“We will need to hone it, to teach you to focus it as well as improve your mechanical skills, but you have the raw elements that we need. Perhaps a few more pounds. You are entirely too skinny. You look more like a beggar than a gladiator. But a good diet will fix that soon enough. The real secret to winning in the arena is meat. Dead animals. All these big schools in Rome feed their men only vegetables. The gods only know why. Meat and little bit of grain, but not too much or you’ll go soft and slow. And a little bit of ash to keep the bones strong.”
“Well then,” said Fumbe, “I will leave you men to your work.”
Ariston stood beneath an open sky of deep orange. Clouds thick and colored as blood streaked the sky. Before him waves of barley and wheat rippled in the buffeting wind, which carried with it the laughter of some long-forgotten youth. He walked for a time and let his hand brush against the stalks of grain, feeling their earthiness against his skin.
At the end of the field, he saw a lone figure lying prostrate on the ground, but from the distance he could not make it out. All he felt was a strange mixture of familiarity and repulsion, which made the hair on his neck stand on end. Somehow he knew the figure that lay on the ground, so lifeless and out of place, but it was like the shadow of a dream that he had dreamed long ago, the memory of which lays dormant in some dark recess of the mind and of which only echoes can be heard or recalled.
When he reached the figure, he could see that it was a woman, or had been at one time. Rot had set in, but instead of the scent of death his nostrils were filled with the sweet smell of the seasons. One moment he could smell the scent of summer and heat. Next the scent of spring flowers after a rain enveloped them, only to be replaced by the smell of browning leaves and the harvest. Last, he smelled the scent of the bitter cold and longing of winter, and when he looked down again at the figure, it had changed.
The rot was gone and he could no longer say if the figure was a man or woman. The soft and lifeless eyes bespoke a now extinguished warmth that brought only the word mother to his mind; while the hard angles of the jaw seemed to clash and battle with the soft slope of the cheeks in a way that made one think of war and death and things that are often left to men. The figure did not have a beard, but it would not have been difficult to imagine one. In fact, it would have been quite fitting, if only so that it would have obscured the strangely curled lips which were frozen in an eternally knowing smile that promised some important wisdom that would never be spoken.
He took one of the pale hands of the figure and placed it in his own; and for a reason that he could not say, he felt like he were wrapped in some warm enveloping darkness and the feeling was familiar though he could not place it. As he stared at the pale dead face, he felt the desire rising in him, not that same cheap passion which sailors and soldiers spend and spread on whores and loose women, but some deeper yearning for home and for comfort and sleep: a deep and peaceful sleep that would last until the mountains crumbled into the sea and the earth was consumed in fire.
As much as he wished to consummate this desire, to take it and to release it, to achieve its end, he knew he could not. He released the dead hand that he held in his and the passion subsided. The sky quickly grew gray and the fields of grain withered and died behind him. The figure shrunk and rotted and became fetid, became sweet again and decomposed into ash and was carried away by the wind. The fabric of the world around him became ash too and was carried off by the wind; and he sat there in the void and wept.
“It is time to wake, Illyrian.”
Ariston’s eyes opened slowly. Fumbe stood over him with a devilish smile. The man was already dressed and perfumed and judging by the smell of garlic and fish, which turned Ariston’s stomach, Fumbe had eaten already.
“There is fish on the table,” Fumbe said, confirming his suspicions. “Eat quickly. We must leave today.”
“I thought we were staying here until the next tournament.”
“That was the plan. But your emperor has returned from his conquests in the east and is throwing games in honor of his victory. They shall last for three months and some say that their equal has never been seen. There is wealth and fame and glory to be won. It is much sooner than we had planned, but perhaps fortune is smiling on us.”
Ariston was unimpressed. “He is not my emperor. I am a slave, not a citizen.”
Fumbe smiled, an action which he did entirely too often for Ariston’s taste.
