Ariston: A Stranger's Promise

by Bryan Andrews

  “Enemies?” Ariston leaned across the table and a ray of sunshine hit his face, casting deep shadows that obscured his features.

  “Yes, Illyrian. Do you think that the owners of these gladiators are pleased that you have slaughtered their men in what was supposed to be a rout? And do you think bettors who have lost fortunes betting against another nameless gladiator from the provinces are happy that it turns out you actually know how to fight? I would not worry yourself too much about them, but before this is over, you may find that the arena is much safer than the streets.”

  After Fumbe had finished speaking, he laughed heartily. “But I think that is enough for me today. I will retire for a nap. Tomorrow, we may find you another match, or we may move further south. Tomorrow never knows.”

  Belarus excused himself as well and Ariston was left at the table, alone in the dark corner of the inn. He ordered himself a drink and nursed it slowly as the room emptied and he was left alone with the barkeep. Just as he was ready to retire to his room, the door of the inn opened and a man entered. He approached the bar and exchanged whispers with the barkeep, and then to Ariston’s surprise, the man approached his table and sat down.

  “You fight quite well.”

  Ariston hesitated for a moment, uncertain who this man was or what he wanted.

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Illyrian.” The man leaned forward. “We were friends once.”

  He removed his hood and in the dim light Ariston could see a face that was all too familiar.

  “Decius.” The name stuck in his mouth. “You are alive.”

  The man nodded. “Yes. And you are as well. A surprise for both of us, no doubt. Imagine my surprise when I saw you in the arena yesterday. At first, I didn’t trust my eyes, but it seems that you are not too careful with your name and several people knew you as Ariston, the Illyrian.”

  “It is a common name. And I had thought there was no one still alive who could recognize me.” Ariston’s heart was beating hard in his chest, but he had not noticed it start.

  “Have no worries, friend. Your secret is safe with me. Tell me, though, how did you escape?”

  “Magic. The same way I imagine you did.” Ariston’s voice was cold.

  “Fair enough. You do not have to trust me. I understand why you might be a little skeptical of my survival.”

  “Skeptical? The plan was known only to a dozen men and, excepting you and me, they are all dead. What reason do I have to believe that it was not you that betrayed us? Why else would you be alive?” Ariston glanced over Decius’s shoulder just in time to see the barkeep turn his head.

  “I understand.” Decius sighed. “And I am afraid it will not make it much easier for you to believe when I tell you what brings me to Ariminum.”

  He paused for a moment, but Ariston remained silent. “You must understand that when things started to go south I did what was best for all of us. It was already over, at that point. Do you understand? When they started to round up the conspirators I feigned my ignorance and convinced the governor that I was a target too. In the confusion, I was able to escape before I could be further questioned and rallying the legion in the Aquileia, I was able to return within the month and crush the rebellion. The governor had his suspicions, but with a legion at my back and the entire populace of the city celebrating me as a hero, he had no recourse to action. I was named a senator by special decree of the emperor for my actions.”

  Ariston felt the blood warm in his body. His face was hot and he tried to stop himself from shaking. “So, you are the one who put down the rebellion? After, everything we planned, it was you who quashed it.”

  “Ariston, please try to understand. Once the assassination plot was foiled, there was no way that the rebellion was going to be successful. Without the Governor dead, there was no way that we could easily assume power. It was all that I could do to prevent myself from being executed. And it has given me a position of power from which I might be able to effect some type of change for your people, for your family.”

  “It is too late for that.” Ariston’s face grew hard and then softened. He looked suddenly older, as if he had aged a decade in the last moment.

  “I am sorry, my friend.” His words seemed sincere, if slightly detached. “But you managed to escape with your life. And as long as you are not dead, neither is the chance for vengeance. As a token of my faith, I will buy you your freedom. “

  “No.” The word was out before he could think. “Fumbe will not sell me. Not for any price. And besides, I have no desire to be freed by your hand. My people have lived under a Roman yoke for centuries and when the moment came when freedom was more than just a fragile hope, you crushed it beneath the heel of your sandals, so that you could advance yourself one rung on the petty political ladder of Rome. You know what they did to my father—and my mother.”

