it was all Viridovix could do to keep his eyes tightly shut against the acute pain it caused him.

  ‘Get ‘im out o’ there,’ someone said.

  Rough hands hauled him out of the cell and dumped him on the rough stone.

  ‘Give ‘im a few moments for ‘is eyes to adjust. A blind gladiator is a dead gladiator, and we wouldn’t want the master’s investment to become useless before ‘e’s even set foot on the training ground. Oy, slave, you let me know when yer eyes feel a bit better, like, when you can open ‘em, right? Then we’ll get you upstairs an’ get some food an’ drink in you. Today’s your first day o’ trainin’, see?’

  ‘He’s going to be dealt a bleedin’ hammering by the doctore and his gladiators, he is! Ha! I can’t fuckin’ wait to see it neither. Especially since I hear this mangy cur was some sort of war hero up there with his subhuman pack o’ savages in northern Gaul.’

  ‘That ‘e was, that ‘e was! Jupiter take my cock if ‘e wasn’t!’

  ‘Bah, these barbarian animals from the north come swaggerin’ around the arena sands, but it don’t matter none ‘ow many o’ their fellow savages they’ve hacked apart in their own battles – a trained gladiator will have them in pieces in three sword strokes, just three, I tell ya! This one is going to get bloodied up good today, he is!’

  ‘I … I can open eyes,’ Viridovix croaked, his hoarse voice barely clearing a whisper.

  ‘Can you then, precious? Well get up, up on your bleedin’ feet then! I’m not carryin’ you up there. Hurry up, you stinkin’ street mutt! We’ve got a good few flights of steps to ascend, so prepare your worthless legs an’ lungs.’

  Viridovix tried to stand, but a sharp pain shot at once through his cramping limbs, and he cried out and fell to the floor. The guards laughed uproariously, slapping their thighs and howling with savage and unsympathetic amusement.

  ‘Like a bleedin’ geriatric, this one is! Do you need a walkin’ stick, grandpa?’ one of the guards mocked.

  ‘I’ll see your head on the end of a stick, Roman dog,’ Viridovix whispered under his breath, speaking in his native tongue; the hell of the subterranean cell had not managed to completely quell his rebelliousness and thirst for freedom.

  ‘Eh? What did you say? You’d best not be speaking that savage talk here. That’s not allowed, and you fucking know that, you dirty whore’s arsehole! I’ll kick your bleedin’ teeth out of your ugly mouth if I hear one more word of that barbarian talk! You understand, ya’ mangy slave?’

  ‘Yes,’ Viridovix muttered reluctantly.

  The guard dealt him a vicious backhand slap that knocked him flat onto his back.

  ‘That’s “yes MASTER”, you filth! Say it, you smelly piece of shit, say it!’

  ‘Yes … master,’ Viridovix growled through gritted teeth.

  The guards all laughed again.

  ‘I think we’ve broken him, boys! Well, almost, anyway! What the cell hasn’t finished, the gladiators and the doctore will! Ha!’

  ‘Get ‘im on his legs, move it. Gods but ‘e reeks, doesn’t ‘e? What a ball o’ stinkin’ dog shit ‘e is. Come on, come on, sunrise is almost upon us, lads, and we was supposed to bring this barbarian scum up to the dining hall ‘alf an hour ago.’

  ‘Right, dragging him it shall be,’ one of the guards grumbled.

  Two of them hoisted Viridovix up by his arms, and then, supporting him by his shoulders, they began dragging him up the stairs at a brisk pace.

  ‘I will wreak my vengeance on all of you, on every last one of you. I swear this on the names of all of the gods of rock, tree, stream and sky,’ Viridovix whispered to himself as the excruciating pain spread from his joints through his whole body with the rapidity of spilled water on dry, thirsty linen.

  ***

  Five Years Later

  The thunderous adulation of the crowd tasted sweeter on his lips than any wine he had ever imbibed, and the reverberation of the thousands of screaming plebeians was more melodic a tune in his ears than any song he had ever heard.

  The gaudily attired announcer strode around the edges of the sands with both thick hands raised to the heavens, bellowing enthusiastically in his booming, sonorous voice.

  ‘Here he is! The monster from the northern edges of the known world, the fiercest Gaul ever captured alive, slayer of all and any who dare to step onto these sands with him, rainer of blood upon the earth! Free citizens of Rome, I give you … VIRIDOVIX, THE BEAST OF THE NORTH!’ />
  The masses erupted into a riotous cacophony of applause, cheers and crazed howls as Viridovix emerged from the darkness of the tunnels, stepping proudly out into the glaring sunlight and yellow sands of the Colosseum arena.

  ‘The Beast has arrived!’ the announcer roared.