“My mistake, Illyrian. But the point remains. Come July, you will have an opportunity to make me rich and yourself famous.”
“July? That is five months away. Do you mean to make straight for Rome?”
Fumbe shook his head. “No, no. There are arenas enough between here and Rome to make a nice profit and to refine you. Belarus tells me that you are a quick learner. That is good, but one day will not be enough to teach you what you need. And learning in the training room is different than learning in the arena. Or so I would imagine.”
“And if I should die in one of these matches?”
“What of it?” Fumbe shrugged. “You were expensive, no doubt, but Fumbe has deep pockets and one dead slave will not bankrupt him. It would, of course, be a shame, but if you die … well then my guess is that you wouldn’t have done me much good in Rome anyway. You should have little problem with the rabble in the Northern Peninsula. Any gladiator worth his salt and that close to Rome would be in the capital fighting. Plus, many of the fights are not even to the death. Boring affairs of course, but they will pad our pockets and give you a chance to practice your skills.”
When Ariston did not respond, Fumbe decided the conversation was over and turned to walk away. As he reached the door, he turned.
“Come, Illyrian. It is time to make your name.”
Chapter 2
Ariston dispatched a charging soldier with a single clean blow to the throat. Two more men rushed at him, one with a net and the other with a trident. As the net was thrown, he dove to the side and blocked a blow from the trident. A quick swipe severed the trident-wielding gladiator’s leg below the knee. As the second man recovered the net, Ariston charged at him. The gladiator was caught off guard and could not react before Ariston threw his shoulder into the man’s chest and knocked him to the ground. Ariston stepped hard onto the man’s throat and ended his life.
As he turned to scan the corridor behind him, Ariston knew that the eye of every spectator was fixed on him. The match today was like nothing that he had ever experienced. The arena floor was ten or so feet below ground level and walls had been thrown up, making a labyrinth, where even as the spectators could see each competitor, the gladiators could not see each other. It was a team affair, with ten gladiators on each side. Fumbe told him that for these types of matches, cheap slaves usually filled up one team, while the other comprised veterans who hunted them through the maze, much to the delight of the crowd. Fumbe had, of course, secured Ariston a spot on the team meant to be prey for the more experienced warriors.
The match had begun much in the way that the crowd had anticipated. The more experienced gladiators had wasted little time in surrounding Ariston’s team and had slaughtered most of them. Several had managed to escape, but judging from the screams that Ariston heard, they had been hunted down quickly. He assumed that he was the only one left from his team and a quick glance up to the arena confirmed it: he was the center of attention. The crowd had not expected this: a single remaining warrior who had now killed five of the other team. They leaned out of their seats, making sure that they had the best possible vantage point to see the action below.
With only five of the other team remaining, Ariston felt that his chances were good. His opponents were experienced, but they were gladiators, full of pride and unwilling to work together to bring him down. As long as they kept coming at him one or two at a time, he had little doubt he could dispatch them all. His only concern was a mountain of a man that he had seen when they were first ambushed. He was taller than any man Ariston had
ever seen and he carried only a single sword that took two hands to wield. Ariston was certain he would not even be able to lift it. With a single swipe he had cut a man in two at the waist. Ariston hoped that in the close quarters of the maze he could outmaneuver the larger man.
As he turned the next corner, a spear came rushing forward to meet him. He brought his shield up in desperation and the spear connected with it. The tip pierced through the thin metal of the shield, but stopped a few inches from Ariston’s face. Lowering his shield, he saw that its owner was charging headlong down the corridor and was nearly upon him. A quick swipe of his sword severed the wooden shaft of the spear from its point, taking away the heavy weight that would make it impossible for him to use the shield.
Just before his assailant reached him, he dropped into a crouch and raised his shield. The first blow from his opponent clanged against the metal shield, and as his opponent’s momentum carried him forward, Ariston pushed up and back and flipped his opponent onto the ground behind him. He turned quickly and passed his blade across the gladiator’s throat. Four left.
