Ariston: A Stranger's Promise

by Bryan Andrews

  The African stopped short of blaming it entirely on Decius, for he did not seem to think that they had been his own men. “He is attracting attention to us, and he seems to have angry friends,” was all that he would offer. They had moved their quarters into a shared section of the gladiator school and now took meals in a raucous hall full of gladiators, trainers and some owners, though most of the latter preferred to take their meals in private quarters or in more luxurious establishments in the city.

  Ariston was draining the last gulps of a large cup of wine, when another man sat beside him. Before Ariston even turned, he could feel the man’s looming presence. He cast a shadow across Ariston and half the table besides.

  “Brasus,” Ariston said, placing the cup back on the table. Brasus poured him more wine from the pitcher he was drinking from.

  “Another drink,” he shouted. His face was red and flushed, and he clearly had already had ‘another drink’ or six. “Knives in the dark, eh? A coward’s way.”

  Near everyone in the city had heard of the attack, and it was the only thing on anyone’s lips at the gladiator school. Whispers followed as he made his way through the corridors of the school or across the practice yard. Faces turned quickly away and voices grew silent when he approached too near.

  “They are dead now,” he responded. “It is over.”

  “Dead. That I believe. But over? They say you killed fifty men, some say a hundred. Not common brigands.”

  “Not a hundred,” Ariston said. “Not even fifty. Perhaps two dozen men, and some of those fled.”

  “Still,” the Dacian replied between gulps of wine, “Too many men for brigands. Someone wants you dead. But have no worries, Brasus will protect you.”

  Ariston cocked an eyebrow.

  “The African has not told you?” Brasus grabbed a plate of fish from the serving woman wandering through the tables. Ariston did the same. “After your victory, he had my master quite in his debt. Fumbe forgave the debt in exchange for me.”

  “Good,” Ariston said, “Another gladiator for the man.” His voice sounded bitter to his own ears, but he did not understand why.

  Brasus shook his head. “Not gladiator. Bodyguard.”

  “I can defend myself.” Ariston felt his face flush.

  “No one doubts that my man. Me least of all.” He thumped an open hand against his bare chest, where the thin gash had been stitched and bandaged. “But next time, it might be fifty men. Or a hundred. And then, I don’t think you will begrudge having my falx at your side.”

  Ariston finished his fish and parted ways with the Dacian giant. He found Fumbe in his chambers bent over an old rotting book written in a language Ariston had never seen.

  “Illyrian.” Fumbe did not look up from the book.

  “When are we leaving for Rome? I am growing tired of this city, and the company I am forced to keep.” Ariston took a seat on the moth eaten mattress, and felt suddenly very tired.

  “Soon, Illyrian. Quite soon. But do not worry about our new friend. He will come in quite handy before the end, I think.”

  “And how can we trust him?”

  Fumbe shrugged. “Trust? I do not trust him. I do not trust you. I hope for your sake that you do not trust me, Illyrian. We are walking into a den of snakes perched on seven hills. Trust no one, Illyrian. We will all be betrayed before the end.”

  Chapter 5

  Rome was a city that was more a seething mass of people and trade than it was a collection of static buildings, and with the preparation underway for the games that were coming in only two months, the city was more alive than ever. Peasants for hundreds of miles around had come to the city looking for work or entertainment and few were disappointed. The Emperor Trajan, fresh from his conquests in Dacia, spared no expense in the construction of public arenas and amphitheaters that would host gladiatorial matches, acting troupes, and musical performances. Tradesmen and prostitutes multiplied and flourished, as there was great demand for both. Inns, as well, were full to bursting with travelers and migrant workers. Private houses around the city had been converted for guests and it seemed every property owner in the city had become a landlord. Even many of the patrician families, who hoped to curry favor with even richer patrician families, offered rooms out to magistrates and officials from the provinces who were arriving every day.

