by J M Hemmings
Women screamed with joy at the sight of his Adonis-like physique, and men murmured with both jealousy and approval. He grinned at the crowd and did a standing backflip, which was met with further applause and shouts of encouragement. All of Batiatus’s gladiators underwent an hour or two of rigorous daily gymnastics and acrobatics training under the tutelage of a master Greek instructor, in addition to their combat training; Batiatus understood well the benefits of showmanship.
‘Come cur, your sword against my fists,’ Viridovix growled.
The man advanced on shivering legs, fearful and unsure of himself, even though he had no choice but to fight. He stabbed at Viridovix, but it was laughably easy for the master gladiator to sidestep the clumsy and ineffectual lunge. Viridovix dropped into a lightning-fast forward roll, and as he came up he smashed a rocky fist into his opponent’s midriff, knocking the wind out of the man and sending him crashing to the ground.
The crowd roared again, and Viridovix stood up to drink in the summer rain of their approval. He strode around in a wide circle, his arrogant fist raised to the air as the spectators cheered. As his opponent rose up on shaky knees, Viridovix began to circle him, launching taunts and insults like darts. He dashed in through the man’s weak defences and slapped him across the face before tumbling in an acrobatic roll to dodge a clumsy sword slash. His opponent was still frightened, but seemed to be working up a bit more courage and ferocity now – that was good; it would make for a better show for the crowd.
The man started becoming more aggressive, lunging and hacking and slashing with abandon, but as hard as he tried, each attack was dodged with elegant finesse by the gladiator.
‘Come on dog, you can do better than that! You haven’t even so much as nicked me!’ Viridovix shouted.
At this the man became possessed of a sudden, rash bravado. With a shrill scream he charged Viridovix, but the nimble gladiator sidestepped at the very last moment and gripped his opponent’s sword arm, jerking it with vicious precision up over his shoulder and breaking it at the elbow. Before the man even had time to cry out in pain, Viridovix vaulted over the man’s back, and on his way over he gripped his adversary’s head in the crook of his elbow and brought him down hard, snapping his neck on landing. The sight of the man’s now-lifeless form flopping to the ground brought the spectators to their feet, and they belted out their approval with gusto.
‘Put your hands together for the mighty Beast of the North!’ the announcer boomed. ‘Now, he will don his armour once more, and he will face an opponent from the darkest jungles of the province of Africa, a giant among men with sharp-filed teeth that he uses to gorge himself on human flesh! This aberration of nature will also be armed to the teeth with strange and deadly weapons, the likes of which have never before been seen in Rome!’
As the guards helped to strap Viridovix’s armour back on, he stared up at the sea of countless faces that were screaming out his name, staring at him with unbridled adoration and envy and lust, and a heady drunkenness surged its giddying power through every vein and artery in his body. The announcer was saying something, but it sounded as if the man was miles away; his voice was merely a distorted echo of a lost whisper amidst the cliff-crashing ocean waves of the crowd.
Viridovix watched coolly as his opponent strode out of a gate at the far end of the arena. The man looked as if he was over seven feet tall, and he was built like a rhinoceros to boot. It did not matter; Viridovix had not tasted fear for years. He began to jog, then run, then sprint towards his adversary, gripping his sword in his right hand as he charged. With the rolling storm clouds of the spectators’ cheers propelling him on, he descended upon his opponent with all the wrath of a super-hurricane making landfall. Victory was assured him.
***
‘You made short work of the African giant, Viridovix,’ N’Jalabenadou remarked as a slave girl dug her fingers into the muscles of his back, massaging them with vigour. ‘But do you think that you could best this African?’
‘I’d wager I could best the General, General,’ Viridovix said with a wry grin, while another slave girl pounded his back with hammer-fisted blows. ‘But then if I killed you, who would I have to boast to about my victories, and all the beautiful women I fuck after said victories? Batiatus has promised me my pick of any five whores I want tonight, from Domitia’s House of Pleasures! Five of the most beautiful, voluptuous female faces and bodies in Rome, General! Five!’
