Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  With a sudden shout he leaped into the attack, whirling his scimitars in great slashing transverse figure-of-eight patterns, the blades scything through the air as they travelled in their deadly, crisscrossing circular arcs, aimed right at the hapless Viridovix, who was as a rabbit in the path of a dive-bombing eagle … except that suddenly, the gladiator wasn’t there. The world turned abruptly upside down, and Kurush felt a strange and solid thump on both sides of his skull, almost as if he were somehow rolling. He had no idea how this had happened, or why, or what to make of it, but after a disorienting blur of motion, he found himself staring at Viridovix’s feet. How had he ended up mere inches away from them? And then the awful realisation came rushing in, through the rapidly fading light, the cloying shadows, the drowning, swallowing, suffocating, all-consuming dark…

  Viridovix dropped to his knees when he saw the life fade from the eyes of Kurush; eyes possessed of a look of sheer confusion just before death glazed them over. It was almost as if, Viridovix thought, Kurush had not even realised that his head had been severed from his body before he had had the chance to complete his leaping figure-of-eight manoeuvre. It may have worked against many other opponents Kurush had faced before, but against Viridovix the gamble had failed, and he had paid the ultimate price.

  It was of no consequence now; Viridovix’s opponent was defeated, and now he had just one more mission to complete before he could slip into that comforting sleep, that overwhelming weariness that was pressing with such ruthless gentleness at the edge of his consciousness. He staggered up onto his feet, gasping and spitting blood, and stepped over the decapitated body on legs that felt as if they would buckle beneath him at any moment. He then held up his armoured forearm to shield himself from the heat of the bonfire beneath the brazen bull, and heaved open the door of the bull’s flank so that he could pull Lucius out and give him the mercy of a quick death.

  However, it was not Lucius Sertorius that emerged from the hellish depths of that brazen bull; the moment that Viridovix hauled open the door, a great grey wolf sprang out – the same wolf that had haunted his dreams and nightmares all these years. His eyes were crazed with agony, his fur all burned off around the joints of his legs, as well as in huge, bloody patches around his back and flanks and head, and his feet were but stumps of charred meat. With furibund madness the wolf lunged for Viridovix’s throat with its gaping red mouth and wicked fangs, but despite the sudden shock of the attack he managed to turn away, leaving the beast to sink its teeth into the unarmoured flesh of his right bicep. With a shout of pain he dropped his longsword and staggered back, but he managed to punch his steel bear-claws into the creature’s flank, and the metal talons penetrated deeply between the wolf’s ribs. Man and wolf fell to the ground, thrashing about in a desperate struggle. It was then that Viridovix remembered that he had one remaining carving knife tucked into his belt.

  He whipped out the blade as he tried to fight off the pain-maddened beast, and then stabbed the knife straight through the creature’s eye into the core of his brain. Death was instantaneous, and the light quickly faded from the wolf’s remaining eye as his body grew limp on top of Viridovix. He allowed his head to rest on the marble floor, bleeding heavily and feeling crushingly exhausted and utterly spent from the intensity of the struggle and the duel with Kurush. A blackness was now gathering at the edges of his vision, and an irresistible weariness was weighing down his limbs, as if all of his muscles had turned to dense mud. Through his fading senses he heard the sounds of victory cries: his brother gladiators. He smiled a tired smile and closed his eyes, thankful that all of this had not been in vain. He would die in a few moments, that much was true, but he would die a free man, a free man who on his last day of life had fought for honour, had fought for brotherhood, had fought against tyranny and oppression. He could die with a smile upon his face and greet the gods of rock, stream, tree, earth and sky in the Great Forest standing tall and proud.

  The sound of footsteps approaching him roused him, and he opened his eyes to see the General, Oenomaus, Crixus, Spartacus, and all of the other gladiators who had survived the battle, standing around him. All were bloodied and wounded, but all had joyous smiles upon their faces. The General gazed into Viridovix’s eyes, and as he did so tears filled his own dark orbs and rimmed them with bitter red.

  ‘You are still with us, my brother,’ he said softly. ‘Praise be to the gods.’