  Fumbe had found them lodgings in one of the poorer sections of the city, close to a local gladiatorial school, where Fumbe had arranged practice sessions. With two months to go before the games began, Fumbe and Belarus were focused on honing Ariston’s physical and technical skills. He had fared well in the northern tournaments and while he was not a household name in the capital, he was known by many of the games’ enthusiasts and his reputation grew with each day. Blacksmiths from around the city had made offers to make his armor for the games, but Fumbe was still carefully weighing each offer as he checked into the reputation and skill of each craftsman. It will do little good, he said, to outfit you with jewels and finery if it cannot turn a blade.

  Each day Belarus woke Ariston before the sun was up and the pair made their way to the school. The early morning was filled with conditioning work. Ariston ran sprints and practiced gymnastics until it was near noon and other gladiators had arrived for training. The school was a voluntary school, which meant that rather than slaves, all the gladiators who fought and trained there were freeman. Most were poor with little hope for fortune or fame anywhere but the arena. Others were retired soldiers who couldn’t stomach a life of idleness and slow decay.

  Sparring matches took up most of the afternoon and though the men fought with wooden swords, there was little mercy. Men were often badly maimed and occasionally a man was killed by an unlucky blow to the head. The men had looked on Ariston with suspicion when he had first arrived, but his skill and speed had quickly gained him the respect and fear of every fighter there. Few volunteered to spar with him and he was mostly left alone.

  During the games, there were to be a number of tournaments and single-bout spectacles, culminating with a final tournament of thirty-two participants who would be handpicked by the emperor. Half of the slots had already been filled with famous gladiators or soldiers from prestigious families. The other slots would be awarded to gladiators who could make a name for themselves during the earlier part of the games. Ariston hoped to be among that number. Fumbe had taken to enrolling him for a single tournament of one hundred gladiator pairs, the largest of the games. He had also signed him up for several spectacles including a mock-naval battle and a reenactment of the famous Greek defeat at Thermopylae.

  Nights were spent idly and the men spoke much of Decius and his plans. Since they had thwarted the attack in Genua, there had been no further attempt to silence them. According to Fumbe, Decius had arrived in the city shortly after they had and the rumor was that he had provided a large sum to the emperor for the funding of the games. Where he had gotten the money, no one seemed to know. But the name of this newly-minted senator was often on the lips of the gossips and he was rising quickly in the political game of Rome.

  Ariston refused to answer the questions the other two put to him in regards to his past and what history he had with Decius, but Fumbe was a man who found things out that he had no business knowing.

  “You were a conspirator in the revolt in Pannonia, were you not?” Fumbe asked one evening, after Belarus had retired to his bed.

  Ariston looked at the man for a moment, but decided that he was not surprised that the African had discovered his past.

  “Not the revolt. The revolt was just a cover for our plan.”

  “Which was?”

  What use were secrets at this point, Ariston thought.

  “We planned to assassinate the Governor of Pannonia. The revolt would draw the guards away from the mansion and we would break in, kill him and leave before anyone knew better. Decius, as the leading legate in the province, was to assume command of the legion and declare himself governor until the emper
or named a successor. Two legions loyal to Decius stationed in Dalmatia would march north and secure his power, under the guise of quelling unrest. With three legions under his command, the emperor would not be foolish enough to name anyone but Decius governor. Once his command of the province was firmly entrenched and new legions had been drawn from the local population, the plan was to declare the freedom of Illyria from the empire.”

  Fumbe nodded as Ariston spoke. “Rebellion. It has been centuries since your people were free and yet you still believe they would have joined you?”

  “The governor’s heavy hand in rule, poisoned the people against the empire and I have no real doubt that they would have only happily welcomed independence. But we were discovered in some way. The night that the assassination was to happen, soldiers of the governor’s guard began to round up the conspirators. I had been visiting the local shrine to Jupiter or I would have been taken too. When I arrived home, all that greeted me were the bodies of my wife and children. I fled north where a legion patrol came upon me and taking me for a runaway, I was sold to slavers heading to Germania.”