The General raised an eyebrow and then shook his head, releasing a slow sigh in which his disapproval was blatant.
‘I don’t know if I’m merely disappointed or actively disgusted, Viridovix,’ he said dryly.
‘Bah! You and your Spartan ethics! You’re an African, black as Hades, just like that monster I destroyed in the Colosseum this afternoon. You’re no bloody Spartan, and as much as you admire them you never will be, for all you wish it! Why don’t you let go of your foolish discipline and have some wine and women, and enjoy yourself for a change?’
‘That’s the difference between you and I, Viridovix. Discipline is my enjoyment,’ N’Jalabenadou countered, pausing to grunt with pleasure and relief as the slave girl kneaded her knuckles into a knot in his muscles. ‘I take great joy in my “Spartan ethics”, as you call them. Where I come from, the greatest and most revered men and women are the ascetics who forsake all sensual pleasures, wealth and family to seek wisdom alone in the wilderness. There is immense knowledge and insight to be attained through the means of a simple existence, of harmony with all life, of—’
Viridovix rolled his eyes and sneered.
‘For Jupiter’s sake man, spare me your lecturing. I’d rather speak to Crixus over there than listen to your boring rambling.’
The joke Viridovix was making referred to the fact that the gladiator Crixus, who was also getting a massage with them, did not speak, ever. Crixus looked up at the mention of his name, but the look he gave Viridovix was a blank one, devoid of any expression. Viridovix and the other gladiators were used to this; they had long since become accustomed to this particular gladiator’s strange and often eccentric mannerisms. Crixus turned his broad, angular face, with its harsh, aggressive features, away from the other two gladiators and settled back down on the stone massage slab. He was an almost excessively tall, very muscular fellow in his mid-thirties, and was of an ideal build for a fighter. His honey-coloured skin – he was Carthaginian – was stretched taut over heavy muscles that were as solid and bulgy as knots in polished wood, and his long limbs gave him astounding reach, while his broad and mighty shoulders injected tremendous power into any and every blow he struck, either with his rocky fists or the scimitars he wielded.
The man’s taut skin, however, was far from flawless. His back, thighs and arms were an utter mess of ugly, raised whip scars and sword cuts – there were many more whip scars than sword scars, though – and in addition to this, much of his skin had been severely burned in a fire, and had the look of molten lava, bubbling from the quiet volcano that seemed to burn relentlessly inside him; while his face was usually a frozen mask, set in a permanently and unwaveringly neutral expression, whatever the circumstances, in his large, dark eyes there was a nearly bottomless abyss of old pain, grief and trauma.
Because he never spoke and kept entirely to himself, nobody knew what misfortunes had befallen him or what abuse he had suffered in his pre-gladiatorial life. They were aware of a few details, though. One was that “Crixus” was not his real name; it was a nickname given to him on account of the curly and springy black hair on his long skull, that he grew out to the longest length that Batiatus would permit, which was only around ten centimetres or so. Of course, because he did not speak, nobody was ever able to find out what his Carthaginian name was, and since he responded to “Crixus”, that was what they called him.
They were not sure if he was permanently silent because he was a mute who quite literally could not speak, or whether he possessed the ability to speak, but simply refused to do so, but what
everyone did know was that in the four years that Crixus had been at Batiatus’s ludus, he had never uttered a word to anyone. He was an elite gladiator, a lightly armoured dimachaeri who wielded two long, curved scimitars simultaneously, and he was just as skilled with his weapons – and bare hands – as Viridovix or N’Jalabenadou. He followed any commands given to him by Batiatus or the guards to the letter, without question or protest … and, as far as anyone knew, he had never lost a fight.
N’Jalabenadou and Viridovix turned their attention away from Crixus, and back to each other.
