by Robert Low
Later he drew her aside and she knew he was concerned. He was patriarch of this family, she had long since recognised, and it puzzled her why it was important to him. She had half an idea it was a bewilderment to him too.
‘It has meaning to us,’ he said, and she nodded, had already seen that.
He held up his hands, knuckles towards her, and she saw the inked marks, only slightly faded – E.S.S.S, one letter on all four fingers. Knew what they stood for too – ego sum servus Servillius. Every slave had one somewhere, the mark of their status, the brand that told how they were someone else’s property. Even now that they were freedmen and citizens, it marked them as people apart from what was considered decent society.
‘I am not… of you,’ she said uneasily.
‘You have been here two months, long enough to know better. You are free,’ Drust said simply, ‘to come and go as you please.’
Praeclarum knew this in her head, but her heart hadn’t caught up with it yet and she could only nod.
‘The big one who smiles, Quintus,’ she said haltingly.
Drust knew Quintus was the one who had bought her for next to nothing and had brought her back, almost thrusting her into the midst of them and grinning as wide as a new-set trap.
‘Say greeting to this one,’ he had announced loudly. ‘Her name is Remarkable. I have bought her and now I free her. Drust – you make it official, the writing and all, can’t you?’
‘Why did he do that?’ she asked Drust, who spread his hands.
‘He won at dice and spent it how he pleased,’ he answered, then took pity on her. ‘Because we are the Brothers of the Sand,’ he added, ‘who have all been slaves. I think he liked your mark.’
Her hand went to the side of her neck instinctively; for a time she had worn a kerchief round the seared old scars that read TMFQ but lately had stopped that and let people stare. Tene me quia fugi – arrest me I have fled. She glared back at those who stared, daring them to act – yet she was hovering on the edge of things here.
‘I do not know anyone here,’ she said. ‘I am not part of you. Quintus made me free, but I owe him my price still.’
‘Quintus,’ Drust said, ‘has been free longer than any of us. He has been everywhere and seen everything, or so he will claim. He likes money but will give it away for a kiss – yet, as you can see, he forces no woman to it.’
Praeclarum dropped her eyes a little. It had been a belly-clench of fear when the long-legged, smiling Quintus had bought her for the price of a dog, and that feeling had taken a long time to leave – she had slept with a dagger for several nights until she realised no one was creeping up on her. She still did not quite understand it – these were not the crew of the Argo, or the heroes of Troy, and she had heard enough to know that they were dark with old blood and rotten secrets. Yet Quintus had not raped her – or tried to, she corrected. No one would ever rape her again.
‘Sib,’ Drust went on, ‘is no harena fighter. He is a mavro, a dark-skin, from south and west of Lepcis Magna. A desert dog who was a slave to the same Servillius who owned us all – and who freed us all, one by one, to serve him in different ways. Sib is a charioteer who raced for the Blues, or the Greens – whoever paid Servillius to have a good man at the reins. Won a few.’
Drust stopped and seemed to hesitate, then smiled. ‘He is ridden by old fears and tribal tales. Believes in strange creatures from the desert. Believes that Manius is one – you have heard of Manius?’
She nodded. ‘One of the two you seek. The other is called Dog.’
Drust’s face went grim for a moment. ‘Manius is a mavro also, but there is dark inside him too, as Sib will tell you. Sib once believed – perhaps still does – that Manius is a jnoun, which is some sort of desert horror from the depths of a sandy Dis. I think he tried to arrange for Manius to die once – now he is trying to atone for that.’
‘And Dog?’
Drust was silent for a moment, then sighed. ‘You will know Dog when you see him. His face is on inside out. Of us all, he is the true fighter, who fought in the Flavian and survived. He is… Dog.’
He sat for a moment, then stirred and grinned. ‘Then there is Ugo, our giant from the Germanies. He believes he can move the world if you give him a lever and a place to stand – Kag told me that one, from some old clever Greek. Kag knows a great deal and that’s what you should remember about him. He looks like shit that fell off someone’s shoe, but there is gold in the man and, for all he curses them, he is like me and will traipse to the edge of the world to look Dog and Manius in the eye and call them arseholes for having put him to it.’