  ‘Not … for long,’ Viridovix whispered hoarsely. Even talking now seemed like it required a herculean effort. ‘My wounds … are surely … fatal.’

  ‘Oenomaus, help him,’ the General murmured, his eyes locked on his friend’s pallid face.

  Oenomaus nodded and hauled the horribly burned body of the wolf off of Viridovix, and then gently lifted Viridovix and propped him up, using the body of the wolf as a pillow.

  ‘I thought they’d put a man in that thing,’ Oenomaus rumbled as he pointed at the brazen bull. ‘But it were just a wolf. Bloody huge wolf, but no man.’

  ‘It … was … a man … I’m sure … of it…’ Viridovix stammered.

  ‘Never mind,’ the General said. ‘That is of no importance now. We have won the battle. See!’

  Crixus stepped forward and held Batiatus’s severed head in front of Viridovix.

  ‘Our former master fought well and bravely, right until the end,’ the General said. ‘We gave him a quick and noble soldier’s death … the kind he and his ilk would surely have denied us should we have lost. But nevertheless, we have won this battle tonight, and we are now free men! However, in the eyes of Rome, we will be seen as most savage and grievous criminals.’

  ‘The General speaks the truth,’ said Spartacus, whose face was bloody, bruised and crisscrossed with slashes and cuts. ‘We are all wanted criminals now, so we must flee, and flee swiftly. When word about this gets out – and it surely will, for I think that despite all our efforts, a number of guests and some soldiers escaped on horseback – Rome will send an army against us.’

  ‘I can carry you, my friend,’ Oenomaus said with tears in his eyes to Viridovix. ‘I’m strong enough to carry you all the way over the Alps. You know I can. I’ll do it, brother, I’ll do it.’

  Viridovix shook his head weakly.

  ‘No … you must leave, now … all of you … Do not worry about me … My time is done … I am at death’s door, brothers … and no healer nor medicine … can save me now.’

  ‘We can get you to a stream, clean you up, find a doctor—’ the General began, his eyes misting over with sadness and his voice cracking.

  ‘My wounds … are fatal … old friend … I will not … live through … the night … Already I can hear … the voices … of my people’s gods … calling out to me … calling me … to walk … that final … walk … into the Great Forest.’

  ‘We cannot leave you here!’ the General protested, shaking with grief as his freely flowing tears dropped onto his dying friend.

  ‘You must, General … I will only … slow you down.’

  ‘He is right, General,’ Spartacus said. ‘He is dying. We can all see that. I’m sorry, but we have no time to waste. We must fly, right now.’

  ‘No!’ the General screamed hoarsely. ‘No! I will not abandon my brother like this! I will not!’

  Viridovix could hardly even breathe now, but with great effort he reached up and gripped the General’s forearm in his trembling hand.

  ‘You are not … abandoning … me … my brother … You … are … liberating … me … You already … have.’

  Spartacus placed a sympathetic hand on the General’s shoulder.

  ‘It is time to say your final farewells, General. We must saddle up all of the available horses and ride out of this cursed place now. The survivors may already have reached the city, and forces could be mobilising against us as we speak. There is no time to spare, none at all.’

  Crixus dropped Batiatus’s severed head and squatted down next to Viridovix.

  ‘You fought w
ell, Viridovix,’ he rasped.

  ‘You … can actually … speak?’ Viridovix asked, chuckling and coughing.

  Crixus grinned.

  ‘I’d almost forgotten how to … but now I remember. Go well into whatever realm your gods live in, for they are surely waiting to greet you with a hero’s welcome.’

  ‘Thank you … Crixus,’ Viridovix murmured.

  Spartacus then knelt down and squeezed Viridovix’s shoulder.

  ‘You fought like a true champion today, Viridovix. You and I have not seen eye-to-eye on many things in the past, but today I am proud to name you brother. You fought like a hero of legend this night, and into your Great Forest a hero you will go. Farewell.’