‘Oh, “by Jupiter” you say?’ the General mocked. ‘So now you take as your oath the names of those Roman gods you once so despised? You know Viridovix, I look upon you and see but a shadow of the man who the guards dragged in five years ago, fighting and cursing in your Gallic tongue.’
Hot anger flared up in Viridovix’s eyes.
‘A shadow?! Are you mad, General? I’m the greatest gladiator in this fucking ludus! They worship my name in every arena across the Republic!’
The General remained unconvinced.
‘Gladiator … slave … there is no difference. Yes, you are still a slave, no matter what else they call you. What happened to those oaths of vengeance and freedom you swore when they first brought you here?’
Viridovix looked away, unable now to meet the General’s probing gaze.
‘I … I will have my freedom one day,’ he muttered.
N’Jalabenadou laughed dryly and humourlessly.
‘I no longer see the man I once called friend and brother. Instead I see a slave, drunk on his master’s rewards, his senses dulled by too much wine and too many women.’
‘Well what would you have me do?’ Viridovix snapped. ‘You’ve been here longer than I, and you’re still a damn slave yourself! You accuse me of all of these things, yet you too are confined to these cells with not a hope in Hades of liberty!’ Viridovix paused for a moment, and the anger drawn tightly across his face softened to a more sympathetic look. ‘Listen General, if we survive another five years in the arena, I’m sure Batiatus will grant us our freedom. You and I, we’re in good shape, but we’re not getting any younger. The crowds are fickle; they love us now, but you know how they are; they won’t care anymore in a few years. We’ve seen it happen with every hero of the arena. The masses get bored quickly; they need new heroes, new warrior gods to worship. When that happens, Batiatus will give us our wooden swords. We will have brought him more than enough coin by then. And then when we’ve been granted our freedom, why, we could become doctores ourselves! We could train gladiators and make piles and piles of gold from them in the arena, as Batiatus does. You and I are the best of the best, General, and we can use that to our advantage in the future.’
The General shook his head and stared coolly into Viridovix’s eyes.
‘Again I say, you are not the Viridovix I once knew,’ he said with a sad sigh. ‘I have no desire for gold, friend. We talked so much in those early days of leaving this accursed place, of escaping from all this vile excess! You and I, Viridovix, we spoke long into those lonely nights in our adjacent cells. Don’t you remember? We talked of the small plots of land we’d have, out in the countryside, free from the long and evil fingers of Rome. We imagined the crops we’d raise, the wives we would have and the children we would sire who would keep our names alive after we passed from this realm. I still follow that dream; a simple dream of a simple life.’
Viridovix glared haughtily at the General, his lips curling into a sneer of contempt.
‘The roar of the crowd does nothing for you?’ he spat. ‘Fifty thousand plebeians, all screaming your name? You feel nothing at all?’
The General was firm and resolute in his answer.
‘No. I feel nothing but contempt for them. I do not want their insincere praise, and I do not want their hollow adulation. I just want them to forget me, to leave me be. I want nothing of these dreams of empty excess. My feelings on this matter are as strong now as they were five years ago … unlike yours.’
‘Well I say that—’
‘Gladiators, your master approaches!’ a guard barked, interrupting their conversation. ‘On your feet, boys!’
The General, Crixus and Viridovix rose up from their massage slabs and stood at attention as Batiatus limped into the room on his crippled leg. He beamed a warm smile at the three gladiators before he spoke.
‘My warriors, my golden heroes of the arena! The crowds sang your praises today like never before! As promised, I will reward you sweetly this evening. Viridovix, you will be taken to Domitia’s House of Pleasures later, where, as discussed, you may have your pick of any five women, and as much wine as you care for. Spare no expense, my warrior! You made me more coin than you could imagine this afternoon, so you are free to spend as much of that coin as you so wish.’
Batiatus then turned to Crixus.
‘And you? I suppose it’ll be the same thing for you as ever, eh? Three big jugs of wine, alone in your cell?’
