The Gladiator c-9

by Simon Scarrow

  'Macro, I really haven't got time.'

  'Bollocks. Let's see who has lost their touch, shall we?' Macro waved a hand invitingly towards the javelin the soldier was holding out.' Be my guest.'

  Cato's eyes narrowed furiously. He snatched the weapon and strode to the front of the line. Turning to face the target, he focused on it intently as he flipped the weapon in his hand and caught it in an overhead grip. He placed his leading foot carefully, eased back his throwing arm and sighted the target along his left arm, lining it up with his middle finger. Then, taking a deep breath, he tensed his muscles and hurled the javelin forward with all his strength. The weapon arced up, reached the apex of its trajectory and then dipped down and punched through the centre of the dummy's body Cato spun round towards Macro, hands balled into fists as he hissed triumphantly, 'Yessss!'

  At once he forced himself to recover his composure and strolled back towards his friend, trying hard to look casual, as if hitting the target was all in a day's work. Macro nodded his head in admiration.

  'Nice throw'

  'Eat your words, Macro.'

  'Not bad at all, except that you some how managed to throw the bloody thing the wrong way round.'

  'What?' Cato turned quickly to look at the target. Sure enough, the point of the javelin was protruding from the chest while the butt sagged on to the ground on the other side. 'Shit…'

  'Well, never mind.' Macro patted his shoulder. 'It's a useful demonstration in improvisation, if nothing else.'

  Cato scowled.' Ha fucking ha.'

  Macro laughed.' Now then, what brings you here?'

  'Message from Sempronius. A section of the sewer has collapsed and needs to be dug out. He wants you and your men to see to it.'

  'Oh, thanks. Just what I needed.'

  Cato smiled as he saluted Macro again. 'What goes round comes round, eh? I'll see you later on. Right now I have to get back to the acropolis, and the delights of record-keeping. Have fun.'

  The sunlight was streaming through the windows high on the wall in the office next do or to the one recently vacated by Glabius. Here too there were windows overlooking the city, and Cato was staring out over the damaged buildings and ruins, now washed in a pale orange hue. His mind gradually drifted back to the concern that was consuming him. Over the previous days, Marcellus's optimistic reports on his progress were being countered by fragments of news and rumours arriving at Gortyna that told of numerous raids by the slaves on isolated farms and estates. Then, the previous day, a cavalry squadron sent in search of a patrol that had not reported in returned to inform Cato that they had discovered the bodies of the missing men. The cavalrymen had also passed through a village where every man, woman and child had been slaughtered and left in a pile of mutilated bodies in the centre of the village, scarcely three miles from Gortyna.

  'Hey!' Julia called out from the other side of the desk. 'Would you mind keeping your attention on the job?' She tapped the slate in front of her with a stylus.' My father wants the revised figures tonight, and we still have to account for the supplies on those wagons that turned up at noon.'

  'Sorry.' Cato flashed a smile. 'Just thinking.'

  He picked up the inventory of the first wagon and prepared to add up the ticks for each sack and announce the total to Julia to note down.

  There was a sudden sharp rap on the door, and Cato turned round.

  'Come in!'

  The door opened, and one of Sempronius's clerks entered. 'Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the senator wants to see you at once.'

  'At once?' Cato glanced at Julia and saw her frown. 'Very well, I'll come.'

  He pushed his chair back and stood up, pausing a moment. 'We'll continue later on.'

  Julia nodded wearily.

  Cato followed the clerk out of the office. He wondered why Sempronius had summoned him so peremptorily. They were not due to meet until the evening briefing. At the end of the corridor, the door to the senator's office was open and the clerk stopped to knock on the frame.

  'Centurion Cato, sir.'

  'Very well, show him in.'

  The clerk stood to one side and Cato strode past him into the office. Sempronius was sitting at his desk. To one side stood an officer.

  Cato recognised him as one of Marcellus's centurions. The man was in armour, and a bloodstained rag was tied round his sword arm. His face was covered with stubble and he looked exhausted and strained.

