Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  ‘I’m gonna shove the butt end of my fuckin’ spear up your tight little gash, slut,’ a guard barked viciously, ‘and keep shovin’ until it comes out your cock-swallowin’ mouth! Get away from those slave dogs and get that shit to the kitchen! Go!’

  ‘Quickly,’ Spartacus urged. ‘Leave now. You know what to do when the time comes.’

  ‘I will do this,’ Arishat murmured to Spartacus as she walked away, feeling the withering gaze of the guard who had just shouted at her burning holes into her back. ‘Yes, I will do this. Trust me, gladiators, I will do this!’

  ***

  A Few Days Later

  ‘Welcome! Welcome, senators and free citizens of Rome!’ Batiatus bellowed to the crowded dining hall. ‘We are gathered here this evening to celebrate the festival of Mars Invictus. Let us feast tonight and revel in the glory of the undefeated god of war! Let us drink and let us eat, and at the end of the night we will spill blood upon his altar in a sacrifice to his continuing glory!’

  The hall resounded with enthusiastic cheers and applause from the numerous senators and their wives, along with other notable Roman citizens, all of whom were seated around a number of ostentatiously carved dining tables in Batiatus’s cavernous hall. As Batiatus took a seat to the dying of the applause, one of the guests stood up, holding a goblet of wine in his right hand as he beamed a kingly smile out to everyone.

  ‘We thank you, Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Batiatus, for so generously offering to host us on this auspicious evening!’ Octavian said. ‘I am happy that myself and my fellow senators have been made to feel so welcome in this house.’

  At the end of the dining hall, standing at attention and completely disguised inside his full suit of gladiatorial armour, Lucius Sertorius shifted uneasily on his feet. Right there, in the centre of the hall, seated around the largest table – the table of honour – were many of the members of the secret society known as the Huntsmen, well, those whose identities he knew of, at least. He also knew that they had no idea that he, their sworn quarry and target of their efforts at extermination, was standing in the very same room as them, while outside, their mercenaries were scouring the countryside night and day to find and kill him. He could not help but smirk inside his full-face helm … yet this night, something felt wrong. He trusted Batiatus and understood that his old friend would never betray him, yet a sixth sense – that wolf sense, the mysterious and primal animal stirring within his soul – was telling him to flee.

  He tried to shake off the sensation, tried to banish these gnawing thoughts from his mind, but they would not go. Cold beads of sweat began oozing through his pores, despite the heat of the summer evening, and they dripped their chill down his spine as they crept earthward. A brief zephyr rippled through an open window nearby and licked its cool tongue across his skin, causing him to shiver involuntarily. Outside he could see the yellowy pie-face of the full moon in the clear sky, sneering at him with a mocking smile, and flanked by a gallery of leering, malevolent stars.

  Flee! Take on your wolf form, take on your wolf form and flee now!

  ‘Stop it,’ he hissed to himself under his breath. ‘Stop it now! Stop thinking these things! You’re perfectly safe inside this skin of steel, and your face is completely hidden behind this warrior’s mask. To them you’re just a guard, a servant. Nobody knows, nobody but my trusted friend Batiatus…’

  Batiatus’s booming voice snapped Lucius out of his semi-daze of contemplation and consternation.

  ‘Honoured guests! Please stand as the high priest of the Temple of Mars burns incense for this great deity and opens our feast with incantations and libations! Everyone, hold out your goblets that the ceremonial wine may be poured and consumed in the name of Mars Invictus!’

  A withered-looking priest, bent over and hobbling along with the aid of a gnarled walking stick, knelt before a small idol of Mars. He lit a few sticks of incense, poured a cup of fresh bull’s blood over the idol, and muttered a few words of prayer. He then dipped his fingers in the sticky blood that remained in the cup, and with a grunt he got back up to his feet. A junior priest, a young man with curly black hair and stocky limbs, carried a bronze amphora of wine, which the priest blessed with his blood-soaked fingers. After that the priest began limping around the room, dabbing a droplet of the crimson liquid onto the forehead of each guest he passed. After each such blessing, his assistant would pour the wine into the guest’s cup for them to drink, muttering a prayer as the cupful of blessed liquor disappeared down the guest’s gullet.

