The Gladiator

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘How long will it take to reach Alexandria?’ asked Cato.

  Yannis frowned as he thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps three days to the African coast, and then another three along the shore if the wind remains fair.’

  ‘Six days,’ Cato mused unhappily. Six days crammed into this small boat with just two feet of freeboard. The constant motion of the water around him was frightening. He had thought that the short- lived voyage on the Horus was unnerving, but being at sea in this open fishing boat was terrifying. Yet there was no avoiding it. Macro, Julia and all the others were depending on him to get through to Alexandria. He continued to gaze back at the land for some time, wondering ifhe would ever see his friends again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the days that followed Cato’s departure, Macro kept the people hard at work repairing the city’s defences. In addition to filling the breaches in the walls, one of the gatehouses had collapsed in the earthquake and Gortyna’s surviving stonemasons cannibalised the stones from a nearby wrecked temple in order to rebuild it. Macro’s preparations extended outside the walls, where work gangs equipped with army tools picked away at the hard, stony ground, digging defensive ditches in front of the most damaged sections of the wall. Given the difficulty of the ground, there was no question of excavating a ditch the entire circumference of the city. So Macro turned to other methods of slowing down any enemy attack.

  Summoning some of the city’s blacksmiths to his headquarters on the acropolis, he introduced them to one of the legions’ favourite defensive weapons. There had been a small box of caltrops buried away at the back of the armoury, and Macro picked one out for his small audience to see. He held the four-pronged piece ofiron up and then dropped it on the desk in front of him, where it landed with an alarming thud that made the blacksmiths jump.

  ‘There.’ Macro pointed. ‘See how it lands with one point facing up? It’ll do that every time, and if you scatter those in grass the enemy will not see ‘em until they tread on them. The spike goes through the foot and cripples the victim. It’ll break a charge almost every time.’ Macro gazed at the caltrop fondly. ‘Lovely piece of kit. Saved my neck more times than I care to mention.’ He looked up. ‘The question is, can you make these in quantity before Ajax and his mob turn up?’

  One of the blacksmiths came over to the desk to have a closer look. He picked it up, felt the weight and nodded. ‘Easy enough to make, but can I suggest a refinement?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Macro invited, intrigued to know how the Greek could hope to improve on the Roman design.

  ‘As it is, the points are fairly easy to remove. While you will have injured your enemy, he might not be incapacitated.’

  ‘Really?’ Macro cocked an eyebrow. ‘I should think that having a fucking great spike shoved through the bottom of your foot might just take the smile off your face. Wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Oh yes,’ the Greek agreed. ‘I’m sure it would. The thing is, the victim of this device might yet be able to limp into a fight, or off the battlefield. But what if we barbed the ends? Then it would be almost impossible to dislodge and the enemy would have to stop and cut it out, or wait to be carried from the battlefield.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘No. If the bloody thing is barbed, then it’s removed from play with the casualty. What’s the point in that? If it does its j o b and is discarded, then it is still on the battlefield ready for the next victim. See?’

  ‘That’s true,’ another blacksmith interrupted. ‘But you’re ignoring the fact that the removal of a casualty requires at least one other man. Thus, a barbed caltrop will rob an enemy of a minimum of two men.’

  The first Greek clicked his fingers. ‘And what if those who were helping the man from the field were also to tread on these things? Why, the increase in the casualty rate would be expo- nential.’

  ‘Expo-what?’ Macro blinked, then held up his hands. ‘Stop right there! Look here, I just wanted you to tell me if you could make some more of these. That’s all. Can you do it?’

  ‘Of course we can do it. The Greek looked offended. ‘But why not improve on it at the same time? That’s my point.’

  ‘We could form a design committee,’ someone suggested helpfully.

  ‘No!’ Macro protested.

  ‘If we tested a few designs I’m sure we could provide you with a far more efficient weapon, Centurion.’

  ‘There’s no time.’ Macro was getting exasperated. ‘And the bloody thing works well enough as it is. Right?’

  The Greek pursed his lips unhappily. ‘Within limits, I suppose.’ Macro clenched his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them, stabbing his finger into the blacksmith’s chest. ‘Just make them. As many of them as you can. To this design and no other. Is. That. Perfectly. Clear? N o , don’t talk, just nod.’

