by J M Hemmings
‘My brother and me have been shooting bows since before we could walk,’ Sethos declared, his dense accent rendering his words almost incomprehensible. ‘I could take an apple off of your head from fifty paces, no problem. My brother too.’
Sphaerus nodded, confirming this.
‘Good,’ the General said with a slow nod, his countenance grim and severe. ‘Here, take the bows and arrows off these dead guards. We must continue to use stealth if we are to get to the armoury without word getting out about our rebellion. If we can creep all the way along these ramparts, we can get to the armoury without being noticed by anyone below. However, to do that we need to eliminate all of the archers who patrol the battlements. Spartacus and I were lucky to have been able to creep up on these two, but for the rest, who are patrolling long, open stretches that are well-lit by this full moon above, there is no chance of sneaking up close enough to engage them in hand-to-hand combat before an alarm is raised. A well-placed arrow will be the only way to silence and neutralise them.’
‘Understood, General,’ Sethos said as he took up one of the bows in his long-fingered hands.
‘These Roman bows are nowhere near as good as our native Syrian bows,’ Sphaerus commented as he tested the draw weight of the bow he picked up, ‘but for this range they’ll do.’
He notched an arrow and loosed it at a shrub around fifty yards from the ludus walls. The arrow streaked through the air and disappeared into the bush with a barely perceptible rustle.
‘Shoots straight enough,’ Sphaerus remarked with a nonchalant shrug.
‘We’ll stick the arrows right through their throats,’ Sethos growled, narrowing his eyes and twisting the corners of his mouth into a dark scowl. ‘That way they won’t be able to scream.’
He turned and loosed an arrow off the wall as well, getting a feel for the bow.
‘Excellent,’ Spartacus said, his gaze tracing the flight of the arrow as it zipped through the crisp, moonlit air. ‘We will taste freedom tonight, my brothers … We will taste it, and we will drink it in as if it were wine sent down from the gods themselves! Tonight we will walk out of the gates of this prison as free men. Come! Let us not linger, for freedom awaits us, freedom awaits…’
***
When Lucius awoke, the bitter and metallic aftertaste of blood was heavy in his mouth, and spots of pain ached and throbbed all over his body. Through the blurry haze that was the regaining of consciousness, he became aware of a tumultuous clamour of voices all around him – voices laughing, joking, shouting and chuckling with drunken mirth and savage delight. He looked up, trying to move, but found that he had been bound hand and foot.
‘H-, h-, h-, help m-, me…’ he managed to groan through his broken mouth.
Nobody heard, and if they did, nobody cared.
There was another sound, however, besides that of the crowd at the banquet, that brought the blood-chilling horror of the present rushing to the fore: the sound of a crackling, hungry fire.
The brazen bull … Oh no, oh by all the gods, no…
‘That brazen bull is looking rather starved my friends, don’t you think?’ Batiatus yelled as he stood up from his chair. ‘I think we should soon feed it! What say you?’
A resounding roar of approval ripped through the hall.
Batiatus looked all around him, grinning with an evil satisfaction.
‘Soon, soon my friends! But first, yet another show!’
‘Is Viridovix going to fight the gorilla now?’ shouted an inebriated man, with a shiny bald pate and a massive gut bulging against his silk chilton. ‘When are we going to see this gorilla you’ve been promising us?!’
‘Patience my friend, the gorillas are coming,’ Batiatus replied with a self-satisfied grin. ‘But first, let it be known that my good friend Octavian has brought in a special force that he has been assembling, a force that I and my doctore have been helping to train. Maharbaal!’
Maharbaal jumped up from one of the tables. Unlike most of the guests he was stone sober, as he was a teetotaller.
‘Boss!’ he barked, giving Batiatus a stiff salute.
‘Bring in the troops, Maharbaal.’
‘Yes boss!’
Maharbaal, kitted out in light armour, strode out of the hall through one of the side doors, returning minutes later at the head of a force of eighty soldiers, most of whom were armoured in the same style as himself: a type of armour that mixed elements of standard-issue Roman legionary gear with that of the more elaborate gladiatorial style.
