Ariston: A Stranger's Promise

by Bryan Andrews

  The next day began as the last one, with ranged practiced followed by physical training. After that, Ariston sparred against the Easterner, whose incredible strength and skill with a hammer was still a match for Ariston. He taught him how to grapple and fight hand-to-hand with more than just brute strength and aggression. Each day Ariston could feel himself grow a little stronger. Each day he moved a little faster; his throws were a little truer; his wits a little sharper. Even the giant seemed to grudgingly acknowledge his progress. He had taken to occasionally calling him Ariston, though Illyrian was still far more common.

  After a few weeks of training, and with a few weeks to go, Fumbe had news for the two men. “It is time for a fight,” he said and waited for them to ask their questions.

  Ariston was always rankled by the way the African felt content to give information with no explanation. He knew the man took pleasure in watching Ariston bristle with curiosity, but still, he could not help himself.

  “A fight? Here?”

  “There are many gladiators and many owners here. It is cheaper here than in Rome, and there is still time until the true games begin. When I drink, I meet many owners. Many men with mouths bigger than their brains. They brag and boast and bet. Sometimes the amount is small. Sometimes it is large. This time it is quite large. A drunken Italian with more than few slaves trained for the arena. He is a man of some fame in the capital. At least within such circles as concern themselves with gladiators. But he has one champion who has captured some attention.

  “He was captured in emperor’s most recent wars. They say he was a prince or a Dacian nobleman, but it seems he is just a man who knows well how to kill. He fights with a falx after the manner of his people, and they say he is quite deadly with it.”

  “A falx?” Belarus looked displeased. “Why risk our charge this close to the games?”

  “I have had a dream of our Illyrian fighting in the Colosseum. He will not die today.” He looked to Ariston. “You will only fight to first blood. Death is less likely, but it is still a risk. And the falxes used by the Dacians are fierce weapons and not made for making small cuts. He is like to take your arm or your head when he draws first blood. That, no doubt, is part of the draw for the man who took my bet.” Fumbe smiled. “He did not seem to like me, and I do not doubt that he would love to maim or kill my only fighter.”

  “A comforting thought,” said Ariston. He looked to Belarus. “What can you tell me of the falx that this man uses? How do I fight against it?”

  They next day came more quickly than Ariston would have hoped. He ate a breakfast of dried figs and cold fish. Belarus helped him polish his armor; Ariston sharpened his sword by himself. He tested the buckles and ties for each part of his armor and replaced those that seemed loose or overly frayed. Though, he usually fought with a bronze shield, he opted today for a wooden one with a solid iron buckle at its center. Wood was softer than bronze, but it was more pliable and more likely to trap an opponent’s blow, leaving him defenseless. The iron buckle in the center would help deflect a blow, distributing the weight away from the man who held the shield.

  The match was held in a practice yard, the spectators all owners and other fighters. Ariston made his way first onto the sand. His opponent followed soon after. Ariston had seen fewer men larger than his opponent. Ariston himself stood a foot taller than most, but this man would have even towered over Belarus, though he did not weigh quite as much. He wore no armor, and Ariston could see the thick ropes of muscle that stretched from joint to joint. His chest and midsection were cut in lines better defined than most stone sculptures that Ariston had ever seen. The weapon he held did indeed look fearsome: a carved wooden pole painted and polished, and on the end a curved blade sharpened on the inside of the curve. The pole stretched three feet and the blade looked just as long. Belarus had told him that during the Dacian campaigns, legionnaires in full armor had been cut in half by devastating blows from the massive weapons.

  The match began with a simple whistle from one of the spectators and it was nearly over a moment after that. Ariston had heard that falxmen could wield the weapon with surprising speed, but the quickness of his opponent seemed impossible. The first slash split the air where his head had been moments before, the second crashed into the sand as he spun away from the blow. He tumbled backward as another strike sailed high and he scrambled to his feet as the massive barbarian pressed the attack again. This time Ariston was ready. He sidestepped another overhead strike and danced out of range of a vicious cut. He deflected another blow with his sword, letting the falx blade slide harmlessly to the side. The shield hung unused on his left arm. The force behind each strike of his opponent was formidable, and Ariston was not sure his shoulder would withstand the force.