  With that, he and Crixus stood up and walked away. Each of the gladiators followed their example, kneeling down and whispering their final words to Viridovix, until finally only the General and Oenomaus remained.

  ‘Goodbye old friend,’ Oenomaus rumbled sadly, his massive face contorted into a grimace of sadness. ‘I don’t know what else t’ say, see, and I ain’t none too good at these things. I wish you was coming with us, but … but … oh, I’m feeling right sad now. I don’t know what to say. Goodbye, and good luck for your next journey. I’m going to miss you.’

  He wrapped his enormous arms around Viridovix and squeezed him in a bear-hug, and then, with tears rolling over his protruding cheekbones, he laid Viridovix down again and shuffled off, sniffing loudly and clutching his huge, bloodied hammer in both hands.

  Finally, it was N’Jalabenadou’s turn to say goodbye. He gripped Viridovix’s hand in his, and locked a piercing stare into his friend’s eyes.

  ‘I am glad that … that you lived to see freedom, my dear friend,’ he said, every word having to fight its way through the balled knot of bitter emotion in his throat. ‘But it hurts me so to know that you will not share in its boundless joys with us.’

  ‘But … I will…’ Viridovix croaked, his lips curling into a sad smile. ‘I will … be with … all … of you … My soul … will travel … with … you.’

  ‘I know it will, brother … I know it will.’

  Viridovix gripped the General’s hand in his.

  ‘Take … my sword … Bury it … in the garden … you will have … with your future wife … and children … Those things … of which … we talked and dreamed … in those lonely nights … in the cells … bury it there … and I will … be with you … always.’

  ‘This I will do,’ the General whispered hoarsely. ‘This I will do. I swear it upon the souls of all of my ancestors! Farewell my friend, my brother … my hero!’

  He embraced Viridovix tightly, picked up the champion gladiator’s longsword, and strode out of the hall without looking back.

  Tears were now rolling down Viridovix’s own cheeks, but they were tears of happiness, for finally, finally he was at peace. A feeling of blissful release was coursing through his body and soul with the joy of spring rain, warm in golden sunshine. He closed his eyes and saw her there. Her, in the forest, with the smell of blossoming flowers heavy in the air, the moss damp and soft beneath his feet, the sweet scent of rain hanging with the bright, sunlight-shining mist among the trees. He was gone from that battle-ruined dining hall, with its death and corpses and blood and gore, and now he was in the forest, in her arms, drowning in her heavenly presence…

  Forever.

  PART NINETEEN

  65

  WILLIAM

  October 1856. Earl Cavanaugh’s estate, outside Calcutta, India

  ‘I’ll wager one hundred pounds on my man,’ Niall Kelly declared, his words dusted liberally with a Southern drawl.

  Earl Cavanaugh, a squat fellow with a round head of white bottle-brush hair and sagging crimson jowls, raised a bushy eyebrow and glared at Kelly. The younger man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, effortlessly deflected the stare of aggression with a cocky smile.

  ‘Well Cavanaugh, are we on?’ he asked.

  Kelly, dressed in the extravagant finery of a dandy despite the sweltering heat of the Indian day, nudged a playfully antagonistic elbow into Cavanaugh’s rotund midsection.

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll have your nose hacked off, Kelly,’ Cavanaugh snarled, his accent that of a Midlands aristocrat.

  He brushed off his dark smoking jacket, an expensive item from one of the finest and most exclusive tailors in London, as if it had been fouled by Kelly’s touch, and then straightened it with his arthritic fingers before replying.

  ‘Fine, one hundred pounds it is; you win and your debt to me is erased. But if you lose, it’s doubled, with the usual interest.’

  Kelly laughed boisterously, slapping his thigh.

  ‘So that’s how you want to play, Cavanaugh? Well how about you add some interest to my winnings, should my boy emerge victorious?’