At the back of the hall, Claudius leaned over to whisper to Lepidus.
‘This must be the first century of what will become our Huntsmen’s army. First this century of eighty men, then a cohort, then a full legion … And finally, an army. An army that will eventually be the most elite armed force in the world. Therein lies true power, my friend.’
Lepidus nodded, stroking his receding chin as he stared at the troops.
‘Aye, so it does, so it does,’ he murmured. ‘I only wish we’d been privy to this plan earlier, eh? It makes me wonder what else Octavian might be hiding from us … Hmm. Anyway, let’s see what these fighters can do.’
With a series of brusque commands, Maharbaal got the troops to form up in two lines.
‘All of these troops have been trained in the same gladiatorial style in which my elite warriors have been instructed,’ Batiatus explained to the guests. ‘Maharbaal and I have been assisting Octavian in this for a number of months now. Like the gladiators, they train from sunrise to sunset in a variety of styles, using a number of different weapons. Each man is assigned a type of weapon to be his main weapon, based on which weapon it turns out he is most proficient at handling in training. Now Maharbaal, a demonstration, if you will!’
‘Yes boss!’ the tall doctore barked. ‘Troops, left column, attack formation! Right column, defensive formation!’
In one unified motion, each column manoeuvred into their specified formation with a precision so rapid and smooth that it was veritably mechanical.
‘Observe, my friends,’ Batiatus commented coolly, sipping liberally on his wine, ‘the traditional Roman “tortoise” shield wall, used with such devastating effect against all manner of undisciplined barbarian foes. This cube of interlocked shields is all but impenetrable, is it not?’
The crowd buzzed in agreement.
‘Myself and Maharbaal have been working on a number of new and unorthodox tactics with which to approach otherwise standard combat routines. See now, my friends, what we call the “burrowing badgers”. The troops are named badgers after that particular animal’s ferocity when cornered in tight spaces. As for the burrowing, watch closely.’
‘Troops! Prepare for demonstration!’ Maharbaal gnarled.
The defensive column, formed up in a tortoise formation, grunted and locked their tall shields together, forming a tight and seemingly impenetrable barrier. While they were doing this, the column of aggressors manoeuvred themselves into a wedge, with two very heavily armoured fighters forming the foremost tip. Both of these men were short, each no more than five feet tall, but both were very stocky, compact and muscular in build. The heavy plate armour they wore was studded all over with many eight-inch-long blades, each sharpened to a razor’s edge, but these blades were covered over with leather sheaths for the purpose of this demonstration. Each man carried two wickedly curved knives, one in each hand, which featured double blades – one facing up out of the wielder’s hand, and one facing down, with a handle in the centre. These blades were also covered over with protective sheaths.
‘Advance!’ Maharbaal ordered.
The wedge began moving forward, with the soldiers advancing at a trot.
‘Crossbows! Engage!’
From out of each wing of the wedge two crossbowmen stepped. Their crossbows were of an exceptionally powerful and heavy nature, and each carried a thick barbed bolt to which a length of rope was attached, making it a harpoon, essentially.
‘Aim! And …
loose!’ Maharbaal shouted.
The crossbowmen loosed their heavy projectiles into two of the shields at the front centre of the tortoise formation. The heavy bolts, with their broad quad-bladed barbs, punched through the shields and remained embedded in them, the barbs and spike-studded shafts of the projectiles holding them fast.
‘Badgers, charge!’
The two stout and heavily armoured badgers barrelled straight at the shield wall, while four tall, strong troops at either side of the advancing wedge gripped the ropes attached to the harpoons embedded in the shields. An order was yelled out from the wedge just before the badgers reached the wall, and with a vicious, simultaneous jerk of force, the big men pulled on the ropes, yanking the shields right out of the hands of the defenders and thus opening up two gaps in the tortoise. Into these gaps the badgers quickly plunged, and once inside the formation the two of them went berserk, with their spiked armour and double-bladed knives wreaking havoc on the tightly packed soldiers inside the formation.