  His own attempts at offense were quickly brushed aside by the massive falx. Several times Ariston had thought himself inside the range of the falx, but the wide two-handed grip allowed his opponent to pivot the wooden pole to block Ariston’s strikes and forced him back into the path of the blade. Ariston panted and moved, and for a moment he wondered how the Dacians had lost the war. He guessed most of them were not quite as good as the fighter he now faced.

  The crowd was growing restless. Gladiator fights were usually quick affairs, especially those to first blood. That nearly ten minutes had passed and neither man was bleeding was remarkable, though that did not seem to concern the crowd. They urged both men to action, calling for blood. Ariston renewed his attempts at an offensive, but found his thrusts turned aside each time by the massive blade of the falx. His opponent countered, using the flat of the pole to push Ariston backward. The Illyrian backpedaled trying to keep his balance as the heavy wood crashed against his shield, but to no avail. His back crashed into a rack of practice swords behind him and his opponent hacked at his head. Ariston brought his shield up at the last moment. The impact of the blow shook the teeth in his mouth, and had he not been pinned against the sword rack, he was sure he would have tumbled over backward. Regaining his composure, he saw that the heavy iron falx had sunk itself nearly through to the other side of the soft wooden shield. He also saw the terror in his opponent’s eyes; it was stuck.

  It only gave Ariston an extra second. The blade came loose on the second tug, but Ariston’s blade was already in motion. The Dacian moved backward away from the sweeping strike and raised the falx above his head. The crowd shouted in displeasure and pointed at him. He looked down. A thin streak of red ran from his left shoulder to his right nipple. Little droplets of blood beaded along its course and began to slide down his tanned skin. He dropped the falx and let it fall into the sand. He stepped toward Ariston and offered out a hand, a smile spreading wide across his face.

  “Well fought,” he grumbled, in thick accented Latin.

  Ariston sheathed his sword and shook the man’s hand. “You fought quite well. They call me the Illyrian.”

  The bigger man laughed at that. “Then should they call me the Dacian? No, no. I think not.” He slapped Ariston on the shoulder. “My name is Brasus.”

  “That falx of yours is a deadly weapon,” Ariston said.

  “True,” Brasus replied, “But a stupid one for men in a packed formation. Your emperor showed us that. Too big to wield in tight quarters. It is a champion’s weapon.” He laughed again. “But still, it was a close fight. Seen quite a few of you Romans shit your pants when they saw the falxes coming.” His laugh was like thunder. “Nothing like the look on a man’s face when you take his head from his shoulders.”

  “I’m not a Roman,” Ariston said, though with less vitriol that was the norm.

  “You are.” The levity was gone from Brasus’s face. “We both are now.”

  He stood in a small stone chamber that he had never seen, but often imagined in his mind. A skeleton with wrinkled brown skin stretched across it, lay wheezing in the corner. Two hollow and lifeless eyes looked at and through Ariston. And he saw and felt a longing that brought tears to his eyes and the sound of the
ocean to his ears.

  “Father.” The word was quite different from all other words and Ariston felt its enigma as the sound of it echoed off the four walls of the cell. The man in front of him was a stranger, and yet that word father was forever attached to him in a way that had to do with so much more than naming or identity and somehow stretched back to that primal part of him that still remembered the savannahs of Africa and the polished black obsidian of some long forgotten temple, where the first kings of men had been laid to rest.

  Some part of him was vaguely aware that this was a dream, but it was painful for the fact that he would never know the reality of it. The emaciated thing before him, that should have been dead but was somehow still alive, was a painful reminder that he would never know what happened to his father, would never know the mental horrors and the physical tortures that had been inflicted on him, would never know the moment that he had left the world or if he had called out in vain for his family, who could do nothing to save him.