  Sempronius glanced at Cato with a drawn expression. 'I have sent for Macro. He should join us shortly. Meanwhile, do you know Centurion Micon?'

  Sempronius indicated the other officer, and Cato looked at him briefly and nodded as he crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. 'I take it you have a report from Prefect Marcellus?'

  Micon looked to the senator for guidance.

  'Just tell him,' Sempronius said wearily. 'Tell him everything.'

  Cato turned to Centurion Micon, as the other man cleared his throat. 'Yes, sir. Centurion Marcellus is dead.'

  'Dead?'

  'Yes, sir.' Micon nodded wearily.' Him and all his men.'

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Parthian glanced up as he held the needle and lamb's-gut thread poised over the wound. A sword cut had laid open the gladiator's thigh. Fortunately the wound was shallow and clean and had bled nicely to keep it clear of dirt and grit. The muscle was superficially torn and would mend without causing any handicap.

  The gladiator was standing in front of him, stripped down to a loincloth. His torso bore several scars, some of which looked like they might have killed or crippled a lesser man. Although he had been strong and fit before he had be come a slave, two years of hard training had left him with a superb physique. The Parthian had never seen the like in all his days tending the warriors of his master's bodyguard.

  It had been a good life, he reflected briefly, before the border skirmish that had led to his capture and then being sold on as a surgeon to the family of a wealthy Greek merchant. Since then, it had been an endless succession of slaves with boils, sprained ankles and wrists, and venereal diseases amongst the girls of a brothel the merchant owned in Athens. The Parthian had been travelling with his master when the earthquake had struck Crete. He had been outside the inn where the Greek and his retinue had been staying when the earth roared and rumbled beneath him, throwing him to the ground.

  When the earthquake had passed and he stood up, there was nothing left of the inn, and not a sound came from beneath the heap of rubble.

  The Parthian had taken the chance to flee into the hills, where he wandered for two days, growing steadily hungrier, until he came across the gladiator and his band of slaves. At first he was content to accept the scraps of food that were freely given to him, and resolved to travel to the coast and find a ship heading east on which he could stow away. But then he had come to know the gladiator. There was something about him that reminded the Parthian of his master back home. An inextinguishable aura of authority and determination that would brook no obstacle. Once the gladiator had learned of his medical expertise, the Parthian was asked to remain with the slaves and tend to their needs. For the first time in his life he had been offered a choice, and as he pondered the novelty of deciding his own fate, he saw the gladiator watching steadily, waiting for his reply. At that moment he knew that his choice had been made.

  In the days that had followed, the gladiator's band of followers had swelled as more slaves flocked to his side, begging to be given the chance to take up arms against their former masters. The gladiator had taken them all, selecting those who were fit to be part of his growing war band. The rest were sent to the large, flat-topped hill that served as their base. Already the approaches to the summit had been protected by earthworks and palisades, and thousands of slaves lived on the hill in a variety of crude shelters, or even in the open air. Despite the hardships and the ever-present fear of Roman soldiers and recapture, they were happy and savoured every day that they remained at liberty.

  The Parthian
leaned closer to the wound and examined it briefly.

  Three stitches would suffice to reattach the severed muscle. Another nine or ten stitches would be enough to close the wound, the Parthian decided. He glanced up.

  'This is going to hurt. Are you ready, Ajax?'

  'Do it now '

  As the gladiator stood still, the surgeon leaned forward and probed into the wound, drawing the two ends of the muscle together. Then he pierced the tissue, pressed the needle through and sewed his stitches, before cutting off the spare thread and knotting it securely.

  He glanced up. 'All right?'

  Ajax nodded, keeping his steely gaze on the vista below him. He stood on the cliff above the defile, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. The sun had risen an hour earlier, and the first shafts of light had shone down the length of the defile, illuminating the corpses of Roman soldiers sprawled and heaped along the narrow path. In amongst them were the bodies of horses and hundreds of the slaves who had closed in to finish off the Romans caught in the ambush. It had been a bloody fight, Ajax recalled vividly. The desperate courage of his men against the training, armour and weapons of the Romans. The last of the enemy had been hunted down and killed just before dawn. Now his men were picking the bodies clean of anything that would serve the needs of his growing army. Before, they had a miscellany of swords, knives, scythes, spears, pitchforks and clubs. Now they had proper kit, and Ajax knew how to use it. Several of his followers had once been gladiators themselves, and had already started to train the best of the slaves in the ways of combat. Soon, they in turn would train other slaves, and before the month was out, Ajax would have thousands of men under arms, and nothing would stand in the way of his revolt.