Crixus nodded, the unmoving expression on his face as deadpan as ever.
Batiatus then turned his attention to N’Jalabenadou, the General, with a strange look of consternation etched onto his visage; it was almost a plea, but with the force of authority backing it.
‘General, will you not for once partake of the fruits I offer? Surely you must long for the company of women and the sweetness of wine?’
The General stared at the floor and shook his head.
‘I must refuse, Master. My request remains the same: liberty. Failing that, a night spent alone in the forest, next to a clean stream with the starry sky above me. Shackled, if you so wish. But just a taste—’
‘Bah!’ Batiatus snarled, his congenial expression morphing in an instant into one of stormy-faced wrath. ‘Your damned requests never change, do they?! Why can’t you bloody be like Viridovix here, eh?! He takes the wine and women I offer him with gratitude, as a good slave should! Or even Crixus, as bloody strange as he is! At least he’s obedient and grateful! Yet you, you with your accursed attitude, you spurn my gifts and demand the impossible of me! Jupiter take your cock! I’d have you flogged and thrown in the underground cells for a few days for your insolence, if I thought it would have any effect on you. Mark my words though, General: one more act of such defiance and I will throw you in the dungeon. Bah, well you’ll get nothing from me tonight then. I spit on your victories in the arena! You’re my property, you ungrateful street mutt! Everything you are you owe to me, and yet you retain this damned attitude of disobedience and insolence! I’ve almost lost my patience with you, almost…’
The General kept his head bowed and remained silent through this exchange, and when it was over, he offered no response. Viridovix quickly jumped in to prevent the situation from escalating further.
‘Master, was there something you wanted to discuss with us? I do not mean to interrupt you, of course, and I am eternally grateful for the gifts you bestow upon me, for I am not worthy of them…’
Batiatus’s stormy face lightened a bit at Viridovix’s flattery, and he cleared his throat before turning to talk to him.
‘Aye, aye. I have some important visitors coming to the villa tonight who wish to meet you two.’
‘Visitors, master?’
‘Yes. Senators, in fact. Men of very high rank. They were impressed by your recent victories and wish to see a demonstration of your fighting techniques. You will entertain us over dinner, all three of you. After that, Viridovix, Domitia’s House of Pleasures awaits you. You, Crixus, can sit and get drunk on your own, as is your wont. And you, General, bah, well you can go and sulk by yourself in your cell for all I care.’
‘I will do whatever my master orders with regards to these men. Hail Batiatus!’ Viridovix cried.
Crixus did not speak, but he did salute Batiatus stiffly and formally, staring straight ahead with a hollow-eyed stare as he did.
‘That’s it my champions, that’s what I like to hear, that
’s what I like to see!’ Batiatus cried with a broad, proud grin.
He then, however, turned to the General and scowled darkly, his eyes cold and hard as winter icicles.
‘You’d best not show any of your damned insolence at this dinner, or so help me you’ll not see daylight for a year,’ he growled. ‘I’ll throw you into those cells until the flesh rots from your bones and your eyeballs fall out! Do you understand, slave?! Your arena victories be damned, I say. That’s right, fuck your victories! Don’t you dare bring that attitude of yours into my villa later, don’t you fucking dare!’
‘Yes Master,’ the General murmured, almost choking on the words as they crawled from between his lips.
‘Good, good. Know your place, slave. It is better for everyone that way. Oh, and Viridovix, there is one more thing.’
‘Yes master?’
‘There is a new gladiator coming into your cells tomorrow. He’s been in the dungeon for the past three days, as is standard procedure here. He’s a Thracian prisoner that Lucius Sertorius recently acquired for our ludus, and unfortunately he is just as surly and defiant as you were when you first came here. I’d like you to show him the ropes before dinner, maybe give him a bit of a talking to … You know, some advice on the virtues of obedience, as you have learned so well during your time here.’