  Viridovix’s elaborate steel armour, burnished to a mirror-like sheen, gleamed glossily in the early afternoon sunshine. His exquisitely detailed armour had been fashioned by a grandmaster armourer, modelled on a bear theme; his full-face helm was a steel bear’s head – he looked out through its open mouth, staring past rows of white-painted fangs – and his pauldrons had been fashioned into the likenesses of huge bear paws. In addition, the articulated links of armour that covered the entirety of his left arm had been modelled on a bear arm, the metal intricately hammered, etched and beaten into a roughly textured surface that resembled shaggy fur. And to the end of this steel bear arm, as if it were the real thing, three razor-sharp ten-inch claws had been added – an extra set of weapons to complement the long Gallic sword that Viridovix wielded, this being the only original item that remained from the first set of armour and weapons Lucius had purchased for him five years prior.

  Viridovix turned about slowly, taking a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the crowd that surrounded him, and then he raised his sword to the sky, drinking in the eruption of near-hysterical praise that this gesture brought as if the fervent cheering was the nectar of the gods themselves.

  They worship me. I could be a god … Nay, I AM a god … a god of the arena!

  ‘Today, the Beast of the North will face not one, not two, but THREE opponents, all at once! This is bear baiting with a difference!’ the announcer cried.

  The crowd cheered vociferously, maddened to a frenzy with bloodlust. They had just watched the execution of two men, criminals convicted of treason against the Republic, and many of them were already intoxicated on cheap wine … and all, drunk or sober, were lusting to see more blood spilled on the sands.

  ‘On this bright, clear and sunny afternoon, the Beast of the North shall be set upon by three dogs – three rogues convicted of gross fraud and swindling, and consequentially sentenced to die upon these sands. Bring out the curs!’

  At the opposite end of the arena a small portcullis gate creaked open, and armed guards shoved three men from within onto the sand. All three were naked but for dog pelts, replete with dried-out, flapping heads, that covered their shoulders, backs and scalps. In addition, each was armed with a poorly made Roman gladius.

  Viridovix wasted no time in getting the show started. He gripped his longsword loosely in his right hand and held out his left arm ahead of him like a shield; the armour was well-padded on the inside, and the steel itself was thick enough to block and deflect even heavy sword blows. Also, of course, the steel bear-arm had the steel claws with which he could slash at and stab his opponents.

  In response, the three criminals formed up in a loose triangle formation. The foremost one was the youngest; he looked to be in his twenties and was fairly sturdily built.

  ‘Perhaps you spent a year or two in the legions,’ Viridovix whispered to himself as he sized his opponent up. The man gripped his sword in a manner that suggested that he was familiar at least with the basics of swordsmanship, but the other two, who were flabby middle-aged men, held their weapons as if they were children playing with wooden swords; they did not have a clue.

  You tremble like lambs before a slaughter knife; I see the bulging whites of your eyes, I can hear your hyperventilation, I can smell your fear. You truly are dogs! This is why they brought me out here? To execute a handful of mangy curs? Bah … My skills are wasted on the likes of these.

  ‘Come, dog!’ Viridovix shouted out to the foremost man. ‘Your Roman gods have sent me to you today to grant you passage to the underworld. Bring your sword and let me complete that task!’

  The man growled and swore a half-hearted curse of defiance in response.

  ‘This is a damned waste of time, but I’ll give the crowd a good show nonetheless,’ Viridovix muttered.

  ‘Gallic savage!’ shouted out the criminal, who seemed suddenly emboldened. ‘Come for me then!’

  You have tasted battle before, I see. You stand in a soldier’s guard, and you do not shake like a leaf in a storm, as do your compatriots. Still, your legionary training counts for little on these sands. For one thing, you have no … shield!

  Viridovix broke into a sprinting charge as he came within twenty metres of the man, who was standing stock still, with his sword drawn, while his companions cowered in fear behind him.

  ‘Aid me, you cowardly bastards!’ the man screamed, the timbre of his voice now betraying a hint of fear and panic. ‘Attack the barbarian while I engage him!’

  There was no time for any of that, though. As Viridovix reached terminal speed, he used the weight of his armoured left arm as a counter-mass to propel his body into a tumbling half-somersault, half-cartwheel. He performed three of these in rapid succession, bearing down with vicious speed on the man, and while performing the third somersault, he used the momentum of his spinning, airborne body to propel an arcing downward slash with his heavy blade, launched as he was in the air. At the same time, he used his armoured left arm to hammer his opponent’s blade out of the way, opening up his defences so that he would receive the full brunt of the whistling longsword slash.

  And receive it he did. The man did not even have the time to be surprised, really; it all happened so quickly. One second his sword was smashed out of the way by the steel bear arm as the airborne gladiator bore down on him, and in the next instant the Gallic sword split his head vertically in two.