As soon as the badgers had breached the tortoise, the attacking wedge broke into a sprinting charge. While the tortoise began to disintegrate, with the badgers decimating it from within, the attackers smashed against its outer wall, and, as planned, the combined attacks began to obliterate the integrity of the formation, with the tortoise rapidly falling apart and the attackers overhwleming the defenders in seconds.
‘Stop demonstration!’ Maharbaal yelled abruptly. ‘Return to formation!’
Immediately the mock battle ceased, and without a word the troops shifted with impressive precision back into their former positions.
One of Batiatus’s guests, a senior centurion in the Roman Army, stood up and began applauding enthusiastically. The other guests soon followed suit, all dazzled by the efficiency, discipline and creativity of the troops’ tactics and prowess.
‘See the power and inventiveness of this new force!’ Batiatus boasted as the applause died down. ‘Is it not a marvel?! As a former military man myself, I can assure you all that these are some of the finest, most well-trained troops I have ever laid eyes on. And the announcement that I am about to make is part of the reason that we are having this celebratory banquet tonight: senators, centurions and other high-born citizens of this glorious Republic, I am deeply honoured to inform you that my friend Octavian has requested that my gladiators be added to the ranks of his new force of soldiers. Let me say that most gladly do I provide my men for this noble fellow’s cause, most gladly indeed! It is with overflowing pride and joy that I now publicly announce my partnership with Octavian!’
Everyone got to their feet, cheering and applauding.
‘I thank you for the gift of your gladiators,’ Octavian said solemnly as he stood up to speak. ‘They are the finest fighters in all the known world, there is no doubt in my mind of that. I foresee a long and profitable relationship between you and I, Batiatus. This is what I predict, and this is what I believe shall come to pass!’
‘Hear hear!’ the senior centurion shouted, and another wave of cheers crashed through the hall.
Batiatus stood up, his ruddy face glowing with both inebriation and the ear-to-ear grin that was smeared across his face.
‘Thank you for your kind enthusiasm everyone, thank you! Now, we will have another course of food, and we will watch some more demonstrations from this new elite unit. We will feast on ostrich spiced with pungent herbs from the Far East, and pickled sea urchins from the ocean depths! And there will be more wine, of course, as much as you care to drink! Come, let us continue our celebration!’
***
Horatius peered down the corridor that ran along the top of the parapet and sighed; time seemed to have been passing especially slowly this evening. Perhaps it was the distant hum of the dining hall carried on the wind – all those people in there having fun, while he was stuck out here on sentry duty. Feeling the familiar haze of boredom clouding his mind, he started to mutter to himself while he idly ran his thumb up and down his bowstring.
‘Come on Vibius, where are you?’ he grumbled. ‘We’re supposed to have bloody well changed our watch five minutes ago. That stupid lout is probably having a shit again. By Jupiter, that idiot’s bowels are always giving him issues … and guess who has to suffer because of it? Bah! I’m bloody well tired of it. If the sergeant finds out we’re late in switching up, there’ll be hell to pay! Again! I’m so sick of getting an earful from that blustery prick on account of Vibius’s fucked-up arse! Gah!’
He shot a quick glance up and then down the corridor, and then took out the wineskin he kept discreetly hidden inside his boiled-leather breastplate. He opened it and swigged deeply on his cheap wine.
‘Mm … at least I’ve got this to keep me company.’
He wandered over to the edge of the parapet, leaned his bow against the wall and lifted up his tunic so that he could urinate off the edge, and humming the tune of his favourite drinking song as he waited for the urine to start flowing. It was at that moment that he heard a curious noise; a zipping sound, accompanied simultaneously by a loud thrum. A jarring impact shuddered abruptly through the side of his neck, as if someone had just delivered a vicious slap to him from behind.
He spun around, expecting to see Vibius there laughing – but there was nobody. Something felt very wrong about this. Icy alarm washed over him when he realised that he couldn’t breathe.
With a rising gush of panic, he reached up to his throat, raising a trembling finger to the skin. There, below his chin was the familiar Adam’s apple, rough with two-day stubble – yet also slick with warm, steadily flowing wetness. And there was also something else there – something that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there.
By the gods, how could this be possible?! What?! No, no no!
