by Bob Mayer
The other two retiarii had used the opportunity to fan out, one fighter on each flank of Falco as he faced the third survivor. Falco forced himself to relax, to focus on the three men who were trying to kill him. They were going to double cast; he knew it a second before either on the flank moved. Falco charged the one he sensed was the better fighter of the two, his shield now over his head, his sword held forward. The caster behind him missed, but the man he was charging, settled his net perfectly over Falco, or at least his shield, which Falco let go of a split second before the net completed its drop and caught him. The net fell to the ground, the shield it’s only captive. Falco dove to the ground at the feet of the retiarius, his sword point now extending forward and up, slicing into the man’s upper thigh as he tried to dance away, severing the artery.
Falco rolled twice to the right, feeling the sand against his exposed skin. The dying retiarius was brave as he stuck with his trident, narrowly missing pinning Falco’s neck to the ground. Falco was on his feet, giving ground, letting the wounded man bleed out as he struggled to approach. Falco could feel the wounded man’s pain, the faintness as his blood pulsed out with each beat of his heart. The other two retiarii were behind, recovering their nets.
The wounded man raised his trident and screamed something in his native tongue, charging forward. Falco stood his ground and met the trident with his blade, stopping the man’s charge as if he had run into a wall. With his free hand, Falco grabbed the man’s throat. He squeezed, massive muscles in his forearm rippling, and the man’s trachea gave way. Still Falco kept the pressure, breaking through the skin, his fingers reaching the carotid arteries, popping into both as if into grapes, blood flowing over his hand. The retiarius went limp, and Falco threw the body from him.
The last two retiarii were approaching very slowly, trying to maneuver him to have their backs to the late afternoon sun. Falco risked a glimpse toward the imperial box. A large awning shaded the box, but Falco knew she was there: he could feel her evil presence. His hatred grew.
Falco turned his attention to the approaching gladiators. He could pick up fear from them now. Their numbers were halved, and he wasn’t even scratched. They had recovered their nets, and he was without his shield, which gave them a slight advantage.
One said something to the other in their tongue. The second replied. Falco didn’t understand the language, but he picked up their intent. He had always been able to do that, a trait he possessed that he had only told one other person about in his entire life, his wife Drusilla. He had known since he was a small child that he was different, and he had instinctively known that showing off that difference would not endear him to others. The difference, though, had saved his life many times in the army and the arena and made him the crown at the gladiator school in Rome for the past two years.
They were going to attack him full on, at the same time. Nothing fancy. Casting simultaneously, side by side, and then charging, hoping to get in an incapacitating strike with their tridents and then finish him with daggers.
Falco smiled. He spread his arms wide apart, bloodstained sword glinting.
The crowd roared its approval and began to chant his name.
He turned his back to the two retiarii, which surprised them. It was his trademark to turn his back on his enemies, to acknowledge the crowd all around. It was as if he sought death, but it never quite found him.
He knew they would be charging a split second before they moved. Still he kept his back to them, sensing their approach, feeling their anger and fear bearing down on him. He even knew when they threw their nets, fifteen feet out as they had been trained. Time had slowed down for Falco, each second passing as if a minute. He could see details in the crowd, the crazed faces of the men and women who came here to see others die and then go home and make wild love, their lust provoked by the sight of the blood. Their roars were a faint sound in his ears, the sound of his own heart beating much louder to him. The dark seed in his heart wanted him to remain still, to let the nets settle over his head and body, to allow the barbed trident points to do their job and release him from the pain of life.
Falco whirled, sword slashing, getting caught in one net, and he let go of the pommel, the weight of the heavy weapon taking the net with it to one side. The other net fell to his left harmlessly. He could pick up the thrill from the two men charging, tridents leveled, as they saw that although they had not captured him with their nets, he was now unarmed.
Falco anticipated the first thrust, coming from the retiarius to his right. The three prongs of the trident narrowly missed, and Falco jumped toward the weapon, putting the shaft against his side, looping his right arm over it and clamping down, even as he turned to face the charge of the second man. As the second man thrust, Falco bobbed left, still holding the shaft of the first trident, catching the retiarius who held the haft by surprise and pulling him forward, right into the path of the second trident. The retiarius screamed as the three prongs pierced his skin, spitting him.
The retiarius desperately tried to pull his weapon out of his comrade’s body, but the barb on the end of each prong refused to release from muscle and bone. Falco let go of the other trident and raised his empty hands toward the last surviving retiarius. The man stepped back, whipping his dagger out of its sheath. He retreated as Falco came forward.
The crowd was in a frenzy, screaming Falco’s name. The retiarius turned toward the emperor’s box and cried out, begging for mercy, tossing his dagger away to make the point obvious and getting to his knees. Falco paused, peering into the shadow, out of which the new emperor Titus stepped. The games were in honor of him, as he had just taken office two months ago after the death of Vespasian, his father. Titus scanned the crowd.
