Ariston
A Stranger’s Promise
Bryan Andrews
Note from the Author
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Thanks,
Bryan Andrews
Chapter 1
Ariston took a pinch of sand between his fingers and placed it on his tongue. He closed his eyes and felt the coarse grains mix with his saliva. The taste was foreign to him and it was like ash in his mouth. Still, he held it on his tongue until it dissolved away to nothing. Then he swallowed.
Prisms of light passed through the portcullis and cast a checkered pattern of light and shadow on Ariston. The tunnel was otherwise dark, and he was alone. Outside, however, he could hear the noise of the crowd: talking, shouting, cursing, drinking— all those things which he was denied. Ahead of him, he could see the arena through the iron bars of the gate. The sand had been raked after the last fight, but it was thick and brown with the blood of those who had fought before.
Ariston tested the weight of the gladius in his hand. It was unbalanced and dull, no doubt the relic of some long-forgotten war. But his job was not to win; it was to die, and a man could do that with a dull sword just as easily as a sharp one. His armor wasn’t much better: a few pads of thin, rotted leather held together by fraying ties, and a wooden shield that was bowed and warped and cracked in several places.
The noise of the crowd had died down and Ariston felt his heartbeat slow. Outside, he could barely make out the booming voice of the announcer as it filled the amphitheater: “And now ladies and gentleman of Rome, I present to you a competition of single combat! Two fearless warriors enter and only one will leave alive! I present first the champion, a man raised in this very arena, who has won your hearts with his skill and bravery, the one, the only: Marcus Dominus!”
The crowd erupted in applause that nearly drowned out what came next: “And now the challenger, a man whose blazing speed and ferocity has left three gladiators already dead, a man of mystery who suddenly finds himself poised for greatness, I present to you, Ariston the Illyrian!”
The portcullis opened and Ariston trotted down the tunnel and out into the open arena. Boos and jeers rained down on him from the stands, as did other things more substantial. He knew they would not love him, no matter how much they had cheered for his previous victories. This man was their champion, who had stood undefeated for over two years and fifty battles. He felt the sun warm his skin and he silenced the crowd in his mind.
His opponent already stood in the center of the arena on a stone platform raised half a foot off the sand. His armor was polished, but unimpressive. Still, it was bronze and would turn a blade better than his leather armor would. But it was hot and no doubt as the fight wore on, it would become an encumbrance. Marcus held two swords, one the standard gladius, the other a large curved blade that reminded Ariston of the scimitars of African traders who had visited his village when he was a boy.
Marcus expected him to ascend the platform and fight him toe to toe, something that no doubt favored him, as he had a foot and perhaps thirty pounds on Ariston. But Ariston had no intention of obliging. One did not stay alive in the arena, or in the world for that matter, by caring too much about the idea of honor. He increased the pace of his trot and in a few steps he was at a full run. He could see the confusion in his opponent’s eyes as he rushed toward him. With a few steps left to go before the platform, he hurled his shield toward Marcus. His opponent was caught off guard and he stumbled backward as he brought up both swords to deflect the impact. The smaller gladius was wrenched from his grip, as he fell off the platform and into the sand. Ariston climbed onto the platform and ran straight toward his fallen opponent.
Marcus regained his feet as Ariston leapt into the air. He brought his gladius down in a furious slash that almost took the scimitar from Marcus’s hands. He kept the larger man on the defensive, with the speed and fluidity of his strikes. With only one large blade, Marcus found it impossible to gain enough separation to start his own counter. Each time he attempted to maneuver his blade for a strike, Ariston lunged forward, forcing him to parry yet again.
In the heat, Ariston was tiring, but he knew that his opponent’s was as well, and in his heavier armor, the effect of the heat was worse. His arms and shoulders burned, but he refused to let up on the onslaught of slashes, thrusts, and feints. Marcus was slowing, and his blocks becoming sloppy. Several times, he had only managed to turn the blade at the last second and Ariston cursed as the point glided barely an inch from his target.
Then he saw his opening. He danced to the left and gave Marcus room to counter. So frustrated by being on the defensive for the entire contest, Marcus took the opening with too much fervor. He telegraphed his slash and Ariston sidestepped it with ease. Exposed, Marcus tried to bring the scimitar back to protect himself, but Ariston brought down the gladius on his shoulder. The blade was too dull to cut through flesh, but the forced cracked his clavicle and knocked him to the ground. Saliva frothed in his mouth as he clawed wildly at the sand, which turned brown beneath him as his bladder released.
Ariston stood over the crippled form and felt nothing. He took a deep breath and the sounds of the crowd came rushing back in. It was a mixture of curses, taunts, and admonitions, but somewhere also in there was an injunction to finish his opponent. The crowd wanted their own hero to win, no doubt, but a gruesome death was just compensation for their loss.
Ariston turned to face the Governor’s box, where a primped, powdered, and grossly overweight man looked on. The box was full of other men and women, who were considered notable by the citizens of this backwater province on the northern edge of Roman territory. As Ariston looked on, the governor stood up from the large throne and looked down at the arena floor, breathless and red-faced—though whether this was in anger or from the sheer strain of standing, one was not quite certain. He turned and spoke to the man next to him, whose absurd wig and gaudy dress gave him away as the master of ceremonies.