  Lucius watched the proceedings with an increasing sense of anxiety building like a worsening infection in his gut. He was wondering now how he had allowed Batiatus to convince him to come here tonight. Somehow, his friend had made it sound like such an enticing opportunity, and it was, in a sense. Here he was able to closely observe the very men who wanted him dead, to learn their identities and idiosyncrasies; to study his prey. And in addition, as Batiatus had promised, he’d soon be privy to all of their secrets and accumulated knowledge. Nevertheless, something felt very, very out of place.

  At least that was how it felt at this moment – as if that promise had been a con, a setup. Was that white-haired senator at the end of the table staring at him, or was he just lost in a daydream? Had Octavian himself just given him a double take? The man had fired a glance over his shoulder this way, just seconds ago, had he not? They couldn’t tell who he was through this veil of steel, surely … unless … no, no, that was impossible.

  Betrayed.

  No! Batiatus was one of his oldest and most trusted friends. Well, as much as a former slave could trust someone who used to be their owner. Batiatus, though, prided himself on his soldier’s loyalty. He would never, ever besmirch that reputation with lies and treachery. Never. Not an old soldier like him.

  ‘Shake it off man, shake it off! You’re being paranoid here,’ Lucius muttered to himself, the words bouncing like loosed midges around the confines of the full-face helm, which was starting to feel unbearably stifling and hot. He swallowed a mouthful of sticky and cloying saliva and shifted uneasily in his leather sandals. Ringing clear in his mind were Batiatus’s words, spoken to him the previous night, when he had arrived here after journeying from Neapolis, and these recalled syllables drowned out the buzz of laughter and conversation.

  ‘Prey, Lucius, prey … This is what you must do if you are to escape the clutches of these so-called “Huntsmen”! You must turn the tables, my friend! You must make the hunter the quarry, and thus become the master of your own fate! Turn things around, Lucius, turn them around. Learn all that you can of these men … and what better way to do it than by the method all great hunters use: observation. Yes, keen observation and study of their prey. And soon my little rats in their service will steal more of their secret documents for you to peruse.

  On the night of the feast of Mars Invictus, a banquet that I will be hosting at my villa, Octavian and his snivelling lickspittle senator friends will be attending. This is why I want you to come! You can observe and eavesdrop on them from mere feet away, while they have no idea that you are close enough to slit their throats … although I trust you enough to know that you will not do this in my dining hall, will you, friend?’

  Somehow, it had seemed like a brilliant plan at the time. Now, however, there was just an oppressive sense of dread, growing steadily in terrible intensity with the voracious gluttony of a brush fire on a dry winter’s day.

  Batiatus’s voice crashed through his trance of anxiety, jolting him back to the feverish present.

  ‘And now, honoured guests, may I present to you the first dish of the evening! Indulge your palates in an orgy of flavours as you sample fares from this pantheon of exotic dishes prepared by my grandmaster of the culinary arts! I invite you to gorge yourselves upon the flesh of creatures great and small from the farthest expanses of our empire! And we are not only rich in meat, but in fruit too! Taste the exquisite sweetness of dates from Judea, cherries from Pontus, peaches fro
m Persia, and pomegranates from the province of Africa! And of course, as many of you know, one of my hobbies is growing my own spinach, lettuce and other leafy green vegetables, so unfortunately for you lot, the salad comes from no further away than where your horses are stabled!’ At this a jovial bout of laughter resounded through the room, and Batiatus chuckled proudly at his own joke. ‘I can assure you, however, that the olive oil and vinegar garnishing my home-grown salads come all the way from the very finest growers south of the Alps!’ Everyone laughed again and applauded Batiatus. ‘Now for the first round of dishes: some of my spectacular salad, dormice stuffed with pork and all manner of aromatic herbs, roasted ostrich meat with a honey sauce, and fallow deer with onions, and finally dates and a garlic sauce, served with berries harvested from the forests of Gaul. Partake most greedily of these delicacies, my friends! Devour them with relish! Celebrate in the power and might of this glorious Empire, that through its vast expanse and influence has brought such strange and wonderful dishes to your tables!’