  T h e blacksmiths assented meekly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Macro breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Then please get on with it. Send word the moment you have the first batch ready. Now go.’

  Macro strode to the door and wrenched it open, ushering them out of his office. As soon as the last one had gone, he shut the door, returned to his desk and sat down, gazing at the caltrop as his temper began to subside.

  ‘Greeks . . .’ he muttered. ‘Never use one word when a thousand will do.’

  In addition to the improvements to the city’s defences, Macro took charge of recruiting men to supplement the fighting strength of the auxiliaries. At first Sempronius had appealed for volunteers, but when fewer than a hundred of the city’s menfolk turned up at the parade ground Macro had marked out a short distance beyond the wall, sterner measures were called for. Several sections of auxiliaries were sent out to scour the city for fit men and have them marched out to the parade ground.There, they were brought before Macro, where he made his selection of those he would use to bolster Gortyna’s garrison. Details of each man’s name, family, home street and occupation were carefully noted before he was presented to Macro, sitting at a campaign table under an awning.

  It was dispiriting to see a succession of unhappy or angry men who were capable of bearing arms but resented the opportunity to defend their families and their city. One such was a tall, well-muscled young man in an expensive tunic. His dark hair was neatly cut and a finely trimmed beard graced his jawline. At first Macro could not place him, then in a sudden flash he recalled that he had been amongst Glabius’s coterie up on the acropolis the day the tax collector had been deposed.

  ‘Name?’ ‘Pandarus, son of Polocrites.’

  Macro glared at him. ‘From now on you call me sir. Is that understood?’

  ‘I see no need to call you sir, Roman.’ ‘And why is that?’ Macro smiled invitingly. ‘Because I am not a soldier, nor will I ever be. Furthermore, I will protest about my treatment here through the highest channels. My father has political contacts in Rome. Once they are informed that a lowly officer has dared to pluck a free man from his home and forcibly conscript him at the point of a sword, there will be no limit to the retribution that is brought down on your head.’ Pandarus was pleased with his brief monologue and offered a placating smile to Macro. ‘It’s not too late to put an end to this sad little drama of yours. Comedy, more like.’ He turned and gestured to the line of men standing in the sun, waiting to be seen by Macro. There was a muted chorus of support. ‘Let us all go, and I will do you a favour, Roman, and not report your criminal activities to your superiors in Rome.’

  He drew himself up and crossed his arms as he stared down at Macro. The latter stared back for a moment and then lowered his stylus on to the wax slate with a weary sigh.

  ‘Have you finished, Pandarus?’

  ‘Finished?’ Pandarus frowned, then became angry. ‘You don’t think I’m serious, do you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re serious; it’s just that I am not inclined to take you seriously’ Macro replied. ‘I mean, look at you. Dressed up like a cheap tart. Is that perfume I can smell?’

  ‘It is a
male scent. An extremely expensive scent.’

  ‘So you look like a male tart, and you smell like one. That I can forgive . . .just about. What I cannot forgive is that people like you think you’re too good to get your hands dirty by taking up a sword and defending what’s yours: this city, your family and your friends – assuming you have any. What makes you so fucking special that you should be excused from taking your place alongside the other men who are prepared to fight?’

  ‘My father pays his taxes,’ Pandarus protested. ‘He pays them so that his family doesn’t fight, and we can leave that to little people like you.’ He could not resist the sneer, yet the moment the words were spoken he realised he had made a mistake. ‘What I meant to say was’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Macro shouted into his face. ‘You miserable little coward! You’re the little people. You and all those others who have so little heart, so little courage, so little sense of honour and duty that they think that money can buy them everything. Well, money is the least of your worries now. There’s an army of slaves out there who are waiting for their moment to launch an attack on this city. Do you really think they are not going to butcher you and your family because you have connections in Rome? Fucking idiot.’ Macro shook his head in anger and exasperation. ‘There is only one way we are going to survive this, and that’s if every man who can fight is up there on the wall, ready to kill or be killed. Right now I could not give a toss whether you are some dandy pervert or the son ofthe emperor himself.You will take up a sword with the rest of the men in the line. You will be trained to fight with the auxiliaries.You will fight like a lion to keep those rebel bastards out of the city, and if need be you will die like a bloody hero, sword in hand, spitting curses into your enemy’s face. Do I make myself clear?’