An arrow shaft, transfixing his throat.
As a scream started to rise like hot gas from his blood-filling lungs, he heard another whizzing sound, this time thrumming straight towards his face.
It was the last thing he ever heard.
Sphaerus knelt down next to the still-warm corpse of Horatius and pulled the arrows from the dead guard’s eye socket and throat. After setting his weapons down on the corpse, he performed a number of owl hoots in the agreed-upon pattern.
Out of the stark shadows thrown by the silver moon crept the gladiators, swarming like suddenly materialising demons all over the corridor, almost floating, it seemed, in the silence of their barefoot locomotion. They came together and huddled around Sphaerus.
‘Is this the last one?’ N’Jalabenadou asked.
Sphaerus nodded.
‘The last one on this side. Let’s see what my brother says when he returns.’
More owl hoots echoed through the night, and Sphaerus cupped his hands to reply. All of the gladiators then waited in suspenseful silence as Sethos padded across the corridor towards them.
‘Have they all been eliminated?’ Spartacus asked anxiously as the young Syrian approached.
‘All taken care of,’ Sethos replied calmly, ‘swiftly and silently. No alarm was raised.’
The gladiators breathed out a collective sigh of relief.
‘Good,’ N’Jalabenadou said. ‘My brothers, we have arrived! Down there at the end of that courtyard is the armoury. The most risky part of doing this will be battering the doors down, as they are secured with locks. We have to do it this way, I’m afraid, as—’
‘No we don’t,’ a voice piped up, interrupting the General.
‘Why is that?’ he asked, peering through the sea of heads to see who had spoken.
‘I’m a former thief, and one of the best lock-picks you’ll find anywhere in the world,’ announced one of the gladiators, a grizzled Spaniard who, like Sethos and Sphaerus, was a comparatively recent addition to the ludus.
The General smiled, his teeth bright in the moonlight against his ebony skin.
‘Excellent.,’ he remarked. ‘We do indeed have a diverse group of talents here! Come then, my lock-picking friend, g
ain us access to the armoury, and freedom will be but one final step away.’
***
Viridovix sat in the dank cell below the dining hall, chewing listlessly on a piece of gristle from a plate of scraps that had been scraped from the plates of Batiatus’s guests. Down here he could hear the undulating waves of noise crashing, ebbing and flowing from the huge hall above, somewhat muted because of the distance, but still quite distinctly audible.
He reached down and touched the cut on his calf, received in his earlier fight against Lucius. He pressed a fingertip to the pared skin and winced as pain shot up his leg – the cut had been deep, and blood had run all the way down his leg over his ankle to pool and congeal in his sandals, between his toes. With listless fingers he took another scrap from the plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing mechanically as he picked at the flakes of dried blood with his free hand. In this particular cell, unlike the underground gladiators’ cells in which he slept each night, there was a large window. It was heavily barred, but it was nonetheless a welcome portal to the outside world. He stared out at the night sky above, losing himself in memories as he focused his gaze on the great round face of the moon.
‘Moon Goddess,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I remember a night many years ago, when you were just as beautiful as you are tonight.’
His mind wandered back to a different time, well over half a lifetime ago. The night had been like this one – an eve in the dying days of late summer, the air ripe with the scents of flowers in bloom mingled with the damp, earthy perfume of the forest with all her greens and browns, alive with a smorgasbord of textures rough, smooth, soft, prickly and mossy. Viridovix had been young then, a teenage boy on the cusp of manhood, as yet unmarked by the tattooist’s bone-needle and untainted by the violence and gore of warfare. Through the forest he had wandered, drinking in the scents like too much mead, losing his senses in the multifaceted symphony of the night. Down through the caltrop tops of the pines the Moon Goddess had drizzled her blue-silver radiance, and amongst the tree-pillars it had blended with the drifting wisps of mist. Fireflies had whirled their phosphorescent paths through the dark; tiny will-o’-the-wisp ghosts igniting microscopic comet trails through that fecund galaxy, little balls of drifting fire that had led this lost youth through the labyrinth of rough-barked pillars, through the liquid shadows and drifting moonlight … to her.