  Octavian stood up and raised his goblet.

  ‘All hail Batiatus! I say, ladies, noblemen, senators and free Romans, raise your goblets to the great god Mars Invictus, but also to this man who the gods have so greatly favoured, Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Batiatus! With that, let this night of revelry commence!’

  Everyone stood up from their tables and raised their goblets, cheering in unison as Batiatus beamed out a broad, proud grin at them. He took a bow, sat down and then quaffed heavily on his wine as the slaves began to bring in heavily laden platters of steaming food, freshly prepared from the kitchens. A band of musicians entered the hall and took up their instruments in a corner, playing upbeat and festive songs as a joyous accompaniment to the festivities.

  Sweating copiously inside his armour, Lucius started to seriously consider the notion of slipping out and quietly fleeing. Amidst all the hubbub of slaves and servants coming and going, it would surely be easy enough to sneak by unnoticed … or would it? After all, the servants and slaves were dressed only in loincloths, whereas he was attired head-to-toe in steel armour. The armour clinked and groaned with every movement he made; he could not walk out of here without making a fair racket, which would surely be noticed by someone at one of the nearby tables, despite the raucous noise of the banquet. However, his desire to escape was escalating to a feverish intensity.

  Curses! I need out! I must get away from here!

  What could be done, though? He could not approach Batiatus and request permission to leave, for that would surely give away the secret of his identity. He could not simply walk away either – he would be stopped by the other guards and made to return to his post. Surely though, if he could somehow just let Batiatus know how he felt, he would be able to leave. There had to be some way of getting a message through to his friend without drawing unwanted attention to himself. He bit his lower lip as he racked his brain in search of a solution, staring all the while at Batiatus’s table and watching as the guests stuffed food into their mouths with a seemingly insatiable appetite. Fingers and hands were slick in the firelight, gleaming with grease and fat, while sauces and oil ran down chubby chins and dripped onto extravagant tunics and robes, garments that were each worth a lifetime’s sum of wages of a common labourer, and that had been worn once or twice before, or perhaps maybe never, and would most likely be discarded after the evening’s revelry.

  Anxiety now began to turn to envy; Lucius could not help but stare in lustful awe at the feast laid out before him.

  I should be there! Me, Lucius Sertorius! I made this ludus what it is! Without the gladiators I chose for Batiatus, this place would still be a second rate ludus, producing fighters who were no more than mere cattle to be slaughtered in group battles in the provincial arenas. Batiatus would never, ever have had a champion of the Colosseum in Rome had it not been for the men I supplied him with! And yet here I am, watching as he and these bastard Huntsmen stuff themselves and fill their bellies with the finest meats, fruits and wines of the Empire, while I have to sit and swelter inside this suit of armour, pretending to be a lowly guard! Bah!

  The more food that was brought out, the more Lucius’s anxiety started to turn instead to jealousy and ire. And there, right there in front of him, sat the orchestrators of all of his misery, the men whose purpose in life, it seemed, was to end his life, and the lives of other beings like himself. To what end, he still had no idea, but their hatred of him and his kind filled him with a murderous disgust that seethed inside him with the corrosive heat of sulphuric acid.

  His fingers tightened around the haft of his spear as he watched Octavian talking in loud and brash tones, laughing and heartily slapping the backs of the senators and businessmen seated around him. Lucius hadn’t practiced with a spear for a long time, but his gladiatorial skills had not been forgotten; once he had been able to split an apple in half with a javelin throw at a distance of twenty yards. Octavian’s head was a far larger target, and it was well inside that range.