  Macro thrust his face forward, inches from that of Pandarus, and the latter nervously backed off a step.

  ‘I m-meant no offence.’ Pandarus flapped his hands.

  ‘Sir!’ Macro shouted, hooking his booted foot behind the young man’s heel and then thrusting him hard in the chest so that he stumbled back and crashed to the ground. Macro pounced on him, knee on Pandarus’s chest as he snatched out his dagger and thrust the blade to within an inch of the other man’s eyes. ‘Last time I say it. You call me sir when you address me. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sir!’ Pandarus whimpered.

  ‘Better!’ Macro eased himself up. ‘Now get your kit, and report to the centurion on the drill ground with the other recruits. Get up! Get moving!’

  Pandarus scrambled to his feet and scurried offtowards the wagon where an optio from the auxiliary cohort and four of his men were busy issuing sword, helmet, armour and shield to each man sent their way. Macro turned back to the line of waiting men. Most were ordinary townspeople, but there were some better dressed amongst them. He walked down the line inspecting them, then returned to the shade of the awning.

  ‘Is there anyone else who takes exception to fighting at my side, and the side of our heroic friend Pandarus? Well?’

  The men refused to meet his glare and stood in silence. Macro nodded. ‘Good.’

  He turned and made his way back to his stool, then sat down at the desk and picked up his stylus.

  ‘Next man!’

  Eight days after Cato had set off for Alexandria, Macro joined Senator Sempronius and his daughter for dinner: a thin stew of pork and beans served with bread by one of the few remaining slaves of Hirtius. The rest had run off to the hills, or to swell the ranks of Ajax’s rebel army.

  The slave was an elderly man, stooped and frail-looking. He had long been conditioned to being silent and avoiding the eyes of his masters. Macro watched him for a moment, wondering what it must be like to live as a slave. He had been used to seeing them on the streets of Ostia and Rome as a child, and so had never really considered what it must mean to be one. Since then, he had spent long years in the army, where the slaves he had encountered had mostly been when he was off duty. There had also been a handful of occasions when he had seen proud enemy warriors taken captive, chained up and marched away into slavery. Indeed, he had profited from his share of such prisoners, and the money he had gained had rather obscured the fates of those who had thus enriched him.

  As the slave finished serving and retired to stand still against the wall, Macro continued to examine him while he casually dipped a chunk of bread into the steaming bowl before him. It was tempting to ask the man what he thought of Ajax. And what he thought of the Romans and Greeks who were determined to defeat the rebel gladiator and his followers. If indeed he thought anything about them.

  Macro paused. H o w could a slave not think about the revolt, when there was little other topic of conversation in the city? Could this slave, so taciturn, be harbouring deep hatred for his masters and a yearning to be part of the uprising? Might he be listening alertly to any conversation to which he was privy, and then wait for a chance to escape and reveal his information to Ajax? What if his plan was more treacherous still? It would not take much effort to procure sufficient poison to kill all three of those to whom he had just served their evening meal.

  Macro glanced down at his stew with a look of suspicion. He lowered his bread, dripping with gravy from the stew, on to his platter and turned towards the slave.

  ‘You there, step closer.’

  The slave started forward nervously, eyes flickering round the Romans lying on their couches around the table. Sempronius glanced at his daughter and Julia raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Macro wiped the smears of gravy from his lips. ‘Slave, you have heard the news about Prefect Marcellus’s defeat, I take it.’

  The slave nodded quickly. ‘Do you take comfort from this news?’ ‘Master?’ ‘I asked you if you took comfort from the news. You’re a slave. So what is your view of the rebels’ victory? Do you rejoice at it?’ The slave glanced down and shook his head. ‘Look at me,’ Macro ordered, and the slave reluctantly raised his head enough to meet Macro’s gaze. ‘Surely you are on the side of those who would set you free? Well? Speak up, man.’