  He winced as the surgeon pinched the open mouth of the wound together and pushed the needle through his skin, deftly pulling the thread tight before returning the needle back through the flesh in the opposite direction. The pain was hot and made every nerve in his leg shriek with agony, but he kept his jaw clamped shut and fought down the temptation to show that he was suffering. Pain was pro of of life, his first trainer had told him at the gladiator school outside Brindisium. The bearing of pain was also the measure of a man, the trainer had continued as he had walked down the line of new recruits, striking every man in the face as he passed in each direction.

  Those that flinched or whimpered he struck again and again, until they collapsed on the ground, bloodied and broken. The next day he repeated the exercise, and the next, and by the end of the first ten days, they could all stand and take his blows without any expression crossing their faces.

  So Ajax stood steady as a rock as the Parthian surgeon worked unhurriedly on his wound and he did not look down until at length he heard the Parthian ease himself back and stand, bloodied fingers holding the needle in one hand as he reached for a cloth from his bag with the other.

  'There, it is done. I will check the wound again tonight. Try not to exert the leg too much today, or the stitches may tear.'

  The gladiator offered one of his rare smiles. 'There is no need for exertion today, Kharim. The slaves have won their victory; now let us celebrate. Once we have tended to our wounded and buried our dead, we return to camp. We'll slaughter and roast a herd of goats, break open the wine and have a banquet worthy of the gods.'

  'Which gods? Mine or yours?'

  Ajax laughed and clapped his hand on the Parthian's shoulder.

  'Neither, or both. What does it matter? As long as we are free men, who cares which gods we worship? Life is good, made sweeter still by the defeat of those bastard Romans.'

  'Yes.' Kharim nodded as he wiped his hands clean on the rag and peered down at the bodies below. He was silent for a moment. 'It was a shame about the boy'

  Ajax's smile faded as he recalled the youth who had led the Romans into the trap.' He knew what his fate would be. Pollio was as brave as they come.' Ajax slowly balled his hand into a fist.' He will not be forgotten. He bought us this victory with his life. I shall honour Pollio by killing more Romans.'

  The Parthian glanced at him uneasily. 'Why do you hate the Romans so much?'

  'Simple. They made a slave of me.'

  'They are no worse than other slave owners. Yet you do not hate others as you hate Rome.'

  'You are right.' Ajax smiled faintly. 'In truth, I have my own reasons for hating the empire, and a handful of Romans in particular.

  But it does not matter. As long as my hatred feeds my desire for freedom, yours and that of all the slaves who follow me, then let me indulge it, eh?'

  They shared a smile, and then Ajax frowned as he caught sight of a small party of escorted prisoners being led along the top of the cliff towards him. The leader of the escorts was a young man, tall and broad, and grinning as he approached his commander. Ajax main -

  tained a stern expression as he folded his arms and stood, stiff-backed, as the prisoners were brought to him.

  'Chilo, what is this? I gave the order that there were to be no prisoners.'

  Yes, Ajax, I know. But this one,' Chilo turned and grabbed one of his prisoners by the shoulder and roughly shoved him forward so that he stumbled and nearly lost his balance, 'is a centurion. I caught him, with these others, hiding beneath a wagon at the rear of their column. They didn't put up any fight, and threw down their swords.

  And there was me thinking that centurions were supposed to die rather than surrender.'

  Ajax stared at the Roman officer. 'Is this true?'

  The centurion lowered his eyes and nodded.

  'Why? Tell me why you dishonour yourself, and these men you lead.'

  'Why?' The centurion looked up nervously. 'We were beaten.

  There was no point in further resistance.'