  “Ariston, be reasonable. You must understand that you were betrayed, but not by me. By securing myself this position, I have prolonged our chances of freeing your people.”

  “Save your breath, Senator. I have no need for your empty words, any more than I do for the ghosts that they awaken in my past.”

  Decius started to speak, but stopped. He paused for a few moments of heavy silence, before he rose from his seat and left. Ariston paid for his drinks and went to bed.

  Chapter 3

  “Riposte.”

  “Parry.”

  “Thrust.”

  “Overhead.”

  Ariston worked through each maneuver as the gruff Easterner called them out. Sweat beaded off his shoulders and chest in the hot Italian sun. They had been at the drills for nearly an hour with Ariston practicing his blows on nothing but the air. When Belarus paused for a moment, Ariston lowered his blade.

  “Is this really necessary?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I am not going to learn from fighting with the air.”

  Belarus grunted. “If you cannot fight the air, how will you fight men?”

  “You have already seen how I fight men.”

  “Perhaps.” The larger man shrugged. “But killing farmers with swords is not the same thing as performing in the arena. To win you must be faster and stronger than your opponents. These things you are. But you must also be smarter. Are you smart, Illyrian? I often doubt it.”

  “And you are Socrates?” Ariston’s voice was bitter.

  The Easterner only laughed. “The men you have fought have all been swordsmen, more soldiers than gladiators. We need to tighten up your form a bit and work on strategy for the tournament. The men you will meet in the Colosseum are men that have been trained as gladiators in their particular schools. They are experts of one form of combat and they will use it to their advantage to confuse and outmatch their opponents. Each type has its own strengths and weaknesses and we will have to plan for that. Others will not belong to a school, but will use unconventional weapons: whips, slings, tridents.”

  “Hammers?” Ariston offered.

  The giant smiled, showing the gaps where several teeth were missing. He nodded.

  “Aye. Hammers as well.” Belarus ran a hand across his chin, as if the notion had sparked an idea. “Perhaps, that would be a good place to start.”

  “I would be honored to test myself against legendary Belarus.”

  Ariston grabbed a wooden shield with an iron stud from the training yard, while Belarus equipped himself with a wood hammer of white oak. It was not and heavy or as strong as the iron hammer Belarus usually carried with him, but Ariston was sure it would still pack quite a punch.

  The two men took up positions in the shallow, raked sand of the training yard. Fumbe had bought them lodgings at a gladiator school in the city and had rented one of the yards for the day. They were alone. A fact that Ariston was thankful for. He had seen the older man fight and did not doubt he would come away with more than a few bruises. Better that no one should see how he earned them.

  “I will not go easy on you, Illyrian. But I will do my be
st to make sure I do not ruin Fumbe’s investment.”

  Ariston’s only response was to show Belarus his teeth. The giant laughed and charged forward. Ariston sidestepped the first blow and brought his shield up to block another. The man fought more like a bull than a soldier, relying on strength and speed and size to keep Ariston off balance. But for all that, he was not sloppy. His blows seemed frantic, but they were fluid, moving from one to the next without hesitation, leaving no opening for Ariston to counter. Even with his shield, Ariston was taking a beating, the impact each time he blocked a blow, rattled his entire body, and more than once he was sure his shoulder was going to be ripped from its socket.

  After a time, Belarus broke from his onslaught and the two men separated. Sweat beaded on Ariston’s tanned shoulders and chest. Since Belarus had taken over his training, he had gained weight, but, for all he could tell, not an ounce of it was fat. His endurance was better, as well. Without the sprinting drills that Belarus forced him to perform every morning, he was sure he would not have held out against the giant’s first round of attacks.