  “I am sorry, father.” The words did so little to bridge the gulf that had found its way between them, but what else could he say? What else could he do?

  He took the leathery, frail hand in his own and squeezed it. The dark sunken eyes seemed to brighten for a moment, but then the body became a swarm of beetles and Ariston jumped back in horror. The beetles swarmed and buzzed and out of the swarm stepped a naked woman with beautiful breasts and skin the color of honey. Her perfume was sweet, but beneath it Ariston could smell decay and death, and as the figure approached him, he backed away. He felt the wall behind him and there was nowhere else to go. The figure approached and placed her hands on his chest. Her mouth opened and the stench of death filled his nostrils. The fetid stink brought tears to his eyes and he pressed his hands against her, trying to push her away. Just as her lips met with his and he felt his life force begin to fade, he awoke in a cold sweat. Fumbe was standing next to the bed.

  “You have seen something horrible, Illyrian. Is this not true?”

  Ariston struggled to regain his bearings. “It was just a nightmare. Nothing to be worried about.”

  Fumbe hummed a few melancholy notes and then spoke. “A nightmare, yes. But that does not mean that you should not worry. You are not like other men, Ariston. What you see in your dreams is not simply some impossible fantasy. No, no. It is the will of the gods. They are fighting over you, I think.”

  “Fighting over me?”

  If Fumbe had heard the question, he did not deem it necessary to answer. “But I did not come here to talk to you about dreams, Illyrian. There are armed men outside, and I do not believe that they are looking for me.”

  Now Ariston was awake. He shot up in his bed and grabbed the gladius that lay in its scabbard underneath the window. He peered out into the darkness. He could hear voices below, but they were muted and he was not sure they were speaking Latin.

  “Who are they?” He whispered to Fumbe.

  The man shrugged. “My guess is that your friend sent them.”

  Ariston thought for a moment. “Decius? How do you know?”

  Fumbe smiled and the moonlight caught his teeth. “There are many ears, even in a place like this. A man must be much quieter if he does not want Fumbe to hear.”

  “Why would he send men after me? After all his claims that he did not betray me.”

  “Perhaps he was telling the truth. But he cannot risk having someone who could threaten his new position, can he? Men are willing to kill their own mothers to keep power. Why not a slave?” For all the talk of death, Fumbe seemed quite calm. “And perhaps they are men who are his enemies. Fumbe does not see all things.”

  “Where is Belarus?” Ariston began to consider their options.

  “He is waiting in the hallway. He is already armed.”

  Ariston cocked an eyebrow.

  Fumbe laughed. “I will wait here. I am not a fighter.”

  Ariston made his way into the hallway. Belarus was waiting for him. For once the man’s gruff appearance and hulking frame was a welcome sight. He was a miserable man, but one who knew how to fight and who would be difficult to kill.

  “Let’s show those sons of bitches who they’re messing with,” Belarus hissed through clenched teeth. He held a large hammer in one hand and circular shield in the other. A leather breastplate, a few sizes too small hung over his chest, but left his stomach exposed.

  Ariston nodded and the two men slowly climbed down the stairs. It was pitch black in the inn’s common room below. Whether the men had already entered or not, Ariston didn’t know. He cautiously stepped off the stairs and paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Belarus’s breathing was rough and ragged and Ariston silently cursed the noise. But as his eyes began to penetrate the darkness, he saw that the front door remained closed and it seemed that the room was deserted.

  Taking his shirt from his back, Ariston tore it into two strips and tied them around his sandals. He motioned for Belarus to do the same. The fabric would help to dampen the sound of their feet as they moved across the room. The larger man was clumsy, but with Ariston’s help he managed to secure the cloth to his feet and the men took up positions on either side of the door. There was a window a half foot to Ariston’s left and through it he could hear the whispers of the men who waited outside. Definitely not Latin: their words were hard and throaty and sounded like one of the languages of the tribes to the north. He tried to count the different voices, but he could not be sure of the number, at least half a dozen, maybe more. In the darkness they had hopes of taking them, if they could surprise them and even the numbers before they realized what was happening.