  Fumbe sat for a moment with a blank face and empty eyes and said nothing.

  Ariston made to leave, but the African spoke. “It is a sad tale and one that speaks to my own heart. One day I will tell you my story and then you will understand, but for now, we must prepare ourselves for the tournament. And we must keep an eye on this Decius. He may not have betrayed you or perhaps he did. It matters little. The only thing that is of importance in this moment is that it seems he wants you dead. The city is large and our presence should not draw his attention, but after Genua, I am not too confident in that. Tomorrow you will come with me to visit an old friend and we will find answers to this riddle.”

  There are certain parts of Rome that even the city guards refuse to enter. There are twisting labyrinths of decay and fetid rot that house an entirely different sort of population. Most of these inhabitants are born into this Hell on earth and never leave it. Few outsiders ever come to it, and as Ariston and Fumbe made their way deeper into the underbelly, he understood why. They had long ago passed into a tunnel and left the sun behind. The stench, when it had first hit him, had forced him to vomit, and even now he had to breathe sparingly to keep from vomiting again. Fumbe seemed to take no notice of the smell or the thick, warm slime that they walked through, nearly up to their ankles. There were shapes to either side of them, but when Ariston turned his head to look, Fumbe whispered at him harshly: “Eyes ahead!” Ariston needed no further instructions.

  Eventually they made it to a section of the tunnel where the smell of human waste and sewage was not quite so bad. They took a left branch in the tunnel and found themselves in a small dry cavern that might have been a natural formation of rock, or been dug by hand over generations. It smelled of incense and fermenting wine, but the stench of death and waste could not be covered over. A small bundle of cloth sat in the middle of the chamber. It spoke.

  “Fumbe, the son of the lion, you have come again. I see great pain in your eyes. Great hardships have you known since I have seen you last, but that is not why you are here. You are here for this one, no?” The bundle of cloth straightened up and a strip of fabric fell away, revealing a face that made Ariston grimace in disgust. The face was covered in boils and abscesses and parts had been eaten away already by whatever disease afflicted him. Maggots writhed and wriggled in his rotting flesh. His eyelids were scabbed over and it did not look as if he could open them.

  A laugh mixed with a cough issued from the toothless mouth. “You have not warned him. No matter. I know that the beauty of my youth has long since left me. But tell me, Fumbe, what is it that you wish to know?”

  “There are men who wish to kill my friend here. We must discover the origins of this plot, if we are to keep him safe.”

  “Hmmm. It is simple enough. As you have guessed, it is all a part of the failed rebellion in Illyria.” The figure turned its sightless eyes on Ariston, whose mouth had opened in disbelief. “My eyes have never worked and I have never felt the sun against my skin, but I see more than any man alive. “

  “So, Decius is trying to kill me?”

  The figure paused and its lips smacked sickly together. “No, no. It is not quite this way. There are others involved in this. Decius is in danger, but he has not sent these men after you. I fear that it may soon be coming to an end.”

  “An end?”

  The figure nodded. “Yes. You see, these tunnels and sewers have been here many centuries. Some say they were here before Romulus came to the seven hills and founded the city that would carry his name. But whatever the origin, these people, my people, are the disease that has always been a part of all that is Roman. For centuries it has been kept at bay and forgotten, but the wound has festered and the animal is sick. It thrashes in vain, unaware that these are its final breaths.”

  “But who is trying to kill me?” Ariston had little patience for the man’s vague and prophetic statements.

  “Rome is a seething mass of plots and people; I cannot clearly see all its parts at all times. But what I can see is that the people who wish to kill you are the same people who threaten the existence of Rome. The emperor returns from the east, not to celebrate his victories, but reestablish his power. The city is growing restless and there are those that whisper that Trajan is nothing more than a conqueror who cares nothing for the capital and its citizens. There is more at stake in these games than the changing of hands of a few small fortunes. The future of Rome will be decided in the coming months. And you, Illyrian, you will play a great role in what is to come.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Ariston had forgotten that Fumbe was here. The incense and the soothing voice of the diseased seer had put him in a sort of trance.

