by J M Hemmings
‘Let him try. It won’t make a difference. Look, I’m a soldier at heart, Lucius, and you know how fiercely we value loyalty. And you, you are a former gladiator of mine, and you earned my respect and trust over many years of faithful service. Worry not, old friend, I’ll not sell you to the Huntsmen, not for any price.’
The relief etched on Lucius’s face at this news was plain to see. He sighed and looked down at the floor, massaging his temples with still-clammy fingers.
‘Thank you Batiatus. You are among the few I would name a true friend. And it was quite ingenious of you to have me in disguise as one of your guards, mere feet away from that bastard Octavian. I can’t deny that the impulse to lean across the table and slit his throat was strong … but out of respect for you, I did not do it.’
‘And I trust you enough to know that you would not have done it, which is why I put you there in the first place. As is oft said, the most effective place to hide something is usually in plain sight. I must ask you though, have you found out anything more about these so-called Huntsmen, the very existence of which Octavian continues to deny?’
Lucius, in the past few years, had discovered exactly why the Huntsmen were after him, but of course there was no way that he could explain these things without revealing his own secret – that he could shift form into a wolf at will, that he did not ever fall ill like other people, and that he seemed immune to the ravages of ageing. These Huntsmen somehow knew about his secret, and the secrets of the few others like himself of whose existence he was aware, and they had made it their mission to utterly exterminate all beastwalkers. To what end, Lucius still did not know. Of course, it was not unreasonable to see why any man would think of him and his kind as monsters; indeed, he himself did not understand exactly what he had become after surviving a mauling by a wild bear a decade ago in the forests of Western Gaul.
The first few times he had changed into a wolf, it certainly had seemed as if he had become something monstrous; he had felt an overwhelming bloodlust gushing through every vein and artery in his being, accompanied by a volcanic rush of primal power surging through every muscle and nerve-ending in his body, and he had been unable to rein in the pulsating, desperately throbbing urge to howl like a mad thing at the full moon. Lucius had relished in this strange and frightful power that he had been given, and had delighted in the freedom of the rippling wind racing through the pines, the beastly howling of its air-pack given physical form in the body of the great grey wolf that he was somehow able to shift into.
Yes, at first it had seemed like something horrific, or demonic, almost – yet after he had become accustomed to it, he had realised that it was not a curse but a blessing, a gift from the gods. Surely it must have been Diana herself, Goddess of the hunt and of wild things, who had taken physical form in the bear that had mauled him and thereby given him this heavenly prize – it must have been, for Lucius could not think of any other explanation that made an iota of sense.
He had not been a religious man before; the experience of being forced to watch the public execution of both of his parents, who had been convicted of forgery and swindling, and the subsequent selling of himself and his sisters into slavery in his adolescent years had crushed what little faith he had formerly had in the existence of the gods. Being a male, he had gotten off more lightly than his sisters; both had been sold to low brothels to be used and abused by all sorts of scum, while he, on account of the swordsmanship he had been studying from a young age, had been sold to Batiatus’s then-brand-new gladiatorial ludus. The smallest and thinnest gladiator in the ludus he had been, but his incredible natural speed, coupled with dexterous agility, mastery of the blade, and razor-sharp reflexes, had enabled him to defeat opponents twice his size.
He had risen quite unexpectedly up through the gladiatorial listing, and while he had never been a champion, he had fought in the Colosseum on a few occasions, and in the few gladiatorial bouts he had lost, he had been lucky enough to have been granted mercy. After ten years of this, Batiatus had granted him his freedom and had offered him employment as doctore of the ludus.
Lucius had refused, intending to leave the Republic forever. He had journeyed alone for months after turning his back on Rome, heading north with his sights set on the edges of the known world, until upon one chill-biting autumn night, as he had been setting up camp amidst the towering pines of a Gallic forest, he had been set on by an enormous brown bear, which he had then managed to kill in a furious battle that had almost ended his own life.