He stopped, then frowned at the curve of the leaning Stercorinus. ‘That one is no slave. He was debt-bonded to a lanista we knew who wanted rid of him because he did not know what to do with the man. Stercorinus is not his name, nor is Palmyra his home, though he claims both. The sword, he says, belonged to a Christian, right hand of their crucified Jesus, but Kag says a man like that would carry a gladius, because it is shorter and more easy to conceal – you don’t walk about with a displayed blade like that in Rome. Kisa says it is one an executioner would use. Stercorinus worships strange gods – or one at least – and does everything because he or they whisper to him.’
‘He is debt-bonded to you now?’ Praeclarum asked and Drust shook his head.
‘We have no bonded fighters here. Some slaves among the paid men, for running things on a camel train – how else would the world turn? But not fighters. We are all Brothers of the Sand here. Even the sisters.’
She smiled, showing her lack of teeth. ‘And you?’
There was pause, and for a moment the world teetered on the edge of revelation, so that Praeclarum, who had asked innocently, felt the coil of it and held her breath. Then, like a blast of hot fetid breath, Sib burst it.
‘Drust – we have a problem.’
He had a round-faced man hovering apologetically at his back. They all recognised him as a local magistrate called Vespillo, which was his occupation – he was responsible for burying people too poor to afford a funeral. It was, perhaps, a joke by Attalus to promote him to summa rudis, the adjudicator of the fights, but he had done well enough. Now, seeing his sweating, stricken face, Drust felt a cold knife sliding into his belly.
‘The Exhibitor has called for a special contest to start in the afternoon,’ he stammered. ‘A match between one of you and one of the garrison legionaries – for the honour of the Army.’
‘Bastard,’ Kag growled. ‘Tell him to fuck off. We have a contract and there is nothing about this in it.’
‘If you refuse,’ Vespillo whined and looked back over his shoulder at where the low growling roar was like some prowling animal. ‘Attalus suggests a retiarius,’ Vespillo went on. ‘Since the legionary will be in full kit.’
Of course he did, Drust thought dully. He knows Praeclarum fought as the retiarius. He thinks she will be untrained and weak and because she is a female infamis can be easily overcome, left begging for her life. Attalus sends us a message, Drust thought – but a ranker from the Army is no harena fighter, has no concept of the rules of it. He might make a mistake, or not wait to be told she had been let off.
‘What have you been instructed?’ he demanded, and Vespillo licked his lips, shame and desperation flowing from him like heat.
‘Not to stand as summa rudis. It is not an official contest…’
‘He means to humiliate us,’ Quintus growled, and Ugo made a boar-grunting noise in the back of his throat.
‘He will end up killing her,’ Kag added.
Praeclarum laughed and Drust looked at her admiringly, for it sounded good.
‘I have seen legionaries. Big men with small swords,’ she answered.
‘You might give him a shock at that,’ Kag said slowly, ‘but that will only make it worse. If you win, the Army lot will be appalled and hate you. Before that, your opponent will use every dirty trick to avoid being beaten by a woman, an infamis, a slave and a gladi
ator.’
‘Four against one does seem unfair,’ Quintus agreed, grinning; folk laughed. Quintus stopped stroking the hare long enough for it to finally stir, wriggle free from his loose grip and spring away, back through the grill into the harena.
‘If it is your day to die,’ Quintus said sadly, looking after it, ‘then Dis will claim you.’
Drust simply turned and looked at Praeclarum. ‘Strip,’ he said.
* * *
Drust had no idea what face Attalus had on him, for the sun was on his own and the man was higher up and further back; he had an idea that it would be like a slapped arse, all the same, a scowl like a scar. Most of Drust’s attention was taken with trying to squint sideways without moving his head, trying to see who he would face while both of them stood in the maelstrom of catcalls and howling, facing Attalus who had given up trying to be heard.