“Regulus Gemellus, the Governor of Germany Inferior, and voice of the Emperor within this province, would like to remind the competitors that this tournament, which he has thrown in honor of his son’s birth, is to be fought sine missione and that any combatant who refuses to carry out the sentence of death upon the vanquished, forfeits all rights to honor, spoils and life.”
The words elicited a roar from the crowd that was followed closely by chants of “Kill, Kill, Kill!” Ariston turned to the fallen man before him and commenced the bloody work. The sword was too dull to provide a clean death. After a half a minute, Ariston relented and looked down on the mangled pile of skin, muscle, blood and bone. He let the sword lay where it fell and he walked from the arena, feeling no pride in his victory.
“Wonderfully done! Simply wonderful!” A man with a balding head and a thick beard greeted Ariston, as he entered the gladiators’ chambers beneath the arena. He was heavyset and his cheeks were always flushed red with the look of one who has had a few cups of wine. He embraced Ariston with his great paws and pressed him close against the doughy folds of his body.
“Enough. You will suffocate me, you fool!”
The man released Ariston with a laugh. “A victory like that will not be soon forgotten! Don’t take this the wrong way, Illyrian, but we hadn’t even entertained the idea of winning this tournament. We had thought only to provide the fresh bodies we had purchased from the slavers to raise enough money to buy some real fighters. It seems we
were lucky enough to find a true wolf among the sheep, no? Tell me, Illyrian, where did you learn to fight? Perhaps, you were a rebel in your home land or else you were captured by slavers after deserting the legions?”
Ariston unfastened his leather armor as he spoke. “I was a farmer and I was taken from my home and my family. I fight and kill because it is what is demanded of me.”
The fat man frowned. “Fine, fine. Keep your secrets, Illyrian. Such mystery might help to sell you to the crowds, if we can continue your success. The purse is big enough that we can get you some fine equipment, not the best perhaps, but good enough so that that dreadful business with the sword will not have to be repeated. I do say, it was quite a gruesome sight and regrettable for all that, but…still, one cannot underestimate the enjoyment the crowd gets from such a spectacle and what they think of the man who gives it them. Yes, they will love you for it surely and perhaps someday they will chant your name in the Colosseum in Rome. Flavius will be quite delighted when he hears.”
“I have already heard.” Both men turned to see a third.
In comparison to his business partner, the man was emaciated. His skin was brown and wrinkled, like leather that had been in the sun too long. His eyes were gray and lifeless and gave one the impression of some impossible longing for sleep.
“Flavius, how wonderful to see you!” The large man wrung his hands and shifted his weight from one foot to another.
“Save your empty words, Gaius. I haven’t the time for them.” His eyes shifted to Ariston and his face grew hard, as if he had just noticed that someone beside Gaius was in the room. “You, Illyrian. You are the one I’m looking for. Follow me. I will show you to your new master.”
“New master?” Gaius asked. “Surely, you don’t mean to sell him. He has just brought us a wonderful purse and if we were to outfit him better, there is no reason to suspect that he lacks the ability to be a champion.”
Flavius snorted. “Champions are born from a drop of skill and gallon of luck. Better to make a quick profit and be done with it. He will be dead soon enough and his purchase price will buy us another hundred bodies for slaughter. Enough profit to justify the loss, I assure you.”
“But think of the possibilities! If we could refine him a little, improve him and outfit him properly, why he could win every tournament from here to Rome and we could be richer than would ever be possible simply trading in common slaves.”
“And what do you know about fighting? Were you a legionnaire? Was I? Have you looked a man in the eyes who wanted nothing more than to kill you, with the knowledge that the only way to save your own life was to take his?” His nostrils flared and eyes widened. “No, no. We are not soldiers or gladiators and we will not ruin our profits, by assuming that we are. There will be no more discussion of it. Follow me.”
These last words were directed to Ariston, who obeyed silently. He was led up the stairs of the arena and out into the marketplace. It was bustling with traders and their clients, most of whom had been spectators at the bout and were in an elevated mood. Wine and other spirits were bought and sold at extraordinary prices, as already inebriated purchasers squabbled over the little remaining alcohol.
Across the square, stood a man with skin as black as obsidian and dressed in strange folds of colorful fabric, the likes of which Ariston had never seen. His face was adorned with gems that seemed inlaid in his skin and dozens of large, looping gold earrings framed his face. His appearance was an assault on the sense of sight and Ariston could not take in everything as they approached him. Still, he could not help shaking the feeling that there was something quite feminine and yet sinister about the man. His contemplation was broken and the man spoke.
“Here he is, African. The man we agreed upon. And the money?” Flavius spoke with a sour expression.
The dark man stood silent for a second and then took a step forward, reaching his hand out to Ariston’s chest. He let his hand press softly against Ariston’s breast and he smiled a mysterious smile and nodded.