He had not known how long he had lain upon the carpet of pine needles, bleeding and vomiting and sweating and writhing, passing in and out of consciousness with such frequency that after a while he had no longer been able to distinguish reality from nightmares…
In this state of pain and confusion, he had been convinced that he was in the process of a horribly protracted death, and indeed each time he had slipped into unconsciousness he had prayed that it would be the passing into that final cold sleep … until after days, or weeks, however long it had been, he had finally awoken. Or, perhaps, had been reborn was the correct term to use, for no longer had he been Lucius Sertorius, freed gladiator and wandering adventurer … no, from then on he became Lucius Sertorius, the Great Grey Wolf.
The first few times his body had changed form it had happened entirely outside of conscious control. He had thought that he was dying, nay, he had desperately wished for death, so immense and crushing was the agony that had blasted through every single nerve in his body as he had writhed and screamed and foamed at the mouth. Through his horror, grey fur had sprouted from his skin, canine teeth like curved daggers had erupted from his gums, and his entire face had stretched out into a lupine snout, replete with whiskers bursting like weeds from his bloodied cheeks.
Each subsequent time it had happened, though, the pain had grown more bearable and less excruciating. Eventually, Lucius had gained conscious control over the process, and could enact it at will in but a second or two with almost no accompanying pain at all.
The liquid, coursing power he experienced while in his animal form far surpassed any adrenalin-soaked triumph of defeating an opponent in the arena. His sense of smell alone had added an incredible and indescribable new perception of reality; scents suddenly had the ability to conjure up three-dimensional images in his mind, pictures that were so physical in their photo-realism that they became virtually tangible. Yes, scents glowed like beacon fires on night mountaintops, screaming out their locations in a sheer and crisp silence that far surpassed anything even the keenest of human eyes and ears could detect.
His other senses, while they paled in relation to the glorious hyperreality of his sense of smell, had also been massively enhanced by this magic, whatever it was. He could clearly perceive objects on the distant curve of the earth’s horizon, and night became as day to him, so clear was his vision in the dark. Indeed, with his wolf eyes he could see light of a completely different spectrum to that which his dull human eyes could perceive, and in his wolf form he could detect many things that were invisible to the eyes of men.
With regard to sound, a deer stepping on a twig a mile away amidst the trees sounded as precise to him had it occurred but a foot away.
After he had healed and had become accustomed to his animal form, he had begun to discover that he missed Rome, and that the rustic settlements of the Gallic tribes with whom he sometimes stayed and shared meals no longer held the fresh charm they had when he had first journeyed out to the edges of the Empire.
So it was that he had turned and made the long journey back to his home, a trek in which he had covered most of the distance through the wild country in his wolf form, for he found that he possessed far greater speed, agility and stamina as a wolf than as a man.
While he had initially been convinced that this magic had been a blessing from the goddess Diana herself, he soon came to question the veracity of this belief. Demonstrating his ability to switch between the forms of wolf and man to
some Celtic peasants in a remote village almost led to his execution, for they had been of the opinion that he was a demon of the forest taken human form, rather an exceptionally lucky man, blessed by the gods. After narrowly escaping death at the hands of the superstitious villagers, he had learned to be a lot more cautious about who he revealed his secret to.
Now, though, it seemed that someone had found out – this Octavian and his Huntsmen thugs had called him ‘wolf’. They knew, and they had decided that because of the ability he possessed, he had to die.
For five years he had managed to evade them. A few times they had sent troops after him, and he had had a few narrow escapes, the closest of these being on the evening on which he had first brought the gladiator Viridovix out to Batiatus’s ludus. Thereafter he had generally moved about under the cover of darkness, while also assuming a new identity. He had changed his ostentatious tunics of purple, scarlet and gold velvet for rough-spun peasant tunics of brown, and he had grown a beard, while also dying his hair different colours with regular frequency, and wearing it at different lengths … yet still these Huntsmen always managed to find him. It was all he could do to stay but a step or two ahead of them.