The legionary was young and well aware of all his mates. He was called, Drust had heard, Aurelios or Aurelio or somesuch, which was mainly Greek with a sauce of Syrian. He was from a vexallation of the 3rd Cyrenaica and was a big bastard, a long-termer about four years in, wearing full rig – bronze scale, helmet, a great curved rectangle of shield, and a spatha.
He was head-back bawling out his salute as if Attalus was the Emperor himself – this soldier swears that he will faithfully execute all that the Emperor commands and stands ready for any order. It would have been more impressive if apple cores hadn’t been bouncing all round him and the bellows of his comrades hadn’t drowned most of it out.
There was nothing left but to take a few steps back, turn and face one another, and when they did, the roaring increased so that it buzzed Drust’s head like a struck bell. There was a pause that lasted a thousand years, long enough for Drust to see the set face and the grin, the knuckles flex on the hilt of the long spatha, the slight hunch as Aurelios settled himself behind that giant shield.
Drust felt naked – he was naked, and Praeclarum’s padded harness, too tight in all the wrong places, did not hide much. He had a three-tined fuscina and a dagger, an arm guard and a tall shoulder piece attached to it, once ornate with dolphins and the head of Hercules and now battered. He had a weighted net and the feeling of an addled egg on a busy path.
‘You should have taken the offer,’ Aurelios said, and Drust realised he had been told to say that, a message from Attalus. Aurelios probably had no idea what was going on, but he had delivered the instruction and now there was only the bit he did understand; Drust saw him blow out his cheeks and make a little head movement to shake the sweat off his brow under the helmet.
Good, he thought viciously. Blind yourself, you cunt.
He really should have been expecting the sudden dart, fast even for a man with all that armour on him. It was a duel in the harena after all – what else would be happening? He was a trained fighter and had managed to make himself woefully unprepared – the blow struck the tines of the fuscina, a numbing force that almost ripped it from his sweat-greased fist. He went sideways, stumbling and flailing, the net trailing like a tail, and all thoughts of his first attack splintered away in the mad desire to get away, survive for one more eyeblink.
The noise of the crowd was thunder and Aurelios was made lightning by it. He bored in, swinging the long sword. Drust spun away, whipped the net round and heard the weights rattle off the shield before it slammed into his protected arm and sent him stumbling away yet again. Drust reeled and swung the fuscina like a scythe, a lucky blow that skimmed the rim of the shield and whicked dangerously close to Aurelios’s nose, making the man jerk back and stop.
They circled, Drust slick with cold terror, Aurelios seemingly raised up to be Mars Ultor by his initial success and the great rolling waves of bellows from the crowd. He moved with a practised grace, the sword swinging slightly loose, making no overtly fancy moves – at least he is still worried about me, Drust thought.
They were all worried, he recalled. Praeclarum had been scowling when she had stripped off the leather and padded rig, claiming that this was not her first dance on the sand and that she was the retiarius after all. Kag and Quintus and the others had all offered advice, some of it no doubt useful but all of it, Drust saw, out of concern. Stercorinus continued to lounge against the stone, cradling the sword.
‘At least try and look concerned for me,’ Drust had spat at him, and Stercorinus came off the wall and took a breath. His voice was a rasp, not wounded or angry, just the sound of someone who did not use it too often.
‘I will if it helps,’ he said, then paused and added, ‘he wears boots.’
Something flashed, making Drust blink, blinded – Aurelios had circled round so that the sun was now in Drust’s eyes – the blow when it came was a sliver of arcing light that slammed into his left shoulder, shrieking on the metal guard. His own squeal almost drowned it out as he was driven sideways again and he slid a little, righted himself and risked a quick look for blood on the sand. Or even the arm…
He spat, gritted his teeth and lunged – if you are not attacking you are losing was one of Kag’s many sage sayings, some of which were even true, like this one. He felt the fuscina slam the shield and grate off it, the momentum carrying him forward hard into the huge shield.
It was like shoulder-charging a wall. A husky, barley-fed legionary in a metal suit with a big shield? Aurelios did what he had been trained to do when he stood in the front rank, side by side with all his mates who were now howling him on. He shrugged and shoved Drust off, sending him backwards to land on his arse in a spray of grit.