He raced down the next corridor and another, without running into anyone. The cheers of the crowd had no doubt informed them that a number of their teammates had been killed. Caution was something they were not used to, but it seemed that for the moment they were playing things carefully, waiting for the proper moment to strike.
Ariston found a small alcove in one of the walls and pressed himself into it. Crouched and wreathed in shadow as he was, someone standing at either end of the corridor would not have been able to see him. He waited. He could hear the crowd growing restless. They booed and jeered as he sat motionless. He tried to sift through the cacophony of the crowd and find some rumor of movement in the maze. He strained his hearing as much as he was able and then he heard something. It was nothing more than a slight disturbance in the ambient noise of the crowd, but it grew louder: footsteps. It was hard to tell how many there were, but it seemed to be more than one. Through the noise of the crowd, however, he could not be certain.
As the footsteps grew closer, the noise of the crowd died away. All eyes were no doubt fixed on the scene unfolding. Ariston lay in wait as a number of gladiators unwittingly stumbled toward his trap. He could hear it more clearly now, at least two men, perhaps three, and they were getting close now. Ariston took a deep breath, cursed the gods and rising from a crouched position, he fell upon his pursuers.
There were three of them in the corridor, frozen in shock as Ariston appeared to materialize out of the wall. A lunge took one of the men in the throat and a slash severed another’s arm from his body. The third gladiator managed to recover just quickly enough to deflect a blow aimed for his groin—what would have been a deadly and humiliating wound. He brought up his shield and fled backward as Ariston attempted to break through his defense. The shield bent and buckled under the flurry of strikes and stabs, but it seemed that it would hold. Unfortunately, for his opponent, his back was turned to the body that he was rapidly approaching, and before he even realized what had happened, he was tumbling backward as Ariston’s blade pierced him through the stomach. It was a mortal wound, but one that would take its time. No pity touched Ariston’s breast. He discarded his own shield and took the man’s gladius; he would need speed rather than protection against the remaining gladiator.
The noise of battle and death had given away his position to the final opponent. Ariston attempted to move quickly, so that he could escape the area before his opponent arrived, giving him time to regroup, recover and hopefully catch his opponent unaware. But as he ran down the corridor, a great shadow appeared to his left and, after a great weight collided with him, he found himself tumbling into the wall on his right.
Without thinking, he rolled and the wall next to him exploded in a cloud of shards and dust as a massive blade cut into it. Ariston kicked upward and he felt his foot connect with something soft. From the curses that issued from his opponent, Ariston guessed he had hit the man’s groin. He regained his feet and as the dust settled, he realized that the impact had knocked both blades from his hand. He spotted them lying on the ground, covered in a thin layer of dust, but between them and him stood a hulking monster of a man.
He wore a mask after the style of the murmillos and little armor besides it. Thick folds of fat hung from his chest and stomach, but beneath them Ariston knew there was muscle enough. The man’s girth protected his vital organs well and Ariston wondered if a gladius was even long enough to strike a fatal blow against this giant. But he pushed the question out of his mind; it was only a minor concern until he actual managed to get to one or both of the swords.
The crowd was yelling for blood. The sight of a defenseless gladiator at the mercy of his giant opponent promised to be a bloody affair and one that they would delight in seeing. He backed away from his opponent and kept himself safely out of range of the massive two-handed sword. The crowd’s response was less than enthusiastic, but he was more concerned with being alive than being loved at the current moment. He needed to find a way to make it past the other fighter and get his swords. Then perhaps, he had a chance, if only a small one.
The gods were smiling on him that day. Or at least the organizers of the match. A loud click echoed through the arena, followed by a low rumble. For a moment, Ariston thought that it was an earthquake and that the arena was falling down around him, but then realized that the walls were lowering. Some mechanism had been triggered by the organizers that caused the walls to sink into the floor of the arena and save him from certain death.