Falco suddenly felt tired. When he had begun fighting, more often than not, mercy was shown, and a man who fought well would be spared. But each year the crowd’s thirst for blood could not be sated so easily. They could not see beyond the immediate moment and the fact that every gladiator who died was very difficult to replace. Life was cheap in the arena and growing cheaper with each new set of games.
The thumbs were almost all down. Titus then gave Falco the same sign. He picked up the retiarius’s dagger and walked up to the man whose head was now bowed, his lips moving in some prayer to his gods.
Falco didn’t waste any time in showmanship now, slicing the blade across the man’s neck and stepping back out of the way of the flow of blood. The body slumped forward onto the sand, the blood soaking into it.
Falco turned and raised the blade to the emperor, then slowly spun about, showing it to the stands. The crowd roared its approval. When he completed the turn, he saw that the emperor was in his seat, another man leaning over, talking to him.
Gaius Marcus was the Ianista or head of the emperor’s gladiatorial school at Rome. When men had first been pitted against each other in such contest, the Ianista worked for private factions, and it had been a business. But the revolt at Capua in 73 B.C. led by Spartacus had forced the emperor to put all such schools under his own control. It was a move that went beyond security, though, as considerable sums of money flowed from such schools.
Now gladiators were a mixture. Many were slaves, sold into the life. Some were ex-soldiers who entered the arena for their own reason, most to make money, but some with a darkness inside that only found solace in combat. Falco was both, having been born a slave and sold to the Ianista while still young. Then he’d been drawn into the army during the desperate civil war of ’69. When his service was up, he returned to the arena.
Falco saw the darkness not only in his own heart but also in most men’s souls, and nothing could quiet the voices in his head. He knew, in a way, his lack of normal fear of dying gave him a large advantage over those who entered the arena with debilitating fear. And every time he was in a situation, as today, where he could have allowed death to over take him, something had burst forth and caused him to fight, to survive, but he didn’t know what that was.
A legionnaire ran out with a red-hot poker in his hand and laid it against the skin of each of the retiarii to insure none was faking. Occasionally, gladiators used bladders of pig’s blood inside their armor to simulate wounds. Certain they were dead, slaves ran out and began removing the bodies and raking the sand, covering the blood, preparing for the next contest.
In the shadow of the imperial box, he saw her. Smiling as she always did, leaning forward, scented scarf covering her mouth. He had been freed years earlier, but she owned him as securely as any of his former masters.
Falco slowly walked toward the entrance that led to the tunnels below. Today was only the first day of the games, which were to last a month. There would be much more death.
He paused just before going into the tunnel, and his head turned toward the south. Unbidden, a vision came to him. A mountain, looming above a city, a cloud at the peak of the mountain. He’d seen that peak before, that city, but it would not come to him at first; then he recognized it. The city was Pompeii, where he had fought on occasion. And the mountain, Vesuvius.
It was as if he could see into the Earth itself, and he saw a darkness, like a disease, boiling up below Vesuvius, clawing its way toward the surface. An overwhelming sense of dread blanketed him.
Then a gladiator entering the arena bumped into him, the man’s eyes glazed with fear, knocking the vision from Falco’s head.
Falco entered the tunnel.
*****
Kaia had both hands on the grass that covered her mother’s grave. A small piece of marble marked the spot. She was surrounded by the trees of the sacred grove, where only the priestesses of Delphi were allowed to enter. She turned as she sensed someone behind her. The oracle stood there, wrapped in her fine robes. The old woman’s face was lined and pale.
“Why did you never tell me who I was?” Kaia asked as she stood.
“Your thoughts must be pure,” the oracle said. “There is so much that I do not know, that I thought it best not to influence you one way or the other. It is the way it has been for a long time.”
That made little sense to Kaia, but she said nothing.
The oracle held out a crystal. “This is yours. As it was your mother’s once, and mine before her.” As Kaia took the crystal, the oracle crooked a finger. “Come.”
Kaia followed her out of the grove and into the temple. Going to the altar, the oracle pointed. “Lift the top stone.”
Carefully, Kaia lifted the heavy marble. Underneath was a black slab with writing etched on it.
“This is the list of oracles, dating back to the first to come from Thera, Priestess Kala.” The oracle ran her old fingers over the markings. “Here is your mother’s name, the last to be etched. I will have yours added.”
“And if I don’t return?” Kaia asked. “Does the line end with me?”
“The things I see,” the oracle said, “are uncertain. The visions come from the gods, but who are the gods?”
“The gods are the gods,” Kaia said simply.
The oracle smiled. “So you have been taught. Let me tell you what I do know. I have spoken of the Shadow, but there are those on the other side, where the shadow comes from, who oppose the Shadow. They are called the Ones Before. They might be gods, I do not know, but they have helped us. Long ago they gave us the power to stop the Shadow.
“You need to talk to the Akrotirian Oracle at Thera. She knows more of this than I do. It was where our ancestors fought the Shadow last.” The oracle placed a hand on Kaia’s shoulder. “I suggest forgetting everything you have been taught. You must trust the visions you have. They are the gods speaking to you.” Her finger slid over the long list of names to the very first. “Priestess Kala was the first. She escaped the destruction of Thera. Let us hope you are not the last. It is time for you to go.”