  The slave’s anxiety was clear as he struggled to make a reply. Macro waited patiently, and at length the slave spoke. ‘Master, I want freedom. So do many slaves. But I have savings and I plan to buy my freedom one day. It is the only way for me. Those slaves who join Ajax may have their freedom now, but I think they must live in dread of being returned to slavery. That is not freedom. When I eventually have my freedom, I shall want to be free from fear as I am free from slavery.’ He paused, and looked round at his masters. ‘I have made my choice.Those who follow the gladiator have made theirs.’ He turned back to Macro. ‘Is that all, master?’

  Macro thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Leave us.’ The slave bowed his head and backed away from the table. ‘He’s lying,’ Macro muttered. ‘Well, what did you expect?’ asked Sempronius. ‘A frank admission that he sympathises with Ajax? It was unfair to put him on the spot like that.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Macro pushed his plate away.

  ‘I wonder how Cato is faring?’ Julia intervened. ‘He must have reached Alexandria by now. What do you think, Father?’

  Sempronius thought a moment and then nodded. ‘I’d have thought so, provided all has gone well. Which I am sure it has,’ he added hurriedly, before dipping his spoon into the stew, fishing out a piece of meat and popping it into his mouth. At once, his face contorted in agony. Macro jumped to his feet and stepped towards the senator, glancing at the slave as he did so.

  ‘Sir! What’s the matter? Are you all right?’

  Sempronius held up a hand to stay Macro and nodded. He swallowed, then reached for his wine to quench the pain in his mouth. ‘Damn, that stew’s hot!’

  Macro let out a sigh of relief and returned to his couch. Julia was looking at him curiously as she delicately blew across her spoon. ‘What is up with you?’ ‘It’s nothing. I just thought . . . Never mind.’ Macro quickly changed the subject, with a forced smile.
‘I’d be willing to bet that Cato is even now sitting at a fine banquet with the Legate of Egypt, busy talking him out of his entire garrison. You know what he’s like.’

  Julia smiled. Yes, he can be most persuasive.’ Sempronius frowned and Macro burst into laughter before he could stop himself. For a moment the senator continued frowning, then gave way to the impulse and joined in. With all the strain of the previous days and the grave concerns over the arrival of the slave army before the hastily repaired walls of Gortyna, it did both men good to laugh.When it had died away, Macro topped the other man’s cup up with wine and raised his own in a toast.

  ‘To Cato. May he prove big enough for a tribune’s boots, and return to us at the head of a great army’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘And me.’ Julia raised her cup. She took a sip and then spoke softly. ‘By the gods, I miss him so much.’

  Macro nodded. He didn’t want to say anything for fear ofseeming to miss a comrade more than was properly acceptable. All the same, he mused, he would rather have Cato at his side as he prepared the hotch-potch of defences and defenders to face the enemy.

  Sempronius drank from his cup and then set it down. ‘How are things coming along, Macro? Those new men proving to be of any use?’

  ‘They’re doing well enough. Most have managed to work out which end of a sword to hold. They’ll never make good soldiers, or even adequate ones, in whatever time we have available to us before the rebels decide to attack. I’ve appointed Centurion Micon to command them. It’ll give him a chance to redeem himself. All in all they won’t amount to much, but they’ll be better equipped than most of the slaves they’ll encounter.’

  ‘Although you can be sure that this man Ajax will have distributed the kit he recovered from the bodies of Marcellus and his men.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Macro conceded. ‘In which case, I give Centurion Micon’s lads no better than an even chance when it comes to a fight.’

  Sempronius sighed wearily. ‘Not a great help, then.’ ‘I can only hope they prove me wrong.’ T h e conversation was interrupted by three distant blasts on a trumpet, the alarm signal that Macro had arranged. He rose quickly to his feet, followed by the others, and abandoned the meal as they made their way out of the administration building and across the acropolis to the tower above the main gate. Men were stumbling out of their barracks, kit in hand, and racing to their positions on the wall. Macro ran up the worn stone stairs and emerged on to the platform, hurrying across to the parapet. Below him the city sprawled across the plain. One of the men who had been on watch thrust his arm out towards the west.