“Yes, he will do. Quite a specimen.” He pressed a bag of coins into Flavius’s hand. Satisfied, Flavius turned without a word and was swallowed up by the crowd.
“What is your name, Illyrian?”
“Ariston.” He tried again to size up the man, but it seemed to him that each time he had managed to gather a complete picture of his appearance, something changed and everything was lost.
“Strange names your people have, but perhaps not as strange as the Romans. My name is Fumbe and I come from a land far to the south and across the sea and then farther south still, past where any white man has ever been.” He paused for moment, as if anticipating a reply, but Ariston said nothing.
“Are you not curious, Illyrian? Do you not wish to know what has brought a man like me so far from home?”
Ariston’s face showed no emotion. “No. I will do as I am told. Tell me to kill and it will be done. But I have no history and I do not care for the history of any other.”
Fumbe furrowed his brow. With pursed lips, he looked Ariston up and down.
“Such an interesting man. And such a fighter! I have never seen such a specimen so far from the capital. You are a gem. That is for certain. Even were I to sell you in Rome, I could fetch a price five times what I paid that old fool.”
Ariston was uninterested. “Am I to be sold then?”
Fumbe laughed and placed his hand on Ariston’s shoulder. “No, you will do what the gods have ordained as your path and you will fight. I saw you in that arena and there is enough raw talent and anger in you to make a champion. Yes, my friend, you will fight one day in the Colosseum and you will make me very rich.”
“Whatever you command, master.”
Fumbe struck out with his right hand and boxed Ariston about the ears. “I will not be mocked, Illyrian. I have not purchased a slave to plow my field and to bow down before me; I have purchased you to kill and to fight. If you do not have the spirit to do what is required, I will beat you and whip you until you do.”
Ariston brushed Fumbe’s hand off of his shoulder. “Make no mistake. I will fight as I am told and I will kill any man who comes against me. But forgive me if I do not share the enthusiasm for your vision.”
For a moment it seemed that the African was going to strike him again, but then his eyes light up and deep laughter poured out of him. “You are an interesting one, Illyrian. But I fear your story will be a sad one. It is not enough to kill, to win. You must make them love you. You must give the people what they want. Sure enough, they will love you for your strength, but when you kill a man and they see that there is no joy in your eyes, you will rob theirs, and they will feel small and petty and they will hate you for it.”
“You are quite a wise man for a slaver.”
“I have traveled long.” Fumbe ignored the insult. “And on my travels I have learned much. But you misperceive me. I am no slaver. I deal in men, surely enough, but I do not trade them like cattle. I have a skill, a talent, if you will, for reading men, for understanding them. It has served me well. I have been adviser to kings and princes. I have made and lost fortunes and led armies into battle. Now, I turn my attention to Rome and the eternal glory that awaits me there.”
“If only I might earn it for you, no?”
“Your tongue is faster, perhaps, even then your blade, Illyrian. You must learn to slow it. But you are right. I need you, but no more than you do me. And do not think that I shall simply put you out into the arena with nothing more than what you have. You will have the finest weapons and armor and the finest instructors. You have the raw talent for a champion, but you are rough around the edges. That will need to be cleaned up. I have a man waiting for us in the training room beneath the arena. Follow me.”
Though exhausted from his earlier fight, Ariston followed the man out of the warm sunlight and into the dark, dank tunnels that ran beneath the arena. Echoes of clanging swords and injured men’s groans filled the hallway as the two men walked without
speaking. Fumbe walked a few steps ahead of Ariston and did not look back as if he had no reason not to trust a man whose life he had just purchased.
A squat man, who looked like he may have once been a warrior, waited for them in training room. It consisted of little more than a few dummies made from burlap and straw with leather armor and bronze helms. Several archery targets with faded rings stood unused in the corner.
“Belarus, here is our new champion.”
Belarus grunted. Looking at him, Ariston did not get the impression that he was a man of many words, or one with a particularly agreeable disposition. His eyes were sunken deep into his pale white face, only adding to the blank and thoughtless expression that he gave off.
“He will do. His fighting was good enough without my help. And with it he will win you many battles.” His accent was thick and Eastern and reminded Ariston of home, though the man was certainly from much farther north and east than Illyria.
“I have met a few Illyrians who could fight, but not many. Perhaps you have some Scythian blood in you, eh? It would explain things.”
Ariston said nothing and Belarus looked to Fumbe. The dark man’s eyes danced with life, but he too remained silent.
“Well, enough,” said Belarus, turning back to Ariston. “I meant nothing by it. Good enough that you aren’t a Roman. They make fine enough soldiers, but not gladiators. On the battlefield, one needs discipline more than bravery, and order more than wit. In the arena, one needs to be fast and unpredictable, as strong a boar, but as a cunning as a fox. Rules and drills and discipline will serve you well enough, perhaps keep you alive, but they will not make you a champion. To be a champion, you need a certain type of inner fire that, if the Romans ever had, has long ago become extinguished on their peninsula. That’s why all the best gladiators are from outside the Senatorial provinces. And you, Illyrian, you have that fire.
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