Ariston wasted no time in taking advantage of this turn of events. He sprinted to the left and dove just out of range of a frustrated swing by his opponent. He dodged two more clumsy blows as he made his way to the swords. He rolled under a slash, and grabbing both of the gladii turned to face his opponent. He ducked under a ponderous swing and cut his opponent across the wrist. Ariston’s reach was much shorter than his opponent’s and the blow was only glancing and left a superficial wound. Still, the crowd cheered wildly as first blood was drawn in what had become a match of single combat.
His opponent held his bleeding arm in front of the mask, and disembodied laughter filled the air. He strode forward with his sword held in front of him, ready to strike. Ariston crouched and began to circle as his opponent neared. He kept himself on an angle to present a smaller target and to keep himself further away from his opponent. The larger man was much slower and the bout had now been going on for nearly an hour; he only needed to tire him enough so that he could get past his defenses and deliver a real blow.
The giant struck and Ariston dodged easily, dancing in and delivering another minor cut, this time across his opponent’s shoulder. He repeated this pattern, tempting his opponent into an attack and then countering with a swift, if somewhat superficial strike. In a few minutes, Ariston was panting, nearly out of breath and his opponent, though covered in cuts and blood, seemed unfazed. The crowd still cheered with each blow that he delivered, but their patience was clearly running out and their enthusiasm declining. He was taking too long to finish the fight and now insults rained down on him, challenging him to stand and fight.
Ariston had no intention of acquiescing to their demands, but he knew that the fight could not go on like this forever. He was tiring quickly and his opponent did not seem to be so badly affected by the surface wounds that covered his body. Even though Ariston had not yet received a single blow, and had landed nearly two dozen, he knew that one hit from his opponent’s massive sword, would be more than enough even the score. He had to try something different. He had to take a hit.
As his opponent stepped forward, to deliver a horizontal slash, Ariston backed away just a half step less. The blade arced toward him, and he made sure that he was positioned perfectly. A cry went up from the crowd as the blade scraped across his chest and blood sprayed onto the arena floor. Ariston collapsed to his knees and the crowd went silent. The giant raised the sword high over his he
ad and paused for just a moment, in triumph. It was enough. Ariston maneuvered both blades, cutting into the giant’s hamstrings on either leg. As the other gladiator stumbled, Ariston took one of the blades with both hands and sunk it into the giant’s stomach. Blood poured out and sprayed onto Ariston. Before he could wipe away the blood, something connected full force with his face. Delirious and dying, the giant had launched himself at Ariston, head butting him in the face. The impact had crushed Ariston’s nose and blood flowed freely from it. He struggled to free himself from the convulsing mass of fat and muscle that was crushing the wind from his lungs. The blood gave their bodies just enough slickness that he was able to wiggle his way out from under the dying gladiator. As he emerged, the crowd rose to its feet and roared with approval. For once, Ariston joined them. He held his hands triumphantly in the air and smiled wider than he had in a long, long time.
Fumbe hummed to himself as he ate. A man sat across from him, and another to his right. Though the sunlight filtering in through the door at his back indicated that it was day, it was too dark in the dingy inn to see the faces of the men he sat with. This, however did not seem to be an issue for Fumbe, who acted as if he were alone. When one of the other men spoke, he looked up sharply, as if surprised that someone else was there.
“I know the prizes are small this far from the capital, but surely we could have afforded better lodgings than this.” The thick accent gave the speaker away as Belarus, even in the darkness.
“Afforded? Yes. But it would not have been a prudent use of our money. Our champion here,” He gestured to Ariston, “has already lined our pockets well, but we must not throw away carelessly what he has won for us with his own blood. There are still many fights to fight and that means equipment and repairs. We will spend a small fortune just to keep him in armor from here to Rome. No need to spend our money on extra lodgings. Plus, though we will be loved by the people, a victorious gladiator will have his enemies. Better that we stay where no one will come looking for us.
Ariston: A Stranger's Promise Page 2