  He’d be executed, for sure, most likely by crucifixion. But it would be worth it, would it not? He was still very fast with a sword – perhaps faster than he had been in his gladiatorial days, for these wolf senses he now possessed added a dimension of power and agility to his human form that he had never before experienced. He would be able to fight off a handful of these guards, who were little more than badly paid and poorly trained street thugs, while hacking those soft, fat and helpless senators to pieces. They wouldn’t be able to run very fast or far now, would they, with their paunches all stuffed full of meat and wine and gravy …

  ‘Honoured guests! May I please have your attention? Your attention, please, if I may!’

  Once again, Batiatus’s thunderous voice interrupted Lucius’s thoughts as it tore through the aural maelstrom of music, laughter and loud conversation. Everyone fell silent, and the musicians stopped playing their lyres, flutes, harps and drums.

  ‘My dear friend, Senator Octavian, has organised the main spectacle tonight, which will be the climax of the evening’s entertainment. I will let him introduce that himself when the time comes. However, before that special event, as we begin to serve the main courses – which I hope you all still have room in your bellies for – I myself have put together a small programme of entertainment for your collective enjoyment. First, in honour of my dear nephew Hortensius and his new wife Aelia, who are hoping to soon be blessed with the conception of a son, we will have a show of copulation, performed by a number of Mistress Dometia’s sultry pleasure slaves, exotic barbarians who come from lands far from the southern, northern, western as well as eastern reaches of our Empire. In these savage and uncivilised places, they perform the act of intercourse in positions and manners that will astound and awe you! Performing with them will be a number of male slaves, also owned by Mistress Dometia. They are renowned for their sexual prowess – they have the stamina and strength of bulls, and they will be doing their utmost to satiate their ravenous female charges! Let us observe this wondrous spectacle, my friends, and give praise to the god and goddess of fertility, Liber and Bona Dea, that my nephew and his beautiful wife may conceive a strong and intelligent boy who can carry the honour and nobility of my family name!’

  Cheers and bawdy laughter rippled through the dining hall, but from around the table nearest Lucius there burbled a discontented grumbling, which was coming from the two old senators, Claudius and Lepidus. Lepidus leaned over to his friend Claudius and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Bah! It’s just like one of these minor aristocrats, with no real lineage to speak of, to include such base entertainment at one of their feasts. Look at this place! It’s hideous in its sheer ostentatiousness. No taste whatsoever! To think that Octavian enjoys keeping company with such an undesirable individual as this Batiatus … shocking, is it not? First Octavian began dabbling in gladiators and other such lowly enterprises, things with which only uneducated and brutish plebs are concerned … and now this, a, a lewd display of carnali
ty! How revolting!’

  Claudius shook his head and grimaced.

  ‘To be bluntly honest, this causes me much despair. These people around us, these uncivilised businessmen with low-born origins, they simply have no class whatsoever. They’ve made fortunes off of brothels, taverns, and gambling, essentially – because that’s all that this gladiatorial nonsense really is, a savage and bloody form of gambling – and this is no honourable way in which to amass coin and riches. Not at all. And look at the manner in which these brutes flaunt their newfound wealth! The garishness of these people’s clothes is hideous in its tastelessness! I know that this Batiatus used to be a general of our glorious Legions, once upon a time, and that he comes from an noble if rather minor family – but to be honest, in his behaviour now he seems little better than some crass Egyptian or Greek merchant, drunk on new wealth, without the slightest clue how to spend his ill-acquired coin in a tasteful manner.’

  Lepidus narrowed his eyes and he scrunched his wrinkled visage into a haughty frown of disapproval.

  ‘If this is the type of person who will inherit power and start to wield influence in the Republic, I fear greatly for its future.’

  ‘This Batiatus fellow,’ Claudius muttered, ‘I’ve heard rumours that he greatly desires a position in the senate.’

  Lepidus shook his head and crossed his arms over his pigeon chest before he replied.

  ‘Surely such things cannot be credible? That blustery buffoon hasn’t got the connections or the family background, much less the intelligence required to get into the senate. That sounds like a baseless fabrication to me.’