  “Go to see this Decius. He may have answers to these questions. But you must be cautious. There are men who do not wish to see you together and they have already shown that they are willing to kill to silence you. With all the commotion in the city, the guards are stretched thin, even the mansions of the rich may not be as well protected against the mob as one would think.”

  “I do not trust him.” Ariston said.

  “With good reason, Illyrian. There is no doubt that he has profited from the failure of your people’s rebellion and perhaps that was by his design. But now the fate of more than Illyria hangs in the balance. The entire empire is in danger of collapse.”

  “Let it crumble.” Ariston spat. “I have no love for the city or its people. And less so for the emperor who wants nothing more than to throw more free peoples under the yoke of Roman rule. The Roman tyranny is near its end. Why would I try to preserve it?”

  “Your fate is tied to Rome, Illyrian. That is what I see. If she falls, so will you and Illyria will suffer a far worse fate than what you have experienced at the hands of the Romans. Seek Decius and begin to unravel this plot.”

  “Come, Ariston.” Fumbe spoke. “We are finished here.”

  “Name and business?” The sharply dressed legionnaire at the gate eyed Ariston suspiciously. Two more soldiers stood, spears in hand on the other side of the gate. Another half dozen stood at the top of the steps that led to the mansion.

  “Senator Decius is expecting me.”

  “What is your name, citizen?” The soldier’s voice was gruff and impatient.

  “My name is Marcus, Marcus Alexander. I am a friend of the senator’s.” Ariston felt sweat beading on his forehead. This idea had been stupid. Why would the guards admit a man in tattered clothes who claimed to be friends with the senator? Even if they did, all he had was the world of a blind augur that Decius wasn’t trying to kill him. It didn’t seem likely that things were going to turn out well.

  “And you say the senator is expecting you?” The soldier was not convinced.

  “Yes. I am a blacksmith, supplying him with a ceremonial set of armor for the games.”

  The soldier’s features softened and Ariston knew that he
had struck a chord.

  “There has been a complication with the order and it must be remedied quickly if it is to be ready in time.”

  Now he could see that the legionnaire was sweating. Decius was a man with a quick temper and Ariston was sure that the soldier knew it. Better to admit the man and have Decius confirm his identity than turn him away if he were telling the truth.

  “Alright, citizen. You’ll be escorted in, but if you are lying you will wish you had never been born.”

  “Thank you.”

  The soldier motioned to the two guards. The gate was opened and Ariston walked through.

  “With me.” One of the guards grabbed him by the arm and led him up the stairs. The soldiers stationed at the stairs parted to allow them to pass, but their hands were never far from their swords. He was led into a large chamber that was adorned with painting and sculptures that had not been purchased cheaply. The finery all seemed to blend together into one blur of marble and gold leaf. They were met by a slave in a fine green robe, who took his name and business and told him to wait. The guard who had escorted left him in the hands of the four soldiers stationed in the room. They stared blankly ahead and paid him no attention, though he was sure that any misstep would wake them from their stone like trances.

  In a few minutes Decius returned with the slave. As he saw Ariston, his face changed from a look of vexation to understanding. “Ahh, Marcus. Of course, come with me.”

  The slave turned and looked oddly at his master, but said nothing.

  When they had entered a side chamber and the door was closed securely behind them, Decius spoke. “So you are still alive. I heard of the attack in Genua. I fear that I have brought you into greater danger than I anticipated.”

  “So they were not your men?”

  Decius frowned. “I understand your misgivings, friend, but do not think that I would have you killed. He may not have been my father, but Armend Agani was a friend and a good man. I have never forgotten what was done to him by my government and I mean to avenge him in time. The way things turned out is unfortunate, but it could be no other way.”