‘Lucius?’ Batiatus said, snapping him out of his trance of memories. ‘The Huntsmen – what have you learned of them, these past few years?’
‘I, er, I…’
‘Yes? Speak man, speak! If I’m to continue to protect you, I need to know who I’m protecting you from, and why I’m protecting you from them.’
Lucius was not certain whether he could explain anything about what he knew about the Huntsmen without giving away his own secret. His thoughts raced and collided haphazardly about the corridors of his mind as he scrambled for an answer, his usual quick wits deserting him.
‘I … I believe they are funded by another ludus, jealous of your gladiatorial success,’ he muttered, choking on the lie.
Batiatus scratched his square jaw.
‘Rivals eh? Well, I have plenty of those, I won’t deny. And it is true that by eliminating you, who has provided me with some of the finest gladiators Rome has ever seen in the last ten years, my ludus would be at a severe disadvantage in the future.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lucius spluttered. ‘They covet your glory in the arena. Their gladiators are of such poor stock that they cannot possibly compete with ours, er, yours. I am the one who has found the raw material, material that has been moulded by your skilful hands into such glorious fighters, yes. This is why they want me dead … because of my loyalty to you, and my insistence upon delivering the best gladiatorial material to you, and you alone. Of course, I say this not to detract from your personal glory, for as I said it is you, Batiatus, who takes the men I provide, and through your genius and craftsmanship, shape them into that which is the embodiment of perfection…’
Batiatus huffed and frowned.
‘Yes yes, enough of this flattery now, Lucius. You know me better than that. As I just explained to that Octavian buffoon, I’m a soldier first and foremost, not some soft senator who thrives on hollow praise and empty promises and insincere compliments. Save your tongue for the whores you fuck, and let’s keep this plain and simple: I need you, you need me. Our business relationship has proved most successful and profitable over the last ten years, and I have no desire to end it, so stop looking so worried, Lucius. You’ll remain under my protection, so long as you remain in this area and don’t visit Rome too often. Remember, I’m far less able to protect you there than I am when you’re here in Capua.’
Lucius nodded, but he could not shake the consternation that stirred its discomfort within the marrow of his bones. Something still did not feel right. Nonetheless, he bowed to Batiatus, said his farewells and then left, feeling his friend’s eyes boring with strange, unsettling intent into his back as he strode across the polished marble floor.
39
SPARTACUS
Spartacus attacked with a lunge of his gladius, right after using his tall shield to batter open a gap in Viridovix’s guard. The point of the blunted training sword, which he intended and fully expected to crash into Viridovix’s midsection, slashed nothing but air, however, and in a split-second the champion gladiator was under the blade, sliding forward through the sand in a sharp skid. Combining the dexterity of his bare feet with the force of his momentum, Viridovix brought Spartacus down hard by hooking the outside of his ankle and pushing his knee out. Using his expert command of acrobatics, he then sprang from a prone position on the sand, landing back on his feet with frightful speed. Then with his Gallic longsword he battered aside a feeble thrust from Spartacus, who had had the wind knocked out of him, and slashed his blade with vicious speed toward his adversary’s throat, stopping its edge only millimetres from Spartacus’s Adam’s apple. He held the blunt blade there for a while and locked an intimidating glare into his defeated opponent’s eyes, pinning him down beneath the weight of his aggression and his bestial blood-fury.
‘Splendid performance, Viridovix!’ cried Batiatus, who was sitting with Lucius Sertorius in the stands above the training arena. ‘Flawless technique!’
Viridovix removed his blade from Spartacus’s throat and bowed to Batiatus.
‘For the glory and honour of your house, master!’
Batiatus beamed a benevolent smile at his top gladiator.
‘Aye, aye, and you certainly have brought much of it on my ludus. For that I am thankful, most thankful Viridovix, Beast of the North! Carry on then!’