*****
Gaius Marcus slapped Falco on the back. “An excellent fight, old friend.”
Falco barely acknowledged the praise, his eyes moving along the rows of tables in the banquet hall. He could feel her presence, a malignant tumor obvious even on the cancer that was Rome.
“On the last day of the games, I want you to do an exhibition with Corlius,” Marcus continued. “Wooden swords in between some of the fights.”
Falco nodded. “All right.” He had done many such exhibitions where neither man was injured. Gladiators of his skill level were rare and could not always be risked in mortal combat.
Falco saw her. “Excuse me.”
Marcus followed Falco’s gaze. “Careful.”
“I am always careful,” Falco said.
“In the arena, yes,” Marcus agreed. “You have something very special there. But this” –he waved, taking in the elite of Rome dining on their couches—“is a very different arena.”
“What would you have me do?” Falco asked. “Ignore her? Her brother is commander of the Praetorian Guard. Her family has links everywhere.”
“With the new emperor, things are liable to change,” Marcus noted.
“She has promised to tell me where my children are after the games,” Falco said.
“Why?”
“She says because of her love for me.”
Marcus laughed. “She loves only herself. She is playing a game with your mind, with your heart.”
“Does that make her worse than you?” Falco asked. “You only play with my life.”
“I do it as a job,” Marcus said. He looked at the woman. “She does it for sport.”
“You are the one who sent me to her in the first place,” Falco said.
“You know I had no choice. Servicing women like her is part of your life. Everyone knows it.”
“But she is different than the other women,” Falco said.
“She wanted you,” Marcus said simple. “Be careful.”
“I will take care of myself. “ Falco walked around the edge of a table, greeting various noble men and women, nodding at their praises for the day’s fight.
“Ah, Centurion Falco,” General Cassius raised a hand as Falco reached the head table. “Come here and join us.”
Falco settled down on a cushioned couch. A slave ran up and poured him some wine and setting a plate of food. He was rarely called centurion now, the rank he had held in the army, but he had served with Cassius in Palestine, where they had been members of the famous X Legion and present for the fall of Jerusalem. Cassius was a tall, thin man with a large nose, sunken, sad eyes and thinning white hair. His right arm was crooked at an unnatural angle at the elbow, where a javelin had pierced it many years ago in battle and the surgeon’s efforts at repair had not taken well.
“Greeting, General,” Falco said as soon as the slave had moved away. He knew Cassius had retired from the army, disgusted after what had happened at Jerusalem, and gone to live on his country estate. He had not had much of a future in Rome given that he had brought a Jewish woman back with him to live on his estate. Even among the debauchery of Rome such a union was considered ill advised. “How is Lupina?”
A shadow crossed the old man’s face. “She passed away last winter.”
“I am most sorry, General. She was most special.” Falco had been with the general on the return trip from Palestine and gotten to know Lupina quite well. A slight woman, not pretty, but full of humor and intelligence. He had seen the love between Cassius and Lupina, even with the strain of what had happened to her people in Jerusalem casting a shadow over it.
“Thank you,” Cassius said.
Falco could tell that Cassius did not want to talk about Lupina, that the wound of her death was still too strong. He understood that feeling. “I did not know you were in Rome,” he said.
Cassius grimaced. “The new emperor is, how shall I say, counting heads. Deciding which ones he can count on and which ones it might be best to lop off.”
“General—” Falco was surprised. He had always appreciated Cassius’s forthright attitude in the field, but here, in the emperor’s own palace, even Falco knew th
e words were inappropriate.
Cassius smiled. “Still guarding my sword side, Falco?” The reference was to the man who stood to the right in a shield wall, where one’s shield actually only covered half of one’s own body and half of the man to his left. It required all in the line to stand fast in order to be protected and to rely on each other. If one man broke, he exposed the man to his side, and the entire line could collapse.
“You can always count on me,” Falco said as he glanced down the table at the woman who had just taken the couch to the general’s other side.
The general caught the look. “Let me introduce the Lady Epione, wife of Senator Domidicus, nephew of the emperor,” Cassius indicated the woman on his left.
“Lady,” Falco bowed his head. In this matter at last, Cassius was being diplomatic, as he knew well the situation between Falco and the lady. The General had even tried intervening a year ago, another reason for his exile to the country and removal from affairs for the army and the state.
“Noble gladiator.” Epione was lying on her side, her blue robe flowing over her body. She picked up a grape and laid it on her tongue, slowly drawing it in before speaking again. “You fought well and bravely.”
“The gods were with me, lady,” Falco answered.
“Which gods might that be?” Epione asked.
Falco knew she worshiped in the cult of Isis, a very powerful group of women. “Whichever ones watch over the arena,” he answered.
Epione laughed. “Well phrased. Much better than that religion of the Jews where there is only one god. How can one keep track of all that needs looking after?” She had turned to Cassius as she said this, and Falco knew it was a barb at him for bringing Lupina back and putting her in his estate. The general did not rise to the bait.