  Though twice his size and carrying more than his fair share of extra weight, Belarus’s pale white skin was still dry, and where Ariston’s breaths were short and ragged, the Easterner ‘s were deep and relaxed.

  “Warmed up?” Belarus asked with a smile.

  Ariston cursed and charged the man. They fought on, Ariston occasionally gaining the advantage, but for the most part he found himself on the defensive, bringing up his shield just at the last minute to prevent a nasty blow to the head. When they were finished, Ariston fell to one knee. He had taken two blows to the head and his ears were ringing. That, however, was nothing compared to the dull ache that started in his shoulder and radiated across the entire left side of his body.

  “Same time tomorrow,” Belarus said and left Ariston alone in the training yard.

  When he felt up to standing, which took a few minutes, Ariston left the yard and made his way into the small section of the school that Fumbe had rented out as their quarters. Sure enough, he found the small man sitting at the table with two plates of fish and stewed pork in front of him.

  “Eat,” he said and handed Ariston a plate.

  Ariston heaped the garlic fried fish onto his plate, as well as the pork. He quickly finished and helped himself to seconds.

  “You are growing stronger, Illyrian.”

  Ariston grunted.

  “A man of many words,” Fumbe said. “I wonder if you were always like this.”

  Ariston looked sharply at the African, but said nothing.

  “I have heard strange whisperings about your friend from the other day.”

  Decius. Ariston stopped chewing.

  “What of him?”

  “They tell me many things, but it is hard to be sure if any of them are true.”

  Ariston did not respond. He took a piece of garlicked fish into his mouth and chewed.

  “What do you want, Illyrian?”

  Ariston laughed. “Enough of your games, African.”

  The black man smiled. “These are no games, Illyrian. Fumbe takes this serious. He hears rumors of a rebellion, of assassins’ blades and dead babes. These things are your past, Illyrian. No?”

  “My past is not your business.” Ariston scowled.

  “Oh, Fumbe thinks it is. When I bought you, I bought your history as much as your body.” Fumbe laughed, and took a piece of fish in his hand. “You might even say that it is my history now, not yours.”

  “What does it matter? Do you have a problem owning a rebel?”

  “Oh no, Illyrian. Fumbe knew much of your history when he bought you. I did not become a rich man by not investigating before I buy.”

  Ariston said nothing, as he washed down another bite of fish with a mouthful of warm red wine.

  “Some say that you are dead. Most believe it. Why use your name, I wonder?”

  Ariston shrugged. “The end will come for me soon enough. I am not hiding from it.”

  Fumbe frowned. “A man should not seek out his death, nor should he aid the gods of death.”

  “I aid the gods of death every time I step into the arena.”

  “Ah,” Fumbe poured a cup of wine. “You are a smart man, Illyrian. But not so smart as to know who to trust. You think this Decius is your betrayer, no?”

  “There were few of us who knew the plan, and fewer still who survived. He was key for the whole plan. It was his rank that might have lent legitimacy to our actions, at least to buy us enough time.”

  “Time? Time for what?”

  “A real rebellion,” Ariston answered. Fumbe said nothing and for once Ariston kept talking. “A string of corrupt governors brought many of us to the end of our rope. Brutal floggings, imprisonments and torture seemed to become more commonplace with each passing week. Some craved justice. For others it was something more personal.”

  “For others? Or for you?”

  “Enough, African.”

  Fumbe nodded. “Have no worry, Illyrian. Fumbe will give you something better that the plains of Illyria.” He took another sip of wine. “Fumbe will give you Rome.”

  Chapter 4

  From Genua they made their way south along the Via Aemilia Scaura to Portus Pisanus. Between Genua in the north and Ostia and the south, Pisae stood as the only major Roman port. Many of the goods that passed south from Gaul made their way through the port city which stood at the crossings of the Arno and the Serchio rivers. The same could be said of many travelers. Ariston had never been to Pisae before, but he guessed that the level of crowding was something out of the ordinary. The roads into the city were choked with covered wagons, single riders and hundreds of travelers of foot. Roman soldiers were out in full force to keep the peace and more than once he saw a soldier strike an unruly citizen with the flat of his sword.