Viridovix begrudgingly helped Spartacus to his feet and they continued sparring, along with fifteen other pairs of gladiators. Batiatus turned his attention away from the training ground to speak to Lucius, his brow furrowed, with shards of consternation swirling about his eyes like jagged ice in a winter stream.
‘Another goblet of wine, Lucius?’ he asked, staring out over the field.
‘Thank you, Batiatus.’
‘Tell me, this Spartacus … He fights like a Roman legionary, yet he is Thracian, is he not? Why then does he fight like a Roman infantryman? When I was commanding legions in the Army, the Thracian auxiliary units were usually cavalry units, and fought exclusively on horseback. They did not use our Roman equipment and did not fight on foot like our soldiers. Why then does this man fight like this? Are you sure he is a Thracian?’
‘Yes, he’s Thracian alright,’ Lucius answered. ‘And he was part of an auxiliary cavalry unit in the Roman Army. He’s got the tattoo on his hand to prove it. From what I’ve seen of him he’s shrewd, and a fast learner. He doubtless spent a lot of time keenly observing the Roman legionaries in their training, and perhaps in battle too, taking pointers from what he saw an applying it to how he himself fought on foot. One cannot observe a fully trained Roman Legion and not be impressed by their discipline, skill and training, and as a reasonably intelligent man – even if he is a barbarian – he realised our ways were superior to the undisciplined flailing of his fellows, as brave and reckless as they are. Why wouldn’t he try to fight like a superior soldier, when made to fight on foot?’
Batiatus nodded, narrowing his eyes as he continued to study Spartacus.
‘Yes, yes, I suppose you are right.’
‘He deserted and fled the battlefield when ordered to attack his own people, I believe,’ Lucius continued. ‘He was later captured and sold as a slave along with some other fugitives. The other deserters were the typical cowards, drunks and thieves one finds among such sorts, but this one, he was different. He deserted not out of cowardice or a desire to shirk responsibility, but rather, it seems, out of his own sense of honour.’
‘Bah!’ Batiatus scoffed with a disdainful snort of disapproval. ‘No deserter has honour of any sort. Especially not some uncultured Thracian barbarian.’
‘You cannot deny that he is a solid fighter though, if a little wooden in his movements.’
Batiatus quaffed another mouthful of wine and then raised a sceptical eyebrow and set his jaw tight, shaking his head as he stared out ove
r the training ground and took in the battles that were being fought there, analysing the participants’ movements and techniques with his veteran soldier’s eye.
‘My gladiators dance rings around him,’ he grumbled. ‘He fights too much like a soldier in formation. Those tactics work well when you’re one brick in a shield wall, facing a horde of undisciplined savages, but they don’t work so well one-on-one, against men trained like mine, who are all experts in the arts of speed, deception, fluidity and agility.’
Lucius was cautious not to appear argumentative in his response, so he made sure he adopted an overtly deferential tone before he spoke.
‘I agree completely, Batiatus. And I also understand that most of what he learned before is next to useless against the might and skill of your elite warriors. However, despite his stubbornness, I do feel that he can successfully be trained to become a successful gladiator.’
Batiatus slammed down his goblet with his meaty fist and turned to glare at Lucius, his mercurial temper suddenly flaring up like an unexpected thunderclap out of a blue sky.
‘Viridovix has been giving that stupid Thracian all sorts of pointers this morning, and has he taken heed of any? No! Like a stubborn brat he simply glowers, mutters and curses, and tries the same tactics again and again! This stubbornness, this downright stupidity, will damn well get him slaughtered, and thus cost me all that wasted time and coin spent on training and feeding him! All of it will go to waste, damn you!’
Lucius took a hefty swig of wine before replying, and reminded himself that he needed to remain calm and respectful in his response.
‘Batiatus, with all due respect, my friend, I believe that you may well be overlooking his most complimentary characteristic.’
‘I hope you’re not going to say “stubbornness”, Lucius, because that seems to be his overriding idiosyncrasy,’ Batiatus said sourly.
‘Stubbornness, bravery … are they not merely two faces of the same coin?’