  'Coward!' Ajax shouted. 'Coward! There is always a point to resistance! Always. That is why I stand here as your victor. And you bow in defeat. You are humiliated, Roman, the more so because you chose shame rather than death. A slave lives a life of shame, of obeisance, always in fear. In this he has no choice, and death is merely a release from humiliation and pain. That is the lesson I learned when Rome made me a slave.' He paused and then sneered at the centurion. 'That is why these slaves beat you, Roman. They know that liberty is the only thing worth dying for. Yet you, and these other curs, you chose to surrender your liberty rather than die. And that is why we defeated you. That is why we will defeat every Roman soldier in Crete. Because our will is stronger than yours.'

  The centurion stared back, terrified by the intensity of Ajax's glare. There was a tense pause before the gladiator took a deep breath and continued. 'What is your name, Centurion?'

  'Centurion Micon, sir. Second squadron, Second Batavian Mounted Cohort.'

  'Well, Centurion Micon, it appears that there is no Second Batavian Mounted Cohort any more. Therefore it has no need of a centurion.' Ajax swiftly pulled out a dagger and grabbed Micon by the harness that covered his chainmail vest, and which marked him out as an officer. Three medallions were attached to the harness: campaign awards. Ajax slipped the blade under the leather shoulder strap of the harness, smiling as the Roman flinched, and cut the strap with a quick jerk. He cut the other shoulder strap, and then the tie that bound the harness around the centurion's waist, and wrenched the harness and its medallions away from Micon. He held it up for his men to see and then contemptuously hurled it into the ravine.

  There was a roar of approval from the slaves who had been watching the little drama.

  'You are no longer a centurion,' Ajax sneered.' You are nothing more than the last scrap of your precious cohort.'

  He turned to Chilo. 'Take your prisoners to the edge of the cliff and throw them off, one by one.'

  Chilo grinned.' Yes, General! It will be my pleasure.'

  'No!' one of the Batavian auxiliaries shouted. You can't! We surrendered!'

  'How foolish of you,' Ajax replied coldly. 'I wonder if you would have spared me had I begged for mercy on the sands of the arena.

  Chilo, get
on with it.'

  Chilo and two of his men grabbed the nearest auxiliary and dragged him roughly towards the edge of the cliff that dropped into the ravine. The Roman shouted and screamed for mercy, writhing in their grasp. They struggled towards the edge, and stopped a safe distance back, before holding the captive's wrists firmly. Chilo stood behind him, then, bracing his boot in the small of the auxiliary's back, thrust him forwards as his men released their grip. With a terrified scream the Batavian lurched over the edge of the cliff, arms flailing. Then he was falling in a lazy tumble as he clawed at the air.

  His screams were cut off a moment later as his head struck an outcrop of rock and exploded like a watermelon. His body bounced off the cliff and fell with a heavy crunch on to the boulders at its foot. One by one his comrades suffered the same fate, as the slaves cheered each man, and jeered those who struggled most as they were led to the edge.

  At last only Micon remained. He had slumped to his knees and was trembling pitifully as his captors came for him. Chilo had him dragged towards the cliff, but just before they reached the edge Ajax called out:

  'Stop!'

  Chilo and his men turned towards their leader with questioning expressions.

  'Not him.' Ajax waved them back from the edge. 'That one lives.

  Bring him here.'

  The shaking Roman was thrown to the ground before the gladiator and Ajax bit back on his disgust as he stared down at the man, pathetically mumbling his thanks.

  'Silence, you dog!' He kicked the Roman. 'Hear me out. I want you to go back to Gortyna, and tell your superiors — tell everyone you meet — all that you have seen here. You tell them that the slaves will be free, and that we will destroy, with sword and fire, any who come between us and freedom… Now stand up, you cowardly vermin. On your feet! Before I change my mind.'

  Micon scrambled up and stood trembling before Ajax.

  'Do you understand what you have to do, Roman?'

  'Y-yes.

  Ajax turned to Chilo. 'Find him a horse, then escort him away from here, a safe distance so our people won't be tempted to chase him down and cut his throat. Then set him free. Is that understood?'