  They waited for the better part of the afternoon in the hot Italian sun, sweating through their clothes. As the sun had nearly disappeared into the sea in the west, they were waved forward into the city and passed beneath the stone arch flanked by two soldiers. Inside the city, the press seemed only to increase. Here in the cramped confines of the Roman city, traffic was in gridlock, not helped by the hundreds of citizens who had pitched tents at the first open patch of road that they had found, or the merchants who had set up their carts in the middle of main thoroughfares. Legionnaires were shouting and dragging people this way and that, but it seemed any spot of open space they cleared was quickly swallowed up.

  The inn where Fumbe had procured their lodgings was indistinguishable from the hovels they had so far overnighted in. It seemed the man was overcautious, or, as Ariston suspected, more than a little cheap. At the very least, Ariston was thankful that the man was not cheap when it came to food. Though Fumbe himself ate little, he treated Ariston to a veritable feast on their arrival in Pisae.

  “It is a long road from Genua to here, and much longer still from here to Rome. I cannot have you wasting away. The Romans will not pay to see a skeleton fight.”

  “Not sure of that.” Belarus grumbled, as he helped himself to plate.

  Ariston started first with the figs, which had been candied in a pear sauce, followed by six kinds of olives, which were as fresh as any he had ever eaten. Next came the fish, garlicked once again; it was only thing Fumbe seemed to eat. Afterwards, they ate cabbage soaked in vinegar and washed it down with a red wine that might have been a little fresher, but Ariston did not complain. When they had all filled their bellies, they retired to the lumpy and uncomfortable mattresses they had been provided and slept until morning.

  Ariston was the first awake, but he made sure Belarus soon followed. The large man grumbled as Ariston shook him awake, but soon was on his feet. Ariston was anxious for practice to begin. He had had a rare dreamless night and felt more refreshed than he had in quite some time. He made his way to the practice yard and began stretching as he waited for his eastern trainer.

  “No swords today.” Bel
arus said, as he rumbled into the yard. He took a rake and began dragging the sand. “You will have your sword for the most part in the arena, and in single combat it may be all you need. The chaos of the larger melees, however, are a different story. A sword goes dull quickly, especially when it is sharp, and then you will be forced to scavenge what you can from the fallen. Today we will focus on the ranged weapons that you are likely to encounter.”

  “Coward’s weapons.” Ariston spat into the sand.

  Belarus laughed. “You Romans are all the same.”

  “I am not a Roman,” Ariston glowered. “But there is no honor in killing man with such weapons.”

  “Honor?” It was Belarus’s turn to spit. “You are a slave. There is no honor in any of this. Glory? Yes. Fame? Perhaps. But never honor. The man who survives in the arena must become an animal. He must take every advantage given to him and leave honor behind.”

  They began with the throwing axes, which came naturally to the Illyrian. His strength allowed him to hurl the weapons for speed and distance, though his accuracy left something to desire. The weight of the head was enough to make it into a deadly weapon, but learning to hit the target with the blade was key to unlocking its true potential. Even a skilled thrower could only sink the blade occasionally into his target, but Ariston still cursed each time the heavy iron head banged off of the wooden target and clattered to the floor.

  Next, were javelins.

  Belarus demonstrated with a flat straight throw that sunk the javelin point near complete into the wood. After a half an hour, Ariston could throw a javelin decently well, and found that he could hit the target more often than not. Belarus warned him that in the arena his targets would be moving, but Ariston only grunted and threw another. Another three hours, and Ariston had lost his patience with spears and bows, and Belarus allowed him to move onto to physical exercises, promising they would return to the ranged practice the following day. And Belarus was a man to keep his promise.