  The man slumped to the ground, twitching violently in his death throes. Viridovix braced a foot against the dead man’s chest and yanked his blade out of his opponent’s cloven skull. He raised the sword above his head, and the masses screamed with bloodthirsty adulation.

  Warm blood dripped from the blade down his arms and onto his powerful shoulders and leanly muscled torso, which was bereft of its previous mess of chest and body hair; the entire surface of his body was now shaven, his skin as smooth and bare as that of a teenage boy.

  Viridovix glanced up at the other two, and was not surprised to see that both were cowering with terror. A thin stream of urine trickled from the shrivelled penis of the man on the left, and it looked as if his chunky legs were about to buckle beneath him, so terribly were they trembling.

  ‘Fight me you dogs!’ Viridovix roared, his voice hoarse with contempt. ‘Come on! Fight me!’

  The crowd howled with approval and began jeering at the criminals. Viridovix mock-charged the one who had just wet himself, and the man shrieked and dropped his weapon. At this cowardice, the stands reverberated with boos and hoots of mockery.

  Viridovix turned and stepped aggressively toward the other criminal, who took a half-hearted swipe at him, his arm shaky and weak with fear, his breath coming in sharp, heaving gasps, betraying the paralysis of fear in which he was gripped. Viridovix parried the pathetic blow with casual ease and followed up immediately with a surging counterthrust. He stopped the blade a millimetre from his adversary’s throat, enjoying the hush of suspense that fell upon the crowd. Instead of harming the man, however, he gripped his opponent’s forearm, spun him about on his feet, and then spanked him on his pasty bottom with the flat of his sword. The crowd erupted into a chaos of riotous laughter, and Viridovix booted the man in the small of his back, sending him sprawling face-first into the sand. From somewhere in the stands someone tossed a half-eaten apple, which struck the convict’s bald pate and exploded in a shower of juice and apple bits, much to the amusement of the spectators.

  Viridovix chuckled and turned to the other criminal.

  ‘Boo!’ he shouted, lunging forward.

  The man, who had just picked up his sword again, dropped the weapon and turned tail, sprinting across the sands and shrieking as he fled.

  Viridovix stuck h
is sword into the sand and shouted out to the nearest guard.

  ‘Soldier! Your spear, if you please!’

  The man grinned and tossed Viridovix his spear. Viridovix caught it deftly, then quickly calculated the speed and direction of the fleeing target. He took a short run up and then grunted as he flung the projectile. The crowd’s suspense began as a low rumble, which ascended in a rising crescendo and then burst into cheers of savage delight as the spear arced high up into the air, and then accelerated earthwards towards the running criminal.

  The man had almost reached the gate at the end of the arena when the spear hit him. It struck him between his shoulders and transfixed his body, the point emerging in a spurt of blood and meat from his abdomen. He fell face forward into the dirt, and the last sounds he heard, while writhing in agony as his life faded from his body, were the mocking jeers of the spectators, revelling so boisterously in the savage brutality of his death.

  Viridovix raised his fist to the sky, and thunder erupted from the crowd.

  ‘I am a god,’ he whispered to himself. ‘A living, breathing god.’

  Now only one criminal remained. He had just regained his footing after the indignity of Viridovix’s last assault, and now he turned to face Viridovix with his sword held limply in his trembling hand.

  ‘Now but one dog remains against The Beast!’ the announcer bellowed, to the delight of the crowd.

  ‘And the Beast will face the dog unarmed!’ Viridovix shouted.

  The crowd pealed out a cannonade of approval.

  ‘Guard, help me remove my armour,’ Viridovix called out to the nearest guard.

  The guard looked up at Batiatus, who was seated at a place of honour near some senior senators in the stands. Batiatus gave the guard a cool nod. Upon receiving this approval, the guard set his weapons down and hurried over to assist Viridovix, while another guard threatened the convict at spear-point to prevent him from trying anything while the gladiator was busy.

  After a few minutes of undoing a multitude of straps and buckles, Viridovix stood before the crowd attired in nothing but a loincloth. Despite being close to fifty now, his musculature was as defined that of any marble-carved statue, his physique meticulously sculpted from the daily rigours of his combat training regime and his strictly regulated diet of vegetables, fruit, legumes and nutrient-rich porridge. Long gone was the shaggy mane of hair and bushy beard he had once sported as a Gallic warrior chieftain; not only was his entire body hairless, but his face too was smooth and clean-shaven, with his salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to his skull in the Roman style. The only physical remnant to remind him of his pre-slavery days were the ceremonial tattoos of his tribe, the last vestiges of a dead past still etched indelibly on his tanned skin.