  Still, Ariston could feel his nerves. He knew Decius well enough to know that the man would not have sent these men unless he had confidence that they could do their job. These men would not be green. More likely, they were veteran mercenaries who would know what they were doing. Why Decius would send these men if, in fact, it was him that had sent them, perplexed Ariston. Sure enough, he was suspicious that the man had betrayed him and the others, but to order his death like this was bold. Perhaps Fumbe was right, perhaps he had not betrayed him, but after Ariston’s refusal to cooperate he was worried who Ariston might tell or perhaps Decius was caught up in some game of Roman politics that was spilling over to those who knew him. These thoughts rushed through his mind even as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The door was beginning to open. Ariston nodded to Belarus and both men raised their weapons ready to strike.

  They waited as the first and second men entered into the inn. As the third man entered, they struck. Ariston shouldered into one man, knocking him to the ground and a quick stab to the stomach put another to the floor. Belarus smashed one of the mercenaries over the head with his massive hammer and his skull caved in like a rotted pumpkin. The other mercenaries poured into the inn, but in the darkness and confusion, their numbers counted for little. Ariston was an artist with his blade, quick strokes ended the lives of half a dozen men before they even had a chance. Belarus was less graceful, but no less effective. He split the heads of four men and crushed the ribs of another with his powerful blows.

  When they had dispatched all but two of the mercenaries, the remaining two turned and ran out the door. His blood still hot from battle, Ariston chased after them, even as Belarus called at him to stop. Cursing, the large man followed after him. Both men stopped short as they exited the inn. In the street in front of the building, twelve men stood in a half circle.

  Ariston scanned the men around them, trying to think of someway that escape might be possible.

  “Back inside, Illyrian.” The eastern man took a step backward.

  Ariston shook his head. “No, we stand and fight them here. Keep the door to your back and don’t let them behind us. We can take quite a few of them before they kill us.”

  Belarus looked at him for a moment and then shrugged. “Had hoped to die with a woman between my legs.”

  Ariston laughed and patted the o
ther man on the back. The humor seemed to be lost on the men, who stood looking on with murderous glares.

  Ariston dropped into a fighter’s stance and the half-circle began to collapse inward. The mercenaries advanced slowly with their weapons held out in defensive positions. They were confident in their numbers, but they had seen the way that a dozen of their comrades had been killed by these two men. Just as they reached within blades length, one of the men collapsed to the ground, an arrow in his neck. The mercenaries froze for a second and the defenders struck, even as another arrow took a man in the stomach. Ariston and Belarus had killed half the men before they were even able to regain their composure. Another arrow whistled past Ariston’s head and hit one of the remaining men in the chest.

  With a roar Belarus charged and knocked two men to the ground, where he finished them one at a time with strokes of his powerful hammer. Ariston blocked a thrust and drove his gladius through the throat of the attacker. The remaining mercenaries turned to run. An arrow caught one in the back as they fled, but the others were swallowed up by the night. Ariston turned to look at the second floor of the inn. Fumbe stood in the in the window with a short hunter’s bow in hand. Even in the darkness, Ariston could see his smile as the moonlight danced off his teeth.

  Fumbe spent most of the next day, and the one thereafter, speaking to officials from the city. So many dead bodies were bound to anger the local officials, but as they were armed and bore no marks of the Roman army, or any official body, there was little fault that could be found with the African or his charges. Ariston was not entirely sure that Fumbe had not spent money to smooth the entire thing along; but after two days it seemed that the matter was settled with both Fumbe and the local officials agreeing it had been nothing more than some common brigands. Behind closed doors, Fumbe had other ideas.