  Cavanaugh swung around, his broad, coarse-featured visage crimson with sudden wrath, and he shoved a meaty, crooked finger in front of Kelly’s pale, pockmarked face.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Yankee! I’ve been more than generous with you in the time I’ve allowed you to pay back what you owe! I could have – and perhaps should have – fed you to my tigers months ago! Now I’ve accepted your bloody wager, only because of how damned foolish it seems, but I won’t allow you to belittle me with your arrogant, self-important insolence for a single moment longer! Now go and tell your man the conditions of the contest, and I’ll have my servant do the same for mine, but damn you, don’t you bloody well look at me with that expression of smug pride on your face, don’t you bloody well dare!’

  Defiance sparkled its bushfire heat in Niall Kelly’s olive-green eyes, but with a nonchalant flick of his hand he removed a stray strand of curly blonde hair from his face and turned away from Cavanaugh, so that the older man could not see his smirk of satisfaction. However, with his contentious nature and almost insatiable lust for conflict, he could not resist one final jab at his cantankerous associate.

  ‘I’m a Confederate sir, not a Yankee. Louisiana, I’ll have you know, is about as far from the Yankee states as Prussia is from your native land.’

  Cavanaugh slammed his fist on the table, sending a tumbler full of brandy crashing to the floor, where it exploded in a shower of liquor and glass shards.

  ‘You are utterly insufferable, aren’t you!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Damn you! This is my final blasted warning before I throw you under an elephant!’

  Kelly held a fist to his lips and bit deeply into the knuckle of his forefinger, trying his utmost to restrain the bout of haughty laughter that so desperately wished to escape from his belly.

  ‘I must offer my most sincere and heartfelt apologies to you, sir,’ he said, fighting back giggles as the words crept through his lips. ‘I meant … no … offense,’ he continued, almost choking on the words, so intense was his desire to cackle.

  ‘Go!’ Cavanaugh roared, his eyes ablaze, and spittle flying from his lips. ‘Go and get your damned opium fiend on his horse, and let’s get this ridiculous farce over with!’

  Cavanaugh folded his stumpy arms across his chest and huffed as an Indian servant cleaned up the broken glass and brandy with demure efficiency. Kelly picked up his tumbler of brandy and his silver-tipped cane, and then strolled languidly over to the white-painted railing of the veranda. As he finished off the last dregs of his liquor, he gazed out over the expansive grounds of the estate that stretched out before them, his eyes roving along the gentle slope that crept down towards the distant river, staring for a time at the serpentine lick of glistening brown with its foreboding barrier of jungle on the far bank.

  On this side of the river, however, the wilderness had been hacked away; the old trees had long since been cut down and uprooted, and the python-like vines and steaming undergrowth had been slashed and burned. Here, in this place where rhinoceroses, tigers, leopards, monkeys and elephants had once roamed, there now stood this vast, sterile estate. Over the grounds an overbearing mansion presided in cold op
ulence, built in a style that emulated the most extravagant contemporary manors of Victorian England.

  ‘Have your boy fill up another glass for me for when I get back, Cavanaugh,’ Kelly remarked as he strutted off towards the stairs. ‘I do so like to wet my whistle while I watch a good horse race, as I’m sure you can appreciate!’

  He smiled to himself as he saw Cavanaugh clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, and once again he had to fight back the urge to erupt into a fit of mocking giggles.

  A few minutes later he reached the stables and peered inside, his bright-accustomed eyes taking a while to adjust to the gloom. Immediately, over the earthy scent of horses and manure, he caught whiff of another familiar scent – one that sparked a conflagration of rage inside him. He gripped his cane tightly and strode inside, his green eyes aflame with a burning wrath. He peered into each of the stalls, his wrath intensifying steadily as he went. Finally, he reached the stall at the end, and therein lay his jockey, sprawled out on a bundle of hay, his dirty shirt lying open. The jockey’s head, with its unkempt mane of blonde hair and its thick beard that obscured the bottom half of the otherwise-handsome face, was lolling about atop his grimy neck as he exhaled a lungful of opium smoke.

  Kelly darted into the stall and snatched the long opium pipe out of the man’s hands, and then glared at him with rage-quivering fists for a few tense moments. The man looked up at him with eyes that were glazed over with opiate-induced indifference, and his mouth curved into an oblivious smile of ecstasy.