Up, up, said a voice. Get up. Another whispered: Why? He will only knock you down again.
He rolled over and got up, pasted with a porridge of sweat and sand. Aurelios closed in, swinging left and right, and was surprised when Drust blocked and spun away and flicked out the net so that the weights thumped his leg just below the knee.
It made Aurelios pull up short, the thought of being wrapped in that coil and pulled off his feet. He had never fought like this, a man armed like this, but he had been warned and decided caution was best.
Everyone else had decided death was best and the chant got into rhythm, into cadence. That’s good, Drust admitted grudgingly. Your average crowd couldn’t manage to get that right in less than a thousand heartbeats – trust the Army to manage it quicker.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
Aurelios heard it and Drust saw his eyes. No deaths in this contract, he thought bitterly and felt the wash of iced fear sluice him. No humiliation here – a straight-up kill and it might have been designed for the woman, but Aurelios did not know that. He had his instruction, like the message…
The legionary came on – one foot, drag the other, one foot, drag the other – in proper style, as if he was ranked with an entire cohort, all advancing in step.
Drust backed off, started circling the net above his head in slow, hissing loops; he saw Aurelios pause, eyeing it suspiciously, and when it suddenly fanned out like a flower in bloom, his eyes went wide.
It failed, missed by a hair – Aurelios tried to stamp on the edge as Drust whipped it back and flicked it a few times, shaking it back into the whip-tail. Aurelios heard the catcalls and jeers, and frowned – then he made a sudden rush.
Drust spun away from it, one of the moves he had used with other partners – but they had been rehearsed. No one had decided, in the mad flail of rushing past, to lash out with the hilt of a spatha and slam Drust in the ribs.
Pain blew in like a massive explosion of light. He found himself rolling in the grit, his whole body burning and his mouth tasting of old sick.
He came up to his hands and knees, saw nail-studded Army boots and the huge looming figure. Beyond were pale blobs with red gashes in them – the faces of those leaning out over the amphitheatre wall to try and not miss the ending.
Aurelios brought the edge of the shield down and it slammed the ground where Drust’s head had been – the crowd bawled out disapproval and spurred Aurelios on to
slashing and slamming the shield while Drust scrabbled away. He put out the fuscina to block a blow and heard the ping and crack as the spatha sheared off the lower third of it; the crowd’s roars redoubled.
He crabbed backwards on his arse, trying to hold onto the fuscina and the net, but Aurelios’s nailed boot came down and pinned the latter. A stroke, almost casual, then another and another, and Drust rolled away holding a useless net, almost cut in two.
Should have pulled, he thought, weaving to his feet. Should have pulled his big Army boots out from under him…
He wears boots.
Drust looked round. They had filled the amphitheatre with sand, to make it harena, but hadn’t gone far for it – the desert was a spit away, so why would you import it? So what you had was grit, not the fine sand that the Flavian boasted, the silver-white stuff Drust and the others had brought in on grain wagons and ships as a priority. Fuck the grain dole – bring sand for the Flavian…
Here, they had skimped on it – all the contest would be in the centre, so that’s where they had made it thickest. Out here, practically under the wall, it was a light sprinkling over the amphitheatre flags.
He wears boots.
‘Aurelios.’
He had to yell it out to be heard above the crowd, but the man stopped, blinked at the sound of his name and stood uncertainly.
‘I know your mother.’
The legionary was confused, sensing a trick, watching for it. Drust laughed.
‘I was set to fuck her up the arse – but the donkey got in first and I couldn’t be bothered waiting.’
There was a pause. Drust turned and ran, feeling the grit faintly on his calloused bare soles; no harena fighter ever wore anything on his feet in a fight save the feel of the sand; he blessed Stercorinus – the lanky streak of spit never said much, Drust thought, but when he does…
The crowd howled jeers at him and Aurelios spat out a curse and took off in pursuit; he was trained for this, to move swiftly in full rig. He could keep it up as long as this piece